All That Glitters

Sleep had almost claimed him when screams shot him from his swag. He recognised Beth’s shrill invectives, only this time she sounded more desperate than angry. Martin yanked a long-handled shovel from one of the packs and tossed a branch onto the fire. Then he sprinted towards the sounds of the scuffle. In the flare of light he saw Beth crouched in a small clearing, firelight glinting on the blade in her hand. A bearded man stood over her, his leg drawn back to kick at her hand with his hob-nailed boot. Martin hit him between the shoulders with the flat of the blade. The man fell to the ground and Martin sprang, holding the shovel’s cutting edge a thrust from the bearded throat. He turned to look for the girl. Damn! Swag and all, she had gone again! But Beth wouldn’t be gone for long — her adventures with Martin were just beginning.

R O N BUNNEY

Fremantle Arts Centre Press Australia’s finest small publisher

The Goldfields in the early 1890s

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The horse squealed and struck out with both hind feet. With a curse, its owner jumped clear, and crashed into Miles Bentley, landlord of the Travellers Inn on the outskirts of Guildford. They both cannoned into the inn’s timber wall. A kerosene lantern dangling from a wall bracket danced and threw crazy shadows. ‘Bloody horse has given me nothing but trouble since I left Perth!’ growled the traveller, and again lashed his whip across the horse’s rump. The horse, which was one of a string of packhorses, squealed even louder, and kicked and bucked so that its loaded pack lurched to the side. A miner’s pick hit the ground between the animal’s hind legs. The man again raised his whip but the innkeeper grabbed his arm. ‘Easy, sir! You could make matters worse. I’ve a youngster in the stables who’s a wizard with horses. If anyone can calm the brute, he can.’ Old routes to the Goldfields based on map in Gold in Western Australia by Hazel Biggs, Singing Tree Books, 1993.

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‘I’ll calm it all right — with a bullet.’ He had a pistol in his belt and looked angry enough to use it. Bentley had visions of the mess that would have to be disposed of as he bellowed towards the rear of the main building. ‘Martin! Get your arse out here! At the double!’ Martin Graham was already heading towards the sounds of bedlam. Although he was dead tired, the horse’s terrified squeals were tearing him apart. When he entered the courtyard at the side of the inn he saw only the plunging kicking animal. Martin held the back of his hand up to the horse and moved slowly towards it. His flow of words was meaningless. It was the soothing tone of his voice that was important. The horse trembled and the whites of its eyes flashed. Its head was high and its ears were back and it looked as if it was about to rear up and rake down with its hard hooves. Martin did not back off. He held his outstretched hand towards the horse’s nostrils and continued to murmur gently until it shifted its weight more onto its front legs, lowered its head and sniffed at the offered hand. Martin moved in closer, caressed the horse’s jaw and breathed gently into its nostrils. It was a bay gelding, between two and three years old he guessed, however this was not the time to check its mouth.

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‘There you are, I told you he had a way with him,’ said Bentley, and hurried away to the kitchen. Martin stroked the horse’s neck and examined the lopsided pack. Slowly and gently he undid the girth strap and took the weight of the pack in his arms. It was too heavy for him and the best he could do was twist aside as it dropped to the ground. The horse skittered sideways and the wildness was back in its eyes. Martin soothed it again with his voice, then slid his hand lightly and slowly along its back. He felt some welts and a deeper unhealed abrasion on its rump and the horse quivered when he touched these. Martin smoothed his hand down the partly lifted hind leg and found a swelling. The other hind leg also looked as though it was bruised. He was too angry to maintain the subservient tone he was expected to use. ‘This horse will need treatment and at least a week’s rest. And after that, a lighter load,’ he said to the owner, indicating the dishevelled pack. ‘There’s enough weight in that to slow a Clydesdale.’ ‘Watch your mouth, you muck-shovelling brat. Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do with my own damned horse! I can’t sit around here for a week. I might as well shoot it.’ The hurry implicit in this statement pervaded everyone’s thinking it seemed, and it was largely the

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reason Martin was so exhausted. It was 1892 and thousands of hopefuls were heading for the fabulous new gold find at Coolgardie, three hundred miles to the east, and everyone was afraid the richest pickings would be gone before they got there. A string of horses — even a small string like this — was a valuable asset. Horses, bullocks, camels, donkeys were all working to their utmost carting gear and people eastward. Distressed at the thought of what lay ahead for the horse, Martin spoke up. ‘I’ll take it off your hands for a pound.’ The gelding was worth more, but not in its present condition. Time and care needed to be spent on it. ‘A pound! Bloody thing cost me four! And I’ll make ten times that in one trip to Fly Flat.’ ‘Not in its present condition you won’t.’ The man again raised his whip. ‘Stupid animal! I’m a day late as it is!’ Martin knew very well that if something was hurt, hurting it more was the last thing it needed! However, he also knew he would lose his job if he yelled that at one of his employer’s clients. He caught his anger in time, and stepped between the irate owner and the horse. ‘I beg of you sir, do not beat this horse any more. If you do, you’ll be lucky if you get anything for it at the

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knackers.’ He paused. ‘I’ll take the animal, as it is, for a gold sovereign.’ The man fumed but lowered the whip. Though he hated to admit it, the youth was right. And besides, in these frenetic times the word ‘gold’ carried a magic ring. It was uppermost in everyone’s mind. ‘Show me your sovereign.’ ‘I’ll get it — if you stay away from the horse while I’m gone.’ Martin suddenly checked himself. Had he gone too far? Would Bentley sack him on the spot if the man complained? He was about to apologise for his presumption when his glance returned to the horse. No! The poor animal had already taken all it could handle. He would not abandon it and would take what came. If he lost his job, so be it! That might at least help him to make his other decision.

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The traveller’s need to get moving made his decision for him. He nodded his assent, although his thunderous expression revealed his reluctance. Martin didn’t push his luck. He ran to the stables, thinking it would be as well if he was out of the way for a while until the man’s indignation had blunted a little. The wages he’d saved plus tips from grateful horsemen had built his small capital. His plans were vague as yet but he knew one thing: he was fed up with being at the beck and call of some of the thoughtless travellers who used the inn. Lately there had been far too many of them. He extracted a sovereign from his cache in stall number five and ran back. He could hear the man cursing and swearing, the thud of a fist on horseflesh. Martin forced servility into his voice. ‘Here’s your sovereign, sir.’ As he had hoped, the man turned away from the horse.

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He snatched the gold coin and bit it. Satisfied it was genuine, he pocketed the coin, then glared at Martin. ‘You’re robbing me but I might be better off in the long run. It’s a good piece of horse flesh but it’s got a devil of a temperament.’ Martin thought the man was wrong about the last bit. However, he kept his mouth shut as he untied the bay from the string and coaxed it towards the stables. His boss, however, was not happy with his initiative. ‘You can’t keep it here Graham!’ Bentley yelled. ‘The stables are already full!’ As if Martin didn’t know that! ‘I’ll take it home when I knock off!’ he called. When he knocked off — he practically lived in the stables these days. Well, tonight he would be out of here by midnight. After that Bentley would have to get off his fat behind. Miles Bentley fumed, but he didn’t want to lose the boy. Nine out of ten able-bodied working men had already tossed in their jobs and headed east — where would he find even a mediocre replacement? He put on his host’s face and manner and invited his customer inside. A complimentary first drink should put him in a better frame of mind. After that he’d have to pay for his drinks — and the more the better.

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Martin’s family had a small farm two miles north of Guildford. His parents and two of his brothers worked the property, while Martin, another brother and their two sisters worked in and around Guildford. It was after one o’clock in the morning when Martin rode his mare Blackie to the farm’s stables, his journey slowed by the need to coax the injured bay along. It led all right, but with both hind legs bruised its pace was impaired. And even though Martin was bone weary he carefully dressed the animal’s bruises with herbal ointment before he fell into his bed. Martin had started working with horses when he was eight, at Jeremiah Clawson’s horse stud at the foot of the Darling Range. Clawson had recognised something in the boy’s feel for animals, and Martin had learned more about horses in the years he worked for him than most men learned in a lifetime. Unfortunately Clawson, already an old man when he took Martin on, failed to rise from his bed one morning. Relatives moved in and saw only the money to be made as quickly as possible from the stud. Martin was berated for spending too much time with each horse and he soon received his marching orders when he tried to explain the superiority of Jeremiah’s strategy. The bitter experience taught him that to keep any job he must knuckle his brow and never answer back

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— something he did not always find easy, particularly when a horse was being mistreated. After a few hour’s sleep, Martin returned to the inn on his second horse, Bingo. He alternated the two because at the inn the horse had to be short-tethered as space was so limited. His day passed with little to mark it from any other until shortly after midday when all hell broke loose at the rear of the inn.

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Miles Bentley and the cook were hustling a blackhaired girl out the back door. The cook’s hair and face were streaked with what looked like gravy and the girl was scratching and fighting and screaming. Everyone was shouting. Martin admired the girl’s spirit in giving as good as she got. However, the fracas could have only one outcome: whatever the cause, there was no doubt she was being summarily dismissed. He watched her disappear through the small gate at the rear of the horse yard and guessed she would soon find similar work. Every hotel, inn or makeshift boarding house was stretched to the limit. It was late in the day and the light was fading before Martin finally got a few minutes to sit down with the lunch his mother had prepared for him. As usual, there was enough for two meals. He could have got his meals

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at the backdoor of the kitchen, but he wasn’t impressed by the slovenly cook, or the food he prepared. As he bit into a chunk of home-baked bread, the horse in the end stall whickered nervously. Martin lifted his head. Something had disturbed it. An aggressive rat perhaps? Or someone trying to steal a ride to the goldfields? He lifted the hurricane lamp in one hand and yanked the pitchfork from the hay with the other. He moved along the line of stalls and shone the meagre light on the horse. There was nothing obviously amiss but the flickering kerosene-soaked wick created as much shadow as light. However, the horse was nervous. Martin moved in to quieten the animal, then raised the pitchfork. Someone was crouched in the far corner. ‘What do you want?’ he called. The figure straightened. It was the girl from the fracas at the kitchen door.

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Martin lowered the pitchfork. ‘What are you doing here?’ ‘Come to get what’s mine!’ ‘And that is?’ ‘Skinflint Bentley refused to pay me out.’ Martin smiled wryly. ‘What makes you think he’ll have changed his mind?’ ‘Wasn’t going to ask him. I’ll take what’s due to me from the kitchen. I’m starving.’ ‘Ah! That last problem can be easily fixed. I’ve enough food here for two. The second part of your plan might be more difficult. Have you forgotten? That apology for a cook sleeps in the kitchen.’ The girl thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘All right. Where’s all this food you boast of having?’ The girl’s appetite matched Martin’s and little was said until the food was all eaten. Then she looked

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straight at him. ‘Pay day isn’t till Friday. I can’t hang around that long. If I don’t get another job before then I’ll starve. Give me the two shillings and sixpence Bentley owes me and you can get it back from him. He should have cooled down by then.’ Martin was taken aback at the idea, not least because it was delivered more as a demand than a favour. His immediate reaction was to reject it. However, he’d known hungry days himself, and it wasn’t much fun. He might get the money from Miles and he might not. But what the heck! He had received that much in tips over the last two days. He dug money from his pocket and examined it in the lamplight. ‘Two shillings and tuppence. That’s all I’ve got at the moment.’ ‘That’ll do!’ The girl grabbed it and she was gone. Martin stood there open-mouthed. Funny, he hadn’t thought she was that sort. He had the feeling she was a battler like himself. However, he knew he was a better judge of horses than he was of people — especially girls, if his sisters were anything to go by. A week later an English gentleman bound for the goldfields stopped at the inn for the night with his riding horse and two packhorses. After sitting down to his evening meal, the Englishman came to the stables. Martin hid a smile at

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the fastidious way he placed his feet. Clearly, he didn’t want any muck on his highly polished boots. ‘Ah, Graham, is it? I want my horses in good condition for the trek ahead. Have you fed them well and rubbed them down?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘Capital! Capital! Probably fared better than I did.’ Martin guessed the man was only in his midtwenties, though from his manner one would have thought he was lord of the manor. ‘Food not to your fancy, sir?’ ‘It was basic, but adequate.’ Martin smiled again. He’d heard stories from returning teamsters anxious to collect another load of supplies and head back east. Mister, if you think this inn is rough, wait till you see what lies ahead. The man continued. ‘But that aside, I’ll rest easier knowing my horses are well looked after.’ He paused. ‘Which brings me to another matter.’ Martin leaned in closer. So, now he was getting to the point. He’d known all along that the gent wasn’t there for a chat with a lowly stable hand. ‘I need someone to care for them along the way. I’m told the journey is a long one and that good horse handlers are scarce. Confound it! I can’t look after them myself.’ He smiled at Martin. ‘Would you accept the job?’

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Martin’s thoughts bolted. A trip to the goldfields! Once he found some gold he’d no longer have to knuckle his brow to anyone. This could be the opportunity he’d been waiting for, but he wanted a few things clarified. ‘Mr Bentley pays me ten shillings a week.’ ‘A week! Hmm, I know the price of everything has escalated here but that does seem to be a lot for a mere stable hand.’ Martin picked up the pail at his feet. He knew where all the stable hands had gone. The man hastened on. ‘However, you do have a good reputation for looking after horses.’ He paused. ‘I’ll give you twelve and sixpence. Food and lodgings will be your problem.’ Martin got the impression that such menial tasks as hiring help were beneath the gentleman’s dignity. Even so, it didn’t take him long to make his decision. At the very least he should be able to get a reasonable sleep each night. ‘All right sir.’ ‘Do you have a horse of your own?’ ‘Er, yes. I have three. I’ll ride one and use the others as packhorses.’ ‘Excellent. Then we’ll leave after breakfast.’ The gentleman shuddered. ‘Whatever that is.’ Could he be ready in time? Damn it! He would have to be.

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5

When Martin fronted Bentley the innkeeper moaned and groaned but finally paid him in full. But he did more than moan when Martin asked about the girl’s pay. ‘Pay! Pay! She owes me, the slut. Broke my best serving dish over the cook’s head. I ought to put the police on her!’ The innkeeper’s reaction didn’t surprise him, but the fact that Bentley hadn’t put the matter in the hands of the police did. Perhaps there was more to the story than either party had admitted. Martin reserved his judgement. Things had a habit of coming out in the long run. He was home by ten that night and woke his mother and father to tell them the news. Then he gathered his gear and began to prepare the horses. Despite his patient approach, the bay skittered and shied as soon as he came near him with a packsaddle. Martin had already learned

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that when he applied ointment to the large welt on its rump, the horse immediately lashed out with both hind feet. He sighed. Ah well, it looked as though he would have only one packhorse for the trip. Then an idea occurred to him. He took a riding saddle and put it on the horse, and astonishingly, the bay accepted it — obviously the saddle was far enough forward that it didn’t put pressure on the welts. Its leg bruises had healed, and its gait was normal, so Martin made Blackie and Bingo his packhorses and the bay his hack. He called it Picky, for reasons which seemed obvious to him. He put his savings in a stout leather pouch secured around his waist by an equally tough leather belt. From the stories he’d heard, there was little law on the track — some travellers were more interested in picking up gold en route than at the new goldfields. After farewelling his family he was back at the Travellers Inn with plenty of time to prepare his new boss’s horses. The Honourable Cecil ThorntonFlatbury was not an early riser. The Honourable Cecil! How do you address a gent with a handle like that, Martin wondered. He finally settled on ‘sir’, inoffensive as it was — and short! By mid-morning they were into the foothills with the hard climb of Greenmount looming ahead. Martin was

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excited. He was heading for the goldfields and being paid into the bargain. He prayed his good luck would continue to hold.

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After watering the horses at Bilgoman Well on the long climb up Greenmount, they arrived at Mahogany Creek Inn shortly before sunset. Unfortunately Mahogany Creek Inn was no longer an inn: the present owner used it as his personal residence. The Honourable Cecil grumbled and looked longingly at it as they rode on. By this time Martin had heard most of the man’s history. It seemed he didn’t mind talking to underlings in the absence of anyone better. As the third son he was unlikely to inherit the family title and income, so his father was funding this search for his own fortune in ‘the Colonies’. The electrifying news of the big gold finds in Western Australia had drawn him: if gold was to be picked up by the handful, he might as well be there. The work shouldn’t be too onerous. The next watering point was Chauncy Spring, where

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an enterprising ex-carpenter had set up a sly grog shop. Being subsequently swamped with requests for accommodation, he had then erected two large timberframed tents behind his ‘Coffee Shop’ — one to serve as ‘boarding house’ and the other as ‘dining room’. On their arrival, the Honourable Cecil collapsed into a roughly hewn armchair in the dining tent and ordered a brandy, leaving the rest of the arrangements to Martin. Martin tended to the horses first, then organised a bed for his exhausted boss. When he carried the Honourable Cecil’s portmanteau to his ‘sleeping arrangements’ he could not suppress a grin. The tent was twenty-four feet long and crammed with two long rows of bush beds made from saplings and hessian, twelve to each side. Following instructions, Martin counted to bed number six on the right-hand side and placed the portmanteau at its foot. Martin found the Honourable in the dining room and told him he had secured for him one of the last available beds. The Englishman raised his eyebrows and shrugged. His volubility was clearly saved for the lonely track. Martin saw him grimace as he drank from the glass of brandy in his hand. No doubt the brandy and the glassware were a long way short of what he was used to.

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But the Honourable put on a brave face. ‘Ah well, under the circumstances, one will have to accept these things I suppose. Did you also manage to secure a room?’ Martin hid a grin. ‘No sir. I can’t afford these prices. I’ll sleep with the horses.’ ‘Why? What are the prices?’ ‘Weekly rates are five shillings a meal and five shillings a night for the bed.’ ‘What about for one night?’ ‘Double, I’m afraid, sir.’ Martin thought the Honourable would choke on his brandy. At the same time, you had to hand it to the proprietor. With the low wages being paid in Perth, it was little wonder so many craftsmen and artisans had headed for the goldfields. However, this man had found his goldmine without having to move far from Guildford. The Honourable Cecil hid his shock over the prices behind a haughty retort. ‘Well I sincerely hope the meal is worth it.’ Martin had brought food that his mother had prepared for him, enough to last the first few days at least, and he sat down at the back of the dining area to eat it. Most of the diners sat elbow to elbow at a long central table with benches down each side. From the conversation he gathered many of them

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were ‘T’othersiders’ — from the eastern colonies. There were also Cornishmen, Californians, Germans, Italians and just about every nationality in between. Many were veterans from the gold rushes in Victoria, New South Wales and Queensland — ships arriving in Albany and Fremantle were discharging them by the boatload. Two girls were rushed off their feet shuttling between kitchen and table and Martin was surprised to see that one of them was the dark-haired girl who had been thrown out of the Travellers Inn the week before. He was pleased she had found work, and wondered whether she had earned enough yet to repay him — not that he was going to ask her. There might be a time and place for that, but he doubted that this was it. He kept his head down and surreptitiously watched her. How old was she? He thought perhaps sixteen — about the same as his younger sister — although there was something about her that made her seem a little older. She was certainly forthright enough in letting a man know when she was about to set a plate of cold mutton down in front of him. Perhaps she had already had a plate knocked out of her hands by some arm-waving fellow busy gabbing to the man alongside him. Glad he didn’t have to eat the unappetising-looking mutton, Martin bit into his slice of cold meat pie and

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silently thanked his mother. At least on the farm only the best sheep were killed for the table. He was going to miss her cooking in the weeks ahead. He glanced up to see the dark-haired girl serve the Honourable Cecil his meal. The latter stared at it for a moment, then seized the girl’s arm as she turned away. ‘Good God, girl, what’s that?’ The girl wrenched her arm from his grasp. ‘Boiled mutton and potatoes, sir. The damper will follow shortly.’ The Honourable looked down his nose. ‘Is this the best you can do? I wouldn’t give this to my dogs!’ The girl shrugged. ‘I’m not the cook. I only serve it.’ ‘Take it away! Tell the cook I want something better!’ ‘That’s all there is. Everyone gets the same. Damper, boiled mutton and potatoes.’ The Honourable Cecil looked at his plate in disgust. A grizzled Cornishman sitting across the table leaned over with a chunk of mutton spiked on his knife. ‘Better eat it, mate. Might be a while before you get another cooked meal.’ The girl took advantage of the diversion and slipped away towards the kitchen. The Honourable glared at the Cornishman. ‘I am not your mate! Good God! You at least should know better. Is there no sense of propriety in this wretched colony?’

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The Cornishman was having none of that. ‘Out here, mate, nobody cares a fig if your daddy is Lord Muck of the duck house. You earns respect with hard work and stickin’ by your mates.’ ‘Over my dead body!’ The Cornishman smiled grimly. ‘Very likely.’ He then turned to the man sitting next him. ‘Let the snobby fool stew in his own juice. He’ll learn — if he’s lucky.’ The Honourable Cecil glared at him. ‘How dare you!’ The Cornishman stared back. ‘You don’t understand a thing, do you? This is a new country, thank God. Anyone can be his own man without having to doff his cap to upper-crust fops like you!’ The Honourable went red, then shrugged indifference and pretended to ignore the other man. He looked down, busied himself with some of the food on the plate in front of him, and grimaced, but persevered. The ride up the hill had made him hungry, and the brandy, though inferior, had sharpened his appetite. By now the girls were bringing out pannikins of strong black tea, and again it fell to the dark-haired girl to serve the Honourable Cecil. Trying, perhaps, to salvage his wounded pride, the Englishman now exercised the noblesse of the lord of the manor. As the girl stretched forward to place the

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steaming pannikin on the table he put an arm around her and murmured in her ear. ‘Come to my room later this evening, my dear. There must be some delights to be had in this dreadful place.’ The girl jerked back out of reach. ‘Your room? You’re dreaming — on both counts. Just because you’ve got money, doesn’t give you any rights over me!’ ‘Mind your manners, girl or I’ll have you sacked. I was offering you a favour.’ The girl looked as though she’d been slapped. Then she deliberately poured the contents of the pannikin into his lap. ‘How do you like your tea, sir, hot?’ Martin kept his mouth shut during the following furore. If he took a side in the matter it would have to be the girl’s, and that would cost him his job. Anyway, he doubted he could match the invectives she was already screaming, at the Honourable and at her boss, who had also joined the fray and was trying to pull her away. The girl dodged his swipes and fled out the back door. The proprietor used his rather grubby napkin to mop some of the hot liquid from the front of the Honourable’s trousers. ‘I’m so sorry, Your Honour. These days good workers are so difficult to get.’ Martin finished his meal and made his way to where the horses were staked out. The ‘stables’ were full so he

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had found a small patch of grass some distance away from the establishment, thinking that a buffer of scrub might be advantageous before the night was done — the odour of rum was already spicing the air. When staking out the horses Martin had noticed a large tree blackened around the base. Such bushfireburned eucalypts sometimes had hollow trunks and he had noted the possibility for later investigation. With the wind blocked off on three sides it could be the ideal spot to sleep. After checking the horses, he took his blanket and canvas groundsheet and picked his way through the low scrubby bushes to the big tree. His kerosene hurricane lamp provided enough light to discover that it did indeed contain a suitable hollow. However, on probing into its darkness he found it also contained something else — a scratching, kicking, spitting wildcat. Only this one was human! The flickering light revealed the black-haired girl from the dining room, crouching in the back of the hollow. Martin backed away. ‘Hey! Don’t worry, it’s all yours. I didn’t know anyone was in here. I must admit I admire your choice.’ ‘Yeah well get out before I scratch your eyes out. You think you’re God’s chosen and can use anyone how you like!’

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‘Whoa … don’t convict me before you know me.’ ‘Why would I want to know you? Get out! And if you tell any of those mongrels where I am, I’ll personally shorten your manhood!’ Martin caught the flash of a knife blade and hastily retreated another pace, but not before noticing she had no bedding. On impulse, he dropped his swag at the bottom of the tree. At the beginning of October, the nights could still be very chilly in the hills. ‘Here, use this.’ The girl shot to her feet. ‘Trying to soften me up, are you?’ The knife blade looked wicked in the flickering light. Martin backed further. ‘I’m going. I’m going.’ ‘And take your rotten blanket with you!’ Damn the girl! He was only trying to help. ‘No! I’ve got another blanket. Use the swag, you stupid ungrateful girl! I’m off!’ He swung on his heels and returned to the horses. He fumed and muttered as he strung some rope between two saplings. He draped a piece of canvas over it and weighted the lower edges with stones, then made himself another swag and rolled into it. He lay back and looked up at the clear night sky. There could be frost before dawn. Stupid bloody girl! He should have let her freeze!

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The brightening sky woke him before the sun appeared. He checked the horses and fed them some of the chaff he and the Honourable had brought — as the result of his dogged insistence. The Honourable was at first reluctant, believing there would be well-supplied hostels conveniently spaced along the track. It had taken Martin a while to convince him otherwise. He ate, then saddled the riding horses and fastened the packs on the others. He had no idea when the Honourable would rise, but he would be ready. When everything was done he approached the hollow tree. ‘It’s me. Are you all right?’ he called. There was silence. He cautiously poked his head around the trunk. The girl had gone. So had his swag!

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7

When the Honourable finally appeared, Martin couldn’t help but notice how gingerly he mounted his horse. But the scalding was not the only thing on his employer’s mind. As soon as they were on their way he began describing his sleeping arrangements. Hawking, coughing and spitting had gone on for most of the night and the snoring had been monumental. As for privacy, one was lucky to avoid a slap in the face as one’s neighbour flung out a hand while turning over. And when someone lurched outside to relieve themselves, they never went far enough. Martin made soothing noises, then said, ‘If we camped on our own, a little distance away, none of that would happen sir.’ ‘What! Sleep on the ground? In that crawly-filled bush?’ Martin shrugged and kept the string of packhorses moving.

