Published: 30 Oct 2025
The sun is dipping into the western trees before any sign of Tolga’s proclaimed search party becomes obvious. Tate had gathered anything that may represent a second person is staying at the house then with nothing more to do but wait, Tate decided to water what was left of Sid Parker’s wilting kitchen garden.
As he carried water from the river he heard the party’s approach, moments later three mounted policemen come from the scrubby section along the river path.
Immediately the leading sergeant catches sight of Tate.
Being surprised to find anyone at the old farm he halts their progress.
The policeman turns to his companions with dialogue; they all laugh then continue on towards Tate and his water buckets.
“Good afternoon,” Tate calls as the sergeant allows his mount to encroach into Tate’s personal space.
Tate takes a side step.
“It it?” the policeman quietly answers.
“Good enough for a ride,” Tate continues trying to keep his tone free from curious; unconsciously he glances back towards the house.
The casual glance is caught by the policeman whose eyes follow in the same direction.
“What is your name lad?”
Tate is careful not to appear discourteous;
“Tate Edwards sir.”
“And what would Tate Edwards be doing alone so far from anywhere?”
“Passing through sir.”
“And to where may I ask?”
“Eventually Mareeba to find work.”
The policeman’s accent is strange to Tate’s ear as his English appears to be a second language and by his vocabulary believed to be that of the South African Boers.
The policeman gives a crooked smile displaying broken teeth while wrinkling his unshaven cheeks.
“Have you seen anyone else about these parts?” A second officer asks and dismounts, his large belly bounces above his trouser belt as his feet heavily meet the ground, his stand is more akin to one not used to a day in the saddle.
The third policeman, a tall thin young man possibly in his mid twenties, wearing a hat two sizes too large, remained mounted.
All three are obviously observant of their surroundings and the farm house.
“I have and only this morning,” Tate eventually answers.
“Who would that be,” the second policeman with the fat belly asks.
“He was a Reverend Reginald Hosmire, or so he said but he was only passing through.”
The first policeman gives a known chuckle followed by a glance towards his offsider with the fat belly.
“He gets around,” Fat Belly suggests referring to the Reverend.
The young policeman laughs as if wishing to be part of the humour.
“A little too much in my opinion,” the policeman with the crooked smile suggests. “Whose farm is this?” he questions, his eyes remain on the farm house.
“I believe it once belonged to Sid Parker and quite obvious by the state of the house and garden he is long gone.”
The policeman was testing the lad as he well knew the farm belonged to Sid Parker as he had previously visited while hunting down a black man, who speared and killed a number of cattle close by Koah. He then addresses the younger officer, “Tom you go and have a look in the house.”
“Right you are Mr. Bunning.”
The younger man dismounts; passing the reins to Fat Belly, he slowly meanders his way towards the house like one half expecting trouble on his arrival.
Tom pauses at the door; he pushes it open but appears reluctant to enter.
“I said go inside, not look at the flaming house.”
Cautiously Tom enters.
So now Tate has introduction to two from the party but Fat Belly remains unproclaimed, it is he who is next to speak, “how long have you been camping here?”
“Near on a month sir. Are you looking for someone?”
Tom returns from the house, “No one in there Mr. Bunning but I believe there has been more about other then our Mr. Edwards.”
Bunning looses his crooked smile, “is that so young fellow?”
“No sir although the house did appear lived in before I arrived.”
“Where are you from?”
“I am from Smithfield and thought I’d try to find work with the logging mill at Mareeba or possibly further afield.”
Satisfied there isn’t anyone else about Bunning lowers his caution, “you should be careful lad as there is a dangerous criminal hiding out in these parts.”
“Oh I hadn’t heard,” Tate lies, “what was his crime?”
“He stole the road gang’s payroll and killed the paymaster and by all accounts he is a right nasty bastard.”
“Possibly he is still in the forest about the Kuranda camp,” Tate suggests while attempting to hide the dishonesty from his expression.
“That is possible but beyond our jurisdiction,” Bunning appears disappointed not discovering any trace of his wanted man, he makes a grunting sound then speaks to Fat belly, “we’ll camp the night and return back to Mareeba in the morning, there isn’t any sense continuing on towards the uplands.” Bunning then approaches Tate, “have you been bunking down in the house?”
“I have.”
