Gunnedah Hero
© Clancy Tucker
Published by Morris Publishing Australia on Smashwords.
ABN: 67142307238
This book is available in print from our website.
Website: www.morrispublishingaustralia.com
December 2011.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-646-56847-8
Tucker, Clancy Lawson
Dewey Number: A823.4
Young adult fiction.
Copyright © Clancy Lawson Tucker 2011
Clancy Tucker asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or be transmitted by any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Illustrations, poetry and photography copyright © Clancy Lawson Tucker 2011.
Grateful thanks to ‘Stockman’s Reward Trailrides’, Eildon, Victoria, Australia.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Dedication
This story is dedicated to the farming pioneers of Australia - men, women and children, their horses and dogs. People who struggled through tough times; those who loved the land and worked tirelessly beneath the Drover’s Blanket.
Acknowledgements
I am deeply grateful to many people who have encouraged me as an author, especially close friends, many of whom are not avid readers. Thanks must also go to my devoted young readers, kids from eight to sixteen-years-of-age who read my work, kept me on-track and encouraged me: Kate, Judy, ‘GP’, Lauren, Robin, Brooke, Kelly, Mara, Monica, Pete, Anna, Mona, Sam, Nugget, Kerry, Alisha, Molly, Gae, Lucy, Keisha, Emma, April, Kayla, Sarah, Nick and my old mate Jack.
Thanks to my editor and poetry guru. Both have added lustre to this story. A special thanks to my mother and doctor, Owen Crompton. Both encouraged me to keep writing. I’m grateful to my IT guru, Peter, and my printing expert, Howie. Both kept me in touch with technology and printing. To Albert Ullin, a special thanks. He had great faith in my work and offered me extraordinary opportunities.
I encourage anyone who has considered writing