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They stopped for lunch at The Lakes. It was only a short stage in the journey but the Honourable insisted. The inn looked reasonably solid and must surely contain some civilised amenities. He stepped painfully off his horse, handed the reins to Martin and walked straddle-legged into the inn. Martin ate the remainder of his mother’s pie and wished his boss would get a move on. At the rate they were travelling it would take them a week to reach York. Most teamsters did the round trip in five days — with a loaded wagon. The Honourable was even grumpier when he finally emerged. Cold mutton and damper on a tin plate was not his idea of a civilised meal and large draughts of the execrable brandy had done little to soothe his hurts. As for the prices charged and the take-it-or-leave-it manner in which it had been offered — ‘The rogue should be horsewhipped!’ Martin wanted to reach the Thirteen Mile Brook or St Ronan’s Well before stopping for the night, but they only made it to the Nineteen-Mile Inn. The Honourable exploded when he heard its name. ‘Damned colonials. I know this place is on the other side of the world, but why on earth are all these distances measured backwards!’

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It took Martin a while to grasp what he meant. ‘Sir, I think those distances are measured from York.’ ‘God damn it! That’s what I mean. It should be miles from Perth. Like miles from London.’ Martin shrugged. He didn’t know why it had been done that way, but he took a stab at it. ‘York was the first new settlement after the Swan River. Perhaps the early explorers named the waterholes in that way so travellers would know how far they still had to go to reach the new area.’ ‘Humph.’ The Honourable looked at the small inn and didn’t like what he saw. It was no more than a single-storey weatherboard building. He peevishly ordered Martin to secure him a bed and a meal. While Martin was gone he studied the clearing. A number of wagons and bullock teams were settled for the night. Several drays were hung with either a piece of canvas or a blanket to form a rudimentary tent. The Honourable shuddered. God forbid he should have to camp on the ground like that. Martin came back. ‘Sorry sir. The inn is full.’ ‘We’ll see about that!’ the Honourable snorted. He slowly dismounted and stalked awkwardly inside. Before long he came out spluttering. No amount of demanding or posturing could secure him a bed, let alone a room. ‘That oaf in there insisted on first in, first served.’

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Martin held his tongue. They resumed their journey and he spread their swags on the ground on the far side of the watering point dubbed Woottating Spring. Martin would have slept solidly but for his boss’s moaning and grumbling. Apparently the scalding in his nether regions had become infected. In the morning Martin said, ‘Sir, I have an excellent healing ointment that might heal your, you know …’ He indicated his groin. His Boss stared at him. ‘What sort of ointment? Did you get it from an apothecary?’ ‘No sir. I made it myself; learned it from a first-class horse breeder.’ ‘Horse liniment! Impudent brat! I’m a ThorntonFlatbury, not a damned horse!’ Martin quelled the retort on the tip of his tongue. ‘Only trying to help sir. It’s not just for horses. It’s an ointment containing comfrey and other herbs. We’re all flesh and blood, aren’t we?’ The Honourable stared him down, then grasped the pommel to mount his horse, wincing as he lifted his foot to place it in the stirrup. He didn’t make it. He dropped his foot back to the ground, bent over and groaned. ‘I need to see a doctor,’ he said. ‘Damned girl! I’d horsewhip the filthy skivvy if I ever caught sight of her again.’

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Martin felt sorry for his boss, but he was glad the girl had got away. ‘The nearest doctor is in Guildford, sir,’ he said. The Honourable sagged. ‘Then help me onto this brute and we’ll head back.’ Martin was stunned. He’d made the break and wanted to go on. ‘After you’ve seen the doctor, sir, will you continue your trip to the goldfields?’ ‘Never! I’ve seen enough. I’m going back to Perth. Perhaps even Melbourne or Sydney. There must be some people in these damned colonies who know the proper stations of society.’ Martin set his jaw. ‘Then, if you please sir, I’ll go on.’ The Honourable scoffed. ‘Nonsense. You have to look after the horses.’ Martin was resolved. He was no longer a youth to be ordered about. He was nearly eighteen and he knew what he wanted. ‘Sir, I’ll take the packhorses off your hands. If you no longer intend going to the goldfields, then you’ll not want the horses or their packs. With only your hack and your personal goods, you can be back in Guildford by midday tomorrow.’ The Honourable looked affronted. ‘I paid hard cash for those brutes. And for their cargo.’ ‘Sir, I have some money. And the wages due to me. What will you take for them?’

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About to remonstrate further, the Englishman winced as pain stabbed through his groin. He took a deep breath. It was not the done thing to show discomfort in front of a worker. And now he was expected to dicker like a costermonger. The words came out stiff as pokers. ‘How much do you have?’ Martin knew the contents of his money pouch to the last penny. He mentally subtracted a couple of sovereigns and the odd shilling. ‘Sixteen pounds sir, including the wages due.’ As far as he could calculate, it was about what the horses were worth, along with all the equipment. ‘Very well. Here, help me onto this damned horse.’ And as the Honourable settled painfully into the saddle Martin held up the money. Not wishing to count it like a merchant, the Englishman pocketed the proffered money, muttering as he urged his horse forward, ‘Damned colonials. The sooner I get back to civilisation the better.’ Then he was gone. Martin strung the Honourable’s two packhorses to his. Having loaded and unloaded them a few times he knew what was in the packs. Some of the gear was useable — like chaff for the horses and a gold fossicker’s basic tools. Martin led off on Picky, hoping to reach the

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Thirteen Mile Brook in what was left of the day. He did better than that and passed both the Thirteen Mile and St Ronan’s Well. Each of the watering places was crowded with men and teams — many of the men already drinking and carousing. If he were any judge there would be little sleep at either spot before the early hours. He stopped at what he thought was the Six Mile Brook. If so, he would be in York by mid-morning the next day. He glanced at the sky. Unless he was mistaken, the creek would receive a top-up before the night was over, and he prudently crossed to the York side of the creek. Several teams were already settled there for the night. Foot-weary swampers had rolled out their swags in a circle around the fire and bottles of rum and brandy were being passed around. Swampers were men with only enough money to pay the freight on their gear. They walked behind the wagon and helped the wagon through any tricky patches. Not wanting to become entangled with either teams or men, Martin watered his horses upstream where the water was still unsullied. A fire was his next priority. He wanted to cook a damper before the rain came. With the damper in the coals he staked out the horses, covered the packs and his saddle and made a

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rudimentary shelter with the Honourable’s groundsheet. He doubted the Englishman would be sleeping out this night — or any other night for that matter. The aroma of baking damper brought him back to the fire. He dug it from the ashes and tapped it. The firm hollow sound told him it was cooked, so he dusted off the ashes and hacked off a chunk with his sheath knife. He spread the steaming bread with some of his mother’s jam and bit into it with the hunger of a man who has ridden long and well. Then he stoked the fire to bring his billy to the boil. A movement caught his eye and the flickering firelight illuminated a slim figure. Martin immediately recognised the dark-haired girl — and the swag beneath her arm. He remained silent as the girl warily approached the fire. Her glance flicked from his face to the damper. Martin cut and spread another slice and held it towards the girl. ‘Hungry?’ ‘What a stupid question.’ She reached for the damper, then hesitated. ‘No strings?’ ‘No strings.’ The girl took the damper, sank her teeth into it and tore out a piece. Some of the tenseness slumped from her body as she chewed. Martin couldn’t hold back the rebuke. ‘You used me.’

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The girl swallowed. There was no remorse on her face. ‘Don’t you like it when the boot’s on the other foot then?’ It took Martin a moment to work out what she meant. ‘When have I used you?’ ‘If you haven’t, lack of opportunity is the only reason. And believe me, you’ll never get that.’ Martin bit angrily into his slab of damper. The girl did the same. After a few moments of silent chewing Martin decided to try to make peace. ‘Have you been travelling on foot? You got here very quickly if so.’ ‘I haven’t stopped, that’s why. Got to keep ahead of you lot.’ ‘My name is Martin Graham. What’s yours?’ ‘Elizabeth Wilkes. My dad, God rot his soul, used to call me Liza. But I prefer Beth.’ ‘What happened to your dad?’ ‘Cleared out. Said he was going gold prospecting in the Yilgarn area, some place called Parker Range. Told us he’d only be away a few months. Said he’d come back rich.’ ‘But he didn’t?’ Beth snorted. ‘No! He must have run off with his gold somewhere, lording it up. He didn’t bring any of it back to Mum and us kids.’

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Between them they consumed the entire damper as they exchanged snippets of their individual histories. As the eldest of her siblings, Beth had worked in service from the age of ten, working all the harder after her father disappeared. As the years of toil went by and her figure developed, life got even tougher. She spoke fiercely about the ‘handling’ she had received from the master of whatever house she happened to be working in. There had been many incidents like the one at the Travellers Inn. There she had managed to dodge Bentley’s clumsy groping, but when the sleazy cook grabbed her while she was carrying the laden serving tray, she had exploded and hit him over the head with it. Martin smiled to himself and wondered how many other employment situations had been terminated in a similar way. He couldn’t help but admire her guts. The discussion turned to the subject of gold. Beth was on her way to get her share of it. ‘Not everyone is making their fortune by digging in the ground. Who amongst the teamsters and innkeepers isn’t making more money than you and I ever dreamed of?’ Martin agreed. After a cautious pause he said, ‘Perhaps we should travel together? Maybe even work together …’ ‘Nobody uses me,’ Beth snapped.

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‘Who said anything about using? There is such a thing as helping one another you know.’ ‘I don’t need you, or anyone for that matter. I’ve managed so far.’ ‘Maybe. But from what I’ve heard, this is the easy part of the journey. The teamsters all say it’s really tough from York on.’ ‘And you men can handle everything, I suppose. And us women can’t do anything but jump at your beck and call.’ Martin shut his mouth and poured tealeaves into his hand, then tipped them into the water boiling in the billy can. He let it boil for a few seconds more, then tapped the side of the billy with the back of his knife so that the leaves settled. With his first sip of hot tea, Martin glanced up at the sky. Thick clouds had hidden the stars. He indicated his canvas shelter. ‘I’ve rolled my swag there. Might be a good idea if you roll yours out there as well. It looks like rain.’ She snatched up her swag and glared at him. ‘Do you think I’m stupid? I suppose you reckon you own this so you own me too? Men give nothing for nothing.’ ‘Hey! You’re barking up the wrong tree. You’re welcome to it. I owe you.’ Beth hesitated. ‘What are you on about?’

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‘If you hadn’t doused the Right Honourable with his tea, I wouldn’t now have four loaded packhorses in my string. And be able to travel a lot more quickly.’ ‘Oh. How’s that?’ Martin explained. ‘So?’ he finished, gesturing to the shelter again. ‘Why not share some of the Honourable’s reluctantly provided gear?’ Beth studied the shelter for a moment then shook her head. ‘Wouldn’t trust a single one of you.’ She shot to her feet and the darkness swallowed her. Martin shook his head and stoked the fire. By the flickering light he crawled into his swag. Sleep had almost claimed him when screams and the sounds of a scuffle shot him from his swag. He recognised Beth’s shrill invectives, only this time she sounded more desperate than angry. Martin yanked a long-handled shovel from one of the packs and tossed a dry leafy branch onto the fire to provide more light. Then he sprinted towards the sounds of the scuffle. In the flare of light he saw Beth crouched in a small clearing, firelight glinting on the blade in her hand. A bearded man stood over her, his leg drawn back to kick at her hand with his hob-nailed boot. Martin hit him between the shoulders with the flat

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of the blade. The man fell to the ground and Martin sprang, holding the shovel’s cutting edge a thrust from the bearded throat. The man held out empty hands towards him. ‘Stupid bitch jabbed me. Just wanted a bit of fun. Didn’t realise she belonged to someone.’ ‘She’s not mine! She’s … my sister.’ ‘Oh! Sorry mate.’ Martin backed off. ‘All right. But leave her alone.’ The man rolled away and got to his feet, warily eyeing Martin as he shambled downstream towards the camp of teamsters and swampers. Martin watched him go, then lowered the shovel and turned to look at the girl. Damn! Swag and all, she had gone again! ‘And I thank you too,’ he murmured into the darkness. Rain began to fall.

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8

Martin paused on the hill leading down into York. He was ready for a hot meal but the night’s downpour had made that unlikely. As he ate some of the dried fruit he had brought from his family’s orchard he was puzzled by the amount of activity in and around the town. Surely there weren’t that many people using the Guildford to York track. As he neared the railway station he discovered the reason. This was the place where two main paths to the goldfields converged. Gold seekers travelling across the bight from the eastern colonies were disembarking at Albany and riding the train from there to York. Those from England and Europe disembarked at Fremantle, and those with enough money came by train to York while others walked over the Darling Range. From York onwards the track was the same for everybody — long and hard.

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There were gold-hungry men with little more than the clothes they wore and their savings in a money pouch. There were others who were well equipped, and looking for transport to Coolgardie, three hundred miles to the east. Some seasoned prospectors had their gear piled high on wheelbarrows. There were few families, perhaps one for every five hundred men travelling alone or in company. The women and small children were wedged on top of loaded wagons, while the men and older children walked. Martin was besieged by men who wanted to buy everything he carried on his string of horses. Stunned by their persistence he realised he did have duplicates of some of the articles needed for alluvial mining — the Honourable’s packs roughly paralleled his own. In light of the astonishing prices being offered he quickly assumed the air of a seasoned trader. Within minutes the contents of the Honourable’s packs had disappeared and Martin’s money pouch bulged. However, but for his personal gear all his own equipment had disappeared too, and as he led his ‘empty’ horses away several men followed him, clamouring to buy them. Martin steadfastly refused. He needed to get clear before someone talked him into selling them too! He leapt onto Picky, hustled his string into an

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unaccustomed canter and led them to the river. Upstream he found a secluded spot and inspected the damage. At least he still had his camping gear and tucker. What he needed was a brew of tea — and time to think. In less than a week he now had four packhorses and more money than he had seen in his whole life. That made him very proud, but on the other hand he no longer had any mining gear. If he continued on with ‘empty’ horses, would he be able to purchase the necessary gear when he got there? The prices in York had been stunningly high — what would they be like in Coolgardie? He suddenly sat up straight. He knew his way around Guildford — and he knew which blacksmiths had started making the digging tools required by miners. By poking around he had bought his gear at a fraction of the prices charged in York. So why shouldn’t he do that again? Hundreds of men were heading east as fast as they could, and look how quickly they’d snapped up his supplies. Even allowing for time to search for the best prices in Guildford, he could be back in York in six days with everything he needed, and more to sell again. That wasn’t long. From what he’d heard, it could take three weeks to get to Coolgardie.

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Of course, all this was supposing the gold held out. Arthur Bayley had filed his reward claim with the mining warden in Southern Cross in September 1892. Telegraph lines had sizzled ever since. How many thousands had already headed for Coolgardie? Had the cream already been skimmed? He felt momentarily deflated, but was quickly revived by the gold-fever in the air. Who says Bayley and Ford had found the only good patch? There could be many more patches waiting to be found. His mind was made up. He would return to Guildford and purchase another load. When he got back to York he would set his own gear aside and sell the rest. The extra money he earned might stand him in good stead if things didn’t work out on the goldfields. He felt the heaviness of the money pouch at his waist. If he purchased a couple more horses the round trip could be even more worthwhile. A note of caution reined in his runaway thoughts. Those departing now would arrive in Coolgardie with months of hot weather stretching ahead of them — and water along the track was said to be diminishing at an alarming rate. C C Hunt had found a number of natural waterholes in 1864 when he surveyed the pastoral land east of York, but no-one had envisaged such a huge influx of people and animals.

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Martin had already seen camels, bullocks, horses and donkeys pulling every sort of conveyance from wagons to two and four-wheeled drays. There were even a number of men riding bicycles. A lot of the men looked as though they knew what they were doing, but there were many who seemed not to have the foggiest idea of what was needed — either on the track or at the goldfields. Martin knew how hot a summer near the coast could be. Inland it would surely be worse. As he pondered over what he should do he kept an eye on the browsing horses. The banks of the Avon River were thick with natural grasses. Water flowed steadily north. It was an ideal camping spot for now, and would certainly be a better summer location than the dry land to the east. Suddenly he knew what he would do. He glanced up at the sun’s position and then set off to find the darkhaired girl. York bulged with makeshift accommodation. His queries led him to a house at the northern end of the main street. Two large oblong tents filled the area at the rear of the small cottage. The lady who owned the establishment directed him to the kitchen where Beth was making the pastry top for a huge pie. ‘Gee! You’re a hard one to find.’ Beth looked up. The look on her heat-flushed face wasn’t welcoming. ‘If you’ve come for the spoils of the

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fight, there isn’t any. So clear off!’ Again it took Martin a moment to work out what she meant. ‘What do you think I am?’ ‘How would I know? Anyway, how did you find me?’ ‘Guessed. A pattern seemed to be forming.’ ‘Then I’d better break it. What did you want then?’ ‘I just wanted to see if you were all right. And to tell you what’s happened. And what I intend to do.’ The girl pressed harder on the rolling pin. ‘And of course, me being a mere woman, I’ll be all agog at your stupendous news.’ Martin stared at the floor for a moment in exasperation. Then he rallied and told her of the events at the railway station. ‘I’m still going to the goldfields but I’ve decided to wait until winter.’ ‘Bully for you.’ She didn’t even look up. Martin felt as though he was banging his head against a wall. He took a deep breath. ‘Well, I’m off to Guildford in the morning to pick up another load of gear. Will you still be here when I get back?’ ‘Of course.’ ‘That’ll be a first. Next bloke to upset you will probably end up wearing that pie and you’ll be off again.’ Beth glared back at him. ‘Mrs Browne runs this place herself. She’s bringing up her three children on her own. She can handle men.’

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‘Where’s her husband?’ ‘Under the ground. Where they all should be.’ ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ ‘You blokes aren’t as necessary as you think you are. We can manage without you.’ Martin held up his hands. ‘Whoa! I’m off. See you in a week.’ Beth snorted. ‘Don’t expect my pillow to be wet with tears.’ Martin felt hurt by her indifference. ‘Why do I bother?’ he muttered. ‘You tell me.’ A flare of hot anger almost made him retort in kind. However, for some unaccountable reason he did not want to wreck the … he could hardly call it a friendship. To hell with her! He spun around and stalked out. There was plenty of thinking time on the trip back to Guildford. Thoughts of Beth kept intruding and one in particular: Why was she so against men? Surely some men must have treated her squarely. He certainly had. His lack of understanding bothered him. He left his packhorses at his parents’ farm and spent two days tracking down the items he wanted in order to assemble a basic prospector’s outfit of long and short-

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handled shovels, rope, a pick, a panning dish, a bucket, canvas, a tin plate and mug and a few cooking utensils. And in view of the track reports, he bought two goodsized water containers designed to fit a packhorse. He purchased two more packhorses, which he loaded with chaff and grain from his father, then collected the rest of his horses and loaded up the supplies. He gave a good sum of the money he had made to his family and put a few pounds in the WA Bank, then he headed back for York. A burst of pre-summer heat went with him over the hills. Back in York he stored the gear he wanted to keep and sold the rest. Again he staunchly knocked back the persistent offers for his horses. He then made his way to the boarding house in Avon Terrace. He thought it extremely unlikely Beth would still be there, and he didn’t even know what made him want to find her. But if she still wanted to go to the goldfields an alliance could be of benefit to them both — he might need assistance with his larger string. Surprisingly, she was still there. He hesitated in the kitchen doorway. He knew how to handle mixed-up horses but this girl stumped him. He finally managed to speak. ‘Er, Beth, you’re still here then?’ Beth paused in her work. She knew who he was of

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course but no-one could have read it from her expression. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ ‘Well … er … do you still want to go to Coolgardie?’ ‘No I don’t! Why don’t you go, with all those other bone-headed men. Mrs Browne’s got the right idea. Feed ’em and tuck ’em into their beds. Lighten their money pouches then let them get on with their own stupid business.’ ‘That’s a change of tune.’ ‘We can do without you! I’ve told you before, clear off!’ ‘I thought you didn’t like skivvying?’ ‘It’s not the work. It’s you bossy men I don’t like. Mrs Browne doesn’t order, she asks. Now, can’t you see I’m busy? Clear off !’ Fuming one minute, bewildered the next, Martin rode back into the bustle that was the centre of York. His enthusiasm was at its lowest ebb when an Englishman approached wanting to buy two of his horses, the water tanks and any prospecting gear. He looked as though he was unafraid of hard work. Martin sized him up and thought for a while. What the hell! If he wanted more, he knew where to get them. And he was going to wait until the worst of the summer was over anyway.

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He pocketed the money, gathered up the rest of his string and headed straight back to Guildford. There was nothing for him here. For the rest of the summer and into the autumn he made a lot of money shuttling back and forth between Guildford and York with horses and water tanks. Inland, the summer had been fiercely hot and Martin congratulated himself for his reading of the situation when word came through from Warden Finnerty in Coolgardie. The waterholes were shrinking at an alarming rate and the water itself was dangerous. Animals that had fallen in or been trapped in mud were rotting and fouling the water. Dysentery was beginning to take its toll and some had even perished from lack of water. The warden was advising people to stay away until it rained again. Most people took the Warden’s advice, and for a while Martin’s business dried up. He returned to his parents’ farm to help out and used the time to rest and feed his horses for his own trip. Then came news that turned the eastward trickle into a flood.

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9

In 1893 Paddy Hannan, Tom Flanagan and Dan Shea had found gold about twenty-five miles east of Coolgardie. Paddy Hannan came in to Coolgardie with five hundred and fifty-five ounces to register the find — and set the world on fire again. Almost as good was news that rain had at last reached the inland. The early winter rains had not even climbed the Darling Scarp. Martin, like thousands of others, was galvanised by the news and within hours he was ready to set off. He left a large part of his profits with his parents to help with improvements on the farm and kept a few pounds for ‘seed capital’. He now had a string of six packhorses, their loads slanted to the needs of people en route to the goldfields. Mindful of the possible condition of waterholes on the way, one horse carried water containers. If he hit a dry stretch the water should get

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him and the horses to the next viable waterhole. His start was held up by a nagging problem — what to do about Beth. In a roundabout way, it was she who had started him on his lucrative carting business, and he felt he owed her — or at least that was the way he rationalised the feelings he found so difficult to shake. If she still wanted to go to the goldfields, he felt he should at least help her get there. For that he needed another riding horse. Unfortunately, the only riding horses on offer around Perth and Guildford were either unbroken or would be lucky to reach York before old age claimed them. The solution to the problem was surprisingly close at hand: he bought another sturdy packhorse and reinstated Blackie as a hack. Martin got the feeling she relished the change. That brought another problem: what sort of saddle should he get? Women rode side-saddle. However, if he purchased a side-saddle and Beth didn’t want to come with him, or he could not find her, he would be stuck with it. The scant few women he had seen travelling east had been perched on either a wagon or a cart. He could purchase a wagon or cart himself, but he didn’t want to lose the mobility of his string. And besides, even if Beth was still in York, the odds were heavily in favour of a vitriolic rejection of his offer.

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Damn her! Even in her absence she could tie him in knots. In the end, time was running out and he bought a conventional saddle. His last necessity before leaving Guildford was to purchase some flour, but the new rush had stripped all the local suppliers. Even Piesse’s Mill at Katanning, the largest flourmill in Western Australia, had been drained. Eventually he managed to find two bags of Thomas Flour imported from South Australia. He tied them on opposite sides of the new saddle he had placed on Blackie — there was not much point in leading an empty horse to York. He would have no trouble selling the flour. At York, Martin again paused on the hill overlooking the town. It was as busy as an ant heap. To avoid being besieged by men clamouring to buy, he skirted the town and approached the boarding house from the north. It looked the same, and after a few moments he plucked up the courage to enter. In the kitchen the woman of the house was doing the cooking. ‘Hello, Mrs Browne. Is Beth still around?’ Her face flushed from exertion and the heat from the stove, the woman looked up. ‘I’m Mrs Lawson now. And no, Beth has gone.’ Martin was only mildly surprised — on both counts.

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With the influx of so many single men into a state already under-populated with women, few remained widows for long. As for Beth, he had half expected her to be gone. ‘Do you know where she went?’ The woman sighed wearily. ‘To the devil probably.’ Oh-oh! What had she done this time? Martin didn’t inquire. He thanked the woman, went back to his horses and headed directly for the goldfields. He wanted no more procrastinating. No more fighting off demanding would-be prospectors. He stayed clear of the town and camped several miles up a small stream running into the Avon River from the east. He cooked himself a brownie from flour and treacle and a generous sprinkling of currants following one of his mother’s recipes. He made it large so he could eat some hot and still have enough for a meal on the track the following day. The few showers of rain during the night didn’t bother him, in fact he welcomed them. The more water there was, the less need he had to stop at the main watering points. With the increased numbers of people rushing east came a higher risk of the water being fouled — and of gear thefts. Most travellers were honest hard workers, but some were not. Late afternoon of the next day he made Youndegin, the first of Hunt’s wells. It was crowded. He checked

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the water and after a lengthy wait watered his horses, then moved about a mile away to set up camp. For his evening meal he made a mutton stew, using the farm produce he had brought while it was still fresh. Meat he might be able to buy en route but he doubted he would come across any fresh vegetables. The smell tantalised him as he staked out and fed his horses. His billycan was at the edge of the fire and Martin was spooning the last bit of gravy from his plate when an agitated neigh brought him to his feet. With so many empty-handed men walking the trail it was unwise to leave anything unattended for long. That was why he always camped close to his horses. He threw a handful of leafy twigs on the fire and in the light they threw he spotted someone bending over one of his packs. ‘What do you want?’ he spat. The crouched figure spun like a cat, then straightened and faced him. ‘You still asking stupid questions?’ ‘Beth!’ The girl’s bedraggled state stirred something within him. ‘There’s some hot stew and tea by the fire.’ ‘I didn’t know it was you.’ Martin bowed and with a flourish indicated his humble dining area. He had no idea why he did it, but he grinned at the girl’s reaction. ‘Fool!’ Nevertheless she stamped past him and sat by the fire.

