Published: 23 Oct 2025
Ben’s suggestion on coupling there and then fell flat with Tate as he readied a pan with some dripping over the hottest section of the stove.
What Tate wished to say was yes but it wasn’t Wilson proposing a meeting in some clandestine hide. It was easy with Wilson, a simple hand release without emotion or conversation but with Ben it would be taking a step over that imaginary line in the sand even if he had often thought beyond that line only to as quickly disengage without conclusion.
“Okay what of my suggestion?”
“Let me have a little time to get used to it.”
“Do you want to?’
“I do but not right now.”
The pan quickly becomes overheated and Tate moves it to a cooler section of the stove, “can’t burn the fish,” he says with a nervous laugh.
“Where did you learn to cook?” Ben asks.
“We are a big family, after loosing our parents we had to take turns with most things.”
Ben laughs, “I suppose you also knit and stitch?”
“Winnie does the stitching – the fish are ready, plates please.”
Ben collects two pewter plates from a dusty shelf; using the sleeve of his shirt he wipes away the residual dust.
“You have the bigger one,” Tate offers.
The meal is consumed in almost silence, except for Tate suggesting as they were running low on supplies he should make another visit to Koah.
“Have you any money left?” Ben asks.
“Very little, I know the storeowner and for a little wood chopping he is usually generous.”
“I would like to come with you.”
“Do you think that would be wise?”
“No,” Ben agrees while collecting the dinner plates and submerging them in the dishwashing bucket.
“It’s hot this evening,” Tate suggest, his eyes are through the kitchen window towards a painted sunset over the river, there the atmosphere is alive with dust particles creating a multitude of shades of red to pink, while Damsel Flies hover in the dust haze about in the shallows.
“It is hot every night.” Ben answers.
“Do you want to take a dip?”
“Yes, I think that would be a good idea.”
The grass along the riverbank is green and soft under foot. Ben is following Tate and joins him by the water but neither appears eager to bathe and instead of advancing sit quietly as the last of the daylight through the trees throws long shadows of streaked darkness across the water.
Ben is first to break the developing silence;
“It is peaceful here.”
“It is.”
“You want to know a thought Tate?”
“Go on,” Tate consents.
“If under different circumstance I could settle here.”
“You a farmer,” Tate laughs.
“Why not, I spent my early years working for a man who ran sheep also pasture. I did learn a thing or two you know.”
“Was your dad with you then?”
“No he had already buggered off.”
“I know nothing about farming,” Tate admits, “we do grow vegetables but the climate about Smithfield soon sends them to rot.” He stands and retrieves a small stone from the bank then skips it across the surface of the water.
One, two, three four skips and the stone sinks, sending gentle ripples towards the water’s edge.
“You are young enough to learn.”
Tate hears Ben’s words believing they have an alternate meaning, “what if I don’t wish to learn?” he answers with equal ambiguity.
“Then you will never be true to your self.”
Tate retrieves a second stone and attempts to skip it across the water, instead of skipping it sinks with a plop. He turns towards Ben who is now standing close by, “I guess you don’t mean farming,” Tate suggests.
“I guess I don’t.”
“In a way you are correct but I don’t know how to take that step or what I will find afterwards. At present my emotions are churning as if my gut is caught in a butter churn.”
Without replying Ben commences to undress, “you said you wanted to take a dip, possibly at the same time you can take a dip in life.”
A moment and Ben is standing naked almost at touching.
Tate remains hesitant while even in the dim light he can see Ben is becoming aroused.
Without further Ben steps into the shallows and sinks down onto his haunches, “are you coming in or not?” he directs and by his tone is done with Tate’s pussyfooting.
Slowly Tate undresses and joins Ben in the shallows.
“That wasn’t difficult, was it?” Ben says.
“What now?”
“That is up to you,” Ben suggests and moves closer, moments later Tate senses a strong hand on his person, “I can feel you are up to it,” Ben says and taking Tate’s hand places it on his member,
Tate wraps his fingers as Ben pulls his body closer.
Tate takes a deep breath and nervously holds it in.
Ben softly laughs;
“You do realise you can’t hold your breath forever.”
Tate releases his breath as he rests his chin against Ben’s neck, “go easy,” he whispers.
“I’m getting cold, lets take this inside,” Ben suggests.
That night was the first time Ben had slept inside the house also the first time either had greeted the morning after sleeping beside a man.
Ben is the first awake, lifting to his elbow he gazes upon Tate’s peaceful slumber.
‘I could love him,’ Ben thinks as he runs a finger through Tate’s hair.
Tate stirs but doesn’t wake.
‘Yet as a wanted man I should move on before I destroy both our lives.’
Once again Tate stirs.
“Are you awake?”
Tate opens one eye.
“What are you looking at?” he quietly asks.
“You.”
Tate yawns and stretches.
“Why would you want to look at me?”
“I think you are worth the looking.”
“Ben?”
“Yes.”
