Black Hearts, Gold Minds: Murder Mystery in the West Australian Outback Goldfields

By Bob MacDonald

In the gold rush of 1946, the quiet town of Leonora is rocked by murder.

An indigenous woman is killed and her death almost goes unnoticed by authorities but for one man, Constable Terry Pocock. He befriends Willy, Leonora’s sole Wongi tribesman who fought for Crown and Country.

If only Willy will tell.

It isn’t until the body of an old white prospector is found down a mine shaft that the outside help arrives. Terry employs the support of the district detective, Tony Cook. Unsure of his surroundings, relying on his good nature and acceptance of all people, Tony starts to peel back the layers of mystery and deceit.

He learns that gold lies not only in the land but somewhere in the people that live within it. But ...

Something sinister hides in the town, and it’s up to Tony to find it.

Will he find it before the murderer has the chance to kill again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bob MacDonald
• Release date: Jun 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994636515

Bob MacDonald

Bob MacDonald is a retired West Australian Police officer of thirty years experience. Bob's last day at school was his 14th birthday - commencing work, the very next day, in a timber mill in his home town of Pemberton, West Australia. He later self-educated and enlisted in the West Australian police force, retiring as a superintendent in the Internal Investigations Branch of the Professional Standards portfolio. Since retirement Bob has been working at remote aboriginal communities in Central Australia, Papua New Guinea and the Solomon Islands. He also did a tour of duty on the island nation of Cyprus with the United Nations Blue Beret Peacekeepers.

Book preview

Chapter 1

From Army Trenches to Gold Mining Trenches

Hey, Jacky, get off your lazy big arse and give me a hand here, growled Ted Rae as he climbed from the old Bedford truck using his battered digger’s hat to brush away the accumulated red pindan dust that had engulfed him on his trip from town. He cursed the day he had arrived in the West Australian town of Leonora. The town was predominantly a gold mining settlement, situated in the Eastern Goldfields region, some 520 miles north-east of Perth, the state’s capital.

It was 1946 and Edward James Simpson Rae, late of the 44th Battalion (referred to locally as the West Australian Rifles), had on his discharge from the army, come to the area with the sole purpose of making his fortune – honestly or dishonestly; it did not matter much to him. One thing he had decided after shedding his Army uniform was to steer a wide berth from his previous employment – that of a timber jerker in the small timber milling town of Northcliffe, located in the cold and wet of the lower-south-west of the state. Yes, he was finished with breaking his back as a labourer for a few quid a week.

He compared his time in the European war-zone trenches to what he had left at the timber town. A bare stark bedroom, bland boarding house meals and a paltry wage. No thanks, never again. He was going to make his mark on society and gold was going to be his meal ticket.

Don’t bloody call me Jacky! My name isn’t Jacky and I don’t like you calling me that, was the response from a khaki clad aboriginal male, sprawled out on a sleeping swag. The bedroll was laid out beneath a canvas tarpaulin, tied between two mulga trees and designed to protect against the harsh mid-day summer sun. Much to Ted’s annoyance the man he referred to as Jacky appeared oblivious to the heat and bush flies.

Oh, come on. All black fellahs are called Jacky. You know that everyone knows that. Stop being a prima donna and give me a hand and lift this shit off the back of the truck.

I am no Jacky; and if you keep calling me that name I will start calling you ‘Hippa’ all the time. Hippa Rae! Besides, if we were still in the Army I’d be a corporal and you’d still be a baggy-arsed private – and I would kick your lazy arse. ‘Jacky’ did have a tribal name, Mombawamarra, but due to the trouble others had with its pronunciation, he went under the ‘wadjella’, or white man, name of Willy Wheelbarrow.

Willy didn’t mind being called neither that name nor the surname Wheelbarrow, dubbed on him by others who couldn’t pronounce his single long-barrelled tribal name. This was common practice by white society to replace unpronounceable words with the term, ‘wheelbarrow’. Thus, he had acquired himself a white fellah surname – of which he was privately proud. He had enlisted in the Army under his new name and had endured much good-natured ribbing from his fellow soldier mates during his overseas service.

Not so from Ted who resented the fact that Willy had been promoted in the field, to the rank of full corporal. Ted, due to his constant run-ins with authority had remained at the lowly rank of private. How could an illiterate, uneducated native – whom he regarded as no better than a savage, achieve a higher rank than he?