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Martin produced another tin plate and mug and filled them and as she ate he caught up with her immediate history. As he had imagined, it hadn’t taken much to trigger her anger. ‘Stupid woman! Along comes Flash Harry and her independence turns to mush.’ Martin could see both sides. ‘Can’t have been easy bringing up three kids on her own.’ ‘You think it’s any easier now?’ ‘Must be.’ ‘Why must it?’ Beth stabbed a chunk of potato and held it up on her fork. ‘What does her saviour do? Acts like Lord of the Manor! Drinks with the customers and makes a big fellow of himself. Mrs Browne, no Lawson, is now the cook, skivvy and housemaid.’ She jammed the potato into her mouth and chewed savagely. ‘What did you do?’ ‘Kept my mouth shut.’ ‘Oh yeah. What happened, did you catch lockjaw or something?’ Beth glared at him. ‘Until he short-changed me on my wages. Said they couldn’t afford hired help any more. Liar! He just wanted more profit for himself. Boarders were coming through by the trainload again.’ A smile tilted the corners of Martin’s mouth. ‘So you explained a few things to him?’

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‘Did I ever! I bet his ears are still ringing.’ ‘You headed for the goldfields then? Or are you looking for more men to terrorise?’ ‘You men are stupid. You bring it all on yourselves. Yes I am going to the goldfields. A woman can use a shovel and pick up nuggets as easily as any man.’ Martin had seen enough of life to know there was some truth in her claims. He stared into the flickering flames. He didn’t think he was like the men she despised, but he had been raised in the same world. The silence dragged. Then the one quality Martin thought he had more of than most men he had come across rose to the surface in his feelings. Compassion played a large part in handling horses. Were people that much different? ‘Do you want to ride with me?’ he said hesitantly. ‘I could help … er look after …’ He saw the flare in her eyes but stumbled on. ‘Be easier than walking.’ Then not knowing what else he could safely say, he blurted, ‘You can ride, can’t you?’ ‘Of course!’ She paused. ‘I bet you don’t have a girl horse.’ ‘As a matter of fact I do have. And she’s a darned good riding horse.’ ‘Good. Then I accept your offer.’ Beth glared at him. ‘But it’s not a gift. I’ll do my share of the work.’

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Martin held up his hands. ‘All right. All right.’ He hoped he wouldn’t soon regret it. He had one more question. ‘Um, do you still have that bedroll?’ ‘Yes.’ The short affirmative was hard to interpret. Did it mean something to her? Or had she forgotten where it had come from? He didn’t ask; he might end up wearing it. Instead he said, ‘Why not roll it out by the fire?’ He quickly gestured to the other side of the fire from his swag. ‘Over there. Be safer than being on your own out in the bush.’ ‘Will it now? Are you so different from all the other men stomping along this track then?’ ‘Yes I am!’ Pushed to the edge, Martin seethed inside. As a babe the damned girl had probably bitten the hand that fed her. Beth stared at him for a moment. ‘All right. I’ll go and get it. But no shenanigans!’ ‘If I do, you’ll produce that pinking knife you’ve got hidden on you somewhere. Right?’ The girl got to her feet and stamped off into the darkness. Martin shrugged. To hell with her! He was tired and wanted to get an early start in the morning. He slid into his swag.

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She was back in a few minutes and spread her swag opposite his. The fire between them was a bed of red coals. She slid into her bed and lay on her back staring at the stars. After a while Martin offered a cautious but friendly goodnight. The girl grunted and turned on her side so she was facing him.

Beth watched him. There was a quizzical look on her face but she said nothing. Finally, Martin indicated Blackie. ‘You ride the mare. I’ll stick to Picky.’ The girl nodded. ‘You mount first.’ Martin’s suspicion was confirmed. She’d never ridden on a horse before and was waiting to see how he did it.

In the morning Martin cooked some porridge and placed the billy at the side of the fire. Beth rose and rolled her swag. She then headed into the scrub. Dismayed, he asked, ‘Where are you going?’ ‘Mind your own damned business.’ Martin felt hollow, until he realised she hadn’t taken the swag with her. She was back in a few minutes. As soon as they had eaten Martin began loading the packhorses. True to her word Beth helped him lift and fasten the loads. He had to give the girl her due — she was quick on the uptake. Whenever he made a move she immediately saw how she could help. It certainly made the work easier. The bags of flour Blackie had been carrying were added to the top of the load of the two strongest packhorses. He apologised to each one as he put the extra weight on it. ‘Sorry old fella. I’ll sell it at the next waterhole.’

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‘Come around here and I’ll show you. You must always mount from the horse’s left side.’ ‘I know that. Your bossiness just made me forget for a moment.’ Beth’s skirts swished as she flounced around Blackie’s rear. Martin held his breath. Thank God Blackie was a quiet horse. The girl pushed him aside. ‘Get out of the way. I don’t need you to teach me. If a stupid drunken man can do it, anyone can.’ He managed to keep his voice even. ‘If I wanted to bake a pie, I’d ask you how to go about it. So for goodness sake, put your prickles down for a moment and listen.’ The girl shut her mouth but looked sullen. Martin lifted Blackie’s reins over Beth’s head. ‘See, you hold the reins in your left hand at the same time as

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you hold the pommel. This thing. Then you put your left foot in the stirrup and swing up. Like so.’ He sat in the saddle for a moment then swung down and stood aside. However, he held on to Blackie’s bridle. Whispered to her. ‘Easy old girl. I know this rider is a novice but please look after her.’ Beth held the rein as instructed and lifted her foot. However, her skirt prevented her from getting it high enough to straddle the horse. ‘Ah! Knew I should have got a side-saddle,’ Martin sighed. ‘Never mind, we’re not far from York. If you mind the string, I’ll ride back. There must be one for sale there somewhere.’ ‘Side-saddle!’ She looked daggers at him. ‘You want me to ride all the way to God knows where clinging to the side of a horse? What are you trying to do, break my neck to get rid of me?’ ‘No I’m not! All women ride side-saddle.’ Beth glared at him. ‘Why?’ Martin’s ears burned like hot coals. ‘Because women are … sort of built different.’ ‘Nonsense!’ Beth retorted. ‘That’s just another stupid man’s rule — but it’s all right for us to part our legs when it suits you.’ Martin felt as though he’d been belted over the head with a lump of wood. ‘Then w-what … ?’

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‘Help me up. Obviously the best way to ride one of these things is by sitting astride. That’s why you men do it that way.’ ‘B-but …’ ‘Stop spluttering and help me get on this thing.’ ‘What do you want me to do?’ Beth gave an impatient grunt, hiked up her skirt and tucked it … somewhere. She placed her foot in the stirrup. Martin heaved on her leg. Thank God it was covered. Then skirt and petticoat swirled to expose a length of bare leg as Beth settled into the saddle. She glared down at Martin. ‘Get your eyes off or I’ll scratch them out.’ Martin wiped the look off his face. ‘Umm, well, you’re going to have a very busy trip.’ ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Scratching the eyes out of every man between here and Coolgardie.’ ‘Humph!’ Beth pulled her skirt and petticoat down as far as she could on each side, but it still left her calves and ankles exposed. She glared at Martin as though it was his fault. ‘Where’s my bed roll?’ ‘I was going to tie it on behind your saddle. Looks like I’ll have to think again. It would mean you’d have to lift your leg even higher when getting on and off.’

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‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’ ‘No, not at all!’ ‘So you say. Well I’ve got news for you. I’ll drape the blanket over my legs.’ Martin thought for a moment. ‘Um, the blanket would be all right while you’re on. But you can’t stay in the saddle forever.’ Martin felt as though he were wearing a red flannel shirt in midsummer. Then an idea stirred. ‘Wait a minute! I’ve got a spare set of clothes.’ ‘Congratulations,’ Beth snorted. ‘But what’s that got to do with me?’ Exasperation burned Martin’s embarrassment away. ‘Will you listen to me for a minute? You can put the trousers, er, over your …’ He gestured towards the expanse of lace-trimmed cotton that was disconcertingly visible. ‘They’ll be a bit big for you but at least they’ll cover your …’ Red-hot blood suffused his face. Beth was clearly considering his proposal. She started to get down, then stopped. ‘Well. What are you gawping at?’ Martin stared at the ground and heard the swirl and swish of clothing. How she got down without tangling and falling he had no idea. He tethered Blackie and dug into a pack on one of the other horses, unearthed his spare pair of trousers and held them out to her.

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Beth looked at them for a moment then glared at him. ‘Well go on! Get your hot little peepers off!’ Martin turned his back but could not stop his ears. The rustle of material conjured disconcerting visions. He turned around only when Beth said. ‘Right. Now help me to get back on this horse. What did you say her name was?’ ‘Blackie.’ This time Martin was pleased at how little help she needed. Her skirt still swirled but her legs were now discreetly covered. He noticed she had rolled the bottom of each trouser leg so they cleared her heels. He nodded. ‘That’s better.’ He adjusted the length of the stirrups. He finally mounted Picky and they proceeded at a steady walk. The girl would need time to get used to riding before they tried another gait. There was a long way to go but even at a walking pace they should be able to cover at least twenty miles in a day. A pattern of travelling developed. Martin learned to make suggestions rather than issue orders, and Beth in turn helped him with whatever was needed to keep things rolling. She was a quick learner and he soon realised it was against her nature to admit she was incapable of doing any task. Another pattern also developed, one which fitted in with Martin’s natural inclination. Among the people

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and animals grouped around each watering point, Afghans and their strings of camels were always present. Like most horses, Martin’s were restless around camels, and he found that if he watered his horses, then moved away some distance to camp, he solved several problems. The horses forgot the camels, and he and Beth avoided the sprinkling of pickpockets and other lawless persons among the travellers heading east. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, it minimised the time that Beth was in the public eye. Most of the men were bug-eyed at the sight of a young woman sitting astride a horse — even if her legs were covered. Before long, Beth had devised her own solution to this, sparked by another pattern that was developing along the track. Many of the new chums, it seems, had started out with too much luggage. They were learning the hard way, and those who couldn’t afford the freight had to carry their gear. Heat and distance did the sorting out — anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary was dumped along the way. Beth found a gentleman’s hatbox with a Bohemian looking hat inside. It was a reasonable fit and she pummelled at it until it looked more like a digger’s wide-awake. When she pulled it on and tucked her hair up under it, she drew a lot less attention. The picture was complete when, in a final act of defiance, she cut

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off her long skirt and petticoat. In her impromptu shirtwaist and trousers she could be mistaken for a young man — if viewed from a distance and by someone with poor eyesight. Martin admired her resourcefulness but didn’t know how to tell her that. He played it safe and simply nodded his approval. Their journey progressed increasingly well until the morning of the fourth day, when Beth went for her customary morning walk into the bush. When she seemed to be taking longer than usual, Martin became concerned, glancing uneasily at the surrounding bush. There were some roughies on the track. The sun was spreading its gold across the tops of the bushes when he loose-tied Picky and Blackie to a low branch and headed into the patch of scrub that had swallowed her. After a few steps he hesitated. If nothing untoward had happened, Beth would hurl abuse at him. And there were plenty of fist-sized rocks on the ground … On the other hand if something was wrong, and he did nothing, he would never be able to forgive himself. He shook his head and shambled forward. There was a good chance he’d cop it no matter what he did. At that moment Beth emerged from the bush, with a young woman in tow. The woman was bedraggled, distraught and obviously fatigued. She shuddered when

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she spotted Martin, and tried to turn and run. She would have fallen but for Beth’s supporting hand. ‘It’s all right. He won’t hurt you.’ Her voice hardened. ‘Or if he does, he knows what will happen.’ Martin could see the young woman was functioning on little more than nerves and fear. If she let go she would collapse. He quickly filled a pannikin from one of the waterbags and kept at arm’s length as he offered it to her. Her expression rattled him: he hated seeing fear in the eyes of any creature. As soon as she grasped the pannikin he stepped back. The young woman gulped at the water. Martin wondered how long it had been since she last had a drink. ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘Take little sips. If you gulp it you’ll make yourself sick.’ He was about to ask her if she was hungry, but he caught Beth’s glare and bit off the question. He could see she was expecting him to make a stupid remark and was ready to blast him. He changed tack. ‘I’ll tether the horses more securely. Beth would you …’ he gestured towards the woman. ‘Get her something to eat.’ As he tethered the horses he glanced at the rising sun. That was the end of their early start. He laid his temple against Blackie’s neck, stroked her jaw and murmured into her mobile ear. ‘Think we’ll ever get to the goldfields?’

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Beth quickly put together a few slices of cold mutton and the remains of a damper. The woman’s hands trembled as she lifted the chunk of treacle-sweetened damper to her mouth. Martin was upset by how often she flicked her fearful glance towards him. She reminded him of how Beth had been when he had shared his meal with her at the back of the Travellers Inn. What had happened to this one? Beth tersely explained. She glared at Martin but gradually softened when he betrayed neither amusement nor ridicule. The girl had been hiding in the bush, terrified, for three days, and had only emerged when she realised Beth was indeed another woman. Even then she was almost incoherent with distress, thirst and hunger. The woman needed help! When the girl had eaten and drunk a moderate amount, Martin spoke softly. ‘Whoa miss, please slow down. Too much too quickly will make you sick. And please believe me, we have more and you can have it whenever you need it.’ The girl seemed to accept his words, and that helped Martin feel better. A distressed horse needs time to calm down — so did people it would seem. As the sun rose in the sky, Martin and Beth heard the young woman’s painful story. Christine Bird was

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nineteen and had landed in Fremantle only a fortnight before. She had been working in a textile factory in Birmingham, England, and when she left work one evening a respectable couple had approached her. They introduced themselves and said they were on a return trip from Western Australia. The man, Gerald Meadows, said he too had once slaved in a Birmingham factory, but had finally plucked up the courage to migrate to the Swan River Colony. Once there he had prospered, had breathed in the fresh clean air and thrown off the effects of living in narrow hemmed-in streets and breathing in smoke and stenchfilled air. He now managed one of the mines on the fabulous new goldfields of Western Australia, and he and his wife Stella had returned to England briefly so he could confer with the Mine’s Board of Directors. More capital was needed so they could mine deeper and gain a larger share of the immense riches awaiting all the shareholders. On a more personal note, while they were ‘home’ he and his wife wanted to find and hire a reliable young woman to run their house for them while they were otherwise engaged. The very few unemployed girls on the goldfields were rough and untrustworthy. Christine had been tempted by the high wages offered and the fairy-tale thought of travelling to a far-

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off gold-filled land. Here was an opportunity to escape from the dirty and punishing factory. After meeting and being duly impressed by Gerald and Stella, her parents were delighted at this chance of a new life for their daughter and gave her their blessing. But soon after her arrival in Fremantle she discovered the real reason for her ‘recruitment’. She was to become a working girl in a brothel on the goldfields. Gerald had insisted on ‘breaking in’ their new ‘property’ and Stella had turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to the rape. At this point Beth spluttered with indignation. ‘This Stella, she’s his wife — how could she betray another woman like that?’ ‘But she isn’t his wife. She runs his brothels. They tricked me into coming back with them simply to cover the cost of their holiday at home.’ Christine told them how they had travelled by dray from York. She had been closely guarded — until four nights ago. It seems they considered there was now no place for her to run to and had relaxed their guard. Christine had grabbed the first opportunity and run. The subsequent days and nights had drained her. Hiding on the outskirts of watering points she had seen only men. They had all looked to her to be hard, tough and dirty. ‘Are all the men out here animals?’ she cried from her heart.

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Martin had to protest. ‘No! Anyone who has walked from Guildford or York would look dirty and dishevelled, but most of them are decent hard-working people.’ Beth glared at him. She put an arm around Christine and drew her close. Martin felt icy. What had he blundered into? He looked at Christine and tried to sound calm. ‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’ Between sobs Christine explained. ‘There was always one of them on guard. And Gerald has a gun. He said I owed them fifty pounds for accommodation and my passage to Australia. Said I had to work to repay him first or I’d go to debtor’s jail.’ Martin was astonished. ‘Surely you knew that was untrue. The police would jail them for what they’ve done. The law—’ Beth cut him off. ‘How do you expect Christine to know that? All you men allow us to learn is cooking, housekeeping and having babies. And precious little about that!’

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Martin was stunned. He had only a very shaky idea of how to handle Beth to keep things workable. How on earth was he to deal with this new one? He stared at the ground, and then saw again the fear and pain in the girl’s face and knew one thing for sure: to begin with, he had to somehow gain her confidence. He looked at her and gently asked, ‘The food and drink made you feel a bit better?’ When the girl gave a small nod he said. ‘Have you ever ridden on a horse?’ Christine’s voice quavered. ‘Never even been close to one. Until the dray.’ ‘Er, I hate to ask, but it is important — do you feel up to trying?’ ‘Yes, of course I will.’ ‘Good. Then I suggest we get moving. The couple who tricked you will probably be scouring the track like a pair of bloodhounds.’

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‘I agree,’ said Beth. ‘How long will it take us to get back to York?’ ‘York?’ Martin was dismayed. ‘Why York? We’re nearly half way to Southern Cross.’ ‘There is some law in York. The resident magistrate will have to do something to help Christine.’ Martin dragged his thoughts together. ‘From all accounts Southern Cross is already well established. There must be some law there by now. Maybe even churches. Someone there will know what to do.’ ‘I know what to do! That Gerald and his apology for a woman will be up ahead, waiting for us to show. No, we must get back to York as quickly as possible.’ ‘But what about the —’ ‘Gold? I might have known. You men think more of your pocket than you do for a woman’s well being!’ Martin kept his mouth shut, but the thought flicked through his mind: was there a scrap of truth there somewhere? He wouldn’t have put it so bluntly, but he did want to start his life anew — become his own man. Finding a good amount of gold could be his main chance to achieve that. But you had to get in early. If he backed away now he might not get the chance again. And was he going to let these two young women kill that chance? Blast them! He would get on Picky and gallop away.

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He very nearly did just that, but one glance at Christine stopped him in his tracks. Her expression was like that of a horse that knew it was about to be put down. His heart melted and his thoughts changed course. They needed to stick together, and whichever direction they took, they were going to need another riding horse. And where on earth could he get that? Not on this track, that was certain. He sighed, looked at Beth and found his voice. ‘Right. Christine can ride Blackie. You can ride Picky, and I’ll walk.’ ‘You think I can’t walk?’ Beth snapped. ‘Of course I know you can walk!’ ‘Think I’m too delicate or something?’ Martin shot to his feet. ‘All right, damn you! We’ll take it in turns!’ He stomped over to the horses. They were restless, and he knew why. It was coming from him. He steadied himself and checked the girth straps and the sit of the saddles and packs. He knew they were all right, but it was comforting work and he needed time to calm down. He ran his hand down Picky’s neck and murmured into his ear, ‘Want to change places with me, mate?’ Then he led Blackie to Christine. She was on her feet and was much steadier than when she had first staggered into the clearing, but she was still apprehensive. He glared at Beth for a moment then told Christine

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how to hold the reins and the pommel at the same time. He was beginning to feel he should become a riding instructor when a worrying thought crept into his mind. Christine would surely need a boost up into the saddle, and it would be up to him to give it. He could already feel Beth’s rising temperature. Sure enough, Christine had the same trouble getting her foot high enough to put it in the stirrup as Beth had done. The delay was fracturing Martin’s patience. The sensible thing to do was to manhandle her up into the saddle so they could get on with it. But if he did that Christine would surely panic, and who knows what she would do. He couldn’t keep the sharpness from his voice as he said, ‘You’ll have to lift your skirt.’ ‘Oh and you’d like that wouldn’t you?’ Beth exploded. Martin had had enough. ‘Would it make you happy if I poked my own eyes out?’ he snapped back. ‘I am really trying to help. Can’t you see that? Even though I’m a man I do have some friendly bones in my body.’ A prickly silence settled over them all and Christine hung her head, sorry at having caused so much trouble. It was a triple stalemate. Then Beth’s face brightened. ‘Where’s that sewing kit I picked up with this hat?’ Martin knew where it was. He dug it out. ‘What are you going to do?’

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‘Christine and I have some sewing to do. Go and feed your horses. Or tell them fairy stories or whatever it is you do. But keep your dirty little eyes off!’ Martin fumed. Couldn’t she say anything without insulting him? He led the horses to a fresh patch of grass and pointedly kept his eyes averted from the girls. His resentment at the mess he had been thrust into made him hanker to leap onto Picky. He could be on his way in moments. Then his eyes met the deep black pools of Picky’s and he relived their short history together. Due to another crazy set of circumstances the girls had now entered his life. What sort of a rat would he be if he left them stranded beside a track teeming with single men? He knew the belligerent Beth would stand up for herself, but he also knew enough about men to realise that such defiance could easily bring out the worst in some of them. He sighed and laid his head against Picky’s solid neck. By the time Beth called him back, a line of reasoning had begun to form, but it took a back seat when he saw what the girls had done. Christine’s skirt and petticoat had been slit up the middle and sewn to make a divided skirt. Martin had never seen such a thing but immediately understood its function. He gulped. It could work.

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His thoughts must have been on his face. Beth glared at him. ‘I know you can’t believe it, but women can think for themselves. Come on, let’s get started for York.’ Martin locked glances with her. ‘Don’t you think that might be too obvious? Surely the villains will be expecting Christine to head back for York and Fremantle. Just from what they’ve told her, they must expect her to believe that to the east lies only … further degradation.’ Beth was silent for a long time. Then she said, ‘You could be right. What do you think we should do then?’ Martin could hardly believe what he was hearing. Beth not only agreeing, but asking his opinion! ‘If we head the other way, and keep off the track as much as possible, we may confound them.’ He held his breath. How long could this last? Surprisingly, she again agreed. Christine also gave her assent, although Martin wondered if it was because she was more terrified of being left on her own. Beth helped Christine to mount and Martin started on foot. Blackie’s walking pace was a comfortable rhythm and as soon as Christine accepted it, some of the terror left her face. Beth, riding close beside her, observed that all she needed was a hat with which to conceal her hair.

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‘You can have mine,’ said Martin, and when her hair was pushed up under it, conceded that the disguise might work — from a distance. The late start had put them way behind. Although C C Hunt had located rock catchments and established wells at approximately fifteen-mile intervals, Martin was beginning to doubt they would reach the next one before nightfall. Particularly when there was always one of them on foot. True to her word Beth did her share of walking. Martin tried to keep her walking stages short, but he should have known better. Beth insisted she would do her share, and he suspected it was because she did not want to be beholden to him for anything. Embarrassed and feeling guilty, Christine offered to take her turn, but on this, Martin and Beth were in complete agreement. Perhaps after a night’s sleep she could try it in small bursts. Darkness had descended by the time they came upon the next waterhole. Martin called a halt while they were still some distance away. It was already surrounded by a large number of men. Fires blazed and cooking odours overrode the bush and animal odours. Martin could imagine the furore if they walked into such a gathering in broad daylight — up close, the girls’ disguises wouldn’t fool a man in a blindfold.

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After surprisingly little discussion, Beth accepted his suggestion that she and Christine stay hidden in the scrub. Christine needed no convincing. Her fear of running into the pimp and his madam was paramount. Martin led the horses to the water. It was still palatable so he refilled their waterbags and the pack containers. When the horses had drunk their fill he led them back into the scrub. While he staked them on a patch of edible grass, Beth set a fire. Before long she had the billy boiling and had concocted a meal from the stores they carried. Martin was surprised at how readily she accepted the ‘female’ role, but was glad she had. Right then any sort of loud altercation was the last thing they needed. Over the next two days, with only a little bickering between Martin and Beth, their travelling settled into a bumpy rhythm. They travelled parallel to the track, keeping out of sight as much as possible, so as not to attract the kind of attention that might get passed up and down the track as a story among bored travellers. Christine took her turn with short stints of walking, and on the second day she spotted what looked strangely like a gentleman through a small gap in the bushes between themselves and the track. They halted and investigated and found it was a discarded gentleman’s dress suit, complete with white shirt and bow tie. A wag,

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travelling in the wake of the one who had jettisoned it, had loosely ‘dressed’ an appropriate sized bush. Beneath it, on a piece of board, was scrawled, ‘The Honourable Coolgardie-or-Bust’. He busted. Beth immediately disrobed the bush. The pants and jacket were a little large for Christine but their looseness helped improve her disguise. Beth appropriated the shirt. Martin breathed easier. The girls were beginning to look less like girls. That night they camped in a clearing just off the track, and the following morning they were loading the packs when a horse-drawn cart pulled up in front of them. There was a small cry from Christine. Martin shot a glance at her and understood straightaway that this was Gerald and Stella. The man handed the reins to the woman alongside him, climbed down and fronted Martin. ‘You have something that belongs to me. Thank you for looking after her but I’ll take over from here.’ Martin wasn’t deterred by the man’s assumption of authority. He remained where he was, standing between a packhorse and Picky. Picky was restless and he placed his hand on the horse’s back to quieten him. Then he faced the bigger man. His days of brow knuckling were over. ‘Christine doesn’t belong to you, and she doesn’t want to go with you.’

