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next to the entrance was a dead horse. It was a mess. The horse was lying on its side. It’s stomach; its entire mid-section had been ripped open. Its guts had spilled out on the ground. It was completely covered in flies.
    The stench of it was incredible. Franco threw up. One of the rescuers was gagging, trying to hold it in. I had to look away and take a few deep breaths.
    "Gotta be wild dogs, right?" Drake said. "Dingoes or wolves or something?"
    No one answered him.
    The horse had been carrying some saddle bags across its back. The bags contained large rocks. At first glance the rocks were rough and plain looking. But upon closer inspection we could see bright green and blue sections, as well as red and violet. They were like veins running through the rock.
    It was raw opal.
    "Jesus Christ," one of the rescuers said. "That would have to be worth thousands. You don’t just leave that kind of find lying around."
    Bloody foot prints led towards the entry to the mine. Dark blood. It looked black against the dusty, red ground. Thick. Coagulated. Brown chunks of horse flesh were scatted on the ground near the mine shaft as well. Then again, maybe it was human flesh. I don’t know.
    It was a puzzling scene.
    "Has anything like this ever happened before?" Gordon asked the rescue guys.
    "No way. Nothing like this."
    "Any reports of wild dog attacks?"
    "Years ago we had some reports of dingo attacks. Back when their population was getting out of control. But I don’t think there’s ever been a case where a pack of dingoes have brought down a horse. They wouldn’t even bother. This doesn’t make sense."
    Gordon told Drake and Franco to remain up top. Keep an eye out for any wild dogs or dingoes or whatever. Gordon and I were going down into the mine.
    The rescue guys told us to take our packs off because the tunnels were narrow. They led the way and Gordon and I followed them in. The entry to the mine was a small, narrow tunnel about three feet in diameter. It led straight down into darkness. Hand and foot holds were fixed to the rock, like a ladder built into the wall.
    I don’t consider myself to be claustrophobic but as I descended down that tiny, vertical tunnel, I started to freak out. It was a good thing the rescue guys told us to take our packs off. There’s no way we would’ve fit.
    We climbed down to a depth of about fifty feet. When we reached the bottom I discovered that the tunnels of the mine were just as narrow as the entry shaft. They weren’t even high enough for us to stand up properly.
    We had to move around hunched over.
    The rescue guys turned their hard-hat torches on. Gordon and I did the same with our rifles.
    It was then we noticed the pile of flesh and blood at the foot of the entry shaft we had just climbed down. Again, it was hard to tell if the flesh was from the horse or if it was human.
    To my left there was a clump of hair and some blood on the wall of the entry tunnel. And something else that looked like a graft of human skin. I got the impression that someone had fallen down the mine shaft and cut themselves up pretty bad.
    The rescuers had never been down here so no one knew where to go, or where to even start looking. I was about to call out to see if anyone answered. But I stopped myself. Would calling out cause one of these tiny tunnels to collapse? I did not want to find out.
    In the end, we followed the blood trail.
    As we moved along I noticed some marks in the tunnel walls. I looked closer. They were marks caused by bullets. Small arms fire. Had there been a shoot out down here?
    We moved slowly around a bend in the tunnel. Gordon took the lead and I followed closely behind. Up ahead we found a revolver lying on the ground in a pool of blood. It had been fired recently. Six empty bullet shells lay on the ground next to the revolver. The barrel was still warm.
    Further ahead was a shotgun. Gordon moved ahead and picked it up.
    "Hasn’t been fired," he said.
    He unloaded the rifle,