Published: 7 May 2020

Time for the second muster arrived on the day Jack Thompson left for his meeting in Cairns. The Australian Stock Breeders had extensive properties throughout much of Queensland and the Northern Territory as well as Northern New South Wales, which meant the board travelled to provincial cities and towns to avoid taking their station managers away from their charge for too long a period.

Biannually an inspector would visit the properties and audit the manuals and stock legers, as well as taking a leisurely ride close by the comfort of the home paddock to ascertain the condition of the cattle. Therefore the position was for one who could not only do bookkeeping but could at least stay in the saddle for half a day without falling off. Usually if they could see a number of animals from the store verandah they were satisfied and looked no further.

The main body of the stock company was in Sydney but not even the New South Wales managers were expected to meet there, as many on the board had the flawed belief that country people could not handle the bustle of the city. Still Jack Thompson was more than pleased with such a decision, as in his thinking even Cairns with its two sets of traffic lights, one either end of the long drive through, was far too many for his liking.

“Are you joining the Muster Lewis Smith?” Mary White asked while Lewis set the morning’s breakfast fire.

“It seems that way,” Lewis answered and as he spoke Molly, the kitchen’s second black help, came down from the house with a message from Mrs. Thompson for the cook. Nervously she waited at the kitchen door, waving the slip of paper like one hailing for a taxi.

“Well come in girl don’t dally about, no one is going to bite you.”

Without speaking she handed Joyce the note.

After delivering her message Molly remained in conversation with Mary and as was their custom spoke in broken English, with a fusion of native words to disguise a private thought or insult.

“Mary why do you talk blackfella’ speak you had an education?” Lewis asked of Mary, cutting across her and Molly’s banter, which was obviously by expression directed towards him.

“You white-fella’ expect blackfella’ talk like so,” she answered grinning widely towards Molly, inviting her to join with the banter. Molly refrained and Mary issued a mouth of what sounded bad in native language. Molly gave a gasp but didn’t reply.

Molly had a nervous disposition and was easily spooked, believing the ghosts of the dead hid behind every tree and the Min-Min would devour her soul in the dark of the night and Mary took pleasure in increasing her insecurity at every possible opportunity. Molly’s skinny frame would quiver like a stick insect at the mere mention of Min-Min, while Mary’s ghostly renditions would send the girl shrieking from the room.

“Well I don’t appreciate it and I think it lowers your worth,” Lewis complained.

“What do you appreciate Lewis Smith?” Mary asked breaking conversation with Molly.

“A little respect would do for a start.”

“You need to earn respect,” Mary appeared somewhat serious as Joyce returned to the kitchen from the men’s dining room.

“Mary, Molly you both have work, so get on with it and a little less of the chatter.” Molly quickly scampered back towards the big house while Mary went to prepare the dining room.

“Do you want me to have another word with them Lewis?” Joyce asked.

“No they don’t bother me. They are only having a little fun at my expense and I can handle that.” Lewis assured as Molly returned to the kitchen carrying a pile of clean tea towels from the laundry. She placed them neatly by the sink but they toppled and the top two fell into the dishwater. Joyce quickly removed them but they were well soaked. “Silly girl, take them back to the laundry.” Joyce kept her displeasure from boiling, instead shook her head in disbelief. Molly remained close by clutching the soggy tea towels with water dripping onto the floor as if waiting for further instructions, “well girl get on with it.” Joyce growled then went to the men’s dining room to access Mary’s table setting. Molly remained at the kitchen door.

Molly was the housemaid’s assistant, deploying most of her working hours with Ivy and helping in the big house, so Lewis didn’t see her often. Molly unlike Mary, although both were Walangama clan, was full-blood Walangama, her skin more purple than black and although she had a pleasant face and an infectious smile, her legs and arms were so thin it made them appear somewhat brittle. Mary called the poor girl lucky-legs and when questioned why, she would say, lucky they don’t snap off and go up her bum.

While lacking the education of Mary, Molly spoke in broken English without the pretence towards bad English as was often synthetic with Mary. “Hey Lewis whatya’ doing down the river the other day eh?” She asked as Mary was called to the dining room by Joyce. Lewis ignored Molly while applying a match to the kindling, becoming memorised by how quickly the kindling caught then transferred the heat to the iron gum firewood.

“You know that Iron wood will burn all day Molly, even better than the red gum but if you use it too often it gives out too much heat and wrecks the stove,” Lewis spoke ignoring her question, “or so I am told,” he diluted his prophecy.

