Published: 14 Aug 2025

At the edge of the falls escarpment the five hundred feet drop appears much deeper, more daunting, the flow more intense across a broad span with a dark basalt jagged section dividing Din-Din into what the natives called father Din-Din and baby Din-Din being yet another dreamtime story. All about the spray rises in a continuous mist, dampening the ground where delicate ferns and mosses grow abundantly.

Tate turns away from the mist finding more prints, firstly there are those he believes were lay down by his friend Tolga, also those of someone wearing boots. Tate believes they would have been from whoever had been using the hut but the prints soon back away from the embankment to turn to the west. It is those of Tolga that interest, at least Tate’s native friend had been in the area but how long ago and in what direction had he been heading. None of what Tate had found could possibly answer that question.

There are other smaller prints running along the lip of the escarpment and quite fresh.

“Dogs!” Tate loudly speaks as he stoops for a closer examination.

‘And a number of them but not dingos.’

‘Most likely the offspring of dingos bread with dogs that were once domestic but are now feral.’

Tate had little concern towards the dingo, it is a nervous and solitary animal but if bread with domestic dogs the dingo takes on many of the domestic traits, like hunting in packs without fear of people, also unlike the native dog the feral animal often killed for sport. If one travelled alone the crossbreed wouldn’t think twice in attacking a human.

By the track’s appearance they were set down after the previous night’s rain storm while possibly hunting the pigs Tate had heard.

‘It is time I was moving on,’ he thinks.

‘Besides I believe it has been some time since Tolga passed by this way.’

Tate returns to the camp to collect his pack.

On reaching the camp the sound of distant voices comes softly on the breeze, arriving along the rough access path created by the road gangers.

The Kuranda camp had been established at the zenith and most difficult section of the mountainous terrain that being but a small part of the distance towards the mining camps and villages of the tableland. The decision had been taken to work back from the Kuranda camp until joining the road coming up from Smithfield with a second gang working on the easier undulating terrain from Mareeba but to date the upper section was left unworked.

The voices are soft and intermitting remaining at some distance and believed to be from a working party. As the party approaches Tate realises there are a number of voices, two appear to be arguing, there is a pause and all laugh. One gives a soft whistle and again the laughter recommences. The whistler commences to whistle a tune, a jolly tune and the others join with voice. It appears to be a bawdy bar ditty and at end they again laugh.

Tate could wait for the arrival of the gangers but as a stranger had already mucked up the camp by building his campfire close to the entrance to one of the huts and obviously tampered with some contents, he believed it sapient to be away so not to wear blame.

From the beginning of his travelling it had been Tate’s intention to meet with his friend Tolga but as in the past their meetings were incidental and as it had been some time since their last reunion his friend could be anywhere from his father’s territory to that of his mother. When in softer mood Tolga would be found towards the coastal lowlands and if empowered with spring weather or when the days became too hot and humid he would migrate towards the forest, or the higher tableland where the nights were often cooler. Travelling was never an issue with the lad, as he could walk the entire daylight hours, snatch a feed from what was around while sleeping in a nest of leaves or grass like a bird. Tate was less enthusiastic.

The voices are now closer as Tate makes a final decision, he would head west towards where the forest descended into woodlands on the Downings and then towards the settled area of Mareeba. As he moves out of the camp site he hears the gangers arrive and by their tone they are somewhat miffed from what they find and is pleased he didn’t stay to encounter their displeasure.

Beyond the logger’s camp Tate once again discover the prints lay down earlier by the camp’s intruder believing they appear indecisive and confused. Firstly the prints are heading west then to the north in a wide arc as if created by someone who had lost their bearings under the thick canopy of forest trees. A little further on the tracks return to their original direction then remain strongly to the west.

‘Umm,’ Tate is becoming concerned as he doesn’t wish to meet up with some stranger so far from civilization.

‘Could it be?’ he thinks as he recalls what he had heard about the man who is supposed to have murdered the road ganger’s paymaster and stole the payroll.

‘Could the tracks belong to Ben Morgan,’ he gives a slight shudder.