Not that he cared a fig about the extra stripes that came with being a corporal but just the fact that it was Willy. He had considered, on many occasions, in breaking off their partnership but he needed the black man. He needed him for his bush knowledge, especially of this area. He needed him for his association with tribal natives in the district. He hated to admit it but he couldn’t do without Willy – for now anyway.

Okay, okay, muttered Ted, through gritted teeth, For Chrissake, give me a bloody hand and help me unload. I’ve been sweating my guts out all day and you’ve been snoozing in the shade. Give me a break – please!

Ted knew he was being childish with his constant bellyaching but everything had been going wrong of late. He had spent most of his meagre bankroll on the gold-mining goods. These comprised of a dry blower, a forty-four gallon drum of petrol, a couple of drums of water, various mining tools and some tinned food. He wasn’t going to mention, to Willy, that he had also brought back a bottle of Scotch whiskey. He feared that once Willy got the taste he may not let go until the bottle was empty and Ted wasn’t going to take that chance. He would have a nip, without Willy’s knowledge, later that night, and similarly afterwards.

No worries, grinned Willy. He enjoyed baiting Ted. Stuck out in the bush with only the crows, bush flies and the odd lizard to keep them company, one needed to do something to break the boredom. There were no natural water holes within cooee of where they were camped. There were no windmills, water troughs or wells – thus no kangaroos to hunt for meat.

The lack of water meant a lack of bush tucker. There were no rocky outcrops in the area so therefore there were no gnamma holes to store water. Gnamma holes were natural rock pools – or sometimes water storage holes dug by the desert tribal people.

Damper bread, cooked in a camp oven over an open campfire and ‘tinned dog’ were generally the norm. Both Ted and Willy had both, at some time or another, wondered if there really was some truth in the canned meat actually being dog and not just a local slang term to describe canned processed meat.

Ted also had an old lever action .44 calibre, Henry, repeating rifle. It came with the truck when he bought it from a disillusioned prospector, for the grand sum of fifty pounds. He only had a handful of bullets for the firearm as they were hard to come by as nearly everyone else had ex-army .303 Lee Enfield rifles. Not that it mattered what type of rifle he owned, there was nothing to shoot plus the barrel of his old Henry was so worn he’d be lucky to hit anything he aimed at.

Not so Willy. One day, a week or so back, he had come running into the camp, all excited and calling out for the rifle, because he had spotted a large goanna sunning itself on a nearby sandy patch of ground. Grabbing the rifle he scampered off; shortly to return, all smiles and carrying the dead reptile by the tail. Fresh tucker for tea tonight, boss, he beamed.

That’s a racehorse goanna. Are you going to eat that bloody horrible looking thing?

It’s a bungarra, and it can probably run faster than the racehorses you always bet on. And yes, I’m gunna cook it. You can please yourself whether you eat any or not – if not, all the more for me, hey?

Ted winced as Willy fashioned a small hook from a piece of thin wire inserting it into the vent of the goanna, twisting it about to extract the animal’s entrails.

What the hell are you doing? Why do that?

"I’m gunna cook him black fellah way. If I cut him open to take out his guts, the heat from the fire will dry him out. This way the skin keeps the flesh nice and juicy.

You can eat some or not; it won't worry me if you don’t eat any. You can have a tin of that Irish stew you always buy. Were your mum and dad Irish – or do you only buy that rubbish because it is cheap?

Willy was in his glory. Reorganising the coals of the campfire he laid the three-foot long goanna in the ashes and at the same time made sure it did not touch the red glowing embers. When the skin began to peel away from the flesh it was deemed, according to Willy, ready for consumption.

Ted wondered to himself – should I eat any of it? It smelt okay, so yes, he’d try a little. He had been told, by other white blokes who had eaten goanna flesh, that it tasted similar to chicken. Being very particular to select some clear white flesh from the back of the animal, he cautiously chewed on a small piece.

It’s not too bad, I suppose; better than I thought it would taste. I’d heard it tasted like chook but this doesn’t taste like any chook I’ve ever eaten.

With nowhere to store perishable food, both men picked the carcass of the goanna clean. Ted could only bring himself to eat the clean white flesh but Willy had no qualms breaking off a leg and chewing on it as one would a chicken drumstick. ‘Jeez, he’s a savage,’ thought Ted.

The only other bush tucker found in the vicinity of their camp site was a species of wild tuber. They were about five to six inches long and about as thick as a person’s thumb. Willy dug them up with the mining pick and threw them on the camp fire. Ted braved a taste but was not impressed. Jeez, these taste like shit!