“Jimmy he sees’ ya’ down at them rocks eh?” she continued now bringing Lewis to attention.

“What rocks?” he asked knowing well where she meant.

“You knows’, them pile of rocks ‘cross the Gilbert.” She paused and shook her head as her eyes opened wide showing the whites as one frightened by her own thoughts. “You shouldn’t go there Lewis it be black men’s business, Jimmy says he sees dead people walking about over there.” Molly now began to scare herself with her own telling and gave a quiver as Mary returned to the kitchen. She quickly noticed Molly’s frightened disposition and never missing a chance worked on it.

“Molly don’t you be foolish with your blackfellow talk or you will scare Lewis,” she advised with much improved English to display superiority over her workmate.

“Hey Mary I tells’ ya’ Jimmy sees them ghost things and he even sees a white boy with red hair hanging around them rocks. I tells’ ya’ Lewis you shouldn’t go there, that Walangama medicine, that bad bad medicine.”

“Lewis isn’t afraid of a little ghost. Are you Lewis?”

Lewis continued with his work and seeing the fire had set, commenced to clear away his kindling. He became interested in an article within the old news print on horse training and folded the page separate for future reading.

It was Cook who brought the conversation to a close as she referred to the note Elizabeth had given to Molly, being a common occurrence for Elizabeth Thompson to convey written requests to the kitchen as it was her upbringing not to fraternise with the staff, especially with the extra men when the muster was on. As Joyce read she gave a nondescript huff and folded it away into the pocket of her full white apron.

That morning there would only be Elizabeth and the children for breakfast and her pleasure was lightly browned toast and boiled eggs. Soft boiled for the children with toast soldiers. Another reason for sending messages was Elizabeth found Joyce overpowering with her directness, her looming over any conversation, her white uniform akin to some guard in a mental establishment and cherry red lipstick, always fresh, always covering more surface than necessary.

On the rare occasion Elizabeth chanced to the kitchen Joyce would offer a nice cup of tea. Always a nice cupper, even if it would be as black as tar, bitter and whitened with stale powdered milk, floating in congealed lumps upon the tarry surface. Joyce was sure to use the powdered variety kept for staff as protest, as the limited supply of fresh cow’s milk would only be used for the big house and cooking.

Elizabeth would agree out of English politeness, or fear of offending cook as Joyce could be often temperamental but with all her faults a good cook that being a rare commodity because of the isolation and difficulty in obtaining proper ingredient so far from town.

The tea would be prepared and served. Around the rim of the cup would be her cherry red lipstick so Elizabeth would turn the cup to find a clear surface. A nice cuppa’ would be a challenge when offered by Joyce and as infrequent as possible.

At times there would be requests for scones for morning tea and cake, all quite impossible to perfect with the station’s limited supplies. Often the flour was so old it would not rise, while even sifting didn’t dislodge all the weevils. What the eye don’t see the heart don’t grieve, was Cook’s usual answer to the extra body in the bread, cover it with butter and jam and there you go.

There was jam, always plum, dark and bitter-sweet, scooped from large containers almost too heavy to lift, while often necessary to separate jam from ants, as five minutes left alone was long enough for the little buggers to swarm over something sweet. Cream for the scones was always a challenge, created from whatever cook could find in the larder and once applied had appearance of beige cream, the texture of cream but not much else, running back to liquid if not quickly consumed. Mock cream cook called her concoction, consisting of powdered milk vanilla essence and sugar, the sugar had often browned from age, thus giving the beige colouring.

“Now Molly shouldn’t you be over the big house.” Joyce suggested.

“I go now,”

“And take those wet tea towels back to Ivy; she won’t be pleased with you giving her more work.” Joyce once again referred to the note. It was the Thompson’s breakfast order, “you tell Mrs Thompson it will be ready shortly.

“Yes Missus Cook.” Molly replied and scampered like an alarmed possum across the walkway between the two buildings.

“As for you Mary don’t encourage her, you know she’s impressionable.”

“I don’t encourage her, she is mad and I didn’t say anything.” Mary answered indignantly, tossing her wire curls in defiance.

“Maybe so but where does she get all these stories?” Joyce asked while testing the stoves heat, “good work Lewis,” she complemented as she did every morning.

“Jimmy told her.”

