The Purple Tree: The Queensland Outback in the 1860S

By Frank E. Burdett

Life has no particular ceremony for choosing people to be thrust into the open public arena, whether favourable or not.
Many times this happens with or without any actual input by that unsuspecting human being. Frank E. Burdett is one such person.

He volunteered and joined the New Zealand Army to fi ght the Terrorists in the jungles of Malaysia. In one single night, his life changed forever when a man-eating tiger chose him as its next victim.

Frank was attacked, mauled and dragged backwards along the rough and uneven jungle fl oor. This experience is related in his book, Sons of the Brave. Frank was diagnosed with terminal metastasized melanoma cancer.

In July 2010 he was given 6 months to live after surgery and radiation treatment for cancer of both lungs, liver and bowel; but
he then decided to undertake an alternative medical treatment and has been, to date, four years free of any cancer. He was encouraged to write his story by a leading oncologist in Brisbane in order to help other cancer victims. That book is entitled I Survived Metastacised Melanoma Cancer!

The Purple Tree was written during his recovery period and allowed him to freely research his material, through friends, neighbours and well-meaning Australians. It has taken a long time to bring to light
this interesting story about life in the Outback.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Mar 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493134601

Frank E. Burdett

Life has no particular ceremony for choosing people to be thrust into the open public arena, whether favourable or not. Many times this happens with or without any actual input by that unsuspecting human being. Frank E. Burdett is one such person. He volunteered and joined the New Zealand Army to fight the Terrorists in the jungles of Malaysia. In one single night, his life changed forever when a man-eating tiger chose him as its next victim. Frank was attacked, mauled and dragged backwards along the rough and uneven jungle floor. This experience is related in his book, “Sons of the Brave”. Frank was diagnosed with terminal metastasized melanoma cancer. In July 2010 he was given 6 months to live after surgery and radiation treatment for cancer of both lungs, liver and bowel; but he then decided to undertake an alternative medical treatment and has been, to date, four years free of any cancer. He was encouraged to write his story by a leading oncologist in Brisbane in order to help other cancer victims. That book is entitled “I Survived Metastacised Melanoma Cancer!” “The Purple Tree” was written during his recovery period and allowed him to freely research his material, through friends, neighbours and well-meaning Australians. It has taken a long time to bring to light this interesting story about life in the Outback.

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Copyright © 2014 by Frank E. Burdett.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 02/17/2014

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris LLC

1-800-455-039

www.xlibris.com.au

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CONTENTS

Dedication

The Wild Bush Holds Their Secrets…

Background

Chapter One: Into the Bush

Chapter Two: A Remittance Man

Chapter Three: The Possum Hunt

Chapter Four: Bob Strong’s Station

Chapter Five: A Business Deal

Chapter Six: An Unpleasant Encounter

Chapter Seven: An Armed Robbery

Chapter Eight: William Disappears

Chapter Nine: Troubles With Blacks

Chapter Ten: The Troubles Continue

Chapter Eleven: A Cat-and-Mouse Game

Chapter Twelve: Skirmish With Bushrangers

Chapter Thirteen: A Bitter Confrontation

Chapter Fourteen: Analysis of a Patient

Chapter Fifteen: Hunting the Emu

Chapter Sixteen: The Need for Explanations!

Chapter Seventeen: He’s a Fair Dinkum, True Blue Bloke!

Chapter Eighteen: A Serious Situation

Chapter Nineteen: A Land of Promise!

Chapter Twenty: A Moment of Truth!

Chapter Twenty-One: A Deal’s a Deal!

Chapter Twenty-Two: Defining a Fool!

Chapter Twenty-Three: Stark Reality Hits Home

Chapter Twenty-Four: A New Understanding

Chapter Twenty-Five: Let There Be No Mistakes!

Chapter Twenty-Six: Are You Barmy, Jack?

Chapter Twenty-Seven: It’s Not Worth a Zack!

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Lance Has a Surprise!

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Munga Speaks Truth!

Chapter Thirty: Ken Receives a Shock!

Chapter Thirty-One: An Evening of Celebration

Chapter Thirty-Two: Double the Pleasure

Chapter Thirty-Three: She’ll Be Right, Mate!

Chapter Thirty-Four: The Turning Point!

Chapter Thirty-Five: I Think the Lady Protests Too Much, Methinks!

Chapter Thirty-Six: The Law is The Law!

Chapter Thirty-Seven: Swaggin’ Along

Chapter Thirty-Eight: It’s More Important Than You Think!

Chapter Thirty-Nine: It’s an Irish Dilemma!

Chapter Forty: Jack Receives a Shock!

Chapter Forty-One: Meeting at the Old Manse

Chapter Forty-Two: The Steamer Lagoon Races

Chapter Forty-Three: A Knotty Situation!

Chapter Forty-Four: A Matter of Opinion!

Chapter Forty-Five: A Chance Meeting!

Chapter Forty-Six: Life is Full of Surprises!

Chapter Forty-Seven: A Magical Moment!

Chapter Forty-Eight: Katherine Makes a Decision!

Chapter Forty-Nine: He’s a… a Sheila!

Chapter Fifty: The Heart of the Matter

Chapter Fifty-One: Too Close to Home For Comfort!

Chapter Fifty-Two: Time for Reflection

Chapter Fifty-Three: You Make Your Own Way in This Life!

Chapter Fifty-Four: Sowing an Idea!

Chapter Fifty-Five: This is No Place For a Woman!

List of Characters

Other books by FRANK BURDETT

Rhyme

of

the

Ancient

Campaigner

Sons

of

the

Brave

(Revised

Edition)

Adventures

Along

the

Oregon

Trail

Laughing

at

Yourself

About

Almost

Anything

&

Everything

I

survived

metastacised

melanoma

cancer!

DEDICATION

image008.jpg

JENNIFER CAMPBELL FLIPPEN

(R.I.P)

L ike the Purple Tree itself, Jennifer will never wither and die, but will continue to live in the hearts of those who loved her. You know, the older the Purple Tree gets the more beautiful it becomes. Jennifer is the same way!

Jennifer reminds me of The Purple Tree for its exquisite natural beauty, and sweet-swelling fragrance, which it gives freely to hundreds of thousands of people throughout.

Jennifer, too, had an exquisite natural beauty, and she gave freely of her loving self to her family, friends and community.

Jennifer, in a letter to her daughter who asked the meaning of life replied:

"A classic philosophical question, but so relevant in any and at any age. I believe one of the reasons I was born was to make my life an offering.