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The man’s pretence of civility disappeared. ‘The hell she doesn’t! She owes me. I’ve spent a lot of money on her.’ Martin glanced at the girls. Beth was standing in front of the terrified Christine, and he noticed the glint of steel in the hand she held by her side. He looked back to the man standing in front of him. He, too, was looking at the girls. Martin could almost read his mind. He was seeing doubled profits. Martin reached for the long handle of the shovel tucked into the webbing of the pack alongside him. ‘Don’t even think about it sonny boy!’ Gerald had pulled a revolver from his waistband and was pointing it at Martin’s chest. His hand was rock steady. Martin dropped his hand from the shovel. Gerald nodded. ‘That’s better.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘Must admit your tactic of heading this way threw me for a while. But I’m a good listener. A man with two girls in tow raises talk. Chased a few wrong guesses until I came across a teamster on a return trip from Southern Cross. He was busting with the right information. With a yarn like that to tell around the campfire he was as good as nailing up signposts.’ ‘You tricked her. Christine wants to go home.’ ‘So you say. I smell opposition. Got plans of your own have you?’

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The horse picked up Martin’s angry reaction and tensed its muscles. He breathed in deeply and relaxed his hand, slid it soothingly along Picky’s back. Then he tensed again at the sharp sound of the revolver being cocked. No-one can help anyone if they’ve got a bullet hole in their chest. But an idea was blossoming. It was a slim chance and first he tried again to reason with the man. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. Christine doesn’t want to become a —’ He couldn’t say the word in front of the girls. ‘What you are doing is against the law. And common decency.’ Gerald shook his head in mock dismay. ‘Save the sermon, please.’ He waved a hand at the scrub. ‘See any policemen here? Or clergymen either, for that matter.’ Martin slowly moved his hand a little further along Picky’s rump. ‘All right,’ he nodded at the pistol. ‘You’ve won this argument.’ He shut his ears to Beth’s sharp intake of air and Christine’s barely audible whimper. Suddenly he stabbed his fingers into the scar on the horse’s rump. Picky lashed out with both hooves. One hit Gerald on his forearm while the other thudded into his chest. The revolver flew into the air as Gerald staggered back and hit the wheel of the cart. He slid slowly to the ground. Martin scooped up the revolver and pointed it at

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Gerald. He needn’t have bothered. The man was slumped awkwardly against the spokes, holding his ribs with his uninjured hand. Martin swung around to sooth Picky. He hated himself for what he had done. He patted the horse and spoke softly. ‘Sorry mate, I’m really sorry, but right then I really needed your help.’ A yell from Beth spun him back. He jerked up the revolver. The woman in the cart was sliding a rifle from beneath the seat. He held out his free hand. ‘I don’t think that is a good idea. Do you?’ he said. He relieved her of the rifle and a box of cartridges. ‘Instead, why don’t you help your friend into the cart and take him somewhere. I suspect he has some broken ribs. Possibly even a broken arm.’ He stood clear while the man dragged himself painfully into the cart. Neither the man nor the woman said a word, but their eyes were full of venom. As the cart rumbled away Beth looked wildly after it. ‘Why did you let them go? Why didn’t you shoot them?’ she demanded. Martin took a deep breath. ‘In cold blood? No thank you! They might not be very nice people but I don’t want to become gallows fruit over them.’ ‘They as good as killed Christine! But that’s all right, isn’t it? She’s only a female!’

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Martin stared at her. At that moment he wished he had never become entangled with her. The chip on her shoulder was turning into a log. If she hated him as much as she hated all other men, what the hell was he doing here? He uncocked the revolver and abruptly held it out to her. ‘Here! Take it! You shoot them. Empty the gun into them — particularly the man. It won’t take you long to catch up with them if you take Blackie!’

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Beth didn’t take the gun and after a long pause she said, ‘Thank you. You had me worried for a minute there, but thank God you’re not as stupid as most men. You handled that well.’ Praise from Beth? Martin wanted to hug her. Fortunately, his better judgement returned before the urge took over. He turned to Picky and muttered, ‘Thanks again mate.’ Then he tucked the revolver and rifle into the packs. When he was finished he turned back to the girls. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ He faced east and strode off. Beth shut her mouth. This was not the time to argue about who was going to do the first walking stint. The girls mounted and followed Martin. Before the next morning’s start Beth came to Martin with the revolver and rifle. ‘Before we take off, I want

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you to show me how to use these.’ Martin was flummoxed. ‘What?’ ‘Never mind spluttering. You’re supposed to be the know-all man. So come on, show me.’ ‘But … women don’t use guns.’ ‘And why’s that do you suppose? Because you think we’re too stupid?’ ‘No! Guns are dangerous. You might —’ ‘Be able to look after ourselves?’ ‘No. It’s not that. Men use guns. Women aren’t made to do those sorts of things.’ ‘Who decided that? Sounds to me like another one of your man-invented rules. Who is going to protect Christine?’ ‘Well, I thought I helped a little …’ Beth hesitated for a moment. When she spoke again it was perhaps a little less vehemently. ‘But you can’t be everywhere at once. Even though you think you can.’ Martin gave in. When he thought about it, he couldn’t actually see why a strong woman wouldn’t be able to handle a rifle. And Beth was certainly a strong woman. The recoil of both the revolver and the rifle bothered her at first, but she persevered and soon got the hang of it. She used both hands to hold the revolver steady, and even learned not to shut her eyes when she pulled the

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trigger. However, she could not coax Christine into having a try. When Beth was satisfied with her ability to use the guns Martin used a bit of canvas to fashion a makeshift sheath on the right of his saddle. He slid the rifle into it so the butt stood up beside Picky’s right shoulder. It was a floppy affair and he hoped he would never need to yank the rifle out in a hurry. Beth tucked the revolver into her swag, which was tied in a roll behind her saddle. If she needed it in a hurry, it would be no use to her if Martin had it. Then she mounted Blackie, and Martin saw her surreptitiously rub her shoulder. He didn’t dare to even smile. The next few days passed without incident, and helped allay Christine’s fears. Regular meals had also put some colour back into her cheeks — or was it that she now felt more secure, in his company. Martin grinned at the thought. It was nice to think that not everyone considered him as stupid and useless as Beth clearly did. He too felt more relaxed, and as he lay down in his swag one night, he decided that maybe things weren’t going to be as onerous as he had feared. However, the next morning their start was again delayed. Beth and Christine had gone to attend to their private needs and seemed to be taking longer than usual. When they reappeared Beth beckoned to him.

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Oh no! It couldn’t be another one, could it? Martin groaned to himself. Surely there weren’t that many girls on the track. He wriggled the rifle out of its sheath and checked the breech, hoping he wouldn’t need it. Beth and Christine led him in silence to the far side of a small natural clearing. No words were needed. Bleached human bones were scattered around. A pair of boots and remnants of clothing established that it was the remains of a man. ‘I’ll get a shovel,’ Martin said gruffly. ‘Can’t just leave him lying there.’ While he dug a shallow grave, the girls began to gather the bones. Christine shuddered as she held out some bones that had clearly been gnawed. ‘Think of them as sticks for the fire,’ Beth said matter-of-factly. To Martin, there was something a bit puzzling in Beth’s manner. He couldn’t work it out and after a while dismissed the idea. After all, they were girls and gathering human bones was a pretty gruesome task. He was the one who finally picked up the skull. When the job was finished the trio stood and looked at the earthen mound. Martin cleared his throat. ‘Noone will ever know who you were mate. Or how long

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you’ve been lying there. But now you can rest in some sort of peace.’ On the way back to the horses Beth was uncharacteristically subdued. Martin tried to lighten their mood. ‘Obviously happened a long while ago. Probably when gold was first found in the Yilgarn District.’ Christine was still shocked. ‘How could something like that happen?’ Beth remained silent. Martin shrugged. ‘Probably got lost. Then died of hunger or perished from thirst.’ He paused. ‘Ironic isn’t it. He was only a couple of miles from where we watered the horses last night.’ Silence again settled on them until Beth asked, ‘Where’s Parker Range?’ Martin glanced at her. Where did that come from? He thought about it and said, ‘I think it’s a little way south of Southern Cross. A small amount of gold was found there four or five years ago, I think. Why?’ Beth didn’t reply. When they reached the horses she said sharply, ‘You two ride. I’ll walk.’ Martin got the message. For some reason she needed some time alone. They reached a well about fifteen miles short of Merredin as the sun disappeared behind them. Since

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the incident with Gerald and Stella, Beth had no longer agreed to stay out of sight, and now watering the horses had become a trial. Two thinly disguised girls riding astride always created a stir. Martin sensed their arrival was somehow expected, which he put it down to gossip on the bush telegraph. Or at least he hoped that’s all it was. As soon as the horses had drunk their fill, he insisted they should travel further before stopping to camp. Beth nodded in agreement. Isn’t that what they always did? However, after travelling their customary extra couple of miles, Martin suggested they head even further into the bush. Beth was walking and she was tired. It had been a long day. Christine too was drooping. ‘This is far enough. Or are you still trying to prove a point?’ Beth growled at Martin. ‘What point?’ ‘The point men always make, that women are weak and useless outside the home.’ Martin halted Picky. ‘If we stop here it’s because you wanted to!’ he snapped. Then, feeling he had been as petty as she, he tried to explain. ‘Sorry. I just wanted to put more distance between us and the men at the watering point.’ Even in the fading light he could see Beth’s hackles were rising. He hastened on. ‘Place had a

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funny feel about it. If you like I’ll take over the walking.’ Beth had her stubborn-horse look about her. ‘This is as good a place as any. We’ll get a meal ready while you mumble to your horses.’ Martin shrugged. Perhaps he was being over-cautious. He had started to unload the horses when the scuff of horses’ hooves jerked his head up. Four horsemen were ranged in a line across the track. The soft ground had masked their approach. Each teamster had a coiled stock whip in his hand.

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Martin felt a chill shiver of fear. He braced himself and faced them. ‘G’day fellas. How can I help you?’ The biggest of the men spoke out. ‘Heard you were taking a couple of girls to start a brothel in Coolgardie.’ Martin heard the girls gasp and tried to quieten them with a hand gesture. ‘Where did you hear that?’ ‘Woman taking her injured man back to York told some fellas on the track.’ Beth spat the name. ‘Stella! Slimy woman is a downright liar.’ The big man leered at her. ‘Is that right, sweetheart? Of course you two little ladies are really going to the goldfields to swing a pick and shovel, aren’t you?’ Martin noticed Beth had one hand behind her back. He doubted the small blade would be of much use against these men. He turned back to them. ‘Fellas, you’ve got it all wrong. That woman was lying.’

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‘So you say. Or maybe you think your merchandise is too good for the likes of us. Saving them for the highrollers with a fistful of nuggets, are you?’ His whip uncoiled from his hand. ‘Well I’ve got news for you mate. Our money is as good as anyone’s.’ Martin twitched like a fly-stung horse as the other three men also snaked out their whips. He swallowed to ease the dryness in his mouth. ‘I’ve told you. You’ve got it wrong. These girls are going to the goldfields to find work — same as the rest of us.’ ‘No complaint with that young fella. We just want them to start working now.’ He flicked his wrist and the whip cracked inches from Martin’s belly. Martin shrank back a pace. What on earth could he do? Could he and the girls scatter and run? Outrun horses? He knew what he’d get — a stirrup iron on the back of the head as one of the men rode him down. And the girls would be … He flinched. Where was the big-protector Martin now? Even as he cast about wildly for a solution, an idea was shaping itself. Even wild horses could be deceived by a flimsy hessian fence and led into a trap. He wasn’t sure where he was heading, but he needed time to work it out. He tried to sound as though he was in control. ‘All right, but before we discuss it any further let me see your money.’

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Beth’s furious gasp only brought smirks from the men. Their leader oozed confidence. ‘That’s more like it. How much a throw?’ Martin searched his memory of travelling men’s boasts. He tried to sound like Gerald had before Picky had changed his outlook. ‘Seven and six.’ The big man swung down from his horse and held up two half sovereigns. ‘I’ll take two. Starting with the fiery one. Always did like a bit of a fight.’ Martin nodded. ‘Right. I’ve got change in my saddlebag.’ He felt Beth’s loathing drilling into his back as he turned to their pile of gear. The other three also dismounted, digging in their pockets as they headed towards the girls. Beth crouched, weaving the knife in front of her. ‘First one to touch either of us gets this where it will do the most damage.’ The men laughed. One teased his whip around her feet. Then they all spun at the sound of a rifle breech being slammed shut. Martin aimed the rifle at the big man’s chest. ‘Back off ! All of you.’ The big man hesitated, then smirked. ‘Well, sonny boy. That’s a single shot rifle you’ve got there. You might wing one of us but the rest of us will skin you piece by tiny piece. Yeah, we might enjoy that as much

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as servicing these girls. Well, nearly as much.’ Martin lowered the muzzle of the rifle a bit. ‘A gutshot animal takes days to die — in agony.’ He lowered the rifle a fraction further. ‘Of course …’ The man blanched. ‘Flank him,’ he growled to his mates. ‘Take the cocky bastard’s eyes out first.’ The men began to sidle forwards, only to stop all at once at the sound of a revolver being cocked. ‘This one holds six bullets.’ Beth spat the words. She was standing beside her swag, her two fisted grip on the revolver solid and steady. Martin cut in. ‘Drop your whips. Get back on your horses and ride away while you are still free of extra holes.’ The men hesitated. Then the big man spat. He dropped his whip and hatred hardened his voice. ‘Thing about this young fella, one day our paths will cross again …’ He backed to his horse, mounted and rode off. The others followed. Martin kept the rifle trained on them until they had disappeared from sight. Then he looked at Beth who was now quivering like a terrified horse. He understood her reaction but spoke sharply. ‘Beth! For God’s sake, uncock that revolver before you shoot one of us.’ Surprisingly, she did as he requested. ‘For a while there I thought you had betrayed us,’ she said then,

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with a catch in her voice that she could not conceal. ‘I hoped you knew me better than that. There was no time for explanation. And there still isn’t. Help Christine onto Blackie. You mount Picky. I’ll run for a while. We need to cover as much ground as possible before it gets too dark.’ ‘Do you think they’ll come back after us? In the middle of the night?’ ‘And leave their wagons unattended for that long? I doubt that. Unless …’ ‘Unless what?’ ‘Unless they leave someone to guard their gear.’ The three of them stared at each other then the two girls quickly repacked the few things they had unloaded. Martin looked around to see nothing had been missed. His glance fell on the discarded whips. He scooped them up — and started a panic. Beth screamed. She had been holding Picky but the horse was now pulling and rearing back on the reins. Martin spun around. Picky’s ears were back and the whites of his eyes were rolling in terror. At first he was puzzled — why hadn’t the horse reacted like that when the men were threatening them? Then he remembered, the horse had had his back to them all the while. He hurled the whips as far as he could and soothed the

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terrified animal with smooth hand strokes and soft murmurings. ‘Easy mate, easy. No-one will use one of those on you again while I’m around.’ He laid his forehead against the velvety side of the horse’s head and whispered. ‘Believe me mate, you weren’t the only one who was scared.’ Then they were on their way. Martin ran for as long as he could then they set up camp. That night, sleep came only in brief spells. Over the next few days they moved more quickly, and all three of them were exhausted by the time Martin felt confident they had a good lead. Towing loaded wagons, the teamsters should be a long way behind by now. Still, they always waited until it was dark before Martin led the horses in to a waterhole for a drink, and they camped even further away from public places. Footsore and weary, they finally reached Southern Cross, where they soon discovered that the rumours on the track were well founded: the area was never as good an alluvial field as Coolgardie or the more recently discovered Hannans, and deep mining had already taken over while the alluvial miners had rushed away to new finds. Deep mining needed money and experience, and most of the men still in Southern Cross were employed

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in mines established by syndicates or companies. Flimsy tents had given way to more substantial homes, and the town had started to acquire a permanent look and feel. Permanent it might seem, but good drinking water could only be had at a price that astonished Martin, most of it being carted from Fraser Range on strings of camels. As he filled his water containers he decided gold could indeed be found in many ways. Their visit to the police station set slow wheels in motion. After all three of them had given their statements, the sole resident constable said he would pass the word back to Guildford. However, in the chaotic conditions of the rush he thought it would take some time to locate Gerald and Stella. In the meantime, they left Christine in the care of the Salvation Army captain and his wife until they could arrange her safe return to York. Christine was happy enough with the arrangement. All she wanted was to go home, and the long trip back to her family had finally begun. Martin and Beth made preparations to continue their journey, meanwhile keeping a watchful eye on the teams entering the town. Martin located a saddle maker and purchased a leather sheath for the rifle, something that would make it more easily accessible than his makeshift effort. Then

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after replenishing their food supply — at far higher prices, even than in York — they bade Christine farewell and again headed east. The stretch between Southern Cross and Coolgardie was over tough, dry sandplain country. Very little of its vegetation was high enough to cast much shade; nevertheless Martin was glad to be back on the track. He wasn’t sure about Beth, but she did seem a fraction less prickly. She was still the prickliest girl he had ever come across, but he had to admit, if only to himself, she did make him look at things differently. She went too far, of course, in her despising of men, but there were things about some of his fellow males that he wasn’t completely proud of. The first leg of the journey out of Southern Cross rammed home the importance of water. Around midmorning they overtook a labouring bullock team. The wagon was carrying the largest steel cylinder Martin had ever seen. Its weight could be gauged by the depth the wagon’s wheels sank into the sandy track. While Beth reluctantly kept her head down and hung back with the packhorses, Martin slowed Picky and matched pace with the bullocky. He was curious about the man’s load. ‘What’s the boiler for mate? Have they already started deep mining in Coolgardie?’ The bullocky was ready for a chat. No matter how

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much he swore at the bullocks they never answered him. ‘Probably, but there’s a bloke wants to turn this monster into a condenser, to change salt water into something drinkable.’ ‘Is water that scarce already?’ ‘Soon will be.’ The bullocky took off his hat and wiped his face on the sleeve of his grey flannel shirt. ‘If I’m any judge, we’re in for an early summer.’ ‘Are the waterholes and wells holding?’ ‘The word is they’re still hanging on. But with the number of people and teams using them, they’ll soon be dry — or too foul to use.’ ‘Isn’t there any underground water on the goldfields?’ ‘Plenty, but it’s nearly all salty.’ Martin eyed the boiler. ‘Many of those on the fields yet?’ ‘This is my third and I’m not the only one carting them.’ Martin shook his head in wonder. ‘Must cost you a fortune to cart one of those things all the way from Guildford. Can you charge enough to ever get that back?’ The bullocky grinned. ‘Believe me, carting one of these is more lucrative than shaking a dry-blower on an unfriendly lease.’ He flicked his whip with nonchalant ease and the tip slapped against the cylinder. ‘This bitch

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of a load is costing its owner a pound per ton per mile.’ Conscious of Beth only a few paces behind him Martin held his breath. Would she blow her cover by reacting to the bullocky’s language? When no explosion came he relaxed and did some rapid calculations. His eyebrows rose. ‘That’s crazy. The owner will never get his money back.’ ’Don’t you believe it! Depending on location, in the middle of summer condensed water can cost anywhere between one shilling and two and sixpence a gallon.’ Martin whistled. ‘What’s the cost of haulage by packhorse over this stretch then?’ The bullocky looked back at the packhorses and his glance lingered on Beth. Martin was tempted to reach for the rifle, and was glad he’d resisted the urge when the man looked back at him and said, ‘A string like yours could earn up to ninepence a pound per mile.’ They chatted on for another ten minutes then Martin wished the bullocky well and let Picky resume a bit more speed. Beth, her face averted from the bullocky, came forward and rode alongside him. The packhorses adjusted to the pace. ‘Changed your mind about becoming a miner?’ So she had heard their conversation. ‘No! I’ve thought of little else for weeks. And I’m still

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going to give it my best shot.’ But in truth, his determination was a little shaky. At the previous waterhole he had spoken to a few returning miners, disillusioned and financially ruined. Beth wasn’t ready to let it go. ‘Then why were you so interested in freight costs?’ ‘Doesn’t hurt to know what’s going on.’ ‘Hmm. Do I detect a crack in your male confidence?’ ‘Just being realistic that’s all. Not everyone can expect to find hundreds of ounces like Bayley and Ford did. Anyway, what do you intend to do when we get there?’ ‘Haven’t decided yet.’ Martin couldn’t put his finger on why that worried him. After all, at the very most, all he was personally responsible for was getting her there … wasn’t it?

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They soon discovered for themselves the strain being put on Hunt’s watering points. Even the larger hollows that the government had dug at the base of rock formations were shrinking at an alarming rate. And in some places the water that was left was barely drinkable. If another good rain didn’t reach the inland soon, a lot of people would be in serious trouble — and Martin and Beth knew that included them. The thought was never far from Martin’s mind, but when they were within half a day’s trek of Coolgardie it was displaced by an air of excitement that rippled down the track. Its source soon thundered into view — a harddriven coach that scattered the trekkers as it headed for York. Armed outriders rode ahead of the coach, while more flanked it and trailed behind and an armed guard sat beside the driver. Then the coach was gone in moments, leaving an impression of sweat-lathered horses.

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Martin and Beth shut their eyes against the cloud of dust that wafted over them. This was their first glimpse of an escorted cargo of bullion. That meant someone was still finding the stuff ! Martin’s enthusiasm was rekindled. He glanced at Beth and caught a reflection of his own excitement. She saw his glance and looked quickly away, coughing as though she had dust in her throat. When they reached Coolgardie Martin was struck by how spacious it seemed. Although there were some large official buildings lining the wide main street, most of the miners lived in small tents spread far and wide. The many gaps among the tents showed where occupants had recently packed up and rushed off. The larger tents consisted of a timber frame covered in canvas and hessian, the hessian having been liberally whitewashed to make it less see-through. As soon as they had watered the horses, Martin and Beth staked them out in one of the few remaining patches of scrub, left them with nosebags of chaff, then walked across to check out Fly Flat. Every inch of the red ground had been worked over. Mounds and hollows showed where the soil had been dug up and dry-blown. Only a straggle of diggers still toiled on their small leases amidst clouds of dust and flies. Taking their time Martin and Beth moved from

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show to show and gathered what information they could from the miners who had stayed. They discovered that most of the activity was now centred on Bayley’s Reward Mine. Beth kept her hat pulled down and left the talking to Martin. One man nevertheless twigged she was a woman, and he stopped swearing and raised his hat. ‘Sorry Missus. Didn’t realise you was a woman,’ he said to her. It was the first time Martin had seen her disconcerted. It didn’t take them long to learn the area’s short history. The exodus had taken place with the announcement of Hannan’s Find, twenty-five miles to the east. Those who remained either worked for wages on the new deep-shaft mines or plugged along on their own, content to glean the occasional ounce on their lease rather than chase the elusive bonanza. The heady days of surface fossicking around Coolgardie were all but over. ‘Let’s go and see what’s happening at the Bayley’s mine,’ Martin suggested to Beth. ‘Work under a boss,’ she snorted. ‘No way. You can if you like, but I didn’t come all this way just to do that.’ ‘Neither did I. I just want to get an idea of what’s going on around the place. And I think it would be best if we stuck together.’

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‘Why should I stand around and listen to any more of this stupid men’s talk?’ Beth scoffed. ‘Then what do you want to do?’ Beth waved her arm to encompass the tent town. ‘I’d like to find out what’s happening in some of those larger tents. I’m sure I saw a woman go into one.’ Martin pursed his lips. ‘Want me to come with you?’ ‘Go and fall down an abandoned mineshaft,’ she retorted. ‘I’ll meet you back at the horses.’ She turned on her heel and walked towards a tent with a square of bright blue cloth flying from its front pole. Martin shrugged and headed for the mine. He soon found out all he needed to know. The wage was three pounds ten shillings a week. As few men stopped on their way to Hannans the mine boss was eager to take him on. Martin was tempted by the high wages but insisted he wanted to have a go on his own first. ‘Bit late for that around here young fella.’ Martin nodded. ‘So it would seem.’ That evening as they ate their meal Martin asked, ‘Why was there a blue rag on that tent pole? I noticed a few other different coloured ones too.’ ‘Blue means it’s a shop. Or store. Whatever you like to call it.’ ‘How about that cluster of tents with the bough sheds alongside?’

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‘Hospital.’ Martin’s eyebrows rose. ‘Have they got a doctor here?’ ‘Yes, but the hospital is run by a sister and one nurse.’ ‘Busy?’ ‘Not at the moment. They’re worried though. They’ve just got their first typhoid patient. He’s in a tent all by himself.’ ‘That sounds ominous. Do you know what causes typhoid?’ ‘Nurse Millet said it was poor hygiene and bad water. They’ve also had some dysentery cases.’ Martin knew what dysentery did to a man … ‘Heck, why would a woman want to take on a job like that?’ As soon as he said it Martin wished he hadn’t opened his mouth. ‘Because women are capable of doing other things beside cooking meals and washing dishes for loudmouthed profane men!’ Martin quickly changed the subject. ‘Warden Finnerty is away on a trip to Hannans.’ The fire in Beth’s eyes subsided a little. ‘Do I need to know that?’ ‘Not really. But it’s important to me.’ ‘Why?’