“Has Jimmy been up at the house?” The cook enquired her voice lowering into displeasure.

“No Molly keeps going down to the camp on the Lagoon; I don’t Mrs. Cook as I have a man now and a baby, Ize’ a good girl.” Mary paused realising she had implicated her fellow workmate in disobedience towards management’s policy, “Jimmy says he can see and talk to dead people,” Mary continued then sent a wicked smile towards Lewis, who remained silent but somewhat spooked by Jimmy’s story. Lewis didn’t believe in ghosts, thinking it was all in one’s mind, as was his hearing of Will’s voice but Jimmy’s sighting of some young redhead male sent footsteps across his proverbial grave.

Jimmy was a strange fellow and a grandson of a Walangama tribal elder and although he wasn’t initiated as an elder, took his self emulated position most seriously, making up for his lack of tribal knowledge by cross pollinating black law with European beliefs without concern but when it came to the bush there wasn’t much he didn’t seem to know and could handle cattle with the best of them.

Unknown to Lewis when he created his shrine to Will, the location was once important initiation grounds for the Walangama people. Although Jimmy knew so, he had no idea what their significances may be, surmising it had to be something to do with death and the dead. As for Jimmy’s telling of a white man with red hair, that was a subject Lewis would confront him with at a later time.

Cook placed a large black pan over the stove’s heat and added a generous dollop of beef fat. It sizzled and spat until she moved it to a cooler section of the stove. “Lewis you shouldn’t hang around the black’s initiations grounds,” she advised softly, turning to assure Mary was not present.

“To be quite honest Mrs. Marshall I didn’t realise they were sacred sights. I have seen the carvings and paintings but thought they were so ancient no one cared about them any more,” he answered and gathered his kindling, placing it in a large wooden box to one corner beside the sink.

“You know the blacks, show interest in anything and they declare it to be sacred,” the Cook laughed, “how do you find an aboriginal sacred sight?” she followed with a cheeky grin.

“I don’t know.” Lewis acknowledged.

“Issue a mining permit,” There wasn’t malice in Joyce Marshall’s humour but Mary chanced to hear the conversation and huffed loudly, which stole the smile from Lewis’ face as it formed.

“It’s rude to listen into people’s conversation.” Joyce Marshall gave guidance to the disgruntled kitchen help.

“It’s rude to make jokes about black people,” Mary expanded her displeasure.

“Don’t you get hoity with me young girl, now get along with the breakfast table!” Joyce demanded as Lewis bade farewell and left the kitchen. Joyce refrained from further comment on Mary’s avowal, realising there was more that a grain of truth in her complaint but then again didn’t apologise either, as it was not the white man’s manner to do so.

Lewis had gathered his equipment and was on his way to the holding yards when he heard a commotion developing among the black stockman. Leon Evans the youngest of the native stockmen appeared to be in a rage, with moral support coming from Dingo and Harry, while Jimmy stood to one side his arms folded, eyes downcast and appearing to be disinterested in the fuss.

“I’m not crossing the Gilbert if there are ghosts!” Leon Evans shouted, while Dingo and Harry Jumpalong nodded in agreement. As the rage progressed Walter Drysdale intervened, leaving the three seasonal white Stockmen sitting bemused on the top fence rail.

“What seems to be your bother?” Walter asked as he approached.

“Jimmy says he sees’ ghosts ‘cross the river!” Leon Evans exclaimed loudly displaying real fear as Dingo and Harry furiously nodded in agreement.

“There’s no such a thing as ghosts!” Walter attempted to assure the frightened blacks, “tell them Jimmy.”

“I see what I sees’ boss.” Jimmy answered adding more fuel to the raging fear building within the three black stockmen, leaving Drysdale with a staffing quandary.

“What if you lot go further south towards Freshwater and bring up that mob?” Drysdale suggested while realising even then they would need to cross the river and quite close the spot in question.

“No boss we leave now!” Dingo shrieked and with Leon and Harry Jumpalong, a name derived from an attempt to translate his native name to English, close behind and prepared to walk.

“Jimmy talk to them.” Walter pleaded without success.

“I stay boss,” Jimmy answered without agreeing to immediate. Walter placed his hands on his hips and shook his head.

“Well?” Walter demanded displaying anger towards Jimmy, “you have really put the cat amongst the pigeons now!”

“I sees’ thems’ boss but not bad ghosts; they don’t scare Jimmy.”