"What does that mean? It means to be a blessing to my family, friends, neighbours, and to care for the world at large as opportunity presents it.

"How can I be a blessing? To be true to myself (the person I was created to be) to view this life as a miracle, to love, to grow, to learn, to take positive action, and cheerfully share with others as I am able.

Oh! Having a blast and laughing along the way is crucial to the formula!

THE WILD BUSH HOLDS THEIR SECRETS…

T he world is divided into those who do things and those who get the credit. On occasions, it is the same person, such as a woman who gets things done effectively and quietly! But, mostly, it is the men who are given all the credit!

The mirror does not reflect anything of yesterday—only today! A pity, because in the great Queensland Outback as Banjo Paterson describes is: A land, where silence is so deep that sound itself is dead; a gaunt grey bird, like a homeless soul, drifts, noiseless overhead, and the world’s great story is left untold, the message left unsaid.

Yet, history is usually made by men for men, while the womenfolk, especially of the Outback, are often forgotten, until now… for the poet, G. Essex (1863-1909) reminds us:

The red sun robs their beauty and, in weariness and pain,

The slow years steal the nameless grace that never comes again;

There are hours men cannot soothe, and words men cannot say—

The nearest woman’s face may be a hundred miles away.

The wild bush holds the secrets of their longing and desire,

When the white stars in reverence light their holy altar fires,

And silence, like the touch of God, sinks deep into the breast . . .

Perchance He hears and understands the Women of the West.

Frank Burdett,

February, 2014

BACKGROUND

T he Australian Outback is just about everywhere else… six and a half million square kilometres of it, yet, less than 10 per cent of the Australian population lives outside the urban settlements. It is impossible to answer the question, Where is the Australian Outback? mainly because it’s not a precise location. The term Outback is used to describe the emptiness, remoteness, and the huge distances of inland Australia, and, the fact that most people still don’t know much about it! There is no official designation as the Outback.

Not all Australians talk about the Outback, either. The further away from the cities one lives, the less one is inclined to call it as such. Australians talk about the bush when they refer to wilderness areas outside of the cities. As one moves further and further away from what is known as the bush, one, eventually, crosses some invisible line and find themselves in the Outback, the part of Australia that they are unaware of—that harsh and unforgiving interior—until you learn to live within its own rules!

Where, exactly, that line is located, and exactly what is the Australian Outback, depends upon the individual. Those, who live in the Australian Outback respect this country, and love it! They love the fact that nature reigns supreme here! The unspoiled beauty, the space and the freedom—complete freedom! The Outback is not harsh, or forbidding to those who have learned the lessons and know of the mystique of this land. It soon becomes a familiar place! It is home! And, so, the Outback once again, becomes the bush again!

Many Australian myths and legends have emanated from the bush. Early bushranging—ranging, or living off the land—was sometimes seen as a preferred option to the harsh conditions experienced by convicts in chains. Later bushrangers, such as Jack Donohue, and Fred Ward, (better known as Captain Thunderbolt), were seen as rebellious figures associated with bush life. Their bush craftsmanship was legendary, as well as necessary. The bush has evoked themes of struggle and survival epitomised in tales of bushrangers, drovers, Outback women and marauding savages. The bush has also been seen as a source of nourishment and survival. These two opposing elements were often brought together by the activities of the Australian black trackers. The skill of the aboriginals in the bush, and, especially, their tracking abilities, was seen as miraculous and soon became legendary in the minds of European settlers. The aboriginal knowledge of the land, was at the core of their spiritual beliefs, and was expressed in stories, arts and performance—music, songs, dance and ceremony.

The Aussie bushie, or bushman, has no particular colour or religion. He’s a bit of this or a bit of that or something in between. You know? He/she is neither black, white, nor brimble and, dinki-di, probably, a collection of many values. He’s now long gone, and, that’s understandable, I reckon. Maybe, just maybe, there’s one or two, proppin’ up a bar in some remote dusty town or livin’ like a hermit in a cave or caravan park. If, so, then he’s the last of the tribe!

This True Blue bloke was fair dinkum, reliable and always did the right thing. He was the bloke, who came along on a bloody miserable day when your horse had broken down, and even later, when your rust-bucket had broken down and you were stranded. Nothin’, but nothin’, was too much trouble to the True Blue bloke. He’d seen more than some himself. He wasn’t a flashy dresser, either. He’d fix your heap of rust up with wire and get you goin’, and he’d probably make you laugh, too.

Today, True Blue wouldn’t take a snake to a board meeting. There’d be too many there already! Nah! True Blue would be eaten alive today, Mate! He just wouldn’t have the skills to keep up, to make himself heard, or even be understood. His accent wasn’t posh enough. It was antiquated and, he wasn’t politically correct, either! What passes for common business practice these days, he would have hated. It’s every bloke for himself now and it’s filthy lucre, or moolah, that only matters!

But, not for me, Mate! I’ve got me memories and here’s a yarn for you to read, if you’ve the sense to read about dinkum blokes in the bush and their women and both their lives in it!

CHAPTER ONE

Into the Bush

I t was hot, all right; hotter than hell, I reckon, as far as the Outback goes, that is! The natural gait of the three horses in gallop was in a rhythmical four-beat pattern and, combined with the occasional whinnying and clinking of the metal bridles and stirrups, it created a chorus all of its own, as there is no other sound quite like the magic of a galloping horse and rider in unison. You can put the ring around it!

The three horsemen were not riding abreast, but in a single file, not in competition, but rather with a single purpose in mind—to find water—any water, as both horses and men were in desperation and parched. By the instinct of survival, it was the first horse which detected the nearness of water and it whinnied in anticipation. Immediately, the leading rider brought his steed to an abrupt halt, cautioning the others to follow his example.

The leading horseman looked back at the others and smiled. He was a Black-fella, a hired guide. He waited while the others walked their horses up to him. Then, he took off his old battered hat and fanned his head, saying:

Wait! Billabong, by ’n by soon. Meebe, plenty water. Be bery careful wid dirsty horses! You-fella stop dem drink too much, too soon. A dirsty horse kill himself dead, drink too soon! Horse bloat up and give ’im colic!

Just find us the water, Jarra and don’t panic, we know what to do with thirsty horses, replied one of the other riders.