Witchetty grubs and small lizards were probably also about but Willy reckoned that was woman’s work, so never bothered to look for them. Those cuisine delicacies never graced their dinner table.

Reversing the battered old Bedford up against the raised bank of a dry creek bed, Ted climbed onto the truck’s tray, looked at Willy and said, Well don’t just sit there picking your nose; are you going to help me or not? I have a couple of bottles of beer in the cab and we can knock them off but you won’t be getting any unless you get your arse into gear. Do you want a drink or not?

Is the Pope a Catholic? Willy beamed as he repeated one of Ted’s favourite sayings. He hadn’t had a beer for over a week and he too had wondered why he’d become part of the partnership. It certainly wasn’t for the money. He’d had little cash when he paired up with the other man and now he had less! Well, he’d give it some thought afterwards. There were more important things to deal with – such as the two bottles of beer.

Sitting in the shade, each enjoying a bottle of beer, both men relaxed and ceased their hostilities. They were both of similar nature and neither wanted to ever give the other the privilege of having the last word. But sitting back and enjoying a beer both Willy and Ted were of peace of mind and all their financial troubles were something to be dealt with later. Why worry about something today when you had all day tomorrow to worry? Another of Ted’s favourite saying was, ‘Tomorrow never comes’.

What do you reckon Willy, do you think there is any gold in the dirt here? I’ve spent just about the last of my discharge money on this dry blower shaker. If we can’t make something of this, we’re stuffed.

Yes, I do. But you’ll have to pull your finger out and chip in as well. I can’t do it all by myself. You’re always finding some reason to piss off into town for something and leaving me here to do the work.

What do you mean? You’ve never done a hard day’s work in your life; you wouldn’t work in an iron lung! I tell you what – we’ll both get stuck into it for a week and see how we go. Surely we’ll get something. The shaker is supposed to be pretty good and if there’s any gold here we should find it. Okay?

Chapter 2

Back Breaking Work but Little reward

Awakening in the morning, with the sun in his eyes and flies up his nose, Ted cursed his decision to come to the Goldfields to feed his dream of becoming a gold magnate. Crawling out of his swag he was pleased to see that Willy had a billy boiling on the camp fire. A mug of tea would make him feel better. He shook his head in wonder, as Willy, once again, appeared happy and as bright as a button. The heat, the flies, the harshness of the countryside had no effect on him.

Sitting back, leaning against the trunk of a gnarled mulga tree, an enamel pannikin of black sweetened tea in his hand, Ted asked Willy, What’s with all those scars on your chest and back? Did the tribe carve you up for you rooting all the young lubras?

No, they are tribal initiation scars. And our women are not called lubras. When I was a young bloke I was taken out bush, with other boys and girls, and put through an initiation ceremony. I had to show that I was a man and that I was ready to become a warrior. They cut me and rubbed ashes into the cuts. That’s what causes the large scars. The buggers also knocked this tooth out. Willy curled his upper lip up and showed Ted a gap where an upper canine was missing.

Likewise, they cut off me foreskin; an elder did it with a knife – and it must’a been the bloody bluntest knife the tribe could find. So, I’ve had part of my dick cut off and it’s still twice as big as yours!

Piss off! laughed Ted. It doesn’t matter what you have; it’s how you use it that counts. By the way, did you get whistle cocked at the same time?

In response, the black man showed his contempt to the personal question by urinating on a nearby tree. Having completed that bodily function he returned and flopped back onto his bedroll – purposefully ignoring his partner by turning his back on him. Willy had been lucky to have avoided that painful and intrusive method of enforced sterility among aboriginal men, but he wasn’t going to discuss the subject with his work partner one way or the other.

After a breakfast of damper bread, spread with jam and washed down by a couple of mugs of tea, both men were keen to try out their new dry blower. Well, it wasn’t really a new piece of mining equipment; actually, it was quite old but it was new to them.

It was hard work. Willy and Ted took turns – one wheelbarrowing dirt to the dry blower while the other operated the machine. The red pindan dirt was near rock hard, having been baked by the ceaseless searing summer sun. Pick work, shovelling and the backwards and forwards wheelbarrow work sapped their energy. Early morning and late afternoon were the only times they could bear the harsh conditions. From about midday until three o’clock in the afternoon they lay on their swags under the tarpaulin shade shelter.

On one of these leisure times, Ted said to Willy, We are only getting enough gold to pay wages. We have to come up with something that puts a few more quid in our pockets. We can’t keep going on like this or we will end up just like all the other no-hopers about the place. C’mon give me something, what can we do?