“Jimmy, your carrying on makes a difficult job more difficult, why can’t you just keep it all to yourself?” Walter muttered then turned to the bemused stockmen still straddling the fence rail, scratched at his head then the itch caused by trickling sweat around his crotch.

“Should be enough with just us boss.” The youngest stockman said while the others gave silent agreement, “it will take longer but we should be able to manage,” the stockman added without concern, “that is if Lewis and that pocket size mare of his can make the grade,” he concluded while the others supported him with laughter.

“Don’t concern yourself; she’s plenty good enough.” Lewis dryly assured. Walter Drysdale didn’t comment he took a deep breath, held it then released it slowly giving a hiss of disapproval, “Jimmy seeing you don’t mind your ghosts, you team up with Lewis and muster around the river; he paused, “is that alright with you Lewis?” without waiting for an answer continued, “the rest of us will chase the main mob down at Freshwater. A second and longer pause brought Walter back to Lewis, “You’re not scared of ghosts Lewis?” he laughed sarcastically.

“Na Walt – don’t believe in them,” Lewis avowed.

Walter Drysdale placed his hands on hips and appeared to be mentally counting the men he had to work with.

“Seven, not enough,” he muttered.

Charlie Herbert stood down from the rails his sight on the three black men as they left for the lagoon. “Enough Walt, I reckon a little slower but we have time on out hands.”

“Maybe so Charlie, I’ll see if we can get more men for the next muster to the north,” he threw a piercing glance towards Jimmy, “you really know how to cause trouble Jimmy.”

“Jimmy good worker boss.”

“Yea like last time, you went walkabout during the main muster.”

“No walkabout boss, Jimmy good worker.”

“Then see to it Jimmy and,” turning once more to Lewis, Walter continued; “you’ll need to keep an eye on this fellow Lewis.”

Lewis didn’t answer.

By the time Lewis and Jimmy arrived at the Gilbert it was mid morning, finding a shallow flow of water hugging the southern bank. Although there hadn’t been any rain around the Georgetown area there had been a heavy downfall in the catchment a few days previous, enough to cause the trickle but not to spread across the wide sandy river bed. It would take the power of the Monsoon to do that and when it did, a wall of water would arrive stretching from bank to bank and further, coming out of a clear sky and a dry day, taking anything in its way to the distant gulf.

Lewis had often heard off such a water wall but had never encountered it, although each time he chanced to cross the river he did so with a measure of trepidation. This morning with Jimmy leading the way through the shallow stream was different. Maybe it was the job in hand or Jimmy’s knowledge of the land and all its moods that gave him a spiritual calm but they were well across before the thought of the river’s wall returned to him.

“Hey Jimmy have you ever seen the wall of water come down the Gilbert?” Lewis asked as they neared the cairn and his secret shrine to Will. Jimmy rode a short distance ahead appearing to be searching through the undergrowth for something other than stray cattle.

“Sure Lewis many times but Jimmy too smart to be caught up in it eh,” he declared. Lewis shuddered at the thought as Jimmy turned in his saddle. “It comes down real silent – you don’t hear nothing until the wall has past then the river tells you its story.” It was true that on a number of occasions since his arrival at Gilbert Downs Lewis had lay awake in the cool night air after a monsoonal downpour, listening to the chorus of frogs and other night callers, backed by the roar from the river as it passed, taking its story to the distant gulf. That was while he was at the bunkhouse, as he couldn’t hear the river from the lagoon. He had also seen the river dry one day only to visit a vast flow on the following day but had never chanced to see its arrival.

“How tall is the wall?” Lewis asked.

“Not very and you could walk faster than it.”

Lewis appeared disappointed as by what the old timers said he imagined much more, “What higher than us?”

“Up to your middle Lewis but sometimes more,” Jimmy answered.

“Oh – what is your name for the river?” Lewis asked.

“Gilbert,”

“No that is our word what is your name, your aboriginal name?”

“Don’t know Lewis my daddy told me when I was a little fella’ but I now forget and he died a long, long time ago.”

“I am told your granddaddy was an elder?” Lewis asked.

“He was,”

“What happened to him?”

“White fella, shot him dead over at Echo Springs in yonnie country, says he was spearing bullocks.”

“That’s terrible,”

“It was a long time ago and I never knew him, my dad was only a boy at the time.”

“What is yonnie country?” Lewis had heard the word used before but hadn’t taken notice of it.