“Last night, that wasn’t your first time, was it?”
“I would say it was my first with meaning.”
Tate lifts the light blanket covering and laughs; “I’m naked.”
“I must admit you look better that way.”
“What now?”
“How do you mean?”
“Where do we go from here?”
Ben becomes serious, “I should move on or I’ll end in destroying your life.”
“You say that after last night,” Tate says.
“Possibly I shouldn’t have forced you to take that final step,” Ben says.
“I wasn’t forced into anything but why?”
“It will only make it more difficult for you – and me.”
“Maybe we could try and explain you innocence.”
“Maybe I could become King of England,” Ben scoffs.
Tate lifts from the bed and is standing by the grimy window he moves aside the tattered curtain as the first light rises above the treetops.
“It’s a nice morning,” Tate says.
“It’s a nice arse,” Ben complements.
Tate ignores Ben’s complement.
“You know something Ben.”
“I know a couple of things, so why not add one more to my wisdom.”
Tate turns from the window, he is erect and smiling, “I could get use to this lifestyle, why don’t we simply go bush and live somewhere away from people. It is a big country out there where a man could hide for a hundred years without being discovered, besides with my bush skills we would survive.”
“That is a thought but at the moment you appear in need of attention – come back to bed.”
The day is hot, humid and overcast. Tate had been fishing since sunup without result. Ben took to catching freshwater yabbies, a native freshwater prawn or shrimp depending on one’s origin.
“Got one!” Tate cries bring Ben to attention.
“No, lost the little bugger.”
Tate recasts his line and as he does is becomes aware of a sound coming along the river from the direction of Koah, “company,” he calls bringing Ben to drop his yabby trap and head for cover.
It is some time before a stranger on horseback is seen along the narrow path leading into the farm. He appears to be at prayer while delivering his devotions to the cloud covered heavens.
“Hoy there stranger,” Tate calls as Ben finds cover behind a pile of tree stumps that had been cleared and gathered for burning by the farmer.
The stranger breaks from his devotion and slowly approaches.
“Good morning lad, have you caught anything?”
“Not as yet,” Tate replies while waiting for the stranger to state his business.
“Reverend Reginald Hosmire is the name and doing God’s business is my fame.”
Hosmire lifts a little in his stirrups his gaze is towards the house than all about, even to the stump pile where Ben is concealed.
Eventually the Reverend speaks, “are you Sid Parker’s farmhand?” he asks.
“Who is Sid Parker?”
“He is the man who owns this property.”
“If he is the owner then your Mr. Parker has long gone and for the present I am squatting here while contemplating my next move.”
“What is your name lad?”
“Tate Edwards.”
“Would you be Edwards of the Smithfield persuasion?”
“That would be me.”
“I once knew your father Joseph, I presume he is well.”
“Dad has been gone for a number of years I’m afraid.”
“A shame he was a fine gentleman but I must admit impossible to bring to god’s grace.”
The reverend brings his mount beside Tate and dismounts to stretch his legs, “I could join you in prayer for a refreshing cup of tea, or coffee if you would be obliging.”
“You could sir but I have nothing to offer until I next visit Koah for supplies. I couldn’t even offer you a fish as they are hiding today.”
“Are you camped here alone lad?”
“It seems that way,” Tate assures while giving a quick glance towards the pile of wood. He can see the colour of Ben’s shirt through a gap so he distracts the reverend with a feigned flick of his fishing line, “almost got one.”
“Aren’t you afraid being on your own in these parts with a murderer loose?”
“I can look after myself but you reverend are not a young man.”
“God takes care of the righteous besides -,” the revered parts his coat tales displaying a hand gun tucked into his belt, “and I assure you lad I do know how to use it.”
Tate grins, “I would say you travel with a bible in one hand and a pistol in the other,” he suggests.
“That’s about the strength of it lad.”
The reverend remounts then utters a short prayer;
“Oh lord let there be bounty to fill young Tate’s belly,” he gives a sharp head nod and a half smile as he rides away along the river to rejoin the main track.
No sooner had the reverend gone from sight than there is a tug to Tate’s fishing line and he reals in a large bream.
“Well I’ll be buggered,” Tate laughs as he brings the fish to the bank, “god does move in mysterious ways after all.”
Eventually Ben cautiously sneaks from his hide while keeping a sharp eye on the path the reverend had travelled.
“I’ve caught dinner,” Tate calls.
“You do know who that was?”
“Yes he introduced himself as the Reverend Reginald Hosmire.”
“He’s killed a man you know?”
“When?”
“A couple of years back, he was bailed-up by some fella’ on the road from Carpentaria Down’s station and Hosmire shot him dead. He then tied the body across his saddle delivering it to the Ravenshoe police station and after a short prayer for the departed man he handed the body over and continued his journey as if it was an everyday occurrence.”
Tate appears surprised as he couldn’t recall any reporting of the incident, “and he got away with it?”
