Published: 20 Nov 2025
It is a bright sunny morning a week since Wilson’s visit, leaving Ben with a measure of uncertainty. True Wilson had promise not to mention him but could he be trusted, even with and Tate’s assurance his brother was honourable. Since early morning Tate had been fishing without the slightest tug on his line, Ben is seated close by on a grassy section of the bank with his thoughts deep below the dark surface of the slowly passing water.
“Nothing,” Tate calls more to bring Ben from his brooding.
“Nothing what?” Ben replies.
“I’m not even getting a nibble; possibly I’ve caught everything there is to catch along this section of the river.”
“Is that possible?”
“Dunno’.”
Ben returns to his river watch.
“What’s up?” Tate asks.
“I was thinking.”
“That was obvious – about what?”
“I should attempt to move on, I can’t sit about here forever waiting for someone to recognise me or hunt me down.”
Tate brings in his fishing line and sits beside Ben placing an arm around Ben’s shoulders.
He rocks him gently.
Ben reaches and clasps his finger in Tate’s giving a gentle squeeze.
“Where would you go?”
Ben releases his hold on Tate’s fingers and stands closer to the water.
Reaching down he collects a small stone and attempts to skip it.
Plop.
The stone quickly sinks.
“You need the stone to be flat;”
Tate says in an attempt to lighten the mood.
“Huh.”
“As I said where would you go?” Tate asks.
Ben releases an ironic laugh;
“There is a great big world out there, I could go anywhere,” Ben pauses then continues, “except anywhere in the Colony of Queensland or adjoining colonies.”
“You have been pondering over it for some time, so you must have an idea towards your destination.”
“Maybe as it is already believed I could make my way up to Cooktown and seen if I can find work on a boat that trades with the Solomon Islands.”
“You could but I don’t think I would like the Solomon Islands.”
“Why would you want to come with me?”
“You may not realise Ben but I have become part of you and I don’t think I could let you go that easy, besides two travelling together would draw less attention than you alone.”
Ben displays surprise, “you would come with me?”
“I would and will but let’s leave it as spoken for the moment and see how things turn out.”
Yes, for the moment.”
Tate is grinning.
What’s got your funny kid?”
“We could travel as father and son.”
“You cheeky little bugger.”
A Kingfisher bird skims the water catching a small fish and the mood is broken, “it appears you will need to grow wings to catch ‘em.”
“It seems that way.”
As Tate speaks his attention is drawn towards the path leading back towards Koah, “shhh,” he whispers.
“What?”
“Something is going on.”
“I can’t hear anything.”
“I can – go hide yourself.”
Ben is quickly from sight as a number of natives burst through the undergrowth towards the grassy verge along the river bank.
There are five in total two adults, another is adolescence and two children of no more that eight years old and by their haste it was the devil himself in pursuit.
Quickly the natives divert from the open ground and head into the same part of the scrub where only moments earlier Ben had gone.
The native’s flight soon becomes obvious as three riders come along the path at a canter, one of the riders is a police officer the others appear to be Colonial officials.
Spying Tate they lower their haste to walking and approach.
Tate recognises one as the Mareeba sergeant Bert Bugging who previously led the search for Ben but this time it is obvious Ben is not their interest.
Slowly the policeman brings his mount to where Tate is standing, allowing his horse to display arrogance by head-butting Tate in the chest.
Tate takes a back step, “Mr. Bunning,” he acknowledges remembering the officer’s name from their previous encounter.
The officer speaks while patting the grey mare’s neck, “I thought you were travelling to Mareeba for work.”
“A different horse,” Tate suggests avoiding the policeman’s question.
“I asked you why you haven’t moved on.”
“It was my intention but I like it here, so I have decided to stay a while longer.”
“Did you see a mob of blacks come through here a few minutes ago?”
“I did.”
The officer’s eyes are all about but there isn’t any sight of his obvious sport, “which way did they go?”
Tate points in the opposite direction towards the forest, “they went that way and as if the devil himself was in pursuit.”
The policeman isn’t impressed as he beckons his colleagues to advance.
“What have they done?” Tate asks.
“They have been raiding farms near Koah, I have been instructed by these fine gentlemen from the Colonial Office to catch the little black buggers and transport them to the Yarrabah mission.”
