Published: 4 Dec 2025
Frank Womersley spies the lone traveller from his store verandah and long before he is within speaking distance, he waves a welcoming gesture.
Tate returns the greeting.
“Good day Mr. Womersley,” Tate greets as he approaches.
Womersley is seated on a canvas rocking chair enjoying a beer while smoking a cigarette.
He coughs;
“I didn’t know you took the weed Mr. Womersley?”
More coughing;
“I have ever since the cyclone in eighty-six, it almost blew my hair off – and please young fella’ call me Frank.”
Tate smiles and jovially replies;
“It appears the wind had its way with your hair.”
“Tis’ true lad and you can blame me’ old dad for that.”
“Why is that so?”
“His head was smooth as a baby’s bum even before I was born, also his father before him – more than likely it has been that way all the way back to the dark ages.”
“My brother Freddie smokes but Elsie won’t allow him to light up in the house.”
Frank is grinning; he turns his head towards the open shop door before speaking as if he is about to utter a guarded secrete, “nor will Ruth and she hides my tobacco.’’
“Obviously she hasn’t found a good hiding place.”
“No, after a while she feels sorry for me and gives them up, not before she lectures me like a school mam on its evils.”
Tate climbs the three steps to the verandah and place is empty carrying bag down on the rough decking.
“I am supposing you have run out of supplies.”
“It is getting that way.”
“Hows your axe arm,” Womersley asks.
“It is strong and willing but this time I’m out of coin except for what could be considered beer money.”
Frank turns his head and calls back into the shop;
“Ruth we have a visitor, could you be a dear and bring out a couple of beers, young Tate appears quite parched.”
Moments later Ruth arrives with two bottles, placing them down on a small verandah side table she speaks, “are you still camping up at Sid Parker’s old place?”
“Yes Ruth.”
“Sid left some years back so it must be quite run down by now, I’m surprised the house didn’t burn with last year’s bushfires, or from the flooding during the wet.”
“It is liveable at a push Ruth but I’ll probably be moving on soon.”
Frank interrupts;
“Will you be going back down the coast?”
“I’m not decided, possible not.”
“Can’t say we’ll be here much longer either,” Frank admits.
“Why?”
“The new Cairns road is to pass us by for a shorter route to Kuranda and the bypass is almost complete, already there is less foot traffic, also the way up from Cairns is all but done, although last week they lost a few gully crossings near the falls during a storm.”
Moments later Ruth is back.
“I’ll have lunch on the table shortly – will roast beef sandwiches be suiting for you Tate?”
“More than kind Ruth, I’ll have to chop extra for your hospitality.”
“The favour is mine lad,” Franks admits holding high his right hand for inspection, “I cut it badly while cutting down that big tree near the outhouse as its roots were clogging up the pit and poor Ruth has been doing the chopping of late.”
Ruth calls from inside, “That is if what I do could be called wood cutting.”
“I’m only too pleased to help.”
“Also lad, if you are agreeable I would like a little help in the store room, some of the barrels are a little large to move about with my buggered hand.”
As the two rise to go in for lunch the publican Albert Hopkins passes by, “hey Frank has that order of mine arrived yet?”
“Not yet Albert, possibly on tomorrow’s mail cart; I’ll have Mavis drop it over to you when she is doing the deliveries.”
“No don’t I can’t abide the woman or that weak livered husband of hers; that is the reason I had you do the ordering.”
“Fair enough, if it arrives I’ll bring it over.”
“Who is that with you?” the publican asks; he squints into the brightness to obtain a clearer image.
“Tate Edwards,” Tate answers.
“I thought I recognised you from your last visit. So you like wood cutting?”
“It appears I have become an expert.”
“Right, if that is fact, when you’re finished here you can have a go with my pile. There will be a couple of beers in it for you.”
The publican commences to depart when he has a memory;
“Oh I almost forgot; I have a letter care of the pub for you.”
With lunch over and a fair stack of firewood cut for Frank, it was time for Tate to honour his agreement with the publican but on his way he recalled the old woman who had knowledge of his friend Tolga, so he decided to give her a further visit.
‘The snapping dog,’ Tate thinks as he approaches the gate.
His eyes are cautiously about but there isn’t even a growl.
‘I should call first and not enter.’
