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Chapter : 1
Chasing Rainbows
Copyright © 2021, by Gary Conder. All Rights Reserved.



Published: 12 Jul 2021


Backyard of the Station

Twenty-one is going to be a good year.

They were the words from a song.

Travis Brown remembered the words but not the singer, nor the rest of the lyrics. Later that year he would be twenty-one and to date had no one to celebrate the occasion with. He could give up the trail and return to Mareeba; to his parents and the few friends who would care, or if the truth was told would even remember his name but doing so would divert him from his mindset.

Travis was on a search but hadn’t any inkling for what he was searching. All he knew something was missing from his short but somewhat eventful life and whenever he paused to review his thoughts an urge would build deep down inside like smouldering embers, once more driving him on towards an undefined destination.

Sometimes Travis would sit in solitude in a vain attempt to analyse his thoughts but as quickly his sight would travel to a far horizon, bringing wonder to what lay beyond that line of Carpentarian trees, that line of red heat haze and once again one foot would be placed in front of the other, drawing him closer to that ever elusive distance.

From his advantage Travis scanned the horizon and with a gentle boot encouraged his mount to move on. He attempted to recall what was said before commencing his travelling in regard to having destiny and a clear point of purpose. The exact wording was lost, as at that time he was incapable of heeding advice. It would come in time but for now he was a free wind, or to point but a bemused and gentle breeze but had fond memories of that last school year in Mareeba, of his parents and friends and how he commenced his travels. He remembered his schoolmate and his promise to join him in adventure. Late night motorcycle rides and the closeness of a friend’s body and the scent of his person. He recollected his disappointment as his friend reneged on travelling but for now disappointed or not, he would press on towards that never ending horizon. There was also a memory best forgotten, that of a short period of employment for a man who was beyond redemption.

There was also a meeting to be kept. One he first thought to be capricious but as the weeks turned into months and the year neared its end with that special day approaching it was drawing him away from his original design and now those Carpentarian trees and red heat haze were losing their magnetism. Travis thought back over that one short year with mixed emotions as he moved on into another day.


The Second War of the Twentieth Century had been over for almost two decades and the State of Queensland was abounding with opportunity; a land of milk and honey, or that is what the media and glossy magazines with their many coloured photos reported. Yet the scattering of small towns and communities found over the northern divide from the tropical coast still remained depressed and a hundred years distant in attitude and style from the more prosperous south, remaining a virtual time capsule of the preceding century, with neither the wish nor will to become part of the ever changing world.

Here in the great empty west, cattle remained king and the horse the employment of choice but that was quickly changing and the dreaming of previous years was becoming the building reality of the present and a country bounding headlong into an age of machinery, modernisation and world commerce. It was suggestion one day computers would do a day’s work in seconds and b-double transporters take the drudge out of the drover’s lot, relegating the horse to race meetings, rodeos and the fancy of young children.

In those insouciant post war days Australia punched much higher than its size. It was a continent the size of America with a population of a little over ten million, no greater than a world size city. Australia supplied what the world wanted but naive to world politics and commerce, with a smile on its collective lips a devil-may-care attitude in heart and she’ll be right mate the catch word of the decade: One that in time many Australians would come to regret.

Computers, they will never work, why they filled the space of a small room with their valves, switching and resisters and other things beyond most people’s comprehension and could not be transported without great difficulty. Such ideas remained in the imaginary realm of Dick Tracey comics and his telephonic wristwatch. Even with Australia designing the world’s second computer back in forty-nine but six months after and independently from that in the United Kingdom, they were but muse and would have remained so except for the invention of the computer chip, a product of America credited to Noyce and Kilby on an idea developed in Germany and England but made popular by Japan and its ability to shrink everything down in size. So in essence the chip could be thought of as an international affair.