“It seems that way, the man he shot was heading for a hanging anyway. Also your friendly reverend arrives at the ganger’s camp on payday, sets up a table; rests his pistol on top before calling the gangers to give to his mobile church collection. If he considered your offering is lean, he silently turns the pistol barrel towards you with the words, god is watching.”
“Then it is as well you hid as he knows you are about these parts, possibly he wouldn’t think twice on adding a second notch to his pistol’s handle.”
Ben remains concerned finding it difficult to take his gaze away from the river path, “I think I’ll make myself scarce for a while.”
Tate returns to his fishing.
‘Funny that,’ he silently muses.
‘No sooner had the reverend offered up his prayer, I caught a fish.’
‘Maybe I should try prayer.’
“Dear Lord,” Tate quietly utters.
‘No that’s stupid.’
Tate pulls in his line finding the bait missing, he baits and recasts.
‘I’m growing fond of Ben but he is correct how will it end?’
“Ummm,”
‘After all Tolga was right about me and it only took someone like Ben to bring it out.’
It is later that morning and the sun commences to gain strength. On the opposite bank a dust cloud whirls about in the leaf litter lifting dust, twigs and leaves high into the branches giving a hazed effect as Tate returns for a second chance to add to the solitary fish possibly attributed to the prayer of the reverend.
Almost immediately there is a strong tug on the line.
Tate gives the line a jerk;
“Got ya!” he cries pulling in a larger fish.
As his excitement lowers Tate hears a voice that appears to come from across the river amongst the whirling willy-willy.
“You caught more than fish.”
Turning towards the far side he perceives Tolga within the dust devil. Without thinking towards rhyme or reason he replies;
“What do you mean?”
“You caught your man.”
“It isn’t like that,” Tate discredits.
“Then you take care as there is a search party no more than a short walk’s distance.”
“Who are you talking to?”
Tate turns his head finding Ben close behind, “my friend Tolga,” he excitedly replies and points across the river.
“I don’t see anyone.”
Tate again turns towards where he saw Tolga.
There is no one, not even the dust willy-willy.
“Oh!”
“Are you alight Tate, you appear rattled?”
“You must have at least heard him call?”
“Who called?”
“As I said my friend Tolga.”
“I’m sorry Tate, I didn’t hear anything; what did he say?”
“He warned of a search party coming this way,”
Ben frowns, “do you think it is possible your wish to be reunited with you black friend is so strong you are imagining him to be present.”
“Possibly; what of the warning of the search party, why would I conjure that?”
Ben gives a shrug of shoulders, “if there was a search party where would it most likely come from?”
“My guess would be Mareeba as we are in that shire, I don’t think they would bother coming from Cairns and if it is as close as Tolga suggested we should at least think of hiding you as a precaution.”
“What on an imaginary sighting?”
“I know it appears absurd but for peace of mind at least humour me.”
“Where?” Ben asks as anything to do with discovery, bizarre or not, brings about anxiety.
“I know of a small cave close by. It was where I once camped with Tolga some years back.”
A deep sigh wondering where it will end but for now Ben agrees with Tate’s suggestion no matter how incredulous it may seem.
“Will you join me?”
“No I’ll stay here to assess the situation as if they are coming from Mareeba they would have to take this path along the river. It is my opinion they wouldn’t consider you to be hiding anywhere near the new road.”
“You do realise I can’t keep hiding indefinitely, eventually I will have to move on or try and prove my innocence.”
“I agree but for today it is better you keep away from any search party, they may become trigger happy.”
The distance to Tate’s hide was little more than a quarter hour walk although over rough terrain. What was surprising since his last visit to the small cave nature had taken control and covered the entrance with brambles making it invisible to anyone who chanced to passby. Inside the cave is little more than a space between a stacking of huge boulders although quite dark and dry.
To Ben’s delight the hide was void of any sign of occupancy, especially those of the long venomous persuasion.
“What do you think?” Tate asks.
“It will have to do but I don’t like small dark spaces, it reminds me of being locked up as a kid.”
“Do you mean when you were caught with your old man and transported?”
“That and when I was ten my old man locked me in a cupboard for two days as punishment.”
“What did you do to deserve that?”
“For answering back, firstly it was his fists then the cupboard without anything to eat.”
“I can’t understand how someone could treat their own in such a way.”
“You get over it. Occasionally he would knock on the cupboard door and ask if I had learned my manners but I refused to relent, eventually he let me out and give another beating for good measure.”
“I can’t imagine what you went through Ben.”
“Then don’t and I shouldn’t burden you with my past as I have with my present.”
“Will you be alright being in here?” Tate asks.
“I’ll have to be. You will come back once they have gone?”
“You shouldn’t have to ask me that Ben, I only wish it could be different.”
Ben releases a nervous chortle, “I don’t know why I agreed to this dumb idea.”
“It will only be for a couple of hours and if no one turn’s up by sundown I’ll come and get you.”
“Then I’ll see you at sundown.”
Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com
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