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‘I have to get my miner’s right from him. Can’t claim land and dig on it without one.’ ‘Right. I’ll get one too. What do they cost?’ ‘Five shillings. But it’s hard dirty work. Women don’t mine.’ ‘Don’t give me more of your stupid twaddle. I’ve got eyes. I’ve seen what it’s like. Anyway, Josie Trent has a licence.’ ‘Who’s Josie Trent?’ ‘The woman who owns the store with the blue flag.’ ‘Oh yeah. Then why isn’t she mining?’ ‘She was in the first wave of miners to reach here; she worked a claim on Fly Flat for several months.’ ‘Couldn’t have found any gold then.’ ‘Why not? Because she’s a woman?’ ‘No.’ Martin felt the ground he was on was getting more slippery by the minute. ‘Well … how come she’s just running a store then?’ ‘Where do you think she got the money to set up her store?’ She glared at him. ‘People can’t live on dust and bad water you know. Not even on gold. They all have to have something to eat. And somewhere to shelter.’ ‘All right, all right. You’ve made your point.’ Martin paused. ‘So, what do you want to do then?’ ‘Go to Hannans. Find Finnerty and get my own miner’s right.’

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Martin nodded. At least that fitted in with his plans. ‘If it’s all right with you we’ll move on first thing in the morning then.’ He hoped Finnerty was a strong man.

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Outside Finnerty’s tent office in Hannans, Beth asked Martin to look away. There were some rustling sounds and she produced five shillings from some hidden pocket. Her cache was probably concealed alongside her knife, Martin decided. They went in together and Martin confidently requested a miner’s right for himself. He was wondering about asking on Beth’s behalf when she spoke up for herself. Her request was civil enough, and the Warden didn’t raise any objections. He signed the two documents and smiled as he handed Beth’s to her. ‘I’ve issued miner’s rights to women before, though I wouldn’t run out of fingers counting them. It seems the hand that rocks the baby’s cradle can also rock a dry-blower.’ When Beth didn’t come back with an angry retort, Martin looked at Finnerty with added respect. Then he

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rushed on with a series of questions. Where had the latest finds been made? Were there many miners already there? What was the water situation like? The Warden described the situation as he knew it, though he confessed that things were changing so quickly it was hard to keep up. A number of areas had already been staked with claims and gold was being found. He did have a curious warning for them. ‘Some smart operators are salting the ground with gold dust and the odd small nugget, then selling their worthless leases to newcomers.’ Beth and Martin thanked Finnerty and headed for the area where Hannan and his mates had made their original find. They found it completely stripped of bushes and trees. And the devastation was spreading. Generated by muscle power and clattering dry-blowers, an almost permanent dust cloud hung over the area. They watched scores of men vanish into and reappear out of a myriad of deepening hollows, trundling wheelbarrows back and forth through the maze. It did not look promising. Not a scrap of ground was still unpegged. On the outskirts of the main area they set up a temporary shelter and cooked a meal. As they ate they sifted through the information they had picked up through the day. There was a lot of wild talk, but there did seem to be some consistency in one persistent

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rumour — and it had the feel of newness about it. Martin heard it from two men who were leaving, and their surreptitious packing had convinced him it was worth pursuing. Beth, homing in on the few women on the field, had also heard it. She too was convinced — at least enough to think they should look into it. So in the grey of early morning they headed out of Hannans in a general north-westerly direction. To the observant eye, there was enough evidence to show that more than one group had recently passed that way. They had covered close to thirty miles when a small dust cloud signalled to them the new find that had been dubbed Black Flag. They used the remaining daylight to locate some likely ground and promptly pegged two claims. Beth selected her piece of ground nearly a hundred yards from Martin’s. When he expressed concern over her isolation she reminded him that she still had the revolver. However, rather than setting up a separate campfire, that night she joined Martin in cooking and eating their evening meal, and rolled her swag across the fire from his, insisting that the next day she would set up a tent alongside her claim. Martin knew better than to argue.

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In the morning they examined the area more thoroughly. A lot of the ground was being worked, though as yet, nowhere near as extensively as at Hannans. Most of the men were using dry-blowers to find the alluvial gold in the surface yard or so of dirt. No shafts had yet been dug in the search for an El Dorado vein, or some ancient riverbed that might contain concentrations of gold. One man, Charlie Watson, had tried to sink a shaft, and was only temporarily dismayed when salty water flooded in. He had ordered pipes and a boiler and while waiting for them to arrive, was busy getting things ready to set up a water-condensing unit. Within days of the boiler arriving he expected to be turning out gallons of palatable water that would earn him a lot more money than his patch of ground had done so far. Eager to separate the gold from the hot red earth they had pegged, Martin and Beth were shovelling at first light the next morning. Not having dry-blowers they used the two-pan method in which a pan of dirt was lifted to shoulder height and agitated so that the contents fell into the pan below. In theory, the breeze blew the finer dirt away — though wind eddies and shifts settled a large quantity of it on the operator — while the heavier gold fell straight down into the bottom pan.

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That evening they compared notes. True to her intention, Beth had improvised a tent on her own claim, and they ate at her campfire. Martin noticed but did not dare comment on the pieces of cloth wrapped around her palms. His hands were sore too, but not blistered. They each had what was called a ‘poverty jar’ — something they had seen among the miners — a small glass jar in which to store the recovered gold. When tilted, the bottom corner of Beth’s jar held marginally more than Martin’s. It was a long way short of the sort of find that sent exuberant miners popping champagne corks and firing nugget-filled shotguns in the air, but it was a start. Their only discontent was over the lack of water to wash off their coating of dust and dirt. After several days of being choked with dust, Martin walked around the field and chatted to any miners who were ready to stop work for a moment. They were all looking forward to the completion of Charlie Watson’s condenser. The water wouldn’t be any cheaper than the stuff being carted in, but at least there should be a more reliable source of it. He also learned a lot more about technique as he observed the more seasoned miners. Most of the t’othersiders were using the Carlson or Rankine dryblower. Lever-operated bellows blew air through the

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shaken-down dirt, so it didn’t matter whether the wind blew or not. Both types were mounted on a wheelbarrow frame for easy movement from one spot to another. In the locally produced Woods dry-blower, the bellow was pumped via a hand-operated flywheel. All were designed to sift off the rubble and stones, blow the fine dirt away and leave the heavier gold in the riffle box. The fine dirt in the riffles was put through a panning dish at day’s end, more often if the patch was good. An enthusiastic operator could put through tons of dirt in one day. Martin returned to his patch and stared at his two small metal pans. Not only was the method slow, he doubted its efficiency in retaining all the fine gold. It was time to get a dry-blower. That evening, he walked over to Beth’s claim and was surprised to see she had started to build a small bough shed. They had seen these structures at all the fields and there was no doubt they were cooler than a canvas tent. He looked it up and down and could find no fault. Placing it on the western side of her tent was a good move. It meant the tent would be in its shadow in the late afternoon when the sun was at its worst. The holes were dug and several freshly cut saplings lay on the ground. ‘Who cut the poles?’ he asked.

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‘Still asking stupid questions? Who do you think, Father Christmas?’ Martin went red. ‘Sorry. I didn’t realise you could … You’ve done a good job …’ ‘Some of us can do more than stand around magging.’ Stung, Martin quickly changed the subject as he so often did, and told her about the benefits of dryblowers. Beth listened but was not impressed. ‘So. What can we do about that? Make ourselves one out of spit and bush-sticks?’ ‘No! With the money I saved in York, and the gold we’ve already found, we should easily be able to buy one.’ A show of poverty jars indicated the levels had now reached a quarter of an inch or so. Beth’s was noticeably higher. ‘I used some of mine in exchange for chaff and water for the horses,’ Martin explained. Beth snorted. ‘You and your horses! What use are they to you now? They just stand around eating and drinking their heads off. Why don’t you get rid of them?’ ‘And then what? Buy stores from some Afghan cameleer and pay through the nose for them? In two

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days I can travel to Hannans and be back with enough to last us for weeks.’ He hesitated. ‘Thing is, you’d be here on your own …’ ‘Oh yes, and until you showed up I was helpless, I suppose. Well I’ve got news for you. I’m not helpless! Here.’ She shoved her poverty jar into his hands. ‘Go and get some more stores — but don’t ever say I didn’t pay my way.’ Martin glared back as he took the jar. They ate separately that night, but sitting over his own fire, he realised he wasn’t really angry. That was Beth. One great chip on her shoulder Beth. She was all right. In the morning Martin got the horses ready and then went to find Beth. She was already drifting dirt from one pan to the other. ‘Well, I’m off. Should be back before dark tomorrow.’ He paused, ‘Er, you’ll keep that revolver close by, won’t you?’ Beth looked disconcerted for a moment. ‘Of course I will! Well go on, shift those horses. They’re blocking the breeze.’ Choosing the best track for his string of empty packhorses, Martin let his thoughts find their own comfortable level. Picky’s rhythmic movements lulled him along and he soon felt a deep sense of peace. The trip was an immediate success. Just out of Hannans he came across two disgruntled miners. Fed

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up with the living conditions, the hard work and their lack of success, they wanted to sell their gear and quit the goldfields. Martin exchanged some of his cash and the contents of his poverty jar for their two dry-blowers. He strapped the blowers onto two of his packhorses and continued into town very pleased with himself. In a few hours, the rest of the horses were loaded up with stores purchased with the contents of Beth’s jar. The few sovereigns he had left in his money pouch he spent on some bags of chaff. They weren’t very heavy, but as he stacked them on top of the lightest loads, he apologised to the horses. ‘Sorry about this fellas, but you’ll thank me when all the grass is burned dry.’ Back in Black Flag Beth helped him to unload, wondering as she did, about where they were going to put everything. ‘How on earth did you manage to get so much? There wasn’t that much gold in our poverty jars was there?’ Attempting to hide his pride, Martin made light of his prudent buying. ‘Could have bought more with our gold in Coolgardie. Even more in Southern Cross. It’s the freight keeps adding to the cost.’ Beth snorted. ‘And you could travel all that way for nothing, I suppose?’ ‘Travelling doesn’t cost me anything. Well, a bit for

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chaff and oats, but I enjoy being with the horses.’ Beth gave him a look but made no further comment. Instead she indicated the fire. ‘The billy’s boiling, pour yourself some tea while I dish up.’ It was about the friendliest she’d ever sounded. Was she glad to see him? Did he wish she was? Martin dismissed the thought. Whoever was most free at the time did the job — cooking meals together meant less waste of time and stores. He tried not to read anything into her actions, but he did enjoy that meal. Black Flag was producing more and more gold as increasing numbers of miners arrived. With their dryblowers, Beth and Martin certainly increased their daily tally. They found no big nuggets, or cause to scream and shout, but they were building a respectable reserve. They couldn’t go on indefinitely though: they were about to run out of workable dirt on their claims, and the new arrivals had pegged everything within sight. The alternative was to dig a shaft. However, digging through bedrock could be back-breaking work, with no guarantees of hitting any gold-bearing dirt. Neither of them relished the thought, and they began to talk about moving on to another new strike — like Broad Arrow or Goongarrie. They were still trying to make a decision when other

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events conspired to present another possibility. It began when Beth accompanied Martin on a trip to Hannans. There she left his tacit offer of ‘protection’ and went out by herself. ‘There are women here, and I want to find out how they cope in this man-filled world. We women do have matters of our own to attend to, you know. Even if you men do think we are here simply to pick you up and wipe your noses every time you fall down.’ Martin watched her go with mixed feelings. So far, the majority of men who had seen past Beth’s odd attire of shirt and trousers had shown her nothing but respect. The men of Black Flag treated her like one of the fellows now, except that they tried to remember not to swear in her presence. However, the teamster incident on the track from Southern Cross was never far from his mind. Who knew when they or a similar group of rowdies might turn up? He was relieved to see her when they met up for the return trip, but in the next instance his relief was turned to alarm. She had a young woman at her side.

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Martin didn’t need anything spelled out for him, which was just as well, because Beth wasn’t explaining anything. The girl was coming with them, she told him, daring him with her eyes to object. Beth’s need to protect had been let loose again, though he thought the young woman was perhaps a year or two older than her new protector. He didn’t want to be lumbered with another lame duck, but he knew if he did protest he would provoke a fight that he could never win. Fortunately, the young woman had ridden before — albeit side-saddle — and somehow she managed to hook her right leg around the pommel. Martin didn’t think it could be very comfortable but at least her skirt covered most of her legs. And he made damned sure, after the first inadvertent glimpse, that he kept his glance well away from the peep of ankles.

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Taking the first walking stint he headed the string for Black Flag, keeping his mouth shut as much as possible. The rhythm of walking gradually lulled him into a friendlier state of acceptance. Once the string had settled into its pace Beth began to fill him in on the young woman’s story. Her name was Cathy Metler and she had been working as a barmaid at the recently established Palace Hotel. Martin nodded to the girl and tried to ease the awkwardness. ‘Tired of being toasted in champagne by all the big spenders, hey?’ The girl sobbed and Beth exploded. ‘Cathy’s been toasted all right! By one of you big-noting men! If I ever catch him I’ll push him down a mine shaft and shovel the dirt in on top of him.’ Her ferocity made Martin feel as though he too was under attack. So, what else was new? He decided this was not the moment to complain, and he listened more than he spoke. By the time they stopped for lunch he had the whole picture. A miner had hit the sort of patch everyone dreamed of finding. He’d swept Cathy off her feet and promised marriage. However, the night before the wedding was to take place he overindulged in the revelry. The alcohol loosened his tongue and he admitted he had a wife and three children back in Victoria. In the ensuing furore,

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he skipped and left Cathy — in more ways than one — holding the baby. The girl was pregnant. The publican had sacked Cathy on the spot and Beth had found her scrubbing her hands raw in a Chinese laundry. ‘That’s all you men ever do — use us then discard us! In every man’s eyes Cathy is now ruined. Who would marry her now?’ Martin was watching Beth as she railed, and was surprised to see her expression change suddenly. When she spoke again, it was more to herself. ‘I suppose that’s better than having him run off later and leave a whole family destitute.’ Martin heard the catch in her voice. Was that the painful scar she carried? Had she seen Cathy’s plight as a repeat of what her father had done to her family? At Black Flag Martin threw himself into dry-blowing the last of the dirt on his lease. Between furious digging and equally furious cranking of the flywheel of his blower, he watched Beth’s bough shed grow as the two women had chopped, hauled and constructed a second room. Cathy might be pregnant but she was not afraid of hard work. He had wanted to offer his help, but whenever he had been tempted he had backed off. He could almost hear Beth’s sarcasm. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t you think a mere woman could measure and chop off a sapling?’

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She’d already torn him to shreds when he had accidentally uncovered a book while they were unloading the packs. Innocently he had asked, ‘What’s this?’ and barely had time to read the title — The Ladies Handbook — before Beth snatched it from him. ‘It’s full of the sort of information we women need but have never been given. How are we supposed to know how babies come into the world? Get it from the baby fairy?’ A week passed before Martin was game enough to approach the women’s camp, but he needed to sound them out about what they should do next. Should they move on? And if so, where to? Why he hadn’t already moved on without consulting Beth was something he had no answer for. He had fulfilled his promise to himself and delivered her safely, and, as Beth so often said, he didn’t own her. Maybe it was because in this relatively short time they had accomplished a surprising amount by working together. So why didn’t he just go? At that, he had an image of his mother and father, and supposed the answer must lie there — they hadn’t brought him up to walk out on people. But he wanted to move on. The last time he had ‘washed’ his clothes was the previous Sunday, when he had put on his spare set and beaten the stiffness out of

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the ones he had been wearing and draped them over a bush to air. The summer pushed relentlessly on, and day by day the demand for water increased and the supply got tighter. Charlie Watson’s condenser had broken down within days of being completed, and was waiting for a new piece of gadgetry to arrive. But more pressing than the difficulties and discomfort, was the knowledge that deep down he had lost his enthusiasm for mining. Surprisingly, when he put his thoughts into words, Beth wasn’t as dismissive as he had expected. She too had exhausted the top layer of her lease. Their poverty jars were both about three parts full, and they both had a few good sized nuggets, but with little prospect of adding to them. They were sitting in the shade of the bough hut. Cathy was in the tent having a nap and Beth was in the middle of complaining about the number of men who kept asking to buy some of their precious stores when they both looked up at each other and laughed. That was it. Martin was astonished that he hadn’t thought of it earlier.

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‘A store! That’s it!’ Beth stared at him for moment. Then said, in exaggerated amazement, ‘I don’t believe it! A man who can think, albeit slowly.’ Martin was so fired up with the idea he was unperturbed by the insult. He gestured at the bough shed in which they were sitting. ‘Fill it in there. Thicken the walls. Lay a tent fly over the top. Make it your living quarters and hey presto — the tent can be used as a store.’ Beth had no complaints, but she wanted a few points clarified. ‘Who will run it? You as lord of the manor, or me as the one who does all the work?’ Martin was taken aback. He had assumed they would work it together, sharing the tasks as they had on the trip up from York. Their association had been pretty scratchy, but beneath the prickles he had thought there

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lay a mutual need. Was Beth drawing away? She pounced on his hesitation. ‘Gone off the idea already? That’s the trouble with you men. You want everything now. And everything your way.’ ‘That’s not true!’ ‘Then what is?’ ‘Damn it, Beth! Give me time to think.’ ‘How long do you need, another month or two?’ ‘No! Five minutes straight without you biting my head off would be a start.’ Beth snorted. In fact she was quite glad that Martin had voiced the idea. She had wanted a store for some time, but hadn’t figured out how to go about it. By putting their resources together they could do it. Martin could see she liked the idea and knew the best thing for him to do would be to get out of the way for a while. He was getting good at that. He got to his feet and wandered back to his horses. At least he could ask their advice without getting his head bitten off. They would help him to either clear out, or make the store idea work. He gazed over the diggings. Everywhere he looked men were shovelling, cranking dry-blowers and sweating. Every tree had been either used for firewood or dug up because there might be a nugget hiding beneath its tenacious roots, and the bared ground looked bleak and comfortless.

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Martin finally went back to the bough shed. When he looked through the doorway, the women’s expressions gave nothing away. He sat down, looked straight at Beth and said, ‘There are hundreds of men out there …’ he saw her scowl. ‘Not to mention some women. The thing is, some of them will be here for a good while, and there is no store.’ ‘You think I don’t know that?’ said Beth. ‘Right. Cathy and I will run the store. We’ll make it work. Why else do you think I’ve been talking to all the women store-owners I’ve come across? Waste of time talking to men. They’re far too sloppy. Give too much to their mates. What will you do besides get under our feet?’ Martin ignored the gibe. ‘The store will need a regular supply of goods. That will be my job, with the horses.’ ‘A trip to Hannans and back will take you what, two days? Then what will you do to keep out of our way?’ ‘Give me a bit of credit Beth. I expect I’ll need to make more trips as we work out which things to stock. And once the rains replenish the waterholes I’ll go to Southern Cross. Goods should be cheaper there.’ He paused. ‘Might even go to York, or Guildford.’ ‘But that could take weeks!’ Martin was surprised by the dismay in Beth’s voice. She wanted him around then! She had a funny way of

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showing it. He had barely formed the thought when her voice resumed the sharpness of a whip-crack. ‘Right. So let’s make a list.’ Argument over the list nearly killed the fledgling store before it got off the ground, starting with the amount of canvas Beth insisted on ordering. Martin immediately protested. ‘Hey! I’m not even sure we need a separate tent. We certainly don’t need to cover the whole of Black Flag.’ Beth snorted. ‘Little men think little. We’ll need a substantial wooden-framed store. What do you think we’ll cover it with, face flannels?’ ‘But why go so big to start with? Why not let the store grow? One load of stores will look like an ant heap in a large tent.’ ‘Then make more trips! You said yourself there are hundreds of men out there. How many do you think will fit in my little tent? Put two in there and there wouldn’t be any room for the stock.’ Martin could see the logic. ‘I grant you that point, but if the idea doesn’t work, we’ll have blown our capital. I still think we should start little.’ ‘Of course it’ll work!’ Beth exploded. ‘And everything needs to be kept under cover. Who would buy a couple of kippers if they have to blow a dust cloud off them first? And one day it will rain. Who will want soggy

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flour? Or sleep under a mouldy blanket? Or do you think you can turn your horses into temporary counters and sell everything straight off their backs?’ Martin walked out fuming. He went and checked the horses and packs, but his agitation soon spread to the horses. He took a deep breath, slowed down and spoke to the horses in a tone they understood. He soon felt calm, but that left room for another concern, the everpresent worry about rogue single men and the safety of the girls while he was away. He went to see Tiny Simpson, the man on the lease next to his. They often compared notes and jointly cursed the suffocating dust. As they sat down to talk, another young man joined them. Clem Mailey had the lease on the other side of Tiny. He was ready for a spell from shovelling and cranking in his waist-deep hole. None of them had found very much gold yet. Clem summed up how they all felt. ‘A fellow I was moaning to reckons they use water from running streams to separate the gold from the dirt in Victoria. Reckons Australia tilts to the east and all the water has run over there.’ Tiny grinned as he rolled a smoke. ‘He could be right. Or he could’ve been out in the sun too long.’ He slanted his sweat-stained hat against the sun and looked at Martin. ‘How come you’re not working today?’

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‘Ran out of ground. Pegged too small a piece to start with.’ Tiny thumb-nailed a lucifer match into flame and fired up the end of his cigarette. ‘Yeah, we all think the big one is in the first few shovels of our claim. So, what’s your next move?’ ‘Beth and Cathy and I, we’re thinking of starting up a store.’ Clem’s face brightened. ‘That’d go down well. You’re the only one here with horses. Walking to Hannans or Coolgardie for stores is a waste of good digging time. Not to mention the wear and tear on the feet.’ Martin nudged one of Clem’s boots with his. ‘Not many trips left in those either, by the look of them.’ Clem nodded. ‘Yeah, if I stand on a sovereign I can tell you if it’s heads or tails.’ Then he grinned. ‘If you do start a store, you’d better line up at least one pair of number nines.’ They sat in comfortable silence for a while. Then Martin said, ‘Thing is, I don’t like leaving the girls on their own … Particularly if I have to make a longer trip, say as far as Southern Cross.’ Tiny grabbed his shovel. Slammed it down and flattened a sizeable lump of hard-packed earth. ‘Noone, and I mean no-one, will hurt them while I’m around.’

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Martin nodded. ‘I believe you. But we’ve met a few unsavoury characters on the track. What if some of them come when you’re down that thundering great hole you’ve dug. Or when you’re asleep?’ ‘I’ll pass the word around.’ Martin felt easier at heart, but added, ‘Of course, there’s no need to tell the girls. We wouldn’t want to worry them would we …?’ Clem grinned. ‘If she ever found out I reckon that Beth’d nail you to something.’ Martin nodded in wry agreement. By late afternoon the next day Martin was in Hannans, hunting for the things on the list so painfully completed the day before. He soon found that the prices were by no means uniform. In some stores the prices were double layered, one level for the miners who’d struck it rich, the other for the battlers. Martin didn’t waste any time establishing which group he belonged to. When he returned to Black Flag he found that in the two days he had been away, Beth and Cathy had the tent frame cut and erected. Surprisingly Beth came out when he halted Picky. He indicated the tent frame. ‘How did you manage that? Didn’t you sleep?’ Beth snorted. ‘Maybe we don’t spend half our time

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wandering around magging to miners or mumbling to horses.’ Martin swung down and unlashed the bundles from one of the packs. He threw the first heavy roll of canvas at Beth’s feet ‘There! Want a hand to put it on? Or will I be in the way?’ Beth regarded him steadily for a moment. When she spoke she didn’t apologise but her voice was a fraction softer. ‘Many hands make light work.’ Many hands did at least get the job done quickly. The store tent was four times the size of Beth’s little tent and looked the part. Its front door was a piece of canvas cut from a tent fly with a straight piece of a smooth sapling sewn into the bottom. The weight of the pole kept it straight when the door was closed and made the rolling up of the ‘door’ easy when the shop was opened. Martin smiled at the flag on the front pole. The girls had made it from the leg of a pair of cotton pantaloons, opened at the seam to form a rough rectangle. It could have been a piece of cloth from anything, but the pink colour was a dead giveaway. One thing was for sure, it would certainly catch the eye. Martin’s load of desiccated potatoes and dried fruits was methodically placed in the store. Beth knew exactly where she wanted to put each item. The soldered tins

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of Swallow and Ariel biscuits and boxes of raisins made a compact stack. The bags of flour were less tidy. Four wooden crates of tinned condensed milk and two of ‘tinned-dog’ — what the miners liked to call canned meat — made a serviceable counter. She removed the boards on her side so she could extract the tins without disturbing the counter. Martin admired Beth’s planning and organisation, but was not going to stick his neck out by saying so. And when the horses were fully unloaded, he could see that for the store to be fully functional it would require a lot more stock — as he had thought. He moved away to give his horses a reward of chaff when the first of the miners began to arrive. Clem Mailey came up to him and indicated the flag. ‘Looks better than you would have if you’d been nailed up there.’ Cathy was a good teacher and Beth was a quick learner — she was soon as businesslike as any barmaid or store clerk. However, they soon discovered they needed a set of gold-weighing scales. Ordinary scales were by no means fine enough. Very few men had cash money, but all were eager for a change in their diet of kangaroo or mutton and damper. Gold they had in all shapes and sizes, and most did not quibble over the exact

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calculations of their gold’s value but Beth assured them she would have proper scales within two days. That evening Beth, Cathy and Martin toiled over another list. The ‘rush’ had already depleted their stock, so there wasn’t a problem over what they should get. It was a case of how much the packhorses could carry. Unaccountably, Beth looked a bit embarrassed as she asked Martin to see if he could get some fresh fruit and vegetables. Martin scoffed. ‘Like some caviar as well?’ ‘Stupid question! Dried vegetables are better than nothing but some people need more than that.’ Cathy tried to make peace. ‘I’m all right! There are quite a few women at Hannans who’ve had healthy babies without eating any fresh food at all.’ Beth snorted. ‘What do you call quite a few — two or three?’ Martin looked at Cathy and blushed. ‘It’s all right Cath. I don’t like my chances, but I’ll do my best.’ He was away at first light in the morning and headed for Hannans — or Kalgoorlie as it was now being called after its Aboriginal name. When he returned two days later he was almost bursting with pride. Beth noticed. ‘What marvellous thing have you done now?’ Martin untied a small hessian parcel at the back of

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his saddle and handed it to her with a flourish. It was damp, as though the hessian had been frequently dipped in water. There were patches of dried salt on it. Beth unwrapped the parcel and both she and Cathy stared in wonder at its contents. Beth looked up. ‘Where’d you get them?’ Martin’s smile was as wide as his face would allow. He answered as he undid the straps on the first packhorse. ‘There’s a Chinaman has started a garden. He’s got a well. The water is barely drinkable but he carries it around in two buckets on the ends of a pole across his shoulders. Must have the right touch because he’s coaxed something into growing. Beth passed the cabbage and the small bunch of carrots to Cathy. She looked at Martin and for one crazy moment she could have hugged him — a feeling she quickly suppressed. ‘I suppose this was all you could get?’ she demanded. ‘Believe me, he’s got more customers than a mob of kangaroos could jump over.’ Martin lifted down a small wooden crate and held it so the stencilled side faced her. And waited. Beth read the label and screamed. ‘Martin! Tinned peaches!’ Cathy looked at her. It was the first time she had heard Beth use Martin’s name in such a manner.