The two riders were brothers, Jack, and Harry Brooks, both newly-arrived from England, wending their way through the Queensland bush in search of a particular station. Jack, the elder of the two, was approximately 5’ 11" tall, while Harry was a smidgen shorter. They were both clean-shaven and dressed much alike, wearing broad-brimmed hats, which were wide enough to shade a dog as well—if they had one! They both wore loose chequered shirts, brown trousers and high boots with spurs. Both of them would be considered handsome, in their own way, by most women. They were well educated and displayed impeccable manners, especially around women—something that was rather unique in Outback Queensland. Each of the brothers had in his belt an axe, a pair of pistols, and a long knife; while on their backs were slung serviceable rifles, just in case they should meet any marauding Blacks—a strong possibility during this period of the country’s history.

Harry viewed the surrounding country. It wasn’t especially attractive, indeed, so great was its sameness that if alone they would have been utterly unable to find their way. On either side of them were tall stringy-bark and other gum trees, their curious and narrow leaves affording scarcely any shelter from the rays of the almost vertical sun; the huge white stems from which the bark hung down in ragged masses giving them a weird and dreary aspect. Tracks branched off in one direction then, in another, which bewildered most strangers, new to this environment. But there was one thing that struck Harry, now that they had stopped galloping. It was the utter silence, yet, it had a special inspiring sound, all of its own!

Do you hear it, Jack? he asked.

Hear what Harry? I don’t hear anything! replied his brother.

The silence! It’s the sound of silence, which seems to speak a message all of its own! Harry continued.

I hope the message is one of hope, Harry! remarked Jack. I’ll be happy just to refresh myself with a supply of water!

It’s something more than that, Jack. I can’t quite give you an answer just yet! Whatever the answer is, it’s certainly powerful! said Harry.

I think you’ve been out in the sun too long, Harry. Come on, let’s get ourselves a drink!

They carried but one map, which showed that they should soon reach a broad stream. They were now on the lookout, wondering whether they should have to wade through it or should find some kind of a ferryboat ready to take them and their animals across.

Jack and Harry’s father had recently died, after a long illness. He had instigated that his two sons should leave England and settle somewhere in Australia to seek out their fortunes. Their mother, had been left with a very limited income, and Jack and Harry intended to make their future and establish a home for their mother in Australia. As soon as their mother’s affairs had been settled the two brothers set sail from England, and, eventually, they arrived in Sydney. They hadn’t come entirely on a wild-goose chase. A close friend of their father’s, Mr Robert Strong, had been settled in Australia for many years and Robert had replied to an application by their father, saying that he should be only too pleased to receive his friend’s two sons and point them in the right direction for their future—if, they were sober, steady, strong, active, willing men with realistic dreams.

They were now making their way toward Bob Strong’s Outback cattle station, Stronghold Station, oh, about three hundred miles inland. Though they hadn’t ridden far from their camp, the intense heat made them, not quite parched, but, still very thirsty, and they were anxious to reach the river. They weren’t too sure about the skills of their Black guide and kept asking him if they were headed in the right direction, as everything to them seemed desolate. The guide’s reply had always been: Meebe!

The Black guide couldn’t add much to their already meagre information, even though they were assured before they had hired him that he had a good grasp of English. However, they soon found that his brand of English was unique and it took some time for them to come to terms with it. But, he understood them better, even though they had to put questions in different ways and repeat them over and over again. The translation of his replies was a definite challenge to them!

Jack became impatient and frequently stood up in his stirrups looking ahead, hoping to catch sight of a sheen of water. It wasn’t long before Jack and Harry had the distinct suspicion that their guide had lost his way and they were wandering far from their correct course.

The bush became thicker but, no sign of water was seen. They continued riding on when a loud cry was heard.

Did you hear that? asked Jack suddenly. I’m sure there’s someone in trouble! Jack exclaimed.

I believe you’re right, answered Harry.

They urged their horses forward, when a peal of mocking laughter came from the bushes close by.

What’s that weird sound? Jack asked. Is it some local natives wanting to frighten us? Or some wild, mad man?

A series of laughter was repeated.

Him-fella one jackass! replied their guide, Jarra.

Jackass! What does he mean? asked Harry.

Then, looking up, they discovered a roundish-shaped bird, not far off, uttering extraordinary sounds.

Jarra explained: Dere… ’im, kookaburra.

The calls sounded ridiculous to the two brothers and they found themselves laughing. Then, a number of cockatoos rose up screaming out loudly, flying over the trees to land not far off. Jack and Harry were eyeing the birds as they rode along, when they reached the edge of a bank. Below was a sluggish stream, so shallow that they could see the sandy bottom.

Is this the river we are supposed to find? Jack asked, examining the map more closely.

It doesn’t matter, Jack! It’s water, all the same, exclaimed Harry. Let’s get a drink!

They dismounted slowly, letting the horses drink first, but being watchful that they didn’t drink too much. Then they hobbled their horses, allowing them to nibble at the grass under the trees. Jack and Harry unslung their rifles, and went in search of the cockatoos. Harry fired at one and it dropped like a stone. Then he shot another in quick succession. Jack shot another type of parrot, but, the report of their rifles frightened away the other cockatoos. Jarra gathered up the birds and walked away. Meanwhile the two brothers strolled around searching for something more sustainable to shoot, but there was nothing. On reaching their camp near the water, Jarra was waiting. He had made a fire on which the birds were cooking and he immediately offered the brothers a portion of their kill, but they quickly noticed that Jarra devoured the largest portion.

The Englishmen found the birds tough to chew, nevertheless, they were hungry enough to finish their share. They had just finished when they caught sight of two aborigines running wildly about, as if they had no idea of where they were going. They had their eyes fixed in the air and appeared oblivious of all obstructions in their way. Harry shouted out to them, but they ignored him and continued on, leaping over a fallen trunk, rushing through low bushes, stumbling over a minor hollow in the ground, still keeping their eyes fixed on the object which held their attention.

What are they doing, Jarra? Harry asked.

Black-fellas follow honey bee, he answered.

The two Black-fellas stopped under a huge tree, and then began to climb slowly. Both Jack and Harry followed to watch them. As the two brothers got nearer, they could see the Blacks among the lower branches, with hundreds of bees flying excitedly all about them, but the bee hunters ignored the attacking bees.

The aborigines were so busy collecting the honey that they weren’t aware of anyone being in their vicinity. When they climbed down again, they were startled at seeing two white men standing there. Jack was anxious that they would run off, without them offering any of the honey. He made signs with his hands and produced a coloured cotton handkerchief from his pocket. He offered it to them, endeavouring to barter for some of their honey.