“Then I wish you luck, once they are in the forest you will never find them as they have the ability to hide in full sight. Also there are many parts of the forest where you can hardly walk never mind ride.”
“That’s not my problem,” the policeman says with a sharp head nod towards the east, “do you see that stand of trees over there?’
Tate remains attentive without replying.
“Beyond those trees it is the problem of the Cairns constabulary, the Mareeba shire ends there, so unless they return they can have their freedom.”
“The last time you were this way you were hunting some criminal. Did you catch him?”
“You would be referring to Ben Morgan.”
“That’s the name, did you catch him?”
“Again he is Cairn’s problem, by most accounts he has left the district or since starved in the forest.”
Bunning dismounts and passes the reins to one of his fellows, “Walter, would you mind watering the horses and we’ll be on our way.”
Bunning appears to be contemplating; his gaze is to the ground.
He slowly sucks in a deep breath and frowns as the breath is held.
He releases the breath and speaks, “about you kid.”
“Yes?”
“There is something I find dishonest about you.”
Tate gives a confused smile;
“I’ve been nothing but honest with you Mr. Bunning.”
“Would you be obliging if I searched the house?”
“Go ahead, contrary to what you believe about me, I haven’t anything to hide.”
“Maybe,” Bunning says, “and maybe not,” he continues while remaining interested in the surrounding country. Eventually he speaks;
“If there isn’t anything for me to find, I guess well be heading back.”
“I thought you wanted to search the house?”
“No need kid, my suggestion was search enough, I believe I wouldn’t find anything of interest in there or you wouldn’t be so smug.”
The men return with the horses and mount without comment.
Even so Bunning doesn’t appear to be in a hurry to move out and as he gives the scrub and that part leading to the forest one last glance, a flock of startled birds rise from the scrub in the direction where the natives and Ben had gone.
Bunning becomes interested, “so you say the blacks ran towards the forest?”
“That is what I said.”
Another frown but as the afternoon is fleeting Bunning isn’t in the mood for staying overnight, or wasting good policing on a mob of useless recalcitrant blacks. Especially to satisfy the Colonial men who like nothing more than to force the blacks from their land and dump them clan by unrelated clan at the Yarrabah mission.
Bunning remounts and turns in the saddle towards Tate;
“As I said kid there is something dishonest about you, so remember your cards are marked.”
Tate gives a simple smile and nod.
Tate remains watching the departing policemen for quite some time while considering what Bunning meant by stating he appeared dishonest, or more to the point how Bunning could see through his dishonesty in referring the natives had gone east into the forest, a lie given more to protect Ben than the natives.
‘Possibly he was simply testing me.’
‘Simply gauging my reaction.’
‘Reading my expression.’
‘Elsie always said I have the kind of face that can’t hold a lie.’
‘Cor’ knows I’ve tried enough times.’
‘And caught out more that not but she did have Wilson as her backing and there is nothing more Wilson enjoys than dropping me into the shit pit.’
“Ben,” Tate loudly says.
‘I better go find him and let him know it is safe to come from hiding.’
No sooner had the thought developed the natives cautiously reappear.
Tate waves for them to approach.
The older male advances slightly while the others head towards the east and the forest.
The man appears traditional with his black matted hair turning to grey, tied at the back of his head with a flax cord, his face deeply furrowed by age and his body scared with the marking of the crocodile totem. Except for a platted grass waist cloth he is naked, his dark skin glistens with sweat under the hot tropical sun.
Tate calls a greeting he remembers from the time with his friend Tolga
The black man keeps his distance.
“Policemen have gone home,” Tate says.
“Who are you?” the native questions in the language of the coastal people.
“I am a friend of Tolga,” Tate uses his association as assurance he wasn’t about to betray them.
The black man appears unresponsive to the name of Tolga.
“Did you see a white man hiding in the scrub?”
The black man gives a wave of dismissal before rejoining his mob.
Quite some time had passed without Ben’s return causing concern. Tate expected Ben would have waited close to the edge of the scrub and out of sight where he could keep an eye on the proceedings. As Tate’s disquiet further builds he heads out towards the scrub in search of Ben, possibly he could have taken shelter in the small cave used during the original search for him.