The chip’s invention eventuated far away from the outback of Queensland and the thoughts of simple stockmen, who in the main hadn’t heard or thought of the computer age. As for television, it remained something enjoyed by those far to the south and local radio blessed with only two receivable stations on the dial, if one didn’t include the radio jamming in foreign language from Indonesia, during a diminutive cold war between Australia and that country. One of the two receivable stations was the Government ABC, colloquially known as Aunty, mostly divulging to the land and the interest of housewives, not excluding a daily rendition of Blue Hills an interminable story of outback life by Gwen Meredith. The second station broadcasted local interest and music in the domain of the sixties youthful genera, with the occasional reminisce to pre war days to entertain the older generation.

There was plenty of employment to be had; hard and dirty as it was but mostly in the sugarcane fields of the coastal strip, rendering good wages for the strong of back. Also in the now booming cattle industry of the Gulf but Travis Brown was not built for such toil. His average stature and slight wiry build gave him stamina to labour long hours but as he often related, one needed beef between the ears to cut cane.

Secondly there was cattle work, which suited the lad’s fondness of all things equestrian but being somewhat lacking in willingness to find work of any persuasion he was inclined to leave such thinking to some future time and providence, or decisions make by others.

That left office work and more favoured by his parents, with the drudge of clock watching and the shuffling of figures and papers under the constant eye of an unforgiving boss. Travis was well positioned in scholarship to work in a bank or maybe continue his education academically but his country upbringing would not develop him in that direction.

Travis was born on a sheep property midway along the Townsville, Mt. Isa railway line and when the night was cool and the air calm, he believed he could still hear the Inlander’s horn as it passed by the property’s home paddock, while taking mine workers to Mt. Isa or returning them, their pockets full of hard earned money, to spend back on the coast.

Travis’ father had managed Creek Run station for a southern conglomerate. The property was named after George Creek its founder, who declared it his run of country but had little ability to manage stock and as quickly turned it over. After a number of years the holding company who purchased the property passed Creek Run on to a foreign concern, therefore the Brown family moved further north into the Carpentaria Gulf and cattle country, where Jim Brown being more associated with bullocks than sheep was offered management of Cumberland Downs and his wife Margaret reluctantly took on the position of station cook.

After a time and being the only white women in twenty miles, Margaret tired of the long hours and the position of station cook was advertised. There were the usual applications of inappropriate short order cooks and city people looking for a country life change, without understanding of the remoteness of outback living. Eventually Joyce Mitchell arrived with good humour, a suitcase bulging with recipe books and a thousand ways to make the potato interesting and syrup pudding with powdered milk custard a must in any dining room.

Joyce was a happy woman although somewhat untidy about the kitchen, her hair the colour and texture of steel wool and as woolly as an unshorn sheep always managed to hold a little ingredient, even when not cooking. Joyce was a country woman born in the outback, educated at a one room, one teacher school, married then divorced, married again, forsaken once more to remain so without further intention. In her youth Joyce had been governess to a number of positions but children were not her strength. Eventually Joyce discovered the art of country cooking and for many years she flitted from one position to another until she again found peace with the Brown family at Cumberland Downs, where she settle in quiet existence without further intention.


Once of school age the young Travis Brown was sent east to boarding school, or if one was more precise a boarding hostel situated high in the mountains of the Atherton Tableland, where the climate was cool and to a lad who only knew the company of adults and horses somewhat daunting.

Once at the hostel the tyranny of distance became most obvious and Travis only travelled home during the long Christmas school break. During the year’s shorter holidays he was billeted with Edna and Tom Kingsley, friends of his parents in Mareeba.

Edna Kingsley had migrated to Mareeba after her tenure many years previously as station cook for the Brown family on Creek Run sheep station and after the departure of Robyn Turner. Although Miss. Turner was well recommended, she was most unsuited for station cooking with its lacking in most essential ingredient and no corner store to replenish.

During Edna’s time at Creek Run she married Thomas Kingsley, a failed shearer who wished to settle as far away from the mid-western dust and the smell of sheep dip as was feasibly possible, somewhere where the air smelt of forest and not decaying animals.

The Kingsley’s had purchased a small truck and acquired a delivery run in Mareeba, where after the birth of their first child they quickly settled into town life. During the following years they were gifted with three more; all boys and brats at that, giving Travis as much grief as they possibly could during his holiday visits.