“Yonnie, stones as big as your fist all over the place – old fella’ says some evil ancestor got angry with his misses and hurled them at her.”

“Nice story, do you believe it Jimmy,”

“Many Lewis but not that one;”

“So you pick and choose what you wish to believe?”

Jimmy simply laughed and moved on.

As the two came upon the stand of granite boulders Lewis peered through the access to the top, noticing that some large stones hand been piled at the front in a distinctive arrangement but not obstructive to one’s climbing.

“Did you put those rocks there Jimmy?” Lewis asked as they passed. Jimmy halted his mount and faced the cairn.

“Jimmy put them there Lewis.”

“Why did you do that?” asked Lewis feeling somewhat excluded from his shrine at the cairn’s zenith by the blockage.

“To stop that white ghost.” Jimmy exclaimed loudly as if attempting to warn off an unwanted intruder then he commenced to chant. It was a slow mantra commencing as a murmur than building to an almost shout before an abrupt end, then silence.

“Do you mean to stop me from climbing up to the top?” Lewis asked.

“No Lewis, blackfella’ can’t stop white-men from doing nothing but ghosts is different but Jimmy doesn’t know why you would want to climb up through there Lewis,” Jimmy paused and outstretched his arms while standing in the stirrups, “you should keep away from there it’s not good medicine,” he concluded.

“You said they weren’t bad ghosts Jimmy,”

“Good ghost go bad if you annoy them.” Jimmy once again commenced to chant.

“You told Molly that this white ghost had red hair?” Lewis enquired across Jimmy’s chanting. Jimmy paused.

“Yes Lewis, he’s in love but not with a woman.”

“With his horse,” Lewis laughed thinking of the banter he often shared at Bob Kelly’s expense.

“No not his horse Lewis, he can’t ride.”

Now Lewis was spooked, he must mean Will but how could Jimmy know about Will he had never mentioned his relationship or even Will’s name to anyone. Maybe it was Mary White, she lived in Mareeba for a time and possibly she had heard that he and Will kicked around together and there was always his then workmate Trevor Davies, who had been most determined to destroy Will’s reputation, even at detriment to Lewis.

“Have you been talking to Mary about me?” Lewis asked.

“Mary has her fella’ and doesn’t talk to Jimmy.” The black man answered without giving any inclination that he understood what Lewis was inferring.

“Do you know this white ghosts name?” Lewis asked as he moved his mare away from the cairn’s entrance.

“No, ghosts don’t have names.” Jimmy answered and once more commenced to chant. At first low and guttural then building into song of undistinguishable language that sounded more contrived than real.

“Come on Jimmy best we get started or old Walt will chew off our ears!” Lewis commanded, bring his mare to a trot and leaving Jimmy and the cairn far behind.

Jimmy brought his mount back beside Lewis and as they advanced together he spoke, “Lewis why you leave Mareeba?”

“Why do you ask?” Lewis curiously questioned.

“You no horseman, you no cattleman and don’t belong in the bush.”

“I can ride as good as the next man Jimmy and I do understand cattle,” he paused and corrected; “well a little.”

“That not what Jimmy meant – you are not here in your heart.” Jimmy moved further ahead.

“That’s heavy talk Jimmy,” Lewis called after but Jimmy wasn’t prepared to explain further. Not for that time anyway.

By midday Jimmy and Lewis had herded a good fifty head of cattle from around the river’s overflow, an area where there was a fair covering of grass but now dry and lacking in nutrition and had driven them across the river towards the home paddock and the holding yards.

As they pushed their mob through the drop wire gate they heard a commotion coming from the direction of the Freshwater track, bringing both to turn in that direction.

“Hear that Jimmy!” Lewis declared straining in his stirrups to predict its cause, “it’s too early to be the main mob?” he suggested to the black man.

“Not enough dust and sounds like one horse coming in mighty fast,” Jimmy answered as the last of their lot passed through the opening, all the while complaining loudly at being disturbed from their daily grazing.

Soon a long rider travelling at full gallop came into view weaving through the trees. It was Dale Brown the youngest of the three seasonal stockmen brought in for the muster and he was travelling loud and fast as would one bringing bad news – and it was.

Bringing his mount to a halt beside the two while quite breathless he conveyed his news.

“It’s Tom Fleming,” he gasped for air, “he’s had an accident at the south gate and is in a bad way!” he continued while becoming more settled.