Both Harry and Jack stayed calm, with Jack still holding out the handkerchief. The Blacks looked at one another and then came forward. They looked at Jack and Jack just smiled at them. The Blacks then shared a very small portion of their honey with him and then moved quickly away.

How do they keep their eyes on the bees, Jarra? asked Harry.

Black-fellas, good eyes! Jarra said, then went into uncontrollable laughter.

I don’t believe that! replied Jack, sternly.

YES! Black-fellas got good eyes! repeated Jarra, without laughing this time.

I still think you are not telling me the truth, Jarra! said Jack.

White man think Black-fella know nothin’! replied Jarra, smiling.

Leave it, Jack! He’s not going to tell us, so forget all about it! said Harry.

Jack and Harry turned their attention to the honey and tasted it. They found it more satisfactory to their taste than the tough parrots. Having taken a last drink from the stream they filled their water bottles and remounted their horses and continued on their journey.

I see there’s not much chance of our reaching a larger river than the last one, in order to make camp, stated Harry. I don’t see any marked on this map for miles ahead.

They rode through the all-too-dreary landscape with the same monotonous views on either side of them. Harry was beginning to think that they had covered the same ground more than a dozen times already. Eventually, they came to the dry bed of a stream. Harry looked at Jack in despair and said:

This country isn’t too inviting, is it! Hot, humid and very little water, especially when you need it! he protested.

Jarra laughed out loud.

What’s so funny, Jarra? asked Jack.

Earth dirsty! She drink first… meebe, long drink dis time, eh? Jarra replied.

The two brothers said nothing. The sudden appearance of the bee hunters had cautioned them that there were possibly other Blacks in the vicinity, and they had previously been warned about trusting any of them. They had also been told some Black-fellas had murdered a number of unfortunate hut-keepers and shepherds up country, so Jack and Harry had formed unfavourable opinions of all Blacks. So far, Jarra had been helpful, but, they regarded him as barely civilised.

Are there many Blacks around here, Jarra? asked Harry.

Jarra shook his head, slowly and said: Meebe! he replied. "Myall Blacks come. Myall Blacks go! Very wild Black-fellas, keep away… most times."

You mean, uncivilised? asked Harry.

What tribe those bee hunters? asked Jack.

"Kali! the guide replied. Jarra tribe, walkabout, meebe two days!"

But, are these bee hunter Blacks, dangerous? asked Jack.

Meebe! he replied.

His answer was not taken lightly. They held no immediate fear should they meet any trouble on open ground, however, in the bush it was a different matter. Sleeping without a proper guard was going to be the worst, either during the noon-day heat or at night.

Jack and Harry had little knowledge of Australia, and knew next to nothing of the Queensland Outback, whatsoever. Of course, they had read a few books, but, Mr Strong hadn’t described the harshness of the country, and only advised their father to send them out without encumbrances of any description—a small amount of serviceable clothes, a few books and a box of medication apiece. They had followed his advice almost to the letter, adding only some well-made tools, a rifle each and a supply of ammunition, to which they had added on their arrival a few necessaries for travelling in the bush.

They decided that one animal could carry all their worldly possessions, a few odd articles for immediate use being packed in the saddlebags. As the day was beginning to fade, they looked for a convenient place to camp. They attempted to make Jarra understand that they wanted a place where they wouldn’t be easily surprised and yet, easy to defend, in case there were any troublesome Blacks.

Jarra laughed at their clumsy attempts, which wasn’t too reassuring to Harry. The terrain had changed since the morning, and they now entered a rocky and wild-looking area. Harry’s spirits rose at seeing the openness of the area and he estimated that finding a suitable site for a camp should prove relatively easy.

By Jove, Jack! Is that a man I see, trussed to a tree up ahead? asked Harry, excitedly.

I think you’re perfectly right, Harry! replied Jack, shading his eyes with one hand and urging his horse forward.

A man, indeed, was bound with his hands behind his back and secured firmly to a tree. He was deadly pale and seemed so exhausted that he couldn’t even speak as they both approached.

Jack and Harry dismounted immediately and handed their reins to Jarra. Then they cut the ropes binding the man, waiting until he had somewhat recovered before they spoke.

What on earth has happened to you, Sir? asked Jack.

Thank you, you chaps! Whoever you are! replied the man. Some bushrangers suddenly surprised me, and held me up! I had just dismounted, when three of them sprang on me, and before I could draw my revolver, knocked me down. I fully believed they intended to murder me, but, they were happy enough with stealing my horse, pistol, ammunition and everything I had about me. Then they tied me to this tree, and galloped away, leaving me to die of thirst, starvation, or being gnawed to death by the dingoes or maybe even being killed by Black-fellas! Had you not arrived when you did, such might have been my fate; and, believe me, I’m deeply grateful to you for rescuing me.

Did you say bushrangers? asked Harry. Who were they?

Can I have some water? asked the man. He took a long drink and then he spoke: "I can’t tell you who those bushrangers actually were, but, I can certainly tell you something about bushrangers right enough," replied the man.

"You wouldn’t have heard of Fred Ward*, the noted bushranger, of course! Frederick Ward has been described as 35 years old, 5ft 8ins high, dark complexion, and dark beard with sandy points and short curly hair. He was known as Captain Thunderbolt and his bushranging escapades are now all history, of course! It was his excellent skill as a horseman, and his love of horse racing, that the people in the bush greatly admired. He acquired famous racehorses and either used them as common mounts to out-pace the mediocre police horses or he traded them for profit.

So began, Captain Thunderbolt’s seven-year crime spree, including twenty-five mail coach robberies, sixteen stations and homesteads, six peddlers, six-teen hotels and stores, one toll-bar gate and eighty horse thefts worth, at least, £20,000! The longest crime spree in Australia! said the rescued man.

I only hope we don’t meet any rough characters like him! replied Jack.

Bushrangers are all mean to one degree or another. They are unpredictable and worthy of your utmost care! replied the man.

Jack and Harry had been aware of the possibility that they might meet with a few scattered Blacks here and there, but, had no idea of the likelihood of meeting up with bushrangers.

By the way, my name is Jack Brooks and this is my brother, Harry, said Jack, making introductions.

Oh! My name’s Barlow! Lance Barlow. I am sure pleased to meet you both, especially under the circumstances! he replied.

We are only pleased that we have been of some use to you, Lance. Would you like to join us until you can get another horse? You can double-up behind one of us for a while and then change over, and I will double-up with Harry, offered Jack.