Over the years Tom Kingsley had become sedentary through lack of exercise, taking his once lean, although somewhat height challenged body, into that of a round fat balding man prone to laziness. Tom’s lethargy often frustrated Edna into deliberate and lengthy argument, followed by days of silence, eventually causing a rift to develop that continued throughout their married life.

Most altercations arose because of Tom’s lack of parental control of their four boys, bringing Edna to declare she actually had five boys to contend with and with Travis’ arrival during the school holidays, the tribe extended to six.

With each birth Edna’s frame held a little more weight, then after the birth of the fourth child she gave way to early middle age spread and soon outsized her husband and on a continual without relief in sight. Dieting was attempted but this seemed to make matters worse. Edna would eat less but graze on fattening food during the long hot mind-numbing days, finally she discovered chocolate.

Edna was in general a pleasant woman and generous to a fault but inclined towards fits of melancholy followed by bouts of tears, which could commence at a moments notice and dry as quickly. She also had a spiteful streak when considered wronged and would seek revenge. Often her retribution would be so subtle that her perpetrator would lack any comprehension of her reasoning.

After Edna’s discovery of chocolates came that of alcohol. This habit she kept secret from her husband with her supply hidden in a wardrobe, buried deep beneath a pile of unfashionable shoes that because of fluid retention in her feet and ankles no longer fitted. At first the changes in Edna were unnoticeable but in time it took a greater measure to dull the pain of sadness she bore and with this increase came further mood swings, driving a further wedge between both husband and boys.

During his visits with the Kingsley’s Travis soon noticed the changes in Edna and although she in general treated him well, there would be a litany of innuendo about his parents not wanting him and suggestions relating to his mother’s fidelity, none of which Travis credited but did give him reason to spend as much time as possible away from Edna and her allegations.


It was during one such midyear visit to the Kingsley’s that Travis had met Gregory Stanley, a lad in his mid teenage years who, although his face was youthful, had the build of one much more advanced in years but blessed with a character that was destined for trouble.

Gregory’s elongated face, lips upturned into a permanent smile and ocean deep blue eyes drew Travis to him like a moth to a naked light bulb, while Greg, as he wished to be known dangled his friendship before Travis like the proverbial carrot. Not to say that Greg didn’t appreciate Travis’ friendship, as he originally instigated their acquaintance but Greg possessed an enlarged ego that needed continuous stroking and Travis’ nature was perfect to perform such an act. The lad also had a comical gate; a swagger that appeared purposefully effected, coming from the shoulders, not the hips and most obvious when trying to impress.

“What’s your name,” Greg demanded after first introduction at the Tip-Top café during a hot Mareeba afternoon. He had been with a group of local boys and spying a new face swooped on Travis with interest.

“Travis,”

“Travis what?”

“Travis Brown,”

“I don’t like that. Brown is a dull and boring colour, you must have a nickname, something to hang ya’ hat on,” Greg quizzically demanded.

“Sorta’,”

“Then out with it,”

“Back home I was called Boots,”

“Why flaming Boots? That’s almost as bad as Brown.”

“Cos’ I always wear stock boots and they are heavy on wooden floors,” Travis made a hand motion towards his boots, slightly lifting a foot for inspection.

“Are you some sort of cowboy?”

“My dad manages a cattle station and I ride a lot.”

“Around here we only ride sheilas;” Greg arrogantly announced with a hip thrusting display of vulgarity, his hands cupped in simulation to the front of his trousers, while over compensating the size of his apparatus. His action was soon frowned upon by Mario the café proprietor, bringing two girls at the far booth to giggle as they searched for their favourite on the juke-box selector. Greg gave Mario his usual finger response and continued his conversation with Travis.

“Oh,” Travis simply announced from the lack of such experience with the fairer sex and Greg’s display of boldness while in public.

“Never mind, then Boots it is,” but once announced was disregarded and Travis simply became Brownie there after.

“Hey Turner come here and meet Brownie.”

One of the lads from Greg’s group reluctantly approached.

“So you are a new kid in town?” Turner suggested.

“He’s not a townie but from some boarding school in Herberton.” Greg related from the information he had already gleaned from Travis.

“Not the hostel,” Turner laughed.