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Beth’s delighted scream had also lifted the heads of a swaggle of nearby miners. Smiles creased their dirty sweat-streaked faces. A happy woman’s voice was a seldom-heard music around the pits at Black Flag. When Cathy saw what Martin had brought she impulsively kissed him on the cheek. Confused, Martin didn’t know what to do with the crate. When Cathy took it from him he noticed the change to her figure. Over the months it had become more rounded of course, but now, it appeared to be more so. He hastily took the crate back. ‘Here, let me. Where do you want it?’ When all the stores were unloaded Martin noticed a few other changes. A corner of the bough shed was now a tiny washroom. He didn’t know what else to call it. With the amount of water the women had to wash in it could never be called a bathroom. The bough shed now also contained only one bed. Beth had moved hers back into her little tent. She saw he had noticed and said, ‘Cathy will soon need more room.’ That evening they began to make a third list, and Martin could hardly believe his ears when Beth insisted they needed more canvas. ‘Again! What on earth for?’ ‘Most of the men around here sleep on the ground. That’s all right for now but it must rain soon.’

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Martin nodded. ‘Yeah, I heard there’d been a reasonable rain just the other side of Coolgardie. Once the waterholes are full there’ll be a fresh inflow of miners.’ He looked up as the implications of what Beth had said sank in. ‘So?’ ‘So, the men here are going to need shelter.’ ‘And you want to provide it.’ ‘Just sleeping quarters. At a price.’ Martin recalled the boarding houses he and the Honourable had encountered on the way up to York. He’d seen similar ones in Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie. ‘How much a night?’ ‘Haven’t decided yet. Want to make it reasonable. There won’t be much work involved.’ ‘But you want to make it another string to your bow, huh?’ ‘Yes. And I want to do it now. Before news of another bonanza sends them scurrying off to start a new field.’ ‘Going to supply meals?’ ‘We’ll see how we go.’ Martin nodded. ‘All right. I’ll make a quick trip to Kalgoorlie and get your canvas. Then I think it’s time for a trip to Southern Cross. Prices should be even cheaper than last time we were there — I’ve heard something else has nearly reached the town.’

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With the horses carrying only empty packs, and the waterholes full, Martin’s trip to Southern Cross was a lot quicker than their journey out. Also, there was no reason to avoid the beaten track. The stories he had heard were not just rumours. The railway line from Northam had crawled closer. Burracoppin, fifty-odd miles west of Southern Cross, was now both the railhead and the contractor’s base. Stores were more plentiful and much cheaper than in Kalgoorlie. Good water was also coming in tankers on the train. The word was the line would eventually reach Kalgoorlie. Martin wondered how the contractors would handle the sand plain between Southern Cross and Coolgardie. Not that he gave the matter much thought: he had a few problems of his own. To begin with, he refused to pay the prices being

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forced on any new chum who didn’t know any better — any struck-it-rich miner who didn’t care about the cost of a satin dress for his ‘betrothed’. In the food line, flour had the heaviest mark-up on price. In the end, the greedy storekeepers did him a favour. While searching for a fair trader he came across two new chums who had arrived in Southern Cross with a laden dray. Making up the larger part of the load were a number of things they now knew were of no use to them on the goldfields. And as they were not the only ones to have made that mistake they were trying to sell their unwanted stuff on an oversupplied market. Martin kept his eye on them as he made his own purchases. He saw them sell most of the stuff for a pittance to established miners who were setting up substantial homes in the town — things like pieces of furniture that would never fit in a small tent. Martin wasn’t interested in the furniture. When he made his offer the now wiser would-be miners listened. He kept Picky and Blackie but traded his packhorses for the two heavier horses and the dray. The Englishmen were happy. They would be much more mobile this way. However, when Martin loaded his stores onto the four-wheeled dray they only half filled the tray. He stood looking at it for a few moments, then turned on

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his heel and went back to the stores and bought enough bags of flour to fill the rest of the tray. He would take only some of it to Black Flag — with a few small detours he could easily sell the rest — bread or damper was the staple food on the goldfields. Picky and Blackie he tethered to the back of the dray with lead ropes. And to prevent them from feeling deserted he loaded each of them with two bags of chaff. He assured them he was in no way belittling them. Each of them, the dray pullers as well, would receive some each night. That, with the green grass that in some places had reached munching length, would make them as fat as pigs by the time they reached the diggings. He wondered how Cathy was faring as he tucked one particular package into a corner of the dray. Sweat beaded his brow as he recalled the purchase — he had felt as awkward and ungainly as a camel calf when he asked the woman in the store to help him. Worse, a crotchety old woman in the shop had butted in and said that it was bad luck. He hoped she was wrong. Oh well. He would test the water in Black Flag before he produced them. With two new horses to get to know, he took his time over the first few days of the return trip. They responded to his friendliness and soon got to know him in return. He kept an eye on their harness to make sure

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it was comfortable. With these safeguards, the journey was trouble free, although a lot slower than with only packhorses, and Martin enjoyed every minute of it. Despite his detours he was back in Black Flag on the afternoon of the tenth day. The first thing that caught his eye was the large canvas-covered structure behind the store. He was impressed yet again at how the girls got stuck into the hard work — it looked like he would be busy making bush beds over the next few days. He was wrong about that. The beds were not only made but had been occupied for the last three nights. Cathy looked tired. However, Beth was as indefatigable as ever. She insisted on the stores being unloaded immediately. ‘How will anyone know what we have for sale when everything is all jammed up in that thing? Where did you get it and what did it cost? Did it leave you with the money to buy the stores we wanted?’ ‘Hello to you too,’ Martin muttered. ‘Don’t worry. I bought everything on the list and still came home with nearly as much money as I left with.’ ‘Oh yes. And you won those horses and the dray in a pub raffle.’ ‘No! I traded my packhorses for them.’ He got on with the unloading as he explained about the flour. ‘I could have sold a full dray load without even working up a sweat.’

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‘Humph. No not there, here!’ However, Beth was pleased when she saw how much flour he had retained for the store. Flour was definitely a quick seller. When Cathy began to help with the unloading Martin stopped what he was doing. ‘Please Cath, take it easy.’ He gestured at the boarding house: ‘What are you trying to do, kill yourself?’ ‘Beth and I didn’t do it all,’ Cathy murmured. Tiny and —’ she broke off and blushed, ‘— Clem helped,’ she hurried on. ‘But don’t tell Beth I told you that.’ Martin nodded. ‘Don’t worry, I have trouble telling her anything. Now please, sit down for a while.’ Cathy smiled. ‘All right, now we’ve got something to make it with I’ll make us all a brew of tea. We had run out of nearly everything.’ As Cathy stirred the fire and swung the billy over the hottest spot Martin said to Beth, ‘These stores won’t run away. Come on let’s sit down while we drink a pannikin or two. I’m as dry as a smoked kipper.’ ‘Sit? You’ve done nothing but sit for days.’ She prodded him. ‘Come on, at least until the billy comes to the boil. Next thing we know we’ll have diggers here clamouring for things we haven’t even unpacked yet.’ Martin sighed and returned to the unloading. However, as soon as the tea was ready he sat down with a pannikin of it.

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Hands on hips, Beth stared at him for a moment — then joined him. He was even more relieved when he saw Cathy sit awkwardly in a sturdy bush chair. As they sipped their tea he passed on his news about how close the railway line was to Southern Cross. Beth was as interested as Cathy was in his news, and asked questions about things he either hadn’t noticed or hadn’t thought were important enough to remember. ‘Don’t you ever take your goddamned horse-blinkers off?’ she said in amazement. Martin pretended to be shocked. ‘Goddamn — coming from a woman?’ ‘What do you expect? You men never stop saying it. How can we help it if some sticks?’ Martin shut his ears to the rest of the tirade. He practically knew it off by heart anyway. He sipped at his tea then looked at Cathy. ‘When’s the baby due?’ Cathy placed her hand on her stomach. ‘A couple of weeks I think.’ Martin knew about mares foaling but nothing of human offspring. ‘How can you tell?’ ‘Keep your sticky man’s beak out of things that don’t concern you,’ Beth butted in. ‘It’s women’s business. Have you finished your tea? We need the rest of those stores in here.’ She reached for his pannikin. Martin swung it away from her hand. ‘How come

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you need the stores so urgently?’ Beth indicated the boarding house. ‘When those scruffy men come in they’ll be looking for an evening meal.’ ‘Right.’ Martin drained his pannikin and got to his feet. No wonder Cathy was tired. After their evening meal, taken after the boarders had been fed, Martin cornered Beth. He wanted to know how often more stores would be needed. On such neutral ground, Beth talked civilly and Martin concluded he would have barely a week’s break before he again headed for Southern Cross. Well, at least they couldn’t get into any arguments while he was out on the track. Beth’s calculations were wrong about one thing — because the goods were now available, the miners bought things they would otherwise have gone without. Martin made a quick trip to Kalgoorlie to replenish the depleted stocks. Shocked at the higher prices he bought only enough to tide them over for a while. However he made a lucky purchase from the Chinaman — some more carrots and a bunch of spinach. He apologised to the horses for making them hurry so much and promised them some good feeds of oats before they headed for Southern Cross. He could keep his promise about that because he had picked up a

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couple of bags of oats from an unlucky miner who was selling everything he had at quick-sale prices. Finding no gold, he was heading back to Perth as soon as he could. Back at Black Flag, Martin saw how slow and ungainly Cathy had become. From what he knew of the farmyard, she was close. His mind shied away from thoughts of how cows and horses gave birth, and he busied himself for a longer trip to Southern Cross. Before he left he dug out the parcel he had hidden in his tent. For some reason he picked a moment when Beth was present and hesitantly gave it to Cathy. He breathed a sigh of relief when neither of the young women berated him. Perhaps they hadn’t heard the old woman’s tale that baby clothes given before the birth could bring bad luck. On the contrary, they were thankful for them — Cathy enthusiastically so. ‘Thought you might need them before I get back.’ Martin went red from his navel to his ears. He started to leave but paused and looked at Beth. ‘I’ll leave Blackie with you …’

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There was an air of excitement among the people of Southern Cross — a little rain had fallen, but, more importantly, the railway line had almost reached the town. Martin could already see the benefits of having only to cart material the short distance from the rail’s end. Many of the buildings now had corrugated iron roofs, and a lot more solid buildings were under construction. All sorts of goods were more readily available in the thriving main street. Martin’s buying looked like being very successful. But not everything went smoothly. He was at the counter of a general store when someone walked in behind him. He took little notice until a man said, ‘You and your girls must be operating in a big way if you need that much food.’ There was no mistaking the venom in the tone.

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Martin swung round. It was Gerald, the man who had tricked Christine into coming to Australia. Martin felt a clutch of fear — on every trip he had dreaded this possibility. ‘Christine has gone home to England. I’m stocking up for my store, not a …’ Gerald’s eyebrows rose. ‘You have a store? Then I must pay you a visit. See if I can help you in some way. Where is your store?’ Martin turned back to the counter without answering. He must at least look as though he was unconcerned. Inside, he certainly wasn’t. His refusal to answer wouldn’t stop the man for long. The bush telegraph was easy enough to tap into. Martin finished placing his order and made a hasty retreat. On the street outside he wondered what he should do. With the best of will, the thinly spread police force could hardly be expected to station a man at Black Flag on the off-chance that something might happen. He decided there was something he could do — it paid to know your enemy, so Martin asked around. He discovered that Gerald and Stella had replaced their canvas and timber tent with a many-roomed house and filled it with Japanese women as well as English and Australian ones. One was even reputed to have come from Paris. The male population made it clear they would not

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welcome any sort of interference with the system. Some of the men even insisted that the few women residents of the town welcomed the enlargement of the ‘establishment’ — the girls took the lid off the steaming kettle, was how one fellow put it. Nothing Martin discovered helped relieve his worry about Gerald’s threat. What if he found the store before he could get back to warn Beth? Spurred on by his fears he collected his purchases and headed for the watering point to refresh the horses. It was too late in the day to start but he would get away first thing in the morning. As soon as it was light enough to see, he saddled Picky and organised a lead rope for the dray horses. He was mounted on Picky and about to head off when he looked up at a sound in front of him. Two men were standing there, staring at him with hard faces. Then he realised he knew those faces. It was two of the teamsters who had tangled with them months earlier. Gerald and now these two, in the same day! What was going to happen next? He eyed the rifle butt in front of his right knee. Was there time? He flicked his glance up and saw the teamster’s deliberate headshake. Martin kept his hand still. The big man grinned. ‘A fella down the street told us you were here.’ He looked around. ‘No back-up, I see.’

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He shook his head in mock dismay as he looked beyond Martin, giving a slight nod. Martin glanced over his shoulder. Two others had closed in from the rear. They all carried whips, and stood at exactly the distance of the working length of a whip. Sweat trickled into his eyes. He’d never sought to make enemies but Southern Cross appeared to be overflowing with those he had acquired through no fault of his own. How could he possibly survive this?

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He had to try. ‘Hang on fellas.’ He tried to sound amiable. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. We were just defending ourselves. Those two in the cart back then gave you the wrong story — they’re the ones with the brothel. And that’s the fella who just set me up. He just wants you to do his dirty work.’ The big man sneered. ‘You expect us to believe that? You had the girls.’ ‘Yeah, but not to start a brothel with. That man was a pimp, and the woman was a madam. They still are. They kidnapped Christine for their brothel.’ He put stress on his next words. ‘To add her to the many they already have.’ The big man hesitated. ‘Which one was that then, the feisty girl?’ ‘No, the scared one.’

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The man clamped his mouth shut. Was the teamster beginning to have doubts? Martin dared to hope. ‘Christine escaped from them and Beth found her wandering in the bush.’ How was he going to convince them? ‘Gerald and Stella — that’s their names — they’ve got a brothel off the eastern end of the main street. I hear it’s a pretty high class establishment.’ Scepticism returned to the big man’s voice. ‘So why would they want to give us a bum steer if they own a brothel? They’d be turning away good customers.’ Martin heard the men behind him shake out their whips and clutched at what he suspected was his last straw. He feigned a casualness and indifference he certainly didn’t feel. ‘How would I know? Maybe they reckoned you were … er … too rough and uncouth.’ He held his breath. The big man bristled. ‘Did they now?’ He glanced at his mates. ‘D’you think we should change their mind about that?’ Martin slowly exhaled. However, his relief was shortlived. The big man locked glances with him. ‘What say you get down off that horse and we all stroll down and check? Right now, I’m not sure who’s trying to hoodwink us. But I sure as hell intend to find out.’

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Martin dismounted with shaking legs. He looked at the big man and indicated the dray and horses. ‘Do you mind if I lead these? If I leave it unattended half the contents will have disappeared by the time I get back.’ He held his breath again. The man was a teamster and knew the risks of leaving a load unattended with so many ill-equipped and ill-financed men on the track. Martin prayed he would receive the benefit of their doubts. The man finally growled, ‘All right, young fella — but one false move and we’ll cut you to pieces.’ The strange entourage headed down the street. Martin surreptitiously looked out for any likely source of help, but among the motley outfits still streaming to the goldfields he knew he was unlikely to attract much attention. A casual observer might think he had an escort nearly tough enough to help protect a load of bullion. And each step they took was bringing him closer to — what?

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Up the side street was a brightly painted, newly built house, unlike any other in the street. As they got closer, the scantily clad girl sitting on the verandah left no doubt as to the function of the place. Behind her, Stella lolled in the doorway. She and the girl looked as though they were enjoying the early morning sunbeams rather than expecting any business at that time of day. The leading teamster halted in front of Stella. He hooked his thumbs in the leather belt that encircled his thick waist, and said, ‘So! The young fella was right. You are the ones with the working girls.’ At that he grabbed the girl’s arm, pulled her to her feet and towards the door. Stella backed out of his way and yelled, ‘Gerald! For God’s sake get out here!’ The other three teamsters crowded through the doorway in their leader’s wake.

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When Gerald’s panicky voice added to the melee Martin swung up onto Picky. He coaxed the dray horses to pull and headed for the nearest patch of scrub. However, as he drew level with the back of the house a girl burst from the rear door and ran blindly towards him. It was not the girl who had been sitting on the front verandah. She stopped and looked up at him. ‘Please! Help me.’ Martin had a memory flash of an incident when he was helping his father round up sheep. A lamb had broken from the flock with the sheepdog in hot pursuit. It ran blindly towards him and in a frozen second he had read the lamb’s fear of him, and its terror of what was behind it. If he didn’t act quickly, she would bolt. He swung down from Picky and held out his hand. ‘Please. Don’t run. I’ll help you.’ He flicked a glance at the loaded dray. There was no time to rearrange the gear. Thumps and yells from the house galvanised him and he drew the girl to Picky’s side. Her short skirt caused little trouble as he helped her to mount. ‘Quick! Sit as far forward as you can. I’ll swing up behind you.’ He got the outfit rolling and headed for the scrub with no further eruptions from the back door. He hoped the rest of the girls in the house were professionals and not

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press-ganged like Christine or — unless he was mistaken — the one on the saddle in front of him. Acutely aware of how uncomfortable the girl must be at having to sit so far forward on the pommel he slowed the horses once they had crested a small rise. He chose a track large enough to allow passage of the dray and disappeared into the scrub. After a while he stopped and swung down off the horse. He looked up at the girl but quickly averted his eyes — he’d never seen so much bare female skin in his life. What had he done? He thanked God Beth wasn’t there to sit in judgement on him. He glanced at her again. Her face was streaked with tears and her jaw was tight. Better they keep moving. ‘I’ll walk for a while. You must be uncomfortable sitting …’ He went red to his ears. ‘Move back a bit. If you can reach them, put your feet in the stirrups.’ He flicked Picky’s reins over the animal’s head and led him. The business of twisting and turning the dray as he worked deeper into the scrub absorbed most of his attention. It was a tricky task when he was operating three horses away from the dray. Apparently his concentration on what he was doing enabled the girl to calm down a little. She finally found her voice. ‘Thank you.’ From her tone, she wasn’t sure if she had just jumped

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from the frying pan into … what? And what on earth was he going to do with her anyway? The irony of the situation had already struck him — now it was his turn to lumber Beth with a strange girl. He suddenly burst out laughing. He heard the girl gasp. ‘It’s all right, Miss. I’m not a nutter. It’s a long story. I’ll explain it all to you when we stop.’ ‘No! Don’t stop! They’ll catch us and take me back.’ The terror in her voice was unmistakeable, and Martin could read her agitated movements in the saddle. She wanted to get down and run but she didn’t know how to manage the stirrup length. He talked to her with the tone he usually reserved for Picky. ‘Please. Sit still. The horse doesn’t know what you want. Don’t worry, we won’t stop yet.’ Late in the day they entered a small clearing. Martin stopped the horses and looked up at the girl. ‘It will soon be dark. And I reckon we’ve twisted and turned like a kangaroo dodging roo dogs. Even if they are looking for us they’ll need daylight to follow our tracks. They’ll never find us in the dark.’ Some of the panic left the girl and Martin helped her down. The skin of her bare arm was cold. Winter was coming and the night already carried a chill. He felt her shiver.

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As soon as she was steady on her feet Martin took his hand away. ‘My name is Martin Graham. I don’t know yours …’ ‘Alice. Alice Bedford.’ Martin felt awkward. He tried for a cheery note. ‘Um, bit late to say hello isn’t it?’ Then, ‘Hang on a minute,’ as he turned to the dray and unearthed a new pair of men’s trousers, a shirt and a blanket. He handed the clothes to the girl. ‘Here, they’re a bit big, but you can put them on over your …’ He didn’t have a word for what she was wearing. He wouldn’t have called it a dress — at least not the sort he had ever seen before. It wasn’t like anything his sisters ever hung on the clothesline. Alice took the armful of gear and tried to thank him. Tears strangled her voice. ‘No need to say anything,’ Martin said softly. ‘Just put the clothes on. You’ll feel better once you’re warm.’ He turned away and began to unharness the horses. It had been a long and unusual day and he rewarded them with an extra few handfuls of oats. As he prepared an evening meal Alice tried again. ‘I — I don’t know why you have given me so much help. I … I’m not a very good person …’ Martin looked straight at her. ‘You seem like a good person to me. And surprising as it may seem, I think I

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know your story.’ He quickly told her of his experience with Gerald and Stella and the distraught Christine. ‘Sound familiar?’ Alice burst into tears and Martin blistered his hand as he hastily retrieved the boiling billy. Normally, he would have used a green stick but right then he didn’t know what to do with himself — particularly with his hands. By the time he had poured the tea Alice had recovered a little. She wrapped both hands around her pannikin of tea and sipped it. ‘My story differs only a little from Christine’s.’ Martin turned over the chops that were grilling on the blade of a shovel resting on the hot coals. ‘You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.’ ‘I’m all right now. I feel better after that.’ She paused. ‘I was a housemaid at the Fremantle Hotel. Gerald and Stella came to stay for a few days.’ Martin nodded. ‘I’ve got the picture.’ When she had finished her tale, which was indeed depressingly similar to Christine’s, Martin told her about the store at Black Flag, and Beth and Cathy. Alice gratefully accepted his offer for her to come and stay with them while she worked out what she would do next. ‘You know, I’m beginning to like your Beth,’ she said. ‘It sounds as though she has the sort of confidence I wish I had.’

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Martin’s eyebrows lifted. ‘My Beth! Believe me, I don’t own even one hair on her head! You’ll understand what I mean when you meet her.’ Martin was pensive as he dug potatoes from the ashes, dusted them and placed them with the chops on two tin plates. In the morning he re-stacked some of the load to make room for them both on the front of the dray. With Picky tethered to the back of the dray, they headed for Black Flag. He kept off the main track and used the watering points in the evening’s twilight so there would not be too many witnesses to their passage. They were moving at a good pace but something was puzzling Martin. He had thought Alice would relax more as they increased the distance between them and the brothel, but each new morning found her more tense and fearful than the previous one. Worried that it was his proximity that scared her, he asked if she was afraid of him. ‘No, no, I’m not — I’m only grateful and thankful for what you’ve done for me,’ Alice replied, and tears flowed as she thanked him over and over again for rescuing her. Embarrassed and perplexed, Martin changed the subject and steered clear of it for the rest of the trip. He

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maintained a careful watch on their back trail, but saw no evidence of pursuit by either Gerald or the teamsters. He was glad about that of course, though he supposed that one day those events would catch up with him — one way or another.