“What happened?” Lewis asked feeling Dale’s alarm transfix his own.

“He was opening the gate and one of the bullocks charged, pinning him against the gate post.”

“Is he alright?” Lewis asked feeling somewhat lost for words.

“Of course he’s not bloody alright.”

“Are they bringing him in?”

“No he’s too bad to move by horse, Walt wants you to get the rover and have Stan Wilson call for the flying doctor, I’m to ride back and let them know you are on the way!” Then without further conversation Dale turned his mount and was gone, disappearing into the trees, back towards Freshwater outstation.

Lewis left Jimmy to mind the gate so the mob they had collected didn’t return to their grassy riverbank, also to give quick access when he returned with the land-rover, then galloped the short distance to the homestead where he found the bookkeeper busy in his office.

“Hey Stan!” Lewis shouted through the open doorway as he brought his mare to a halt beside the store’s long verandah, then tying her to a verandah post hauled onto the decking without using the stairs. Stan quickly appeared at the doorway somewhat puzzled by Lewis’ alacrity.

“What’s up?” Stan asked showing concern, knowing that such tumult could only be brought about by bad news and such news didn’t come lightly in the outback.

“Tom Fleming’s had an accident and he is in a bad way, you’re to ring for the flying doctor and I have to get the land-rover over to the south gate and quickly.” Lewis hardly finished his sentence before bounding from the decking in the direction of the sheds where the vehicles were housed.

“Hey!” Stan called after the disappearing Lewis who paused in his flight.

“Keys.”

“Okay thanks.” Lewis returned.

“I’ll look after your mare.” Stan threw Lewis the keys then quickly walked to the big house to use the telephone.

With Jack away he would first have to find the keys to the office as with the native help in house it was kept locked when not in use. He found them hanging on a hook next to the door and smiled at the security. He lifted the receiver and gave the handle three turns to alert Mar Roebuck at the Georgetown telephone exchange. There wasn’t any answer so he repeated his manual request.

“Good Afternoon Georgetown speaking.” Gladys Roebuck’s voice crackled over the distance.

“Gilbert Downs here Gladys, Stan Wilson.” Stan barked into the receiver.

“Settle down Stan, one would think you had a death on your hands.” Gladys declared angering Stan towards abruptness.

“There soon will be if you don’t get the flying doctor up here quick smart,” Stan barked into the bakelite.

By the time Dale Brown and Lewis arrived back at the homestead with the injured stockman it was dusk and the day’s heat hung with the dust in morbid shroud. Stan met the land-rover at the gate and peering through the grime covered side window asked of Tom Fleming’s wellbeing.

“He’s in a lot of pain but holding in.” Dale answered as he opened the rear of the land-rover, “help me get him out.”

“When’s the flying doctor arriving?” Lewis asked while lifting the injured stockman away from the vehicle, laying him on a camp stretcher Dale had collected from the store verandah.

“Soon but it was caught up with an emergency near Croydon, someone out Arana Creek way was thrown from his horse and has a broken leg,” Stan answered while helping Tom Fleming to a little water from a mud covered waterbag hanging in shade at the verandah’s end, “Where does it hurt Tom?” Stan asked placing his hand gently on Tom’s shoulder. Tom groaned; “bloody everywhere Stan.”

“Walt said it looks like broken ribs.” Dale advised as he and Lewis headed for the forty-four gallon drums strategically placed at points on the flat area between the homestead and the lagoon which would be set alight as soon as they heard the plane’s arrival. The drums were filled with tree branches and other burnable rubbish and kept ready for such emergencies.

“Where’s the doctor?” Tom moaned through laboured breathing.

“Won’t be long now Tom hold in there mate,” Stan comforted and gently ran his hand through Tom’s hair, dragging it from his sight.

The last of the sun had dipped to the west as a droning sound came from the out of a cloudless sky, shortly after the aircraft’s landing lights came into sight above the western tree line. Dale and Lewis quickly lit the drums then hurried back to where Stan and the injured Stockman were waiting, keeping well away from the landing strip between the drums.

“Hang in there Tom the doctor’s here,” Stan comforted, then casting his eyes across the makeshift airdrome noticed all was not ready for a safe landing.

“Lewis that last drum has gone out and it marks the end of the runway.” Stan said with concern.

“On to it.” Lewis answered while collecting a small container of kerosene they had used to fasten the burn, he ran as quickly as he could towards the failed beacon. As he did so, the sound of the aircrafts engines came closer and passed over the flat, before banking back to reapproach.