A small distance further and the tracks again divert.

‘Whoever it is he appears lost.’

Tate feels somewhat relieved as he continues towards the Downings.

As for his own directional prowess, like migrating birds and the natives who have direction built into their essence, many years of travelling had gifted Tate the ability to do so without sun or stars. Wilson had asked how Tate navigated the thick forest and Tate’s answer was you just do; it is simply placing one foot after the other in automatic progress. The answer wasn’t useful to Wilson but he had no intention of straying away from known tracks.

Soon there is a small clearing Tate remembers as the spot where he once camped with Tolga. Close by there is a stream of cool water that pools before cascading over the side of an almost vertical rocky fall, to eventually meet with the Barron River. It is also remembered at this time of the year there was good pickings to be found close by.

As the afternoon is quickly advancing it would be the perfect spot to camp for the night.

Approaching the clearing Tate realises someone had already discovered the site as off to one side there is a campfire and shelter made from tree branches and leaves.

At first he thinks of Tolga but by the shelter’s rough design he quickly assumed no native would make such a rudimentary structure.

Tate holds his breath and ducks for cover behind the undergrowth while surveying the clearing for the camp’s owner.

There isn’t anyone about.

‘Bad news,’ he thinks.

‘If you can’t see who it belongs to – he could be anywhere.’

‘The fire is recent.’

‘I think it better if I skirt and continue on.’

Too late there is a rushing sound behind Tate and within an instant he is held, feeling something binding his arms.

“What!”

“Shut it kid if you know what’s good for you.”

“Who are you?”

“Never mind me where is the rest?”

“What do you mean by rest?”

Tate attempts to turn to view his aggressor but he is firmly held with one hand gripping his hair, the other forcing his arms high behind his back.

“The search party?” the stranger says as he forces Tate into the clearing towards the camp.

“No party sir it is only me travelling to Mareeba,” Tate protests as the stranger forces him against a tree and ropes him about its girth.

“If you are alone why travel this way?” The stranger asks as he secures the ties.

Tate is held firm realising struggling is useless believing his wit is now the only protection remaining.

He is searching the stranger’s expression for a spark of humanity, quickly deducting if he is Ben Morgan who killed the paymaster, he wouldn’t think twice of doing him in and in such terrain Tate’s wasted body would never be found, becoming one more soul lost to the forest.

‘Soft green eyes,’ Tate thinks.

‘And why so peaceful in one set on destruction.’

‘Handsome as well and oddly lacking in wilful intent being more akin to someone prone towards desperation.’

‘It is best I say nothing a let him speak.’

Such thinking contradicts attitude as why would one expecting tragedy look for the finer points in their adversary but Tate was never one prone towards panic.

“Kid if you are travelling to Mareeba, why come this way?” The man repeats.

‘Keep calm,’ Tate thinks.

“I like the forest and know it well,” Tate says.

“And you aren’t with the search party?”

“Why would you fear a search party?”

There is a lifting of anger, “shut it!” the stranger demands while standing aside as if contemplating his next move.

“What do you intend to do with me?” Tate asks, immediately regretting his question as it may have given the man suggestion.

“Dunno’.”

“Are you Ben Morgan?”

“What if I am?”

Tate doesn’t reply; his gaze is directly into those green eyes and the man’s permanent smile even through his obvious stress.

“What have you heard?”

“I suppose everything there is to hear about you.”

“You can’t believe everything you hear kid.”

Morgan moves away to sit beside the camp fire.

He appears confused while poking the embers back into life with a stick.

The stick begins to burn and Morgan tosses it into the flames.

Morgan is talking rhetorically.

His voice low and self abusing, occasionally he glances back towards Tate.

‘He doesn’t have the look or posture of a killer,’ Tate thinks.

‘More in truth he appears half starved.’

‘I need to piss,’ Tate realises.

“Hey Mr. Morgan,” Tate calls.

“What!”

“I need to urinate.”

Morgan is drawn from his brooding; “then do it, I’m not preventing you.”

Tate forces a soft smile, “what in my Sunday best?”