“Yes why?”

“It’s full of poofs,” Turner unkindly suggested and laughed.

“I don’t think so,” Travis protested.

“Anyway Turner I’m talking so fuck off and I’ll see you down the river later,”

Greg also had a hidden trait that being prone to addiction. Firstly it was motors then he discovered cigarettes and alcohol. Whenever possible it was alcohol replacing most others, although he could well mask its influence and usually kept off it during the school week. When it suited the lad he could also become cold and cruel to those who were considered his friends pushing them towards rejection, only to reel back with a friendly smile, a pat on the back with a natural benign charisma that convinced he was genuine. What do you reckon, was Greg’s favourite phrase if he believed he was loosing someone’s attention and issued with such a high sense of sincerity, it could do naught but draw one back to his influence.

What do you reckon? Greg would ask.

About what?

You know,

And if you didn’t know, which you would not, you created a reckoning not to appear naïve.


During that holiday when Travis met Greg Stanley, Jim Brown, Travis’ father, had his accident. He had been mustering a mob of cattle in a drift beside the Gilbert River when from a thicket of thorn bushes a razorback boar charged his mount, causing it to shy sidewards then bolt, sending Jim unceremoniously onto the sunbaked earth breaking his leg in two places.

Jim Brown soon recovered from his ordeal but found riding became much too difficult, so the decision was made to give away cattle work and with encouragement from the Kingsley’s, move to Mareeba.

Although neither Jim nor his wife Margaret had retail experience they acquired a small grocery business from an acquaintance but as the business wasn’t lucrative, Jim had to take on extra employment as a part time driver with Tom Kingsley while Margaret became a reluctant storekeeper, having to fake interest in the prosaic conversation of her customers, while avoiding their prying into family affairs.

Even if the accident was a tragic downturn for the father it was redemption for the son, removing Travis from board to complete his final school year at Mareeba in the comfort of a family home. This brought Travis closer to Greg Stanley adding renewed frustration as their friendship was on Greg’s terms and at his calling.

Travis also found it difficult too create new friends in Mareeba as he no longer had the captive group of the hostel, where friendship developed out of need to survive socially, or become mentally devoured by the many. At the hostel the nature was to divide and conquer and the weak were lost to a tortured forlorn existence of name calling and childish pranks.

After reading lord of the flies at an early age, Travis related it most similar to the hostel where any showing of weakness was soon taken advantage of. A lone boy would become fair game but if under the protection of a group life became almost tolerable. There were occasions when Travis was outside the protection of one group or another, bringing realisation that belonging to inter-connecting circles was the best way to contend with the situation. Therefore when out of favour with one circle it was easy to slip into another and once again feel protected, also while changing circles you could bring others undone with malicious gossip. Yet even after being removed from what Travis called the dog pound he still missed it all.

That was also the year Travis’ mother Margaret fell out with Edna Kingsley. The reason was never completely understood but it was believed that Edna in drunken state, made suggestions towards Jim of a sexual nature while at a return soldiers club function. It was true Tom Kingsley did approach Jim on that night and stern words were exchanged but both men soon calmed giving way to decorum. It was the wives who declared hostilities which lasted for some years. As for Travis and the four Kingsley boys, they continued their fractured friendship well into the future and beyond their departure from the district.

Later that same year, Travis had met Jack Johnson, one of the town’s two saddlers who offered the lad work after school. Johnson had once worked for Travis’ father on Cumberland Downs and during some misfortune Jim Brown had been most supportive. For this Johnson felt compelled to return the favour by giving Travis skills in leather work, in which Travis excelled but declared it would ever be only a hobby and not his life’s ambition.

“Then Travis what is your ambition in life?” Johnson questions while watching the lad working on a set of reins, becoming frustrated with Travis’ need for perfection with every stitch but measured for its distance from the next.

“I don’t know,” Travis answered releasing a long but honest sigh not wishing to be burdened with a future he could not imagine.

“Isn’t this your last year at school?”

“It is,”

“You will need to start thinking about your future sooner rather than later. What about saddlery, you do show some good skill, besides I’m not getting any younger and could do with an apprentice.”