I should like to try and catch those men who robbed you, said Harry. Is there any chance of us overtaking them? Surely, they will camp not far from here, and if, we follow their tracks, we might come upon them as suddenly as they surprised you.

Very little chance of that, I’m afraid, replied Lance. They’re desperate men, and, knowing that every man’s hand is against them, they keep a strict watch. They’re fully aware that it’s possible that I might be freed, and will probably have galloped far away by now. Anyway, I am grateful to you for your offer, and I am sorry to have delayed you. But, I must confess, that without a pistol or rifle, I should be very reluctant to journey on foot by myself. I am going to the north-west, and I assume, from the direction you were riding, that our destination lies in similar areas, Lance said.

We’re headed for the Stronghold Station of Mr Robert Strong, which we understand is nearly three hundred miles off; and at the rate we could travel with our pack horse, we didn’t expect to reach it for three or four weeks, said Jack. But, you are in no condition to be travelling just yet. We had better make camp and set off in the morning.

I can help you, as I know the country, said Lance. A short distance further on from here there’s a waterhole, which during the rainy season, is sometimes a torrent; we can get all we want for a camp there!

I think you should jump up behind me for the moment, because you’re in no condition to ride by yourself, said Jack.

Jarra was standing to one side and took no part in any of the conversation. Standing wasn’t the right word, as Jarra was leaning one leg against his straightened leg, holding himself steady with a long spear. Lance noticed him as he mounted behind Jack.

Is that Black with you? he asked.

Yes, he’s our guide! explained Harry.

Jarra! called out Jack. This is Lance. He’s coming with us.

Jarra looked but didn’t acknowledge Lance whatsoever.

Lance said nothing.

Riding at a comfortable gait they soon reached the waterhole. Lance eased himself off Jack’s steed and immediately began an inspection of the whole area.

Yes! The bushrangers have been here, all right. I reckon they’ve watered their horses and ridden off, so we needn’t fear any trouble from them just now, Lance said, firmly.

Jarra! called out Jack. Come here and look!

Jarra came over at a saunter. He bent down and kept in that position, inspecting the ground as he went.

One big-fella! Meebe four horses! Ride quick-quick! he said pointing west.

Jarra hobbled their horses in the normal fashion, fastening their legs together with leather straps. He then lit a fire, while Lance rested nearby. Jack and Harry took their rifles and went in different directions in search of food. They soon came back, Jack with a pair of pigeons and Harry with three parrots, which was ample food for all. The pigeons were cooked, along with some damper and a billy of tea. It was a satisfactory meal. While they were seated round the fire, Jarra kept an eye on the horses. Lance finished off his mug of tea and looked at Jack and said:

You said your surname was Brooks, didn’t you?

Yes, that’s right? Why, Lance?

I’ve been looking at you, and your face seemed familiar to me, but, somehow, I couldn’t place where I had seen it before and, now, it has just come to me. I have an inkling that we were at school together! ‘Little Jack’ we used to call you! But, you must have forgotten me completely! Have you? asked Lance.

No… not completely said Jack, warmly, "you have changed a great deal, but, now that you mention about school, I do remember the name Barlow! Your face, I didn’t recognise at first! I remember well the times you came to my defence against bullies. I often wondered what had happened to you, Lance! Then someone, I can’t remember who, said that you had gone abroad!" replied Jack.

I thought of writing to let you know, in case you should ever come out to Australia, said Lance. But, I thought that that was so unlikely and the chances of meeting you so small that I didn’t bother. You both must stop at my homestead. It’s on your way and the longer you stay the better. We’ll have long a talk about old times and I’m sure I can give you some information, which will be useful to you in the country. To tell you the truth, I doubt if you’ll find any of Bob’s sons there, as I heard that Bob and his son, Albie, have gone north to look at a 150,000-acre station, some hundreds of miles away. I believe Bob is considering looking for a much smaller place. However, you’ll probably find no one at the old homestead to give you a welcome, except Mrs Strong and maybe a stockman hanging around. The other sons, Ken and Barry, are out mustering.

In that case, we will stop a few days with you Lance. It will be super catching up with all of your adventures, replied Jack.

We saw some bee hunters recently. Jarra said the Black-fellas were about to collect honey and we watched and then exchanged a handkerchief for some of it, said Harry.

This proves that there are Blacks in the neighbourhood. They may be friendly, but, they may also be dangerous, as are many of the Blacks in this region. I advise we keep a strict watch at night. I’ll take my turn to stand guard, said Lance.

They agreed that keeping watch was a good idea, but, after Lance’s ordeal, Jack and Harry decided that Lance should have a good night’s rest.

Jarra had built a rough hut of boughs, which provided sufficient shelter for two. Jarra then erected a shelter for himself. Jack took the first watch, and Harry the next. Lance wasn’t happy with Jarra taking any part of a watch as he shook his head and said, They just can’t be trusted!

Jarra wasted no time and settled himself down to sleep.

Harry and Lance were quickly asleep also and Jack started walking to and fro, keeping a lookout, stopping to place a few sticks on the fire now and then. He could see the horses safely feeding nearby. He was happy that the smoke from the fire was keeping the mosquitoes and sand flies at bay. Jack was concerned that dingoes could creep up in the dark and startle the horses or carry off their saddlebags, or tear the saddles and sleeping rugs to pieces. He suddenly stood up, and looked up at the star-studded sky. He was in awe as he tried to make out the various constellations, conspicuous of which, was the Southern Cross. Except for the occasional croak of a frog, the cry of a night bird, or the chirp of a cricket, not a sound had reached his ears; when, suddenly, as he was watching the moon rising above the rocks on one side of the camp, the most unearthly shrieks and yells rent the air. Harry, awakening startled, got to his feet.

What on earth’s the matter? he exclaimed. I dreamed that aborigines were upon us, and expected the next moment to have a spear through me!

I haven’t seen any of them, but those sounds seem scarcely human. It’s a wonder Lance hasn’t been awakened by them. We must arouse Jarra and learn what he thinks they are.

The fearful noise still continued. Jack and Harry stood with their rifles at the ready, expecting at any moment to see a mob of savages rush in at them. They moved to where Jarra was sleeping and roughly shook him awake.

What’s all that racket, Jarra? asked Jack.

Ha-ha! he laughed. Corroborree," Jarra said.

Lance soon awoke and agreed with what Jarra had said.

"It’s just the Blacks indulging in one of their native dances.

I should like to see this! Jack exclaimed. Is it possible, without risk of being discovered?