“Not tonight lad you can find other arrangements, we will be using the house.”
“Can I at least get my gear?”
“Go on but be quick about it. It’s been a long ride and I’m ready to hit the hay.
Returning from the house Tate is again approached by Bunning, “seeing you’re doing nothing you can bring us a couple of buckets of water so we can freshen up.”
Tate goes for the buckets when young Tom stops him, “Hey kid I saw a couple of fish in the kitchen.”
“Yes I caught them for my dinner earlier this morning.”
Fat Belly becomes excited, “then you can donate them to three of Queensland’s finest police.”
“What about my dinner?”
“You can catch some more,” Fat Belly suggests.
Tate wishes to deny the request for his fish but decides it sapient for the sake of Ben to remain silent.
Fat Belly and Bunning approach the house leaving Tom to attend to the horses, after hobbling the mounts and turning them onto grass he also approaches the house carrying what appeared to be two bottles of wishy retrieved from one of the saddle bag.
“A little thirsty eh’ Tom?” Tate humours.
“Watch your mouth kid,” Tom growls feeling superiority at least over one. Tom turns away from further altercation and enters into the house.
In no time the smell of frying fish comes from the kitchen to where Tate had settled close by the water. There was much laughter then Fat Belly comes to the kitchen door and calls, “hey kid have you got any bread?”
“No sir I was about to go into town for fresh supplies.”
Fat Belly appears disappointed, I found your tea where is the sugar?”
“I’m also out of sugar and by morning I guess I will also be out of tea.”
“That’s no way to treat guests.”
Fat Belly retorts then returns inside.
Tate’s patients were beginning to wear thin; “guests I’ll be buggered,” Tate calls after the policeman but his complaint falls on deaf ears.
‘Well Tate me’ lad what now?’
‘Should I go see how Ben is fairing in his dark dank cave?’
‘I guess not.’
‘I did suggest if I hadn’t returned by sundown for him to remain hidden.’
There is laughter from the house along with a stronger scent of frying fish.
‘There goes my dinner.’
Darkness moves in and there is the flickering of candle light through the kitchen window leaving Tate in solitude beside the river entertained by the calling of night life as nature’s changes shift. For some time merriment is made in the kitchen but as the whisky runs out it stops with the policemen’s long day’s ride bringing on weariness.
First to leave the kitchen is Bunning, once outside he takes a leak against the kitchen wall – he farts loudly and sighs then speaks rhetorically, “Ahhhh I really needed that.”
Moments later he enters into the main building with its living room and single bedroom.
Young Tom follows leaving Fat Belly alone but his solitude is short and instead of joining his companions he detours to where Tate is resting by the river.
“Hey kid,” Fat Belly says in short breaths as his lack of condition found even such a short walk difficult.
“Yes sir,” Tate politely replies.
“Did I hear you say your name is Edwards?”
“You did.”
“Where do you hail from?”
“As I said I’m from Smithfield.”
“Are you related to Joseph Edwards?”
“He was my father.”
“He was a fine man,” Fat Belly says then appears to drift from the situation his eyes on the rising moon, its brightness bringing the countryside to half light as it ripples reflection on the water. “Yes a fine man,” Fat Belly repeats. After an extended pause he turns then struggles with his lack of condition back to the house.
‘A half decent cop,’ Tate thinks as the house falls to silence, leaving only the jingling of the horses hobbles to entertain the night.
It is a warm night so being outside was preferable that huddled within four walls, especially with three unwashed policeman in alcoholic state. As for sleeping, Tate’s thoughts remain with Ben in his hide and neither had anything to eat during the day. Tate was accustomed to going hungry but Ben is a big man and needs to eat regularly to retain body definition and that was obviously diminishing in the short time they were associated.
‘Tomorrow,’ Tate thinks and softly laughs.
‘I do say that a lot.’
‘Tomorrow is something I have no control over, even if my uninvited visitors declared they would leave at first light.’
Tate allows his thoughts to roam.
He is back in Smithfield in his soft warm bed, even if he needed to share it with an older brother.
Often it would be Freddie but Freddie snores and has restless sleep, it was nothing to receive Freddie’s arm across the face, or a kick in the nuts during the dark hours. If opposition was issued towards his brother’s unrest a simple suggestion would be given, sleep somewhere else.