No need, the old lady is in her garden trimming the overhanging branches of a shrub that scraps against the wall during windy nights.
“Good afternoon Mrs. Hedgelong,” Tate calls from the gate causing the woman to jump in fright.
“Sorry.”
“Young man you shouldn’t sneak up on people like that.”
‘Sneak,’ Tate thinks.
‘I approached with enough noise to wake the dead.’
‘Never mind the ugly yapper.’
“Sorry,” Tate again apologises;
“Where is Brutus?”
“Poor little fellow, a brown snake got him down the back yard. I was pegging out the sheets and heard a yelp and by the time I got to him he was dead.”
“Was it a taipan?”
“It was long and brown and a snake, that’s about all I could say.”
“Sad times Mrs. Hedgelong,” Tate deceitfully sympathises.
The woman pauses, her eyes fall on a mound of dirt beneath the shrub she was trimming, “I buried the poor little fellow where he liked to rest in the shade.
Tate pauses to allow the woman reverence.
“Anyway what do you want?”
“If you recall the last time I was in town I asked if you had seen my mate Tolga about.”
The woman finishes her trimming and collects the shrub cuttings and places them in a pile ready for burning.
“You did and I said I hadn’t seen him in quite some time.”
“I was wondering if he had returned this way lately.”
“That would be difficult, have you not heard?”
“Where I’m staying is a little isolated.”
“It was reported in the Mareeba Express, he is dead.”
Tate feels a wave of shock come over him, “when?”
“Quite some time back.”
“What happened?”
Not wishing to waste her afternoon explaining the occurrence, the woman suggests Tate enquire with publican at the hotel, as it was Albert who gave her the news.
Being Tate’s next port of call, he thanked the woman and departs.
‘Strange,’ he thinks while managing the short distance to the hotel.
‘If Tolga died some time back why did I see him recently?’
Tate enters into the bar by a side door.
There isn’t anyone drinking and the publican is behind the bar arranging spirit bottles along a long wooden shelf.
Dust lifts with each arrangement.
“Dust,” Albert says;
“No matter how often you dust there is more.”
“I should think it blows in from the road works,” Tate suggests.
“Yes it keeps me busy.”
“You need a barmaid Albert.”
Albert places the last bottle and approaches, “you have the appearance of one who has just received grave news,”
“In a way I have.”
“What is your story?”
“I have come from Mrs. Hedgelong after enquiring of a mate of mine and she said he was killed and to ask further from you.”
“Who would that be?” Albert asks.
“He was a black lad who goes by the name of Tolga.”
Albert Hopkins gives a disregarding huff as he held little affection for natives of any persuasion as there is a continuous line at the hotel’s back door, none of whom can speak a word of English or would admit capability but know by lifting their cupped hand to their lips it represented grog, or fingers to the lips for smokes.
“That little black bugger, I always said he would come to grief on day.”
“May I ask what happened?”
“He was wounded while raiding a garden out Dimbulah way. It is said he limped off into the scrub where they found him dead the following day.”
“Is he buried in Dimbulah?”
“I couldn’t say. Sit yourself and I’ll find that letter for you and before I direct you to the woodpile we’ll share a beer.”
“Firstly I have a question,” Tate says, “was the farmer who shot Tolga charged for killing Tolga?”
Albert loudly laughs; “no, it was deemed he was protecting his property and seeing the little bugger took off into the scrub then obviously he wasn’t concerned for his injury and as he didn’t seek assistance his demise was of his own doing.”
Albert gives a light chuckle while fetching Tate’s letter, “there you go.”
Tate accepts his letter.
“Thank you.”
Albert shows interest but doesn’t ask.
“It appears to be from my brother Wilson; I would know his hen-scratching anywhere.”
“Have you a large family?”
“Once there were once thirteen of us but you know how it goes.”
Cautiously Tate opens his letter.
“You owe me twopence lad, it was sent postage to collect.”
“Oh!”
“Never mind, you can cut a little extra. Good news I hope?”
“It is only about home and -,” Tate doesn’t share further as Wilson mentioned Ben, “yes it is only news from home and hardly worth the two penny postage.”
The work on Albert’s woodpile took longer than expected as the axe was the bluntest Tate had ever encountered. There was also time taken to mull over the demise of his friend Tolga and how cruel and inconsiderate some people can be to take a life for nothing more than a few pieces of fruit.