Tate’s attempt at humour appears to lower Morgan’s anxiety and for a moment they bond but as quickly Morgan returns to realise his situation.

Roughly Morgan forces Tate’s trousers below Tate’s knees.

“There you go piss your life away kid,” he growls and returns to his spot beside the fire.

Flow commences with Tate forcing a smile as he fixes his gaze on Morgan, believing his situation to be somewhat surrealistic.

“Thank you I needed that.”

The flow stops.

“Well?” Tate says.

“Well what?”

“Trousers.”

“You can stay that way while I decided what I’m to do with you.”

“You could let me go.”

“And you tell the wallopers where I am.”

“I have nothing to tell sir that isn’t already known; besides they have a fair idea where you are.”

Morgan appears calmer while obviously over any initial concern of being discovered, possibly realising a lad travelling alone wasn’t a threat.

“Your rope is cutting into my wrists, to say nothing about standing here with everything I own on display.”

Morgan reapproaches; his eyes are on Tate’s exposure.

He smiles broadly, “I wouldn’t be embarrassed with what you have lad.” Morgan lifts Tate’s trousers back to his waist and secures the belt, his hand brushes Tate’s privates as it passes.

The brushing appeared purposeful.

“What if I release you, what will you do?”

“I would continue with my travelling.”

“Would you report seeing me?”

Tate has a surge towards honesty, “if asked, I suppose I would speak of you but in a positive way, besides it is a big forest and if they are searching for you now they would still be searching then and I would expect you would be long gone from this location.”

“You talk too much kid.”

Tate takes the hint and becomes hushed.

Morgan gives a gruff sound and releases the ties to the tree but not those about Tate’s hands, he drags Tate to the ground beside the fire.

Morgan is staring vacantly into the embers.

Eventually he speaks;

“You have the advantage as you know who I am, so what is your name kid?” he asks.

“Edwards, Tate Edwards.”

‘At least I have him talking,’ Tate thinks.

‘That is a good sign he won’t do me harm.’

“Then Tate I will tell you a story and if they catch me and string me up, you can relate the truth.”

“Truth Mr. Morgan?”

“Yes the truth, as I am no killer.”

Minutes pass without elucidation as if Morgan is searching for words to describe his predicament.

Eventually Morgan speaks.

“I was there alright but didn’t kill the paymaster William Gardner, or steal the payroll.”

“Then who did?”

“It was Jack Worthy who was supposed to be Gardner’s support during the delivery and I happened to arrive at the very moment Jack Worthy shot Gardner.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t have the chance, others were arriving and Worthy hid the money with the gun then he commenced shouting killer and pointing at me. I simply ran for my life.”

“Why did you run Mr. Morgan?”

“I haven’t always been innocent and as I have form, no one would have believed me.”

“Oddly I do Mr. Morgan.”

“You are only saying that so I will release you.”

Truthfully Tate’s remark was to secure his release but he believed Morgan’s account and if questioned he had already decided to keep silent.

Tate you are too trusting of those you don’t know, Elsie would say.

Not so sis, I am more than capable of measuring a man’s essence and do have limitations and at this very moment Tate’s limitation is being tested, yet he trusted the man with the soft green eyes.

With the daylight gone Morgan stokes the fire bringing light to dance about the clearing; he moves away as embers began to fly high into the canopy. His expression appears neutral as if a weight has lifted with his telling, even so could he trust Tate to be honest with his account.

“Huh!” Morgan exclaims.

“I have no reason to say otherwise Mr. Morgan.”

Morgan’s frown is obvious in the dancing firelight as Tate’s continual use of his name is becoming annoying, “the name is Benjamin or Ben,” he barks and returns to his silence.

Eventually Morgan speaks, “how old are you lad?”

“I am nineteen, almost twenty and would like to reach that anniversary if at all possible.”

“You are so young and innocent, I no more than five years more and soon to be strung up before I make another.”

“Possibly you could go south and be away from here.”

“Possibly;” the man repeats.

“Will you release me?”

“The morrow maybe, for tonight you can sleep within your bondage and I will sleep with my fears.”

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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