As the aircraft aligned itself for landing Lewis lit the beacon, which flared much brighter than the rest. Standing to one side he noticed that the pilot made a correction to his landing plan. Once again he passed over, bank back and reapproached then with a defining roar and a cloud of dust the aircraft was down and taxing towards the road in front of the homestead.

“Doctor’s here Tom won’t be long now.” Stan once again comforted the injured stockman as the aircraft’s door opened and a set of steps descended, allowing the progress of the pilot followed by the doctor, both in quiet conversation as the met with Stan.

The three shook hands and introduced as the pilot taking himself into the darkness relieve his bladder onto the red earth. “Needed that!” he sighed loudly. “Who lit that last beacon?” the pilot enquired as he returned to the gathered group. No one answered.

“Timely, could have avoided an overshoot into those trees down there.”

“Tom we have Don Campbell the doctor here, he’ll look after you now.” Stan declared as Tom Fleming released a painful grimace and attempted to lift his hand to greet. The pain forced it back to his side.

“It’s only a scratch doc,” Tom attempted humour, remembering the answer given in so many western movies to like situations.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the doctor answered dryly.

The doctor kneeled beside the injured man and after checking his pulse, unbuttoning his shirt feeling Tom’s ribs and chest.

“Does that hurt?” Don asked applying slight pressure to Tom’s ribs.

“Shit – yes!” Tom groaned and flinched away from the intrusion.

“Umm,” Don Campbell declared and shifted his hand further across the injured torso, “and that?”

“A little.” Tom attempted to move but yelped with pain.

“How bad is it?” Stan asked while holding a freshly lit cyclone lamp close, illuminating Tom’s pain twisted face. Tom turned his head from the glare.

“Broken ribs I guess but he’ll live,” the doctor declared; “we should get him into hospital for x-rays as soon as possible.”

“Where will you take him doc?” Stan asked as the pilot returned carrying a stretcher from the aircraft.

“Normanton I should think,” Don said and turned to the pilot for support.

“Yes Don, Croydon doesn’t have the facilities and not enough fuel for Mareeba.”

Dr. Campbell confirmed the pilot’s decision and beckoned the group to carry Tom Fleming to the aircraft, “ready for a joyride?” he asked.

“Don’t trust aeroplanes,” Tom complained.

“You will like this one, it floats like a cloud,” the pilot promised. Tom gave a doubtful huff.

“Ready,” the pilot said inviting the others to lift the stretcher.

“Hang in there Tom and see you soon?” Stan assured while helping with the lift.

“Stan.” Tom whispered.

“What Tom?”

“In my room you will find a black address book could you let my mum know I’m okay?”

“No worries mate.”

“And I owe ten dollars on the pub’s slate in Georgetown, could you fix it for me outa’ me pay?”

“Sure.”

The small group stood silently as the last of the aircraft’s engine noise faded. As nothing more could be done they retired to the store verandah to share with Stan the last of his scotch he kept squirreled away in the office safe for special occasions and visiting dignitaries, with Stan declaring it was a good an occasion as any to empty the bottle.

“That’s put a damper on finishing the muster by the coming weekend.” Dale admitted but his concern was ignored as Tom Fleming’s wellbeing was more important than a number of lost days.

Although it wouldn’t be too difficult rescheduling Peninsular Freighters transport, Stan felt uneasy on how Jack would react, as the rescheduling would cost money and the Stock Association loved their profits.

“How did you go with Jimmy?” Stan asked.

“He does carry on a little but is good with cattle.” Lewis answered.

“What about all that ghost crap?”

“Just Jimmy I guess, possibly to scare the kitchen lot.”

“Then young Lewis you have gained yourself a workmate,”

“I don’t mind Stan, no probs.”

“We will need a replacement for Tom.” Stan admitted and returned the last of the scotch back to the office safe. No one was much interested in drinking, taking only a nip to calm the situation.

“When is Bob back,” Lewis asked.

“Not until after race day at Georgetown.”

“Bob has a mate at Clancy; possibly you could contact there and borrow someone.” Lewis suggested.

“I’ll give it a go but I would think they would also be rushed for time.”

Gary’s stories are all about what life in Australia was like for a homosexual man (mostly, before we used the term, “gay”). Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Gary dot Conder at CastleRoland dot Net

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