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When he stopped at the front of the store in the midmorning Martin jumped down and quickly hitched the horses to the rail outside. ‘You explain,’ he said to Alice. ‘I’d better … I’ve got to go and see someone.’ Head down, he hurried towards the diggings as Beth and Cathy emerged from the store. Tiny looked up from his cuppa as Martin sat down beside him. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve got a spare one have you, Tiny?’ Tiny glanced into his billy. ‘Looks like you just made it.’ He poured out what was left. ‘So, what have you done this time?’ Martin gestured towards the store where Beth was standing hands on hips in front of Alice, whose long fair hair and femininity were readily discernible. It was like watching a small play. At first suspicious and angry, Beth’s attitude changed dramatically when Alice burst

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into tears. Then she immediately put an arm around the girl and led her into the bough shed. Tiny looked back at Martin. ‘Crikey mate! Where do you go to with those horses of yours, the slave market?’ Martin grinned wryly and gave a brief version of the events in Southern Cross. ‘So I thought I’d better make myself scarce for a while.’ They sat together over their tea for a while, and then Martin stood up. ‘Thanks Tiny. Think I’d better go and face the music. In any case, I’ve got to attend to the horses.’ ‘Good luck. There are plenty of holes around here if we need one for a quick funeral.’ Martin paused. ‘Tiny, apart from this one, I think I’ve stirred up a real hornet’s nest back in Southern Cross.’ Tiny nodded. ‘Yeah, sounds like it. I doubt that Gerald regards you as his best mate.’ ‘You’re right there. Even before this latest run-in he hinted he’d come here and wreck the store. Or worse. I’m worried he’ll come when I’m not here.’ Tiny looked directly at Martin. ‘Told you before. Don’t worry.’ The women were in the bough shed, but he didn’t know if that was good or bad. He spoke quietly to his

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horse. ‘Picky old mate, let’s get the gear off you and your pals and unload the dray. Then we’ll really make ourselves scarce for a while.’ Beth suddenly appeared. She glared at Martin, then surprisingly, her expression changed and she said softly, ‘You big ox.’ Then she was businesslike again. ‘Right. Let’s get this dray unloaded.’ Martin’s sigh didn’t do justice to the relief he felt. He gestured towards the bough shed. ‘Is Alice … ?’ ‘She’s having a lie down. And a big cry.’ She paused. ‘That’s probably the best thing for her at the moment. I think she’s got some tough days ahead.’ ‘Why, what’s —?’ He stopped. He knew what sort of reaction he would get if he asked something he shouldn’t. But apparently he wasn’t out of line. ‘That dog Gerald has been feeding her laudanum. To stop her fighting her … clients.’ ‘Laudanum — what’s that?’ ‘Liquid opium.’ ‘What do you know about opium?’ Beth looked grim. ‘Nothing, until Alice told me. And she only knows because one of the other girls told her what it was. So, you see, she’s going to be in a bit of a state until she’s got it out of her system.’ Well that explained the puzzle of the last few days.

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Martin wondered if there was anything Gerald and Stella drew the line at. He grabbed a box of tinned condensed milk and carried it into the store. He was about to set it down when Cathy tried to take one end of the box. ‘Whoa. I can manage.’ ‘I know you can,’ she said. ‘But you’ve both done so much for me. If I don’t pull my weight how can I ever repay you?’ Martin grinned and gestured towards her stomach. ‘Looks to me as though you’ve been pulling a lot of weight around here for a long time.’ Behind him Beth walked in with an armful of blankets. ‘You men cause all the trouble then try to make a big joke about it,’ she snapped. ‘I was only trying to cheer Cathy up,’ Martin snapped back. ‘Well cheer us both up by getting this stuff unloaded.’ Martin clamped his mouth shut and got on with it. It’s nice to see you too. Yeah, he was back all right. With the next load he took into the store, Cathy was moving things to make room for the new stock. He was about to plead with her to take it easy when she suddenly gasped and clutched her stomach. Beth rushed to her side. ‘What is it? Is it … ?’

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Cathy, her mouth set, nodded and Beth helped her towards the bough shed. Roused by the sudden tension in the air, a fearfuleyed Alice staggered to her feet. ‘What is it? Is it Gerald and Stella?’ Beth was shaking. ‘It’s all right Alice. It’s not them, it’s Cathy.’ Martin came forward to take Cathy’s other arm. ‘Can I help?’ ‘No you can’t. This is women’s stuff. Clear off !’ Then she checked herself. ‘Yes, you can. You could get on one of your four-legged mates and find a doctor.’ Martin stared back at her. ‘Where from?’ ‘How would I know? There must be one around somewhere.’ Beth gestured to Alice to take Cathy’s other arm and together they helped her to lie down. Martin remained standing there. ‘Well go on, don’t just stand there gawping.’ She pushed him towards the door of the shed. At last Martin’s brain returned to action. ‘There’s definitely one in Coolgardie, and there’s a nurse there who can deliver babies. Might even be one in Kalgoorlie by now.’ ‘Then get him. Or her. Or someone.’ The panic was catching. Martin’s voice rose. ‘You know it will be at least two days to get there and back.

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And that’s assuming the doctor or nurse isn’t out on a call somewhere …’ ‘Two days!’ Hysteria cracked Beth’s voice. ‘What am I supposed to do? Oh, why didn’t we think of this before?’ Martin gestured helplessly. Then he remembered when a younger sister was born. ‘Doesn’t a special sort of woman come in?’ ‘A midwife. Here?’ Martin certainly hadn’t heard of there being one among the very few women at Black Flag. ‘Well, you’ll have to be her,’ he said. For a moment he thought she was going to hit him. ‘Don’t you have a Ladies Book or something? Doesn’t it tell you about these sort of things?’ ‘I helped Mum when she had her last baby,’ Alice said. ‘Perhaps I can …’ Beth looked startled, then flinched as Cathy cried out from inside the bough shed. ‘All right, I’ll do my best, but for God’s sake, go and get someone.’ She spun around and dashed back into the shed, followed by Alice. Martin was stunned by the fear he had seen in Beth. For the first time since their paths had crossed he wondered if she was perhaps not as hard and confident as she would have him believe.

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Martin fed and watered Picky then unharnessed the dray horses and staked them out. He was dithering about finishing the unloading when Cathy’s scream galvanised him. He leapt onto Picky and patted his shoulder, ‘Sorry mate, but I need you to give out your best. Or more to the point, Cathy needs you to.’ Even as he said it, he hoped it would not all be in vain. He agonised over his next decision. He could get to Kalgoorlie and back in less than twenty-four hours, but there was no guarantee he would find anyone who could help. There was no hospital there — there weren’t even many women. Even if more had arrived since his last visit, what were the chances of one of them being a midwife? If he was unsuccessful there, he’d have to head for Coolgardie, effectively losing a whole day. He decided it wasn’t worth the risk … he headed for Coolgardie.

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He and Picky were exhausted by the time they arrived at the hospital’s cluster of tents. Despite his desperate hurry, he took care of Picky first. The last thing he needed was a knocked-up horse. With a quick turnaround and by travelling through the night, he and the doctor could be back in Black Flag sometime the following day. There might still be a chance. He had heard of women taking days to give birth. Doctor Ellis was not there. No-one knew where the doctor was, or when he would be back. In his horse and spring cart he was in the habit of visiting as many of the new fields as possible. He was aware of the prevailing belief that ‘you only go to hospital to die’. Certainly, with the prevalence of typhoid fever in the hot months, there was good reason for that belief — particularly as most men only came in when they were too far gone to be helped anyway. Martin implored Sister Brady to come but she said she was on her own; she had critically ill patients in the hospital and could not leave them. Nurse Reynolds, the resident midwife, was also away tending to a sick patient in Grant’s Patch and intended to return by way of the mining settlements to the north-east. The sister did not expect her back for at least three days. She did, however, promise to send someone as soon as she could.

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Martin slouched away and gave Picky another large handful of oats. ‘You can take your time eating them, mate. We’ll make it our rest up time. Sorry that I pushed you so hard. Thought I could … Yeah well, there’s no point in us rushing back. There’s nothing you or I can do there.’ He tried to catch up on his missed sleep, but unwanted images kept crowding his mind. He didn’t need it spelled out for him. If anything had gone wrong, it might not be only the baby that failed to survive. First thing in the morning Martin checked at the hospital. Neither Doctor Ellis nor Nurse Reynolds had returned. Sister Brady repeated her promise that she would send someone as soon as she could. He had no cheerful chatter for Picky as he saddled him. He mounted and let the horse choose its own pace. Fearing what he would find at home, he was in no hurry to get there and his gloom only deepened as the miles crept by. As he approached Black Flag, Picky’s ears twitched forward. The horse had heard something unusual. He concentrated and picked up a noise that was so alien to the muted mining clatter that it sounded as loud as a nugget-finder’s shout.

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Picky quickened his pace. At the front of the store Martin swung down from the saddle and strode to the doorway of the bough shed where the sound of crying emanated. Beth was leaning over Cathy and the baby. She swung round. ‘Where’s the doctor?’ ‘He, or the nurse, is coming. But I don’t know just when. Both were away on calls.’ Martin smiled as relief swept through him like a drink of cool water. ‘It sounds as though you no longer need them. Is it a boy or a girl?’ ‘A boy.’ Beth turned him around and pushed him out, but not before he caught a glimpse of a tiny face, screwed up and struggling in front of Cathy’s breast. Something about the picture looked wrong. Away from the shed, Beth spoke again. ‘The birth was all right. Thank God. And thank God for Alice. She’s got more guts than most men I know.’ ‘Why, what happened?’ ‘She wouldn’t give in.’ ‘To what?’ ‘That stuff they’d been feeding her. She shivered and shook — you could see she was screaming inside — but she coaxed and encouraged Cathy all the way. She’s a real fighter.’ A fighter like someone else I know, thought Martin.

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‘She knew how to, you know, help Cathy then?’ ‘Not everything. But a lot more than I did. And Cathy did the rest. The baby was born within a few hours.’ Beth looked down and shuddered. ‘When will the doctor be here?’ Why was she so edgy? The baby had arrived — alive. They should be celebrating, not whispering like conspirators in a corner. He shook the feeling aside and answered her question. ‘Don’t know. No-one knew for sure where he was. I thought about looking for him but he could be anywhere.’ ‘Damn it. You should have tried.’ Martin flushed but her obvious concern diffused his anger. Something was wrong. In his ignorance, had he contributed in some way to what had happened? His voice caught in his throat. ‘What is it?’ Beth eyed him. Then looked at the ground. ‘The baby suckles badly. Even when it does suckle, it immediately vomits the milk up. Or if it does keep it down, it comes straight out the other end.’ She looked up. ‘Surely it shouldn’t do that?’ Martin floundered in his ignorance of such matters. ‘Can’t you find out what to do from that Ladies Book of yours?’ ‘Believe me, I’ve tried.’ Beth’s face crinkled and for a moment Martin thought she was going to cry. She

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didn’t. Instead, she said in a strained voice, ‘Trouble is, I don’t really know what it’s saying. There are too many words I don’t understand.’ Overcome with compassion Martin put his arms around her. She allowed him to hold her for a long moment. Then she pushed him away and went back into the bough shed. Martin stared after her. He’d never felt more useless in his life. Over the next two days more men than usual drifted into the store. They bought mostly small things. The fact that they didn’t say much said even more. The store had to be attended to and the boarders needed to be fed. Beth spent most of her time at Cathy’s side, so Martin did the lion’s share, but Alice helped too. Despite her fears, she even managed to serve some of the men. And when, after a while, she had been offered nothing but politeness and concern, the haunted look began to fade from her eyes. Every digger wanted to know if Cathy and the babe were going to be all right — particularly Clem Mailey. It seemed the presence of the women, and now the babe, had created a pocket of softness in the otherwise hard world of work and sweat and smothering dust. And all the while, Cathy was in agony. Martin understood her problem. When a ewe on the farm gave

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birth to a stillborn lamb, the udder became enlarged and painful. If an orphan lamb could be persuaded to drink some of the milk the problem was solved. He spent a lot of time with his horses. It didn’t help. Even when he talked with Tiny and Clem he couldn’t shut out the baby’s crying. And no matter how hard he tried to rationalise, or shut out the sound, he knew its cries were weakening. So did every digger on the field. A breath of hope came with Doctor Ellis when he arrived in his spring cart. However, by then the baby seemed little more than skin and bone and its cries no more than a kitten’s mewling. The doctor shook his head. He looked tired and disheartened. Death was an all too familiar outcome. The conditions in these thrown-up tent towns were too tough, too unsanitary. While Alice attended to the store Beth and Martin conferred with the doctor, who told them what they already knew. ‘The child is taking very little nourishment. And very little of what it does take is being assimilated.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid the end is inevitable. Indeed, I’m surprised it has lasted this long. I’m very sorry.’ ‘Sorry? Sorry?’ cried Beth. ‘Is that all you can come up with? There must be something you can do. Something we can try.’

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Martin expected the doctor to turn on his heel at that, but instead the man sat deep in thought. Then he said, ‘There is a slim chance. It is only hearsay — I’ve never observed it myself. However, being stuck out in the bush does teach self-reliance.’ Beth grabbed at the straw. ‘What is it? We’ll do it.’ ‘It may not work.’ ‘Doing nothing will definitely not work.’ The doctor again hesitated, then said, ‘I once heard about a baby, in a similar situation, receiving nourishment in an unusual manner — which is to say, wrapping the baby in swaddling clothes soaked in fresh milk.’ Beth snorted. ‘Fresh milk! Where would we get that out here? Milk kangaroos or something?’ ‘There is milk,’ said Martin. ‘Lots of it.’ Beth stared at him. ‘Have you all gone mad?’ ‘Cathy …’ Martin blushed, made an embarrassed gesture with his hands in front of his chest. ‘She’s bursting with it.’ Beth immediately saw that Martin was right. She looked at the doctor. ‘How — how do we get it then?’ The doctor looked as though he had received a reprieve. He led the way back into the bough shed. ‘Come. I’ll show you.’ Beth threw a fierce look at Martin and accompanied the doctor.

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Martin got the message. He wasn’t wanted in there. He wandered over and attended to the doctor’s horse. At least he knew about horses. When Ellis emerged he thanked Martin for watering and feeding his horse. In answer to Martin’s query he said, ‘It’s a long shot. A very long shot.’ He paused. ‘I’ll do my best to get back as soon as I can. However, it will be some days I’m afraid. By then the child will have improved, or …’ Martin watched the doctor drive away, then went into the store to relieve Alice. She gave him a grateful smile, though she looked strained, as though she wanted to jump out of her skin and scratch herself to bits. His presence seemed to calm her in some way and she stayed in the store with him. It was just as well. Normally it was a time of day when few miners called. Several miners drifted in — having seen the doctor drive away they wanted to know what he had said. The men would not be put off with generalities — they wanted to know. When he told them the truth, many of them bought things he was sure they didn’t really need. He found their concern oddly reassuring. In between repeated explanations, Martin occupied himself with sweeping and dusting. He was in the middle of the task when Beth joined them.

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‘Hey! Watch what you’re doing. Those blankets will get sticky from the dates.’ Martin scooped them up and returned them to their rightful place. ‘How did it go?’ ‘Mind your own business.’ Martin persisted. ‘This is all our business. What did you use to wrap the baby in?’ ‘The nappies you bought. But they have to be changed every four hours and washed and dried. There aren’t that many of them.’ ‘Right. I’ll get some more water then.’ He headed out the door, thankful that Charlie Watson’s condenser was finally operating. ‘Doctor Ellis said they would have to be boiled,’ Beth yelled after him. ‘All right. I’ll cut the top out of a four-gallon kerosene tin and make another bucket.’ Any task was better than hanging around worrying. And if the job took him far enough away, maybe, just maybe, he would no longer have to hear those weak cries.

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Martin got to know what a washerwoman felt like. He was forever building fires and washing and boiling nappies in buckets of water. He didn’t mind the job but found the smell strangely disturbing. It also felt odd to be using so much water. To ease his conscience, he never just threw the used water away. When it cooled, he carefully dribbled it around a pumpkin that was growing vigorously at the back of the boarder’s tent. He had bought half a pumpkin from the Chinaman and had thrown the seeds into a rubbish hole. The sight of something green growing was a delight but there were a lot of people beside himself who needed the water. He cringed whenever he asked Charlie Watson for more. Charlie soon noticed. ‘Hey! I’d say there isn’t a man on the field who’d begrudge you the use of the water.’ Better yet, he gave Martin a wink and said, ‘You can have the

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water at sixpence a gallon off the going price if you like.’ Doctor Ellis revisited Black Flag twice. By his second visit he was delighted: the baby was definitely absorbing nourishment. It was too soon to give the all clear, but if they kept up the treatment, he was becoming confident of a good outcome. A few weeks later the baby was definitely thriving and Cathy insisted on working a few hours in the store and the boarding house. Just seeing her on her feet removed some of the gloom that had joined the dust cloud over the diggings. The others were relieved of one task — answering questions, as the diggers could now satisfy their concern and curiosity with Cathy directly as she bustled around the shop. Many of them slid a small nugget across the counter and said quietly, ‘For the mite’s poverty jar.’ Clem was turning up more often than most. Beth was surprised by the men’s generosity, but she said nothing. Later, she was the one who said it was time to give the baby a name. Cathy had been afraid to do so for fear it might tempt fate. However, she had thought about it for she immediately said, ‘The boy’s given names will be Martin Ellis.’ The choice of a surname was a thornier problem, but Beth put her straight about that. ‘Cathy, the only bastard is the one who ran away. Give the baby your

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surname — you did all the hard work.’ After that, Martin made a quick trip to Kalgoorlie. Their stock was dwindling, but he had been afraid to leave in case he was needed. What for, he couldn’t imagine, but he hoped his presence meant something. Or was he just kidding himself? On his return, all three women met him at the hitching rail. To hide his embarrassment he delved into the dray and with a magician’s flourish produced a large bundle of green beans. Cathy’s eyes widened. She held them reverently, as though they were precious. ‘From the Chinaman? They must have cost a fortune.’ Martin shook his head. ‘He said they were a present for the milk baby. Not to be eaten by the baby of course,’ he blushed. There were tears in Cathy’s eyes as she buried her face in the curve of his shoulder. Martin wrapped his arms around her for a moment. Then tried to cover the hug with a joke. ‘Want me to pass that on to the Chinaman? Could be tricky. Don’t think he’d appreciate a hug coming from me.’ Cathy giggled. ‘Then if I get the opportunity I’ll give it to him myself.’ The moment passed and with everyone helping, the dray was quickly unloaded.

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Martin had rubbed the horses down, and was watering and feeding them when Clem Mailey approached him. Clem often stopped for a chat but this time Martin sensed a certain awkwardness in his attitude. He thought he might have an idea why, but he wasn’t going to help Clem out. After they had exhausted an aimless conversation about the horses, Clem finally got to the point. ‘Um, that Cathy’s a fine woman.’ Martin nodded. ‘Agree with you about that, Clem.’ ‘Named the baby after you. And Doctor Ellis too of course.’ He paused, and then said in a rush, ‘I know the baby isn’t yours but do you have a … a claim over her?’ Martin grinned. ‘No Clem, I haven’t. She’s her own woman.’ The furrow left Clem’s brow. ‘Then it’s all right if I … sort of press my suit with her?’ ‘Of course. You make me feel as though I’m her … big brother or something.’ Then Martin sobered. ‘I guess you know her story?’ ‘Yes. A couple of the diggers here were in Kalgoorlie at the time. They knew the bastard who …’ He suddenly straightened. ‘Well, so-called society may think she’s a ruined woman — but I don’t! I think she’s …’ Martin nodded. ‘I understand Clem, but go carefully.

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A scared horse will often balk when confronted by a similar thing again.’ The romance was making slow but sure progress when Martin headed off again with the dray to buy stores in Southern Cross. This time Alice accompanied him on Picky. Having regained her strength and stability she was ready to return to her family in Fremantle. In the last minutes before they set off, Beth insisted on keeping the rifle. She thrust the revolver into his hands and left him in no doubt he was to use it on any rotten-cored man who looked sideways at Alice. Martin hadn’t needed to be told but for the sake of peace he pretended to take it all in. Alice’s male attire and wide-awake hat were his trump cards. He would do his best to avoid bad situations. He enjoyed the trip in Alice’s company. It felt good to talk to a woman without getting his head bitten off. It had taken a while for her fear of men to subside, but the courtesy of the majority of the diggers at Black Flag had helped. Most of all though, it was Beth who had given her the confidence she needed. If she had learned nothing else from Beth it was that a woman’s dependency existed only in a man’s self-centred imagination.

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They came to the end of the railway line twenty miles before the town. In Southern Cross itself there was talk of the rails reaching Coolgardie by the end of 1895, and Kalgoorlie shortly afterwards. Martin hoped they were right. Stores should be cheaper then, and he would have a shorter distance to cart them. He had no real fears of his job disappearing. He doubted the rails would ever branch out to each and every gold find. Their first stop was the railway station. The next train to Perth was due to leave at three o’clock in the afternoon. Alice was mortified at the delay. ‘Martin, you can’t stay with me. If you don’t get on with your store buying it will add another whole day to your trip.’ Martin shrugged. ‘Today. Tomorrow. What’s the difference?’ Alice looked around at the station. Although it was still under construction the waiting room was almost complete. ‘I could hide out — I mean wait here.’ Martin could see her bravado was forced and thought he understood why. This was Gerald and Stella territory. It was highly likely that they were still in business — and if the teamsters had been overenthusiastic about ‘sorting out’ their thinking, he had no doubt they’d still be holding a grudge. He could not leave Alice to wait on her own. When she was on the train — and hopefully in another

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woman’s company — and the train was on its way, only then would he let her out of his sight. ‘Naargh. Come on, let’s go and see what the town’s got in the way of food. Then we’ll make ourselves a fire in the bush and cook ourselves a slap-up meal that’d make the girls green with envy.’ Probably no-one in Southern Cross ate a better meal that day. When Martin helped Alice onto the train he put several sovereigns into her hand, as well as the ticket. ‘I can’t take that,’ Alice protested. ‘You’ve given me so much already.’ ‘Who says the giving was all one way?’ He put his hands behind his back. ‘Please, keep it, you’ll need it for the trip.’ After a long pause, Alice kissed him full on the mouth. There were tears in her eyes as she pulled away. ‘If you weren’t already spoken for, I’d drag you on board and take you with me.’ In the confusion of porters bustling and doors slamming the train shrilled its whistle and huffed out of the station. Martin stood there flat-footed and dazed. What on earth did Alice mean by that? A surprise lay in store for him when he returned to Black Flag. Clem had finally popped the question and

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Cathy had accepted him. It appeared Clem’s brother-inlaw, Jack Bertle, who owned the Miner’s Delight in Kalgoorlie, was building another hotel at the new gold find at Kunanalling and wanted Clem to manage it. Clem would need a woman to help him run it. Martin was delighted. Beth was not so sure. She warned Cathy strongly, as only Beth could, of the danger of becoming a skivvy. ‘Stand up for your rights. You have your own life to lead. Don’t become any man’s doormat.’ Cathy had heard it all before, many times, just as she had heard about how Beth’s father had gone off and left the family destitute. No doubt Beth had been told not to let the same thing happen to her. Not for the first time, Martin wondered whether her father’s desertion was the cause of Beth’s initial scarring. Right then however, with the encroaching wedding, he had no time to pursue the thought. Clem sold his lease to the man working the adjacent one and the marriage was held at Black Flag. Martin suspected that was because Beth was determined not to let Cathy out of her sight until the promise was legalised. If she had any say in the matter — and she certainly did — no matter how good a front he put up, no man was going to use Cathy as the last one had. Captain Bensley of the Coolgardie Salvation Army

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came out to conduct the ceremony. After the festivities, Clem and Cathy — with young Martin swaddled and snug in a prettied-up empty raisin box — headed for Kunanalling as passengers in the captain’s spring cart. Next morning there were some heavy-headed diggers around the field. However, apart from that temporary malaise, life went on. Beth missed Cathy’s company. Although there were now several miners’ wives in the area, they were what she described — to Martin — as typical doormats. Martin smiled to himself. He couldn’t imagine Beth being tied to any man. And if she was, what would that poor bloke be, the yardman? He checked the thought. No, he was being unfair. All Beth wanted was to be considered an equal. With the stores depleted by the festivities, Martin readied the horses for another trip to Southern Cross. This time he thought he detected in Beth a hint of reluctance to see him go — she undoubtedly missed having Cathy around. He told her he would call on the new couple, both going and returning — it would necessitate only a small detour. Martin was surprised at Beth’s reaction. She immediately brightened as she heaped instructions on him as to the questions he should ask Cathy, mainly

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related to young Martin’s wellbeing. ‘You men never ask the right ones. All you can talk about is your horses and the state of the weather. The goddamned weather! Look at it. Does it ever change?’ Martin swung up into the saddle. ‘Right. Consider it done.’ The dray horses trundled the dray behind them. He turned and waved. It was good. Beth was on top of things again. However, he did start memorising the questions; it wouldn’t do to forget any. When he reached Kunanalling he found Cathy and Clem busy. The hotel was nearly completed, with the sign out the front announcing that it was The Best Patch. The bar was already open for business and Cathy was as busy as a Hannan Street barmaid on a Saturday night. It seemed the local diggers had an accumulated thirst to quench and liked the openness of a hotel rather than a sly grog shop, particularly when there was a pretty barmaid behind the counter. Young Martin was asleep in his raisin-box crib, which now sported rockers. Martin dutifully asked Beth’s questions, and Cathy assured him the baby was continuing to improve day by day and told him she needed some more nappies. Clem was busy being the builder’s offsider. The sooner they got the boarding house finished, the sooner they would fill the beds. Martin chatted with him for a

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while then headed on for Southern Cross. The town was going ahead by leaps and bounds. Scores of men worked in the deepening mines and close to a thousand men were working on the eastwardthrusting railway line. The local merchants were reaping the harvest. Martin had never seen so much material in the shops, not only the necessities of life but some luxuries he would only have expected to see in Perth or Guildford. Now that Southern Cross was almost a city in its own right, women were much more visible on its street. And they wore brightly coloured dresses, not at all like the drab clothes of the early few who had worked their own claims or helped on their husbands’. Beth had continued to dress in the style she had adopted on the trek from York — a man’s loose shirt and trousers — claiming the high-necked dresses and petticoats were too hot. It was like trying to work while wearing a canvas tent, she said. Martin looked at the dresses on display in the drapery section of one of the larger stores. Some of them looked very cool, and he thought one in particular would look nice on Beth. But would she wear it — heck, would she even accept it? He shut the lid on his fancies and crossed back into the grocery section of the store and stuck doggedly to

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his list — until a woman brushed past him on her way out. She certainly looked cool. What was he to do? He ordered the rest of the stores and made arrangements to pick them up in the lane at the back of the building. Then he marched back into the drapery section. Confronted with the choice however, his determination teetered. The fact that the assistant was a woman didn’t help. In the end, to get out of the store, he settled on a pale blue, lightweight cotton shirt. He only hoped she wouldn’t find the idea offensive. On the return trip he detoured to Kunanalling to deliver Cathy’s nappies and check he had asked all the right questions. In Black Flag, he had the answers off pat but Beth fired questions at him that she hadn’t asked him before. Hell! He couldn’t win. Martin stoically unloaded the dray. During a few moments when Beth wasn’t present he whisked the shirt out and tucked it under Picky’s saddle flap. He didn’t think this was the right time to give her something so personal. The welcome home had been a bit more formal than usual. He had thought Beth would be glad to see him, if only to hear the news of Cathy and young Martin. True, she had certainly quizzed him. But something about her was … different. He couldn’t put his finger on it. And it worried him as he led the empty dray

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away and unharnessed the horses. He furtively tucked the parcel under his shirt before he unsaddled Picky. When he heard Beth moving boxes around in the store he hurried towards her sleeping tent. It was taboo territory, but he could leave the parcel on her bed and be out in seconds. If she found it under her own steam, she might have cooled down a little by the time she caught up with him. He took a deep breath and ducked through the tent opening. A moment later the parcel fell from his hand. The back of Beth’s tent had been slit from top to bottom with a knife!

