He might have slept better if not for the swarms of mosquitos that appeared seemingly from nowhere once the sun set. The downside, Malcolm realised, of stopping near water. He took a deep swig from his waterbag, resisting the temptation to drain it. There was still quite a way to go, and he’d be needing water more and more as the day progressed.
Shaking off the early morning cold, he once again set out to follow the creek as it snaked westward. By midday, his waterbag was empty. After vainly attempting to squeeze a few more precious drops from it, he tossed it aside in disgust. He looked again at the canvas receptacle and decided to hang it from a nearby scrubby thorn bush, where it was clearly visible. He’d look back periodically, he thought, and see how much progress he was making.
An hour later, with the waterbag still just visible behind, he saw the beckoning white Duco of the four-wheel-drive ahead. Elation coursing through his veins, he broke into a trot and promptly fell flat on his face in the gravelly creek bed. Malcolm lay for several minutes, muttering curses at his own impatience and stupidity. Eventually, he rose to his feet and staggered the last hundred metres to the vehicle.
There was no key in the usual location. Malcolm felt across the top of each wheel in turn, before resigning himself to the fact that Wally must have had the keys with him. They were probably in his pocket when he disappeared. Wally, he remembered, had slept fully clothed. He climbed under the Toyota, out of the direct sun, and soon drifted into sleep once again.
It was two days before Malcolm was discovered—dehydrated and suffering from exposure and a serious bacterial infection—laying alongside the Land Cruiser. The ignition keys were nowhere to be seen. It was presumed he had either forgotten to bring them or had lost them along the way. No trace of Wally Bright was ever found. A search party retraced the pair’s steps back to the gorge, and even with the help of a pair of local native trackers was unable to learn his fate. The trackers steadfastly refused to approach the water of the gorge, stating adamantly that it was a cursed place.
Malcolm’s sleeping bag was where he had left it, and Wally’s was found in the shallow water at the southern end of the billabong, but nothing else was discovered. The official verdict was that the two had become separated on the return trip and that Wally had taken a wrong turn somewhere. The Royal Flying Doctor Service flew Malcolm to Port Hedland, and then later to Perth, where he recuperated in hospital.
Malcolm Kindaid’s memories of that tragic series of events never came back entirely. He remembered his brief swim, and the visit to the cave, but little afterwards.