“I don’t think so.”

“How do you know it isn’t saddlery?” Johnson extended without receiving any direction from Travis except a shoulder shrug.

“Listen lad at your age you should have fire in your belly and want to be trying everything new. Not chasing bloody rainbows,” but Johnson’s guidance fell on deaf ears.

Travis once again sighed and shook his head as his needle pierced cautiously through the toughness of the leather. It pricked his finger – “ouch,” he complained loudly.

“You should be using a thimble,”

“I don’t like them,”

“What about your future?” If nothing the man was persistent.

“Maybe you are right Mr. Johnson but there is plenty of time for decisions,” Travis issued from a fog of indecision.

“Three months,” Johnson declared in frustration from the lad’s negativity.

“Three months yes, then the school holidays,” Travis argued as he could see no further than that final school break.

“How many boys are in your final year?”

“Nine boys and seven girls in Senior A; and eight boys and a few girls in B,”

“That totals seventeen keen young bucks all looking for work, not including those in a lower grade who don’t continue their education. How many vacancies do you think a town of twenty thousand has to offer?”

“I don’t know but some will go onto the land with their family and I know at least two in my year are going to Brisbane and university.”

“That still leaves a lot for a very few positions, I think you should start asking about, you are good with mathematics why not try one of the banks.”

“I guess you are right,” Travis half agreed more to move on from any form of decision making.

The saddler drew in breath and became mute. Travis had a stubborn streak and once his mind was set there was little hope in swaying him further. It was a trait gained from his father, as Jim Brown had the same unswayable trait, although both father and son were quite capable in admitted error when apparent, only realisation was often a long time coming.

Travis’ thoughts returned to the hostel and its host of ready made friends and controlled activity. He felt comfortable there, now he longed for its security. Maybe he could join the army and once again give his future over to the dominance of others. Or he could go bush and like his father work with cattle, becoming the property of the elements and the sameness of each day’s activity.

There was a third much easier path he could follow, remain in Mareeba and lose himself in the numbness of small town’s life while leaving his future to chance and the decision of others.

“I could join the army,” Travis suggested without conviction after a period of silence.

“What’s brought that on lad?” Johnson questioned.

“Dunno’; there is talk of conscription and Australia is thinking of joining America in Vietnam.”

“That’s not our war and we should keep out of it.”

“We should fight the communists before they take over everything,” Travis suggested.

“You’re mate’s a commo,” the saddler released a teasing grin.

“Who?”

“Arthur Calwell the leader of the Labour Party. Peter Kocan had the right idea when he tried to shoot him.”

“When did that happen?”

“Last week, don’t you read the newspapers?”

“Anyway I don’t know anything about politics,” Travis dismissively admitted.

“Then what makes you think Australian will join America?”

“Dad was talking with Uncle Kevin last night and Kevin reckons the Prime Minister believes there is a strong possibility.”

“It’s easy for a Prime Minister to say that, he doesn’t stand in front of a charging mob of angry insurgents.”

“Dunno’” Travis simply answered with a second shoulder shrug while wishing he hadn’t made the comment.

“Anyway that could be some time off, if at all and will probably be over before you turn twenty and conscription age,” Johnson argued.

“The army could be fun,”

“Christ lad we’ve just come out of one war, what we don’t need is another – Fun? I’d love to know where you get that idea.”

Johnson had served in New Guinea against the Japanese and that ordeal remained raw in his memory, without mentioning the hole in his side from shrapnel during the bombing of Port Moresby. Now with the French and American’s fighting the communists in Vietnam and America requesting help from allies it was inedible that the Prime Minister with his bellicose attitude would certainly oblige.

“Dunno Mr. Johnson, it was only a thought,” Travis admitted.

“Then leave it as a thought lad.”


Those final school days were more concerned towards exams than one’s future as good result was more pride than necessity. A kid didn’t need to be a brain surgeon to pump petrol, to pick tobacco or apprentice to some trade. A carpenter only required his grade eight scholarship year and basic mathematics, a saddler a good eye and a steady hand. University was too far a goal with the state’s only campus over a thousand miles south in Brisbane and financially beyond the reach of simple townsfolk.