Eventually Albert returned to call it a day, offering four long neck bottles of beer as well as a few shillings.
“There you go lad, I must say a job well done.”
“I would have finished quicker if you sharpened your axe,” Tate complains while sinking the head of the axe into a nearby log.
“Are you looking for permanent work as I could use an honest fella’ for bar work, the last joker absconded with the bar float.”
“Thank you for the offer but I must decline.”
“I hear you are camping on the old Parker property?”
“For the moment – why?”
“From what I hear the property is on offer to anyone who is willing to put the work into it.”
“What do you mean by on offer Mr. Hopkins?”
“The shire will give the land to anyone who can make a go of it.”
“What about Parker wouldn’t he be interested in having a second go?”
“Not likely he’s six foot under. He fell down a mine shaft near Herberton and broke his back.”
“It’s a thought but I must admit I’m no farmer.”
“Nor was Sid Parker and by all accounts he wasn’t much of a tin scratcher either.”
“I should be moving on as I promised Frank I would give him a hand in his storeroom.”
“Mind as you go lad, when you’re next in town I may sharpen the axe for you.”
There remained a little light left in the day and across to the east black clouds gathered to kiss the peaks of the Great Divide, hiding the head of lofty Bartle-Frere. On returning to the store Tate was soon put to work as Frank’s injured had kept him from heavy lifting. It was late afternoon by the time Tate finished tidying the shop’s storeroom and was most pleased when Ruth invited him to dinner and a bed for the night.
Dinner had been well appreciated as Ruth Womersley is considered by all who visit to be a fine cook who intends to pile one’s plate while hovering with the serving dish with further offering.
As for Tate;
He had full belly and fine company although inwardly he suffered from guilt. Here he sat enjoying conversation and fine food while Ben remained at the farm on rations. True there was little Tate could do to alleviate the situation, besides much of his supplies were acquired with Ben in mind.
‘Tomorrow,’ Tate thinks as Frank invites to sit with him and enjoy the approaching sunset from the store verandah.
‘Tomorrow it will be back to the farm – what then?’
‘Will Ben instigate his threat to move on?’
‘Will I be forced to decide?’
‘Tomorrow is for deciding,’
‘Tonight is for enjoyment.’
“Anyone for coffee?” Ruth calls from inside.
“Not for me Ruth,” Tate answers.
“A couple of fresh beers would be nice,” Frank suggests.
“Then Frank you know where they are.”
Frank goes for beers. Returning he offers a bottle to Tate, “a right tragedy that was,” he says.
“Do you mean the accident with the road gangers during my previous visit?”
“No not that, although the way the gangers are managed it was an accident waiting to happen.”
Frank is standing at the verandah rail as the last of the sun commences to paint the sky with orange and pink;
“I was referring to the killing of the paymaster Will Gardner; he was a family man with three little kiddies all under six years old.”
Tate feels his stomach knot as his face flushes with anxiety but he remains mute on the matter.
“Yes his wife is a fine woman; she lives here in Koah now,” Frank says.
Tate feels he must say something otherwise the guilt he is holding may give him away, “I read about the incident before I commenced my journey.” He finishes his drink and collects the empty bottles, believing activity would be a distraction. He places the empties in a wooden crate at the end of the verandah.
“You saw Heather this morning,” Frank continues.
“I’m sorry Frank I don’t recall.”
“While you were cutting wood, she spoke to you as she passed.”
“Yes I remember, she said I was doing a fine job of it and hoped I wouldn’t get sun touched, it being such a hot day.”
Frank gives a sigh, “there lies a second tragedy.”
“What would that be Frank?”
“The man who was reported to be responsible for the murder, his life has also been totally destroyed.”
Tate is cautious with his reply;
“If he is guilty than why shouldn’t he suffer?”
“That’s the point lad, Ben Morgan is innocent and now he has either fled as believed, or has starved up there in the forest and may never hear of his exoneration.”
Tate’s excitement lifts to an unexpected level;
“Is that for real Frank, or simply hearsay?”
“As real as the Cairns Post can writ’, hang a moment I think I still have the article amongst the wrapping paper in the shop.”
Tate follows Frank into the shop and anxiously waits as the shopkeeper paws through a pile of old newsprint kept for wrapping. After some time he finds the article, “here we go; I’ll turn up the lamp so you can read it.”