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Martin shot into the store. ‘Beth! Your tent’s been slit. What happened? Are you all right?’ He wanted to wrap his arms around her, protect her in every way he could. Instead, he came to a halt almost toe-to-toe with her. Beth put her hand on his chest and pushed herself back a pace. ‘What do you think happened? I needed some breeze through the tent? You really do ask some stupid questions sometimes.’ Martin grabbed her shoulders. ‘Yes, I am stupid. Stupid enough to care about what happens to you.’ He put his arms around her. He was so upset he wanted to shake her. ‘And you still haven’t answered me. Are you really all right?’ Beth was unbending as a post. ‘Don’t I look all right?’ Then she slumped. ‘Oh Martin, thank God you’re back.’ Martin tightened his hug and Beth relaxed in his

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arms for a few seconds. Then she wriggled and pushed herself free. ‘All right, just because I weakened for a moment, that doesn’t mean you can take advantage of me.’ She glared at him. ‘Did you get the candles? So many of the diggers are sinking shafts now, they’ve cleaned me out.’ Martin stepped back a pace. ‘Now who’s asking the stupid questions?’ He held up his hands as he saw she was about to rail at him again. ‘Please Beth, I need you to start from the beginning. When did it happen?’ ‘Last night.’ ‘Were you asleep?’ ‘Nearly. I heard the knife slice through the canvas.’ ‘Who was it? Those teamsters from Southern Cross?’ ‘No. It was Gerald. I recognised his voice.’ ‘What did he want?’ Beth stared at the floor. ‘He said —’ Her voice caught in her throat and it took her a few moments to get it working again. ‘He said, “Ah, Miss Goody Goody, I see the boyfriend is away. I should take you back with me. Use you in place of the ‘merchandise’ you stole from me. Thing is, you’d be more trouble than you’re worth. So I’ll take the hard stuff. The gold you’ve raked in over the counter. Then I’ll burn your store down.”’ Beth shuddered. ‘I could smell rum on his breath.’

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‘What did you do?’ ‘Screamed at him to get out.’ ‘And did he?’ ‘No. He held up the knife so I could see the blade in the moonlight. Then he spat. On my floor, the bastard! Then he said, “Keep your voice down or this little beauty will slit you open as easy as it did your tent.”’ ‘Oh Beth, why wasn’t I here?’ ‘Well, I had the rifle didn’t I? Leaning right beside the bedside cupboard.’ Martin knew the piece of furniture — he’d made it from wooden boxes, stacked on their sides. Beth had draped the bright material down its front. ‘Did that stop him?’ ‘It did when I cocked it. You know how it makes a sharp snick when you do that.’ Martin nodded. ‘Then what happened?’ ‘The slimy worm tried to soft-soap me. That’s when I pulled the trigger.’ ‘Good for you. Did you hit him?’ ‘Can’t have. As well as the slit there’s now a little round hole in the back of my tent.’ Her voice gathered speed and the next words came tumbling out. ‘Went out that slit like the rat he is. I jumped after him, saw him running off. Tried to pump another cartridge into the breech, but I couldn’t. Had the stupid shakes.’ She

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shuddered. ‘Still not sure if I could have used it again … when he was running away like that … It was different when he was threatening me.’ ‘So, it looks like Picky and I have some tracking to do …’ Beth took a deep breath. ‘You should talk to Tiny first.’ ‘Why?’ ‘All the men in the boarding tent heard the shot; they came out and raced after him.’ ‘Did they catch him?’ Beth paused. ‘When they came back they assured me I wouldn’t see him again. Tiny said the mongrel had suddenly disappeared, fallen down an abandoned mine shaft — or something.’ Beth stared at her hands. ‘It was the way he said it …’ Martin squatted beside her and awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders. Beth pushed him away. ‘Get off! Just because I was frightened for a moment that doesn’t mean you can maul me.’ She suddenly glared at him. ‘Anyway, what were you doing in my tent?’ Martin moved to the other side of the counter. ‘I … um … left something there for you,’ he said, though his mind was busy with what she had just said. I was frightened. Anyone would be frightened in such

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circumstances, but for Beth to admit it — to him? ‘What sort of something?’ ‘Where’s the rifle now?’ ‘Where we usually keep it. Why? What have you done?’ ‘Nothing. It’s just that what’s in the parcel is … a bit personal.’ He glanced at her. Was her expression softening? After a funeral-beat of seconds Beth said, ‘Well, I’d better have a look at it then, hadn’t I?’ Martin followed her out and stood at the door waiting, with an eye on possible escape routes. She was gone for what seemed a long time. When she reappeared, she had the shirt in her hands. Not crumpled into a ball ready to throw at him, but held carefully. She stopped in front of him and looked up at him. ‘You big lump,’ she said, turning the shirt gently in her hands. ‘Where did you get something like this?’ ‘I’ll put on the billy and tell you all about it.’ Sitting down drinking tea he told her of the changes in Southern Cross, of how the railway line was progressing. ‘Shouldn’t be long and it will be in Coolgardie. Good thing too. I won’t have to be away for so long at a time.’ He shook his head. ‘I dunno, I’m away five minutes and you’re entertaining gentlemen in your bedroom.’ He just beat the broom through the doorway.

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When he checked the horses, he patted Picky. Scratched him behind the ear. ‘Females. They’re strange creatures, aren’t they? Oh, sorry mate. Forgot you’d lost interest in them.’ After feeding the horses, he went over to where Tiny was sorting through a bucketful of dirt he had just windlassed from his shaft. Tiny Simpson had turned over his share of Victorian and New South Wales dirt. He was now big and tough and had been honed by hard work. They sat down together on a mullock heap. ‘Good you were able to help out Beth last night, mate. Thanks,’ Martin said. ‘Wasn’t only me,’ said Tiny. ‘Lots of other blokes were right on my heels. That Beth’s a gritty little lady. She’d bend over backwards to help one of her sisters — or, on the sly, a bloke in strife.’ He touched the side of his nose. ‘Reckon there’s not a man jack on the diggings who wouldn’t lie on the ground and let her walk on him if it was necessary.’ Martin grinned. ‘Don’t offer.’ Then he sobered. ‘That business has made me even more nervous about my next trip to Southern Cross.’ Tiny slapped him on the shoulder. I’ve already told you, don’t worry. That spitting little wildcat will be as safe as houses.’ His voice trailed off as he rubbed his

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forehead. He let his head rest in his hands for a moment and Martin wondered if his friend was crook. Nah. That’d be the day. ‘Dance a bit too long with the rum bottle last night Tiny?’ Tiny laughed. ‘No. But perhaps I should have.’ He suppressed a slight cough. ‘Hmm, could be getting a touch of the flu.’ He grinned. ‘Now there’s a thing, a round or two with Rum the title holder might burn it out.’ Martin grinned as he rose to his feet and dusted off his backside. ‘Anyway, thanks Tiny. Nice to know you blokes are keeping an eye on her.’ ‘Martin, Beth might appear to be as tough as bullock hide, but if it weren’t for her, most of the diggers here wouldn’t be much better than animals.’ There was an angry bite to the sun when Martin set out on his next trip to Southern Cross. He called in at Kunanalling where Cathy and Clem were doing so well they were talking of starting their own hotel in the nottoo-distant future. The way the rapidly growing fields were spreading and flourishing, hotels were becoming gold mines in their own right. The Best Patch was doing a roaring trade — it seemed the diggers considered the liquid they were selling was much safer than drinking the local water. Or at least that was their

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story and they were sticking to it. From their share of the takings Cathy and Clem had started a building fund. It was to be a partnership from go to whoa. They had already chosen the name for the new hotel — The Mates Claim. Martin carefully stored all the information. Particularly about how they were sharing everything. Beth could rest assured that her friend was becoming neither a skivvy nor a doormat. There was one thing causing Cathy some concern, however. The dry weather seemed to be heralding a long hot summer. She could handle the heat, but what would happen to the local water supply? Fouled waterholes were thought to be one of the major causes of typhoid. Two diggers from Kunanalling had already been carted off to the Coolgardie Hospital. Young Martin was getting stronger by the day but would he be able to fend off the dreaded disease if it really got established? Martin told her not to worry — the members of her small family were all fit and healthy — but he left with a nagging sense of unease. His unease turned to full-blown alarm when he arrived in Coolgardie. The outbreak of typhoid and dysentery was being called an epidemic. The government hospital was filled to overflowing, as were several private ones. Some patients were even being

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cared for in private homes. The nurses and doctors were being run off their feet and none of them had the time to make trips to outlying areas. Martin was curious as to what caused the disease. How did people catch it and what could they do to prevent it? He managed to corner Doctor Ellis for a few moments, who told him it was being linked to several causes. Bad water, of course, but that would be eased as soon as the railway line reached the town. Clean water from the coast would then be railed to Coolgardie. At the moment only limited amounts were being carted from the line’s end by slow-moving teams of camels, bullocks and horses. But just as bad were the overcrowding and poor sanitation in the haphazard tent towns on the smaller gold finds. In Coolgardie, it was hoped that a full clean-up of the town, and the application of phenol to all backyard dunnies, would at least slow down the epidemic. Unfortunately, that could not be as effective in outlying diggers’ camps where there were no dunnies at all. Martin was preoccupied by the problem all the way to Southern Cross. He was well aware of how most diggers shrugged off aches and pains, hoping that if they kept on working, the illness would go away. And it usually did. However, typhoid was something else.

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Those who did eventually stagger into a hospital were very sick indeed. Some came in so sick they died before the nurses even got to know their names. And ironically, the subsequent death rate only worsened a hospital’s reputation as the place you went to die. Martin made his purchases as quickly as possible. He added a supply of phenol and carbolic that caused him a few headaches when it came to fitting them on the already loaded dray. He apologised to the horses for making them haul more than he thought they should and gave them another scoop of oats. On his return trip, the Mailey family were still fit and well. He gave a quantity of phenol and carbolic acid to Clem with instructions on how to use it. The carbolic soap he gave to Cathy. If what Doctor Ellis had said was true, a bit of prevention might save a lot of trouble. He asked them to pass the word around. There were a lot of tent towns spread around the goldfields, and there was no way he could supply them all with phenol. His heart felt a little lighter as he headed for Black Flag. He couldn’t save everybody, but at least he could make a difference in his own little circle. Or so he thought.

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Beth shot out of the store as soon as he halted out the front. Odder than that, she took the reins and hitched the horses to the rail. Even if he had been game enough to express his surprise, he never got the chance. She was as full of questions as ever. Martin got down, flexing his muscles to loosen them up when what he really wanted to do was give her an it’s-nice-to-be-back hug. Of course there was no way he would do that. He didn’t yet have a death wish. Yet from the start he got the feeling that something was wrong. Was she overdoing things to cover up something? Worry perhaps? Whatever it was, it was most unlike Beth. Had Gerald reappeared? He tried to sound casual. ‘Er, did you have any problems while I was away?’ Beth’s shoulders drooped. She looked at him and he

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saw the sadness in her eyes. ‘Martin, it’s Tiny. I think he’s got typhoid.’ Martin’s blood ran cold. Please no, not Tiny. He was such a strong man. The one who scoffed at any man’s softness but inside was more helpful and fair than anyone. And what about Beth? If Tiny was crook, then doubtless Beth would have been taking care of him. He shied away from the implications. Passing on his fear could only make things worse. ‘Where is he?’ Beth gestured towards Tiny’s tent. ‘On his bed.’ ‘Bad?’ As soon as the word was out of his mouth Martin regretted it. If Tiny was on his bed at this time of the day then it had to be bad. He steeled himself for one of Beth’s scathing retorts about stupid questions. But she surprised him. Her eyes were downcast as she said dully, ‘I’ve never seen him like that.’ Martin wanted to comfort her but instead he swung back to the dray and lifted out a four-gallon tin of phenol. He explained what they must do with it, even though it was hardly the sort of thing you discussed with a woman. Still, he had already jumped that hurdle with Clem and Cathy. As soon as the dray was unloaded and he had attended to the horses, he and Beth conferred over a brew of tea and he told her about the epidemic in

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Coolgardie. ‘As yet Kunanalling is relatively free and the Maileys are well. And even if it does turn out to be the worst summer ever I believe they will be all right.’ Beth nodded. Then asked in a subdued voice, ‘How bad is it in Coolgardie then?’ Martin took a deep breath. ‘It’s really bad. There are so many sick men flooding in, the hospitals can’t handle them all. One of the nurses told me how some of them were so far gone they died before the staff even got to know their names.’ He was cut short by Beth’s expression. She looked shattered. ‘Beth! What is it?’ Her answer was almost a whisper. ‘Before anyone knew who he was …’ Martin sensed she was talking about something deep. He didn’t know what to say. Beth seemed to be talking to herself as much as to him. ‘I wonder if that’s what happened to that man we found … whose bones we found … in the bush on our way up here. Only he didn’t even make it to a hospital.’ ‘Sure, it’s possible it was typhoid that killed him. But he could have been bitten by a snake, or perished from lack of water, anything.’ He paused. ‘What are you thinking Beth?’ ‘I suppose I was wondering if something like that could have happened to my dad.’

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Martin suddenly understood what Beth was ‘seeing’. He wanted to soothe her but again he didn’t know what to say. Beth gazed at the ground as she spoke again. ‘If so, then maybe he never did desert us.’ She suddenly looked up and met Martin’s eyes. It felt as if he could see all the way to the bottom of her being. ‘Please,’ she pleaded. ‘How can I ever know?’ Martin felt utter compassion for her pain. He kept his voice low. ‘Sorry Beth. But I don’t see how you can ever really know that.’ ‘If … if I’ve unjustly cursed him all these years … how can I go on living with myself ?’ Martin had never seen her so lifeless, so devoid of energy. He took her in his arms. ‘Beth, you haven’t done anything wrong. You may have been living with some inaccurate beliefs — we don’t know. But you could ease the harness on yourself for a bit. Let time help you straighten them out.’ The words had come from his heart and he hoped desperately that they would help. After a long silence Beth said, ‘Well, at least Tiny is among people who know him.’

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27

They went together. Martin took a bottle of phenol and a cake of carbolic soap. On entering the tent he was startled by Tiny’s condition. In an attempt to cover his shock he tried to keep his comments on the light side. ‘Hey Tiny, pretty bad flu you’ve got there.’ Tiny looked up at him from purple-ringed eyes. ‘Dunno where it flew in from, mate. But I wish I could swat it out like one of these damned blow flies.’ Martin put the soap on the upended kerosene box Tiny used as a bedside table, then wrenched the cork out of the bottle of phenol. ‘Right, hold your nose. I’ll splash some of this around. It should at least keep the blowies away.’ He took a deep breath and launched in on what he needed to know. He was holding on to a hope that it might not be typhoid. ‘Er, this feeling lousy business Tiny, are you vomiting with it?’

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‘Yeah.’ Tiny looked apologetically at Beth. ‘Sorry about that.’ Martin pushed on. ‘And the other end? You know …’ he gestured behind him. Tiny again looked shamefaced. Looked towards Beth but could not make eye contact. ‘Afraid so, Beth must hate my guts …’ ‘You don’t owe me anything Tiny,’ cried Beth. ‘Not even an apology. And anyway, if I’m any judge, you’ll soon be up and giving me cheek. And you haven’t dug up that really big nugget yet. How am I going to get my hands on it if you don’t keep buying our stores?’ She choked up, glanced at Martin. ‘But you shouldn’t have to …’ ‘You stop worrying Tiny.’ Beth sounded as though she was back in control — at least on the surface. ‘I’ll soon be rousing at you. Then you’ll be wishing you were crook again.’ Martin was still hoping he could be wrong about his conclusions. ‘Get hot and bothered sometimes Tiny?’ ‘Yeah, I do. I sweat a bucketful at night.’ They left shortly after that, Beth pushing Martin towards the tent flap. ‘This oaf needn’t think he’s getting out of the work.’ As soon as they were out of Tiny’s hearing Beth turned to Martin. ‘Is it … ?’

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Martin answered slowly. ‘I wish I was wrong but it sounds like typhoid to me.’ He then tried to sound confident. ‘I’ll get some more water from Charlie Watson’s condenser.’ ‘What good is that going to do?’ ‘We have to wash our hands with the carbolic acid soap. Often. Especially after being with Tiny. Like right now.’ He looked pensive for a moment. ‘Tiny will need washing too …’ ‘That amount of water will cost a fortune!’ ‘So? Ever heard of anyone taking their money to … wherever we go?’ Beth hesitated. ‘You do realise Tiny can’t even wash himself at the moment. He’s far too weak.’ Martin thought about that. Could he do it? The embarrassment would kill them both — but then again, how many horses had he mucked out for? Surely he could do something like that to help a sick mate. ‘Right. Then I’ll do it.’ The first thing Martin did after unloading the dray was to pour a generous quantity of phenol into their thunderboxes — both their private one and the twoseater at the back of the boarding house. He then set off around the diggings to pass on the word. One thing soon became obvious. To make any

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impression on the problem, they would need a lot more of the stuff than he had brought. He hoped he wouldn’t have to travel all the way back to Southern Cross for it. Before he took off again, he did his best to help Tiny. Not that there was much he could do beside wash him. Tiny couldn’t eat and drank only a little tinned condensed milk. During an anguished conversation with Beth, he decided he would make for Coolgardie and hope he could get what he needed there. He could also visit the hospital and try to get some advice about treating a typhoid patient and purchase whatever medications he could. In the meantime Beth would keep Tiny as comfortable as she possibly could. Luck was on his side for a change. With the railway so close, all sorts of supplies were pouring in to Coolgardie and there was no shortage of phenol and carbolic. Within a few hours he had the dray loaded and had visited the hospital. All the beds were full, and patients were being housed in bough sheds. There was no medicine to be spared, and little more to learn from the frantically overworked staff, so he was soon on his way back. The Maileys at Kunanalling were still well. He left what he could with them and continued on to Black Flag. He had been away less than two days but he was

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shocked by Tiny’s wasted and exhausted condition. Beth had even worse news for him. Another digger had just died. Martin was more resigned than devastated. He didn’t even know if what he was trying to do was any good. But he helped Beth in the store and in the boarding tent and did everything he could for Tiny, washing him often and boiling his bedclothes. He even scrounged some goat’s milk from one of the miner’s wives. Tiny was hanging on but he still couldn’t handle solid food. Beth too had dark rings beneath her eyes and Martin was anxious that she might have caught it too. And just as worrying, was he getting it? Five other diggers had been hauled off to Coolgardie by their mates. With all the diggers on the Black Flag field doing their best to improve sanitation, Martin soon found he had to make another trip to Coolgardie to secure more of the foul-smelling disinfectant. He wished he could also bring back all the good water that was needed. Water was being railed from the coast but he did not have the capacity to cart enough of it to Black Flag. It was another hopeless dream. Before he left he went and stood by Tiny’s bed. The big man lay motionless; his eyes were closed and he looked more wasted than ever. Martin hesitated, wondering if he should cart him to Coolgardie. But

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what was the point? With all the nurses already almost asleep on their feet, no-one would be able to do any more for him than he and Beth were already doing. Blackness clouded Martin’s mood as he rode away. In Coolgardie he found that three of the men from Black Flag had died. Two more fever-ridden men came in on a wagon a few hours after him. Hounded by his fear for Beth, he loaded up as quickly as possible and headed back, making only his customary detour to Kunanalling, where he stopped only long enough to ascertain that all was still well with the Maileys. Back in Black Flag, Beth was waiting as he brought the dray to a stop. Her face and the way her shoulders slumped frightened him. He jumped down and placed a hand on her forehead. She did not slap it away. He came back from the depths of despair when he found her skin was merely hot, not clammy. But since when had he been an expert? Anyone with eyes could see that the fire had gone out of her. ‘Do you feel all right?’ Tears welled in Beth’s eyes. ‘Tiny’s gone. He died yesterday.’ Her voice caught. ‘It’s not fair. He was a good man.’ Martin closed the small gap between them and wrapped his arms around her. She didn’t struggle. ‘He tried so hard.’ Martin nodded. ‘As hard as anyone could.’

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‘And he was such a big man, so strong. Yet at the last, inside he was just a frightened little boy.’ ‘Deep down, aren’t we all just scared kids, getting through life as best we can? Don’t we all need someone to hang on to?’ Martin murmured in her hair. Beth let her head fall against his chest. ‘I keep thinking about my dad.’ There was a sob in her voice. ‘Maybe he didn’t desert us, but something … happened to him. Did he have anyone with him? Or did he die scared as well as alone?’ She looked up into Martin’s face. ‘I wish I could have been there with him! I should have …’ Martin tightened his hug. ‘Beth, how on earth could you? You were a little girl and not in any way to blame.’ Tears rimmed Beth’s eyes. ‘But I feel I should have done something — should do something now.’ Martin wanted to see her old confidence and determination. ‘Beth, past is past. There’s only one thing you can do now.’ Beth stared at him. ‘What’s that?’ ‘Give your dad the benefit of the doubt. Believe with all your heart that he was doing his best to do what he said he would, that he was trying to make life easier for his family.’ He hoped that was true. But there was one thing for sure. Beth would never hear anything different from him.

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Damper Damper is the simplest and fastest bread to prepare. It was made by bush settlers and may be baked on the open fire or in a camp-oven. There are many versions of damper. For instance, you can use beer instead of milk. This recipe uses an ordinary kitchen oven, but you could also wrap the dough around a stick and cook it over an open fire.

4 tablespoons butter (or olive oil) 4 cups plain flour 1 tablespoon baking powder 1 teaspoon salt 11⁄ 2 cups milk Mix the flour, salt and baking powder together in a bowl. Rub in the butter or oil until fine crumbs form. Add the milk to make a soft dough. Knead lightly on a floured board until smooth. Shape into round loaf, brush with milk, and bake at 375° F (a hot oven) for about thirty minutes, or until the loaf makes a hollow sound when tapped.

Time line 1826

First European settlement in Western Australia established at Albany

1829

Swan River Colony proclaimed, Perth and Guildford established

1836

York established

1851

Gold discovered in Ballarat, Victoria

1864–68

C C Hunt surveys wells and other water sources between Perth and Kalgoorlie

1886

First gold found in Western Australia in Hall’s Creek

1887

Gold first discovered in Western Australia’s Eastern Goldfields at Eenuin, in the Yilgarn Goldfield

1888

Gold discovered at Parker Range

1889

Albany to York railway opened

1892

Gold discovered at Coolgardie

1893

Gold discovered at Kalgoorlie and Black Flag

1894

Railway reaches Southern Cross

Imperial currency and measures 12 pence (12d) = 1 shilling (1s) 20 shillings (20s) = 1 pound (£1) 21 shillings = 1 guinea tuppence = two pence, 2d a sovereign* is a £1 coin 1 ton, 2240 pounds weight, is almost the same as 1 tonne, 1000 kg 1 mile = about 1.6 km, so 25 miles is about 40 km, 300 miles is about 500 km 1 yard = about 90 cm

* Sovereigns were a particularly sought after form of currency because of the value of the gold they contained.

About the author Ron Bunney was born in Geraldton, Western Australia. He worked as a farmer, a salesman and a crayfisherman, and has travelled widely throughout Australia. Early in his writing career he worked on a number of series for children’s television, including ‘Falcon Island’. However, after having been repeatedly told what to write by script editors, producers and directors he decided to stick to telling the stories he wanted to tell, the way he wanted to tell them, and began writing stories for young readers. His other books include Eye of the Eagle (1995), Sink or Swim (1999), The Hidden (2000) and No One Owns Me (2004).

First published 2005 by

FREMANTLE ARTS CENTRE PRESS 25 Quarry Street, Fremantle (PO Box 158, North Fremantle 6159) Western Australia www.facp.iinet.net.au Copyright © Ron Bunney, 2005. This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher. Consultant Editor Janet Blagg Cover design Marion Duke Printed by Griffin Press National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-publication data Bunney, Ron, 1929- . All that glitters. For young adults. ISBN 1 920731 77 6. 1. Gold mines and mining - Western Australia - History Fiction. I. Title. A823.3