Travis seldom thought of his options, yet there was an ache deep down which he could not reach or understand. Such uncertainty became more acute while in the company of Greg. He would be drawn towards his friend’s smile and deep controlling voice and wish to be part of him. Simple friendship was not enough to satisfy his need and when in the company of Greg’s group, Travis wished to cut him from the mob and monopolise his presence.

“Why don’t the two of us go bush?”

It was Greg’s suggestion one quiet afternoon during the mid year school break. Most of Greg’s Crush; as he called his small group of eager followers, were holidaying down the coast with their parents or extended family, leaving him under the influence of Travis and feeling somewhat dejected without his gang to provide him with entertainment.

Greg had taken the name of his group from some schoolboy’s book he had read and its membership fluctuated. Having been in existence since before high school and with schooldays almost at an end it was somewhat redundant, becoming but a loose gathering of bored teenagers. Sometimes there were four, sometimes six, always younger than Greg and somewhat besotted with his often juvenile bravado.

“Do you mean that?” Travis quickly reacted positively towards Greg’s suggestion to go bush.

“Sure, once we get through this school year, we should pack our gear and head out into the gulf, maybe visit that cattle station your old man managed.”

“Cumberland Downs,” Travis reminded.

“That’s it,”

“I’d like that,” Travis admitted as his eagerness grew.

“Yea, I reckon we could get a couple of old nags, pack our gear and head out.”

Greg had never ridden a horse, in truth he hadn’t even been in touching distance except at the Mareeba Rodeo and Travis should have instantly realised the flaw in his friend’s proposal.

Although there wasn’t substance in Greg’s suggestion as he seldom carried through with anything, the thought of having his friend’s total attention was more than Travis could wish for. Therefore the seed of adventure was planted deep within Travis, where it would slowly grow until becoming his only ambition.

“We could get hold of a couple of horses and head bush. You said you can ride,” Greg added disregarding his own lack of ability.

“I was literally brought up on the back of a horse,” Travis answered proudly without questioning Greg’s riding skills.

“Then it’s settled, next year we head bush.”

Travis’ excitement became ultimate, although experience should have given him caution, as Greg often made plans that died as the last word escaped from his lips. This time Greg appeared true to his conviction and often spoke of their enterprise during the remainder of the year, even developing plans towards a departure date.

Travis had an uncle who ran horses who possibly could supply mounts and with his knowledge of the gulf country and Greg’s ability to organise, it would be a cinch. The one strategy that wasn’t discussed was what they would do at journey’s end. Even Travis realised it was easy to commence such an adventure but they couldn’t ride towards the setting sun day after day forever. There must be some purpose, some final destination. Still it was entertaining in the planning, even if Travis believed more in the outcome than did Greg.


Again it was the saddler who placed a damper on Travis’ dreams as he helped out during a hot Saturday afternoon.

“So you and young Gregory Stanley are going bush?” he asks with a discrediting chuckle while watching over Travis’ work on a set of reins. It was perfect but still Travis wasn’t satisfied. He cursed his imperfection and recommenced his stitching.

“That’s the plan Jack,” Travis answered turning the leather strapping this way then another. He growled then declared it would have to do.

“You’re not chasing rainbows again are you young fellow?” Jack says, showing a measure of disappointment in his part time apprentice.

“It won’t be forever; just a few months or maybe a year. I don’t know as we haven’t planned that far ahead, we will do so during the holidays.”

“What do your parents think of the idea?”

“I haven’t told them yet,” Travis quietly mumbled his head bent over his needlework while wishing the saddler would divert from the topic.

“I know your Mother wants you to go to University. What do you think of that idea?”

“Brisbane is too far, besides I don’t want to be an accountant or a bank-jonnie or work in some stuffy office.”

“Good money in banking and better than working cattle I assure you lad; ask your father.” Jack realised he wasn’t having much success but had promised Margaret he would at least try to convince Travis, if not take on saddlery then possibly an office job.