Though Ted liked to accuse Willy of being an illiterate savage, in reality, Willy had received an education. He had spent several years learning the basics of ‘The Three R’s’ at the Mt Margaret mission school, near Laverton. He was about the same age as Ted, although his exact date of birth was unknown. Willy, like most of the local aborigines, had not been born in a hospital. He was a bush born baby, to his full blood mother, a desert woman of the Wongi tribe.

Later, at some stage, when it had become necessary to register him, his age had been guessed and he had been given the birth date of first July. All bush aborigines were grouped with the same birth date by police or other government agency of whom they may have come into contact with. That was another topic that Ted never missed the opportunity to stir Willy about.

You’re like a racehorse. They all have their birthday on the same day but they are all thoroughbreds and not a savage like you are, ha-ha-ha! In response to that time-worn insult, Willy would respond in kind. You could never forget your birthday; you just have to ask the nearest cop – he’d be able to get it from your criminal record sheet.

Getting back to his feet, Willy walked over to the canvas water bag hanging from the branch of a tree, "I’ve been thinking as well. I don’t wanna spend all my time out here in the bush. I also want a bit of town life.

I’ve got an idea but I will need a few quid to get started. How much money do we have in the kitty? Spitting out the water, he complained, This bloody water tastes more like canvas than canvas does!

Stop your whinging and tell me what’s on your mind.

Well, my people are finding gold and are selling it in town. After a thunderstorm or the rains, they search the slopes for nuggets that have been uncovered by the run-off. They don’t know what gold is worth and sell to townspeople for whatever they’re offered. I think we should do the same.

Ted looked down his nose at the black man with a look of disdain, clearly visible. "What are you on about? How the hell are we going to make that into a profitable venture – walk around asking black fellahs if they have any gold to sell? Get real; you’ve gotta come up with something better than that.

Willy wasn’t discouraged by the other’s negative response to his suggestion, I will need to spend time in town as it’ll have to be me that talk to them. They’ll steer clear of you ‘cause you’re always trying to root their women whenever you’ve had too much to drink.

Ha-ha, are you referring to me? More like you. That’s why you want to get into town, I bet. You’re getting horny, aren’t you?

How about pulling your head in and listening for a change? Willy was growing tired of his partner’s negative attitude, I have thought up a way to get my hands on the gold my people are finding but it will be risky and if the cops cotton I’ll end up in clink.

If it involves a means to get some gold into my pocket I’ll even listen to your waffling, voiced Ted. "Let’s sit down and talk it over. No, a better thought, let’s go into town and do that at the pub.

Chapter 3

The Grand Hotel

The Grand Hotel was Ted’s preferred drinking place. For the publican, Robbie, nothing was out of bounds if there was a quid to be made. Illegal two-up gambling sessions were a regular occurrence in one of the back rooms of the premises, the Virgin’s Parlour, as it was known to the locals. Cheap, basic accommodation, together with cheap meals, drew many to his hotel. Robbie’s philosophy was that if he could attract clients through his doors with the promise of low-cost board, they would do their drinking there as well. And that’s where the profit was. Though deemed a bit of a scoundrel he had an infectious personality and was generally liked by all; thus the makings of a successful businessman.

Many a prospector, like Ted and Willy, spent days, sometimes weeks, out in the bush prospecting. To come into town, have a bath, a shave and a change of clothes transformed them into a new person. Not all, however, opted for a clean-up in town and the front bar of one of the pubs was the first stop for many. And it was the front bar, only, that they were allowed entry as their unwashed body odour was nearly enough to curl the nostril hairs of the serving barmaids.

Parking the Bedford in front of the Grand Hotel, Ted said to Willy, I’m going to book into the pub and have a clean-up. Where are you gunna camp?

I think I’ll shack up at the reserve, boss, that doesn’t cost me anything.

Okay, how about I meet you in the front bar in one hour. I know you won’t have a tub and you’ll still be stinking to high heaven. They won’t let you into any of the other bars and this is the only pub in town that‘ll serve you. I’m gunna get spruced up, so you make sure you’re here and leave the women alone till later. Okay?

Smiling to himself, Willy ambled off. His partner never missed the opportunity of rubbishing him for one thing or another but it was like water off a duck’s back. He didn’t mind how he smelt; the aboriginal women whom he associated with didn’t mind either so what was the big deal. He could go months without a bath and it didn’t worry him in the slightest. In fact, he didn’t like bathing at all as it washed away the natural oil of his body and dried out his skin. The fact that he had to bathe regularly, while in the Army, was about the only aspect of his Army service that caused him any discomfort.