Jarra guided the two brothers, cautioning them not to utter a sound. Lance stayed behind in camp, making a brew of tea. Jack and Harry were scarcely prepared for the strange and weird sight, as they peered through some bushes. Before them was an area with a few trees in the middle. Two small fires burned and seated were a number of figures rattling sticks together. Suddenly, there burst out of the darkness about twenty skeleton-like figures, who threw themselves into every conceivable position, stretching out their legs, springing up and clapping their hands, and all the time shrieking, laughing and singing, and following them was a big Black, who apparently was a leader. He stood on one side, with stick in hand directing the proceedings.

Not for one moment did the dancers cease their ceremony. Jack and Harry continued to watch, fascinated. They watched until they grew weary of the spectacle, but, the dancers appeared in no way tired. Jack motioned to Jarra it was time to return to their camp. They were tired, but were assured that they weren’t going to be attacked by these dancing men this night.

CHAPTER TWO

A Remittance Man

T he night passed as Lance had predicted without a visit from the Blacks. He had assured Jack and Harry that they weren’t likely to attack armed men in daylight, as Jack and Harry were keen to become better acquainted with the aborigines. Therefore, they agreed that before setting off on their journey to pay a visit to their camp and gain their friendship and also showing they had no fear of them.

On examining the three parrots they had cooked the previous evening they found they had been nearly all eaten by ants, a large nest of which was discovered a short distance from their camp. It was going to be a meagre breakfast, unless someone found some food in a hurry. Lance Barlow was more experienced and, taking Jack’s rifle, in a few minutes had killed a small kangaroo, scarcely a hundred yards from camp. Having singed the kangaroo over the fire in aboriginal fashion, the joints were put on to roast. They had plenty of meat for their noon-day meal as the animal was just over three feet long, including the tail, which was nearly half its length.

The group would have preferred starting out at dawn, but, without food none of them felt inclined to start riding. Jarra made them understand that he wouldn’t leave while so much good meat remained to be eaten. They gave Jarra almost as much as all three of the men had eaten. Then they packed up the remainder in their saddlebags.

Jack called out to Lance:

You take my horse. I’ll walk behind. It can’t be too far to the abo village!

No, Jack! I’m good as a lode of gold! replied Lance.

Gold’s not that much use around here, Lance, and we just might need you in good condition sooner than we think! replied Jack.

I’ve been in worse shape before this, Jack! answered Lance.

Are we going to stand here arguing about who’s walking and who’s riding? asked Harry. The day will be gone before we get started at this rate!

Lance sheepishly mounted Jack’s steed and they set off for the aboriginal village. Jack was right. The village wasn’t too far from their camp after all. A short distance from the village they saw men stretched out on the ground surrounded by their dogs, while the women were squatting outside their leafy bowers. Their dwellings were crude and were placed in a semi-circle, formed by thick boughs stuck in the ground joining at the top on which other boughs were lightly thrown. They were scarcely more than three feet in height and could be better described as screens rather than huts, as their only object appeared to be to keep the wind off the inhabitants and the small fires which burned in front of them.

On the outside of these dwellings spears were stuck in the ground. Except for some pieces of opossum skin round their loins, the men wore no covering whatsoever, though several of them had narrow head bands bound round their brows. Two or three were smoking short, clay pipes, obviously obtained from shepherds or hut-keepers they had come in contact with. On seeing the white men, several of the men started up, and seized their spears, slowly advancing, but, the greater number lay gorged with food on the ground, not taking much notice.

It was then that Lance surprised Jack, Harry and Jarra, by speaking to Jarra in his own language, Pitta-pitta! He told him to tell the Blacks that we wished to be their friends; that their corroborree had given them a lot of amusement; and that if, we could kill a kangaroo, and give it to them to make another feast the next night.

As soon as Jarra had translated, this message, into their dialect, the Blacks began yabbering excitedly. Jarra then said that the villagers were pleased with the offer, and if, Jack and Harry wanted to stay, they would be welcome. Lance translated everything back to Jack and Harry to be sure there was no misunderstanding.

We can’t stick around with these Blacks for too long, but, two or three of them might come with us while we shoot a ’roo, and then, they can carry it back for us, Lance offered.

Jarra explained what Lance had said, and the villagers yabbered among themselves with the result that they replied they weren’t hungry and declined the offer.

Well then, as we can’t turn back, they’ll have to go without a ’roo, even though we do shoot one, said Lance, telling Jarra, to give them a friendly farewell.

Then they rode on.

Jack had always been very active and accustomed to running around at school and elsewhere and it was no effort for him to keep up with the walking horses. However, as the sun’s rays grew hotter, Jack began to wilt and Lance was not slow to notice the change in Jack’s pace.

Come on! It’s time you rode, and I walked! Lance said.

No, I’m all right, Lance. You get back up there! replied Jack in between gasps.

The heat became oppressive and it wasn’t long before Harry was showing signs of discomfort and he reined in his horse and dismounted.

What are you doing, Harry? asked Jack.

I’m pretty knocked up by this heat and I sure as heck don’t know how you are coping! Harry replied. I didn’t think it would ever be this hot!

OK, Harry. I’ll tell you what we are going to do! Jack said, with his hands on his hips.

Then he called to Jarra, who was bringing up the rear with the pack horse.

Lance! Tell Jarra it’s his turn to walk! I’m going to take Jarra’s horse for a while! Harry… get back up on your horse. It’s all settled!

Jarra made a wry face, but, said nothing, for, although better able to run than any of them, he considered it more dignified to ride.

Do you have any idea what tribe Jarra belongs to? Jack asked Lance suddenly.

Why? Do you think he may go walkabout with your gear? Lance asked, smiling.

Walkabout? What do you mean? asked Jack.

Oh, it’s a term to do with the Blacks. They just walk away from anything they are doing for some unknown reason. They say they are just going ‘walkabout’! Lance replied.

Lance laughed, then said:

Oh, Jack! No worries! Jarra’s tribe are regarded as hereditary enemies by the Blacks around these parts. Jarra’s likely to lose his life at their hands as any white man!

I don’t know if that’s reassuring or not! answered Jack.

We’ve lost considerable time by having to have someone walk. Now, I have a suggestion to make. If, you’ll allow me to take one of the horses, I’ll ride on and bring back a couple of fresh ones from my station. If need be, I’m prepared to walk, as I’m keen to give warning that bushrangers are in this area. They could very well be visiting my station or some of my neighbours and carrying off weapons and ammunition at this moment. But, they won’t find much other than food in the shepherds’ huts.