“Money isn’t everything Jack,”

“It is a good starter. You do realise Greg Stanley is full of hot air?” Jack took the finished set of reins away from Travis, stating he had spent enough time on them and if he was working for himself he’d go broke.

“He can be Jack but I know he means it,” Travis words had an air of self assurance.

“I’ll believe that when I see it. I know his father and he’s full of it as well.”

“Frank is alright,” Travis protested although he had only seen the man at distance, as Greg kept their association separate from home, always making excuse to avoid Travis visiting.

“When he’s sober and out -,” Jack left his statement unquantified.

“What do you mean out Mr. Johnson?”

“It’s not my place to comment but just say he has spent some time away at the government’s pleasure.”

“Do you mean prison?”

“Nothing untoward mind you but enough to give him a name and you know the saying; the apple never falls far from the tree and there has been a number of bad apples fall from that family tree.”

“Are you referring Greg is as bad as his father?”

“Only be careful, that is all I’m saying.”

“I didn’t know, Greg hasn’t said much about his father,” Travis admitted as he commenced to start a second set of leathers.

“He wouldn’t would he. You can work on those another time.”

“Greg’s not like that,” Travis attempted to assure as he put away his work.

“As I said lad, it isn’t my business but be careful that is all I am saying.”

For a time Travis fiddled with a waste of leather wondering what it could be used for but Jack hadn’t finished with his warning towards the Stanley family.

“You do know Greg Stanley has a sister and an older brother?” the saddler quietly requests as he boxed up some leather work for posting to Enfield Station. He placed it aside while waiting for Travis’ response on the Stanley family.

“Yes he is called Wayne; Greg said he is away working,”

“Away alright,”

Without deducing its use Travis discarded the scrap of leather while expecting more from Jack.

“He’s bailed up in prison,” Jack continued while addressing the package for Travis to deliver to the post office for mailing.

“Greg didn’t say,”

“So is his cousin Len Clancy, they were caught fencing a truck load of stolen property.

“I’ve met Len Clancy; he has a quick temper and once gave me a kick up the arse, saying I was looking at him queerly.”

“That would be him, as mean as a junkyard dog. It is said he bit off part of Ryan Plummer’s ear in a rugby scrum two summers back.”

“Why were they bailed up?”

“They borrowed Keith Robert’s truck and raided the council yard and tried to offload a stack of stolen timber, obviously too dumb to realise the four-by-two’s were marked with the council’s stamp.”

“Oh, I hadn’t heard,”

“Again best you be cautions, the whole family is a little light fingered.”

Jack paused for a moment but wasn’t quite finished with the Stanley family.

“Bob Clancy,” Jack mentioned without explanation.

“Who is Bob Clancy Mr. Johnson?”

“Len Clancy’s old man and your mate’s uncle, he works as head stockman on Sunrise,”

“Sunrise isn’t that out near Ravenshoe?”

“It is,”

“Dad took me there once when he enquired about purchasing stock horses for the Downs.”

“He still owes for a saddle I made for him two years previously; I think I can kiss that forty quid goodbye.”

“I didn’t know,” Travis admitted.

“I guess you wouldn’t. All I’m saying lad is take care not to get too involved with the Stanley family.”

Travis became silent.

“About taking on the apprenticeship?”

“I dunno Mr. Johnson; I’ll have to think about it.”

“Run it past your parents and see what they say and you think long and hard on what you and Greg Stanley plan.”

Travis wished to recant his belief that Greg wasn’t like his father or brother but in truth he was somewhat lacking in his friend’s background as their acquaintance was but a year long. He did realise Greg was a little touchy when speaking about his family and it was a married sister who lived down the coast on a sugar farm near Innisfail, who received the most comment as she had more influence on his youthful years than his parents. Instead of comment Travis simply held his silence but would note his bosses warning but little more.

“Right-o lad, you take this for posting,” the saddler passed the package to Travis, “and make sure it is registered mail, the last lot I sent didn’t arrive.”

“Where did it go?”

“If I knew that I would be running the post office. All I can say there is someone out there with a perfect set of reins at no cost to them.”


Gary’s stories are about life in Australia as a gay man. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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Chasing Rainbows

By Gary Conder

Completed

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