Frank offers the print to Tate. who with much eagerness brings it closer to the lamp.
He reads;
‘During the ongoing investigation into the theft of the road ganger’s payroll and murder of the paymaster William Gardner, it has been discovered that the incident was not as it previously appeared. ‘
‘Although the crime was considered to be the doing of the said Benjamin Morgan who absconded soon after, since it has been discovered that the foreman Mr. Jack Worthy has been living the life of Riley and far above the merger wage of a Ganger’s Foreman. ‘
‘After extensive questioning by Hugh Townsend of the Cairn’s police Mr. Worthy admitted to the killing of William Gardner and the theft of the said payroll. When questioned what Mr. Worthy had done with the remainder of the payroll he would only admit to having an expensive lifestyle with most going to grog houses and women with loose morals. Only two pound ten shillings and a few pennies were recovered.‘
“Well I’ll be,” was all Tate could utter but his expression was one of concern also relief as if it was Tate himself who was the receiver of immunity.
Frank soon picked up on Tate’s manner, “you appear somewhat joyous with the news,” he suggests.
Tate attempts to decrease his excitement;
“Do I – how do you mean?”
“Firstly I heard from Bert Bunning while he was hunting Morgan and visited the Parker property he believed there were others camped at the farm. Secondly and more obvious your supplies appeared to be for more than one, especially when you mulled over purchasing that oversized pair of working boots during an earlier visit as they were most definitely for a big man, also the trousers you purchased, therefore reading Mr. Morgan was reported to be a big man I had my suspicion.”
“Am I that transparent Frank?”
“I’m afraid so lad, especially when one has been in business for most of a lifetime you become accustomed to reading customers.”
“Did you report your suspicions?”
“No.”
“I always knew Ben was innocent,” Tate suggests.
Frank frowns, “what brought you to that conclusion?”
Tate gently shrugs, “I can’t put it simply Frank, possibly it was his attitude and the fact he was financially destitute. If he had stolen the money he apparently hand none, only the clothes he was wearing and you wouldn’t use them for polishing rags.”
Tate pauses and laughs.
“What humours you lad?”
“Something Sergeant Bunning said while he was searching the farm for Ben, saying he sensed there was something dishonest about me; I must admit he was correct but I was dishonest for all the right reasons and to be truthful, I never lied to him only avoided his questions.”
“Another beer?” Frank offers.
“If you are offering.”
Frank goes to the shop’s ice chest, “nice and cold,” he says passing one to Tate, “therefore you will have good news for Mr. Morgan on your return.”
“That is if he is still at the farm, his nerves have become so frayed he may act on his threat to move on and chance his fortune elsewhere.”
The conversation becomes interrupted by Ruth’s arrival;
“I’ve made up the spare room for you Tate,” she offers.
“You shouldn’t go to so much trouble as I am well prepared to bunk down in the shed.”
“I won’t be having that; what would folk say about my hospitality if I allowed a visitor to use the shed and Frank you are for an early start in the morning for the Mareeba market.”
“I almost forgot, we’ll enjoy one more beer and I’ll hit the sack.”
Ruth bid’s goodnight;
“I’ve left a lamp burning in your room Tate and a bowl of warm water for you to wash up.”
“Goodnight Ruth and once again thank you for a wonderful meal.”
“As for you lad you will also have an early start, I’ll need you to help with harnessing old Pup and readying the cart for market,”
Frank once again displays his injured hand as reason.
“I’m more than pleased to help. Is Pup the name of your horse?”
“That’s his name.”
“I’m curious how you came by such a strange name for a horse.”
“His mother was a right bitch so Pup is the offspring of a dog. A question lad, how did you get mixed up with this Morgan fellow?”
‘I believe in most that is a question best left unanswered,’ Tate thinks.
Instead Tate generalizes his answer;
“I suppose we simply got talking without knowing who he was.”
“Were you ever concerned for you safety?”
“No Frank, never.”
“Well lad I’m off to bed, I’ll give you a call in the morning.”
“Thank you I’ll finish this and also make my way.”
Tate sat silently for more than an hour staring into the darkness as he attempted to understand what he had heard. He carefully folds the page from the Cairns Post into safety, as what he has to convey to Ben is almost beyond belief.
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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