Do as you think best, replied Jack, I am sure Harry will agree with me that we won’t mind staying here for a few hours.

After a meal, Lance mounted Jack’s horse and away he rode at a gallop. Jarra still had plenty of food to content himself and he didn’t grumble at the delay. He sat himself down by the fire and promised to keep alight, while Jack and Harry took their rifles and went in hunt of something to shoot. They saw several kangaroos, but, they bounded away before either Jack or Harry could get near enough to shoot them. They had to content themselves, as before, with a couple of parrots and as many pigeons, which was sufficient. The strong kangaroo meat didn’t really suit the two brother’s palates, but Jarra had no objection to it, whatsoever.

Jack and Harry had both been shooting for some time on the morning of the third day, and were making their way back to camp, when they caught sight of three horsemen in the distance. They saw their heads occasionally appearing above the brushwood and they appeared to be coming towards Jack and Harry. At first, Jack thought that they must be Lance and two stockmen; but, as Jack couldn’t see any spare horses, he realised that they were strangers.

What if these men are bushrangers? asked Harry. If they catch Jarra alone, they’re sure to steal our gear and horses, and probably shoot him.

The sooner we get back to camp the better, Jack answered, turning his steed around.

They spurred their horses into action, keeping hidden as much as possible.

Keep your rifle at the ready, Harry, cautioned Jack. These men won’t know we suspect them, and may think they can attack us with ease.

Luckily, Jack and Harry were close to their camp and soon reached it safely. They told Jarra to fetch the pack horse, omitting to tell him about the strangers.

Suddenly, three horsemen appeared. Two of them had long, unruly beards and their hair hung down over their shoulders and their overall appearance was shabby. Jack was on immediate alert.

The strangers reined in their horses abruptly when they saw Jack and Harry standing with their backs to a couple of large trees, their gear and saddles piled on the ground, and Jarra holding the horses.

What are your needs, friends? We’re short on meat but, we can soon get some damper going and a mug of tea! said Jack.

The strangers scrutinised the three men, without uttering a word.

If you’re looking for trouble, you’ve come to the right place, said Jack, levelling his rifle. You might take my advice and ride on and leave us to cook our dinner.

Who are you, and where’re you goin’? demanded one of the horsemen.

We’re travelling our own way and we aren’t inclined to give that information to those we don’t know, replied Jack, in a firm voice.

Did you happen to run into anyone… who may have been robbed? inquired the man.

The question convinced Jack that he wasn’t mistaken as to the character of these men.

I’ve just told you! We’re not going to answer any questions from strangers, replied Jack, standing there with folded arms.

Oh! cried the man, making a movement as if he was about to go for his pistol.

If your hand moves an inch, I’ll put a hole in it! stated Jack coldly. Our rifles are loaded! Now ride on! We don’t want to harm anyone, but, we have no intention of being held up by anyone, either!

While Jack was speaking he gave a fleeting look at the other two men, who hadn’t spoken a word, but, seemed to be waiting for some signal before they acted. As Jack’s eyes ranged over the faces of one of them, it struck him that he had seen the man before. When or where, he couldn’t immediately recollect. The man was much younger, for, while the faces of the others were covered with beards, this man had but a small moustache, however, the hot sun had so tanned his complexion, that had he been a friend, Jack might have failed to recognise him. The man looked at Jack and then at Harry, whose attention was occupied by the older bushranger and didn’t notice him.

Oh! exclaimed the young man, after the warning Jack had given; and, without saying another word, he and the others turned their horses and rode away in the direction they had come.

They were probably attracted to our camp by the smoke, said Harry.

We’ve had a very narrow escape, for there’s no doubt, those men were bushrangers, Jack said.

"Dem fellas, bad exclaimed Jarra. Dem fellas very bad. Jarra, dead quick!"

I think he’s saying those men might come back and kill him! But, you dealt with them in a way they understood, Jack! said Harry, feeling more at ease.

Did you notice the face of one of those men? Jack asked. I couldn’t help thinking I knew that face quite well. If it wasn’t so improbable, I’d say it was a boy I remember at school. I wish that you’d seen him, Harry, for I’m sure you’d have recognised him!

Do you mean the youngest one? asked Harry, with some uncertainty. Yes, I did notice him, as a matter of fact! It struck me he was like a boy I always stood clear of, though he always tried to make friends. Do you remember his name at all?

I’m pretty sure it was Cook. His first name evades me… Harley, maybe, said Jack, trying to remember.

No, it wasn’t Cook! It was Cookson! That’s it, Charlie Cookson, exclaimed Harry with some emphasis. He was a shrewd character without an ounce of principle; and I remember hearing it said, after he left school, that he’d committed forgery, and that, although he wasn’t convicted, his parents had sent him out of the country. He became a remittance man… paid a monthly fee to keep away from his home country!"

They talked over the incident, and agreed it was very strange that they should have happened to meet with two ex-school boys so soon after arriving in Australia.

One good apple and one bad, all in the one box! exclaimed Harry. There’s so many of our countrymen out here now, it isn’t too surprising to meet someone you know or associated with back in the Old Country.

"I still like to refer to England as home, Harry. Not the old country," replied Jack.

If we’re going to make this place our home, Jack, then we’d better get used to calling this place home, instead, said Harry.

I don’t think so, Harry. England will always be my home! replied Jack.

The day passed by without any other visits, either from the bushrangers or Blacks. Lance had told them that, sometimes, Blacks stole up at night and speared the horses, or tried to drive them away from the camp. They were more interested in the horses than killing their owners.

Remember what Lance said about the Blacks stealing our horses, Harry? I think we better pay heed to his warning, as I’m concerned that even though the Blacks seemed friendly enough, I wouldn’t trust them.

Yes! You’re right, Jack! replied Harry, brushing away flies about his face, waving his hand. It’s almost impossible to guard against being surprised during the night, especially, if, the horses should wander any distance from camp!

We’ll just have to shorten the hobbles for the night, as well as keep a sharp look out, suggested Jack.

"It might pay to warn Jarra that he’ll have to take his turn as a guard as well. And tell him that if, any horse gets stolen, then he’s the one who’ll be walking! That will keep him awake!" said Harry.

Good thinking, Harry, replied Jack, smiling.

Ohhh! Jarra, no like dark! Dat when debil spirits come! he said, looking scared out of his wits.

How is it that you can talk to us better? asked Harry, firmly.

Jarra laughed.