On reaching the verge of the scrub Tate loudly calls Ben’s name, he listens for a reply then calls once again but the only sound to be heard is from a number of crows and a kookaburra laughing at his anxiety.
‘The cave,’ Tate thinks.
‘Ben may have gone to the cave.’
Slowly with eyes all about Tate advances in the direction of the cave.
“Ben where you are!” he calls, believing his voice should carry to the cave.
Silence.
“Ben, where are you?”
“Ben it’s safe to come out they have gone.”
There is a slight breeze, a breathing of country bringing noting that would divulge Ben’s wellbeing or whereabouts.
Tate commences to panic.
A hundred yards and another call to Ben.
A hundred more.
Tate pauses to listen for reply; he rases his hands to his mouth to amplify sound;
“Cooee,” he calls using the native call.
“Cooee – Ben,” Tate repeats.
Off to his right there is a sound.
It is soft and painful.
Tate diverts towards the direction of the sound.
There is something caught up in the scrub below an embankment, appearing more like a bundle of clothing in a washing basket than anything alive.
The bundle moves.
It is Ben crumbled to the ground after falling at least six foot and looking like something wasted.
“Ben!” Tate cries and hurries to his side.
“Ben, are you hurt?”
Ben growls softly while attempting to release himself from his entanglement.
“Where does it hurt?”
“Everywhere.”
“Is anything broken?”
“I don’t think so the bushes broke most of my fall,”
Ben attempts to rise; “urrrrr, escapes from his lungs in a rush of air.”
“Hang on I’ll give you a hand.”
At least Ben has movement although he appears reluctant to do so.
“Can you stand?”
“Possibly, if you help entangle me from this mess I’m in.”
Tate reaches about finding both of Ben’s legs have become entangled in the scrubby part of a large bush, its thin flexible branches like ropes about his lower limbs.
Tate attempts to pull some of the growth away causing more pain for Ben. After some effort Ben’s legs are free but he remains prostrate in the undergrowth.
“My chest hurts,” Ben complains loudly.
“Have you broken ribs?”
“Christ knows all I can say is I hurt everywhere.”
Slowly the entanglement is removed and with effort Ben is on his feet although bent in pain.
He stands and draws in a shallow breath.
“How do you feel?” Tate asks while standing aside to allow Ben some mobility.
“Oddly now I’m untangled I feel a little better.”
“You don’t look it.” Tate remarks with a chuckle as he attempts to lower his anxiety.
“Soon after I tripped and became entangled, someone or something rushed past me at speed.”
“It would have been a family of blacks on the run from the police.”
“The cops were here?”
“Don’t worry as they weren’t after you and by all accounts believe you have either left the area or you are dead. It was a sergeant with two Colonial men hunting the blacks to send them down the coast.”
“Then it is better I stay that way but I can’t keep running every time a stranger chances by.”
“Don’t talk like that Ben.”
“What else can I say?”
Tate attempts to shrug away Ben’s concern as they make their way back to the farm.
Ben is favouring his right leg.
He pauses to allow the pain to lessen, “well?” he says.
“I don’t know the answer Ben, all I can do is hope.”
“Flaming hope!”
“You know what I mean. Please be patient, anyway for now let’s get you inside and clean up some of your scratches.”
Tate laughs as he helps Ben hobble back to the house.
“What’s got your funny kid?”
“The sight of you.”
Once back at the house Tate put a large pan of water on the stove and had Ben strip away his clothes.
“You’ve torn your shirt,”
“And it’s my best.”
“Never mind, I have an emergency sewing kit in my pack, I’ll soon have that mended.”
It is Ben’s turn to laugh even if it may hurt a little.
“The little fellow who can stitch and do most things;”
Ben pauses, “and it is fortunate that little fellow is my benefactor, bed pal but most of all a true friend.”
“I like that.”
“It is true in all respects.”
The bathing water reaches tepid;
Soon Tate is sponging away the dirt from the fall.
Once cleaned there appears to be little damaging except bruising had began to form across Ben’s chest and when he took in deep breaths there was pain.
“You were fortunate not have broken any bones.”
“I suppose I was due for something to go right.”
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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