Being a returned serviceman, Willy had been granted drinking rights; though, in reality, he found it difficult to buy alcohol in the pubs or even gain entry. He still wore his Army uniform trousers, shirt, boots and hat that he was wearing on his discharge; plus he possessed his Army discharge papers. Those documents were something he had produced on many occasions in a failed attempt to gain service in licensed premises. Sadly he was nearly always rebuffed and told to move along. He found that some police officers treated him in the same manner.

But after partnering with Ted things changed somewhat to his advantage. If Ted had one good point, it was his insistence that Willy should be entitled to go into a pub and have a beer. Willy mused that Ted was always having a go at him and calling him illiterate and of being a savage. He was always rubbishing him about how his promotion to corporal was only brought about by his ability to peel potatoes. But Ted steadfastly stood by him and supported his right to be treated as an equal when it came to his drinking rights.

Why was Ted supporting him in such a manner? That thought regularly entered Willy’s mind; was it because he needed him and his knowledge of the area? Would he be discarded when, or if, his usefulness ran out?

He knew that his partner would continue ‘pissing in his pocket’ until he learnt what he had in mind to get gold from the local Wongi people. Willy was concerned that Ted was only supporting him for his own benefit and was likely to drop him like a hot potato if his friendship with a black man impacted with his standing in the town’s community.

All that considered the only hotel in the area that was willing to serve him alcohol was the Grand. Publican Robbie would allow him to be served but only in the front bar. None of the town’s other drinking establishments would permit him through the front door, let alone serve him. Not that he worried much about that fact as he had become accustomed to such treatment for as long as he could remember.

The Leonora Native Reserve was located on the outskirts of the town, just west of the railway line. It comprised of about a dozen primitive corrugated iron shacks. Electricity was not connected, though water was to hand, by means of a single community use tap. Outdoor campfires were the only cooking facilities available to those who chose to live on the site. The shacks were very hot in summer and very cold in winter. This was where Willy had chosen to stay during his time in town.

Having an hour to kill before meeting back up with Ted, Willy decided on visiting the settlement to see who was camping there at the time. Members of the local aboriginal community, who used the site, were very nomadic and would come and go without notice. This unannounced coming and going was what the whites referred to as ‘going walkabout’. Willy hoped that there would be some women at the camp.

Being a member of the select group to have been tribally initiated and a returned soldier made him somewhat a figure of awe in the eyes of the uneducated and superstitious local tribespeople. Most of these people had never had the opportunity to venture from their tribal lands, or ever seen the sea – let alone travelled on, or over it.

And Willy soaked up the awe and respect that these tribal people showed him, especially when it came to the women-folk. He swaggered into the reserve grounds to the welcome of several camp dogs yapping and snapping at his heels. "What the hell?" he bellowed to himself, "Bloody camp dogs shouldn’t be barking at me. Don’t they know I’m a black fellah?"

A few well-aimed kicks of his heavy Army boots saw the skinny, mangy camp dogs scurrying off, only to be replaced by a number of naked and semi-naked small children. The commotion of the yapping dogs and shrill chattering of the children alerted the adults of the camp to his presence. Looking about to see who was staying at the camp, Willy recognized a couple of unfriendly faces. These faces belonged to young men of the tribe and these young warriors were not glad to see him or to welcome him into their midst. This animosity had been brought about by past affairs that he’d had with young women of the area.

Willy, if the truth be known and something that he would never admit to himself, considered himself superior to these people. He was a strapping, healthy example of a man; decorated with tribal initiation scars and other personal ceremonial markings –features he knew looked upon with envy by many other young uninitiated males of the Wongi tribe. He had also experienced overseas travel, albeit in an Army troop ship. Something they would never encounter. But what he prized the most was being able to enter a hotel and buy a beer. That was something they could not do as it was an offence under the white man’s law for natives to drink. No-one, not even the wadjellas could bring grog onto a native reserve and if they did they were liable to be arrested by the police.

Chapter 4

Leonora Native Reserve

Spotting a couple of familiar faces, Willy ambled over to a shady patch, under some mulga trees. Seated on the ground were three old men, some women and several small children. A nod of the head and a quick word from one of the men saw the women and children rise and leave. Willy immediately sensed that he was not being welcomed