Jarra not sure, you, good-fellas! Jarra listen good!

All right! Now, you stand guard for three hours.

Jarra, no like dark. Bad! he said softly.

OK then, you can take the first watch, Jarra, and make sure you stay awake or you’ll be in more trouble than you can handle. Is that clear? asked Jack.

Yes, Boss! replied Jarra, lifting his head, looking at the sky.

What are you looking at, Jarra? asked Jack, suspecting that Jarra hadn’t even been listening to him.

Rain… preddy soon! Jarra replied, smiling.

Yes! And my fist might fall on your head if, you fall asleep, too, Jarra! said Jack, wagging his finger at him.

As the hours passed by, Jack kept repeatedly looking at his watch, expecting Lance to arrive at any minute. With the possibility that the bushrangers may return, they didn’t move far from camp, just far enough, to shoot some parrots.

Jack felt sleepy, mainly through boredom and he had thrown himself on the ground to get some rest, when he heard Harry say:

Here come a couple of riders! Whether it’s Lance and someone, or the bushrangers returning, I can’t say. We better get ready, just in case!

Jack sprang to his feet quickly and ordered Jarra to bring in the horses. But the tension lessened when they recognised Lance, followed by another man leading a spare horse.

G’day, you blokes! I’m sorry to have been away so long, Lance exclaimed, as he dismounted. Our mob of horses had strayed, frightened by some Blacks after they killed one of them. If we come across any of them Black-fellas, they’ll get a busted head, let me tell you! However, Goldie and I caught three of the horses and then lost no time in coming here. What’s been happening since I left, anything? Or have you been bored to death by Jarra yabbering on and on? he laughed.

Actually, Lance, we had a visit from those bushrangers who robbed you!

Did they take anything? asked Lance, looking around.

No, Lance, we were ready for them. We saw them approaching and Jack sent them on their way, said Harry.

We must run those ratbags down! It’s bad enough looking out for thieving Blacks, without having to worry about bushrangers as well! Oh! By, the way, this is ‘Goldie’. He’s my station hand, a rouseabout, and a wrangler occasionally, at my place, said Lance, pointing in the direction of a small man, standing nearby. His name’s Clarence, but, you better not call him that! He’s always looking for gold, but, never found any. That’s how he got his name! explained Lance.

Jack looked at the old man, a man who obviously was used to hard times, hard places and hard work!

Pleased to meet you, Goldie, called out Jack.

Goldie nodded. He wasn’t happy having his name revealed.

He’s not used to fancy talk, Jack! Just give him a ‘g’day’ and he’s happy! said Lance.

What’s a rouseabout, Lance? asked Harry.

A rouseabout’s a bloke who works in the woolshed at shearing time. They pick up and clean up after the shearers and go flat out, sorting, cleaning, picking up, tossing fleeces, getting in more sheep and other menial jobs," explained Lance.

Oh! I think I understand! said Harry, confidently. We call that person a factotum… a jack of all trades!

Not around here, you don’t, replied Lance, waving his head sideways. Especially, if you want to be understood, that is!

They immediately saddled the spare horse, and then packed their gear on the pack horse. In the meantime, Goldie moved over to where Jarra was standing and spoke something totally unintelligible to both Jack and Harry.

What’s Goldie’s saying to our guide, Lance? asked Jack.

Oh, he’s just telling Jarra that he’s going to handle your pack horse. Mainly because, he can get it moving faster than Jarra, replied Lance.

By the way, Lance, said Jack, we recognised one of them strangers! He was at school with us, some years ago! His name is Charlie Cookson!"

Can’t say that I remember the name! remarked Lance. But, that doesn’t count for anything these days, as there’re plenty of ratbags around these days, as well as other no-hopers!

We found out that Jarra understands English better than he made out! He reckons he was trying us out, to see if we were decent people! said Harry.

They can be as cunning as a dingo, at times, these Blacks! Now! Are we all ready to start out? asked Lance. I can only be with you for a while; then, when you make camp, I’ll keep on going, as I want to get back to my homestead. Goldie will see you right. He knows the way to my place, said Lance.

Jack nodded to Lance. Then they all mounted and rode on. They didn’t cover too much ground over the next three hours as the pace was almost as slow as previous, because of the well-laden pack horse. Then they came to a perfect area for a camp and Lance pulled his horse to a stop.

I’ll leave you blokes to it as I want to cover as much ground as I can before sundown. Goldie’s a good bloke. He knows a thing or two, so no worries! OK? Lance said.

Have a safe journey! called out Harry.

Hooroo! called out, Goldie.

Jarra looked at Lance’s receding back, saying nothing.

Goldie spoke to Jarra, who immediately began making a fire, putting the billy on to boil.

Now, who among you blokes is the bloody cook? asked Goldie, smiling. He’d better be better than some I’ve come across!

Harry and Jack looked at each other and laughed.

Jarra’s our cook! He’s the only one we have! remarked Harry.

In that case, you blokes are in for a treat, said Goldie, cos, I’m handy with a frying pan and I cook a bloody good meal, even if I says so myself! Hey! One of you blokes, skedaddle off and bring back a ’roo or two, so I can dry some of the meat!

Harry got up, grabbed his rifle and went for his horse. Then he mounted and rode off.

You been with Lance for a while, Goldie? asked Jack.

Oh! I’ve been here and there, Mate, and some other places as well. I’ve been a swaggie, a jackaroo, a rouseabout, a drover, and done a bit of bloody shearing now and then and now I’m a bloody rouseabout, again. Sometimes, I even fossick for bloody gold! Goldie replied.

Jarra called out: Brew’s up!

Don’t sit there, Mate! There’s a billy of tea to be bloody drunk! Get it into you, you two! said Goldie.

The smoke from the fire caught in Jack’s eyes and, as he went to wipe his eyes, he spilled his mug of tea.

Goldie laughed and laughed and so did Jarra.

You don’t know much about bloody camping, do you? asked Goldie.

What do you mean? asked Jack, feeling foolish.

You never sit downwind of a bloody fire, Mate. The smoke’ll get you every bloody time, said Goldie. Never mind, you gotta learn somehow. Here, give us your mug, and I’ll refill it!

Where do you live, Jarra? asked Jack. Anywhere, around these parts?

Jarra, Boulia. Jarra know dese parts in dry, not wet, he replied.

Boulia’s north of Emerald, over to the west, said Goldie. Some parts round here flood pretty bloody bad during the wet season and you wouldn’t recognise it like it is just now.

"Can you ask him where his tribe