Other times it would be with Wilson with his wandering hands and shushing to keep his excitement down.
‘Tolga.’
‘Where are you my friend?’
‘This is a perfect night for you to appear.’
Tate scans both sides of the riverbank.
Dark shapes against moonlight, movement of some animal in the scrub.
A call from a night bird.
‘What bird is that?’
‘If Tolga was here he would know.’
A deep longing sigh, “where are you my friend?”
Nothing; now even the bird is silent and the rustling in the scrub mute.
Tate leans back into the soft grassy bank as sleep takes away the night.
First light and there is movement in the house. One by one the policemen come outside to urinate. Tom is sent to fetch the horses that have strayed some distance along the bank to where the grass grew long and green. Fat Belly makes a detour to where Tate is resting, “are you awake kid?” he calls.
“I am.”
“Do a favour lad and give Tom a hand with the horses.”
Bunning is arranging the livery and complaining loudly, one of the bridles appears damaged but fixable, again he curses, accusing Fat Belly for his carelessness.
Fat Belly ignores the slant on his ethics.
Tate is walking the horses back with Tom, “what got you to join the police?” he asks.
Refreshed after a night’s rest Tom is more forthcoming, “Mr. Bunning is my uncle,” he answers as if his employment was not of his choosing.
“Does it pay well?”
“It pays,” Tom answers as they bring the horses to saddle.
Ten minutes and the policemen are mounted, ready to move out. Bunning calls to Tate, “how long are you going to remain here?”
Tate is patting the bay’s muzzle, it is soft and most.
The horse snorts and pulls away from Tate’s touch.
“Careful he bites,” Bunning warns.
Tate quickly removes his hand.
“A few days more I should think.”
“If you hear or seen anything of Morgan then you report it when you reach Mareeba.”
Tate simply nods his head.
“Right then kid we’ll be moving out,” even so Bunning is hesitant; his eyes are everywhere then concentrate on a patch of scrub beyond the farm’s paling fenceline. He encourages his mount towards the scrub but returns without satisfaction.
The three policemen turn and at a slow pace commence their return west in the direction of Koah and the new road.
Tate remains hesitant. He wishes to find Ben and let him know it was safe to come from hiding but instead he followed the policemen’s departure for quite some distance lest they have a change of mind as at no time did he think Bunning believed he had not seen or heard more about Ben Morgan. Then again it is a policeman’s lot to be suspicious of everyone and everything.
On returning to the property he finally believes it safe to find Ben and bring him back to the farm. Tate commences to walk in the direction of Ben’s hide, ‘maybe a little longer,’ he thinks but had hardly gone a hundred yards before he sees Ben coming from the very undergrowth where the policeman found interest.
“Ben!” Tate calls.
Ben approaches, “have they gone?”
“I hope so, I did follow them for a way and they seemed satisfied there wasn’t anything to find.”
Ben remains hesitant and keeps away from open space, “I’m starving,” he admits.
“Tell me about it. The buggers ate our fish and finished up the little tea we had left, they even ate those stale biscuits we were saving for emergencies. I hope it gives them the shits.”
“One of them almost copped me when he rode over to the fence as I was only a matter of yards away. I hit the dirt and held my breath.”
“I wondered what had his interest; why did you return before I came for you.”
“When you didn’t return last night I became worried.”
“Yes they stayed overnight and kicked me outa’ the house.”
“Do you think they will come back?”
“I don’t think so, the one I called Fat Belly was complaining about their rations and sleeping arrangements.”
“What about you, where did you bunk down?”
“In your spot by the river, I found it quite relaxing and cooler than being in the house, although by the look the weather could be on the turn.”
Across to the east above the high mountains the sky is ink black, while to the west the land is bathed in sunshine.
“Umm what are we going to do about grub?”
“I’ll get the line in and see if anything is biting. Tomorrow I’ll make that trip into Koah I promised and see what supplies I can get.”
“I should come with you?”
“I suppose you could come part of the way but not go near the road gang’s camp or town.”
“I’ve got to give it to you kid,” Ben says.
“And what are you giving?”
“Without your dreaming of your black mate, the police may have walked in on us.”
“It wasn’t a dream Ben. I actually saw Tolga and heard his voice, how else would I have known we were about to have company.”
“Whatever it was I am more than pleased, so let’s leave it at that.”
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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