Free Red Centre by Ansel Gough

the scrub.
    The muscular, brown-haired pit-bull pulled
hard against its leash. Its thick, studded collar was a sure sign
it was used in these parts for pig hunting. And it was hot on a
scent, but not for pigs. Roy was on the other end of the leash,
fighting with one hand to stop the dog from running off. His other
hand busy nursing his shotgun.
    Frank walked just in front of Roy, packing
the trusted, double-barrel shotgun. It was clear these boys weren’t
out for a morning stroll in the woods.
    ***
    The third man, an
Aboriginal tracker, led Roy and Frank. Mogo was small-framed,
barefooted and mid fifties. His rough, black hair and scraggly
beard were highlighted by streaks of silver. His tribe had lived in
these parts for thousands of years—an ancient culture, indigenous
to Australia. Navigating the land and tracking were instinctual. He
knew this area like the back of his hand, being one with the land.
His tracking ability like no other: heightened sight, smell and
hearing. Trackers like him were called “Black Trackers” by the
white man, able to track when others couldn’t. People out here knew
Australian Aborigines were some of the best native trackers in the
world. “ Track or
die” was their way to survive. If you didn’t track your food, you
didn’t eat.
    Mogo’s eyes traced over the area, looking
for anything out of place. A misplaced twig, rock or maybe animal
tracks in the soft dirt. Animals leave all kinds of clues.
    ***
    Chris watched from a distance, trying not to
get noticed. What were these three men doing out here? Surely they
couldn’t have heard about last night already. Were they already out
looking for the Baker family? Not likely. The cops weren’t even out
here yet. Locals wouldn’t go looking for tourists without any
encouragement from law enforcement. Where were they when Shawn
first went missing? Something didn’t seem right about the three
men. Frank and Roy couldn’t be trusted. Especially Roy.
Redneck.
    Mogo poked around scuffed footprints in the
sand; prints not of a man. These weren’t trails he had seen before.
They were tracking something unearthly—a wounded creature. A small,
liquid trail followed the footprints, maybe blood in the sandy
dirt. Mogo moved swiftly, following the trail. Frank and Roy
followed closely behind.
    The group of three travelled further into
rocky terrain, their movement slowed by rocks and a growing lack of
clues. Mogo softly dusted rocks in his hands and crouched
motionless for a couple of minutes—as if he was rehearsing
movements in his mind. He moved in circles, looking for anything
that would provide the creature’s whereabouts. The other two
watched on, letting the tracker do his work.
    Chris continued to observe from afar.
    Mogo let the wind hit him the face. He
breathed in deeply, trying to see what smells were in the air,
looking for anything out of the ordinary. However, only the native
fauna aroma was present. He closed his eyes to listen to the things
around him. Nothing. The trail was lost, for now.
    Roy glanced over at Frank. He wasn’t too
keen on the tracker, and Frank knew it. Mogo was Frank’s friend
after all.
    Roy had his dog. That was all he needed to
track this animal.
    Suddenly something caught Mogo’s attention,
maybe a sound or a smell. Whatever it was he was on the trail
again. They followed Mogo, traveling a short distance, further into
the rocky terrain, finally reaching a hidden cave behind some dry
shrubs. Chris edged a little further along the ridge, trying to get
a better look and not blow his cover.
    Mogo pointed to the cave, not willing to go
any further. The old Aborigine gave Frank a nod. He had done his
job.
    Frank repositioned his fingers around his
double barrel. His eyes traveled along Mogo’s dark, outstretched
arm and dirt-covered finger, gripping the entrance to the dark
cave. Mogo turned and disappeared into the surroundings.
    Frank moved to the cave entrance, pushing
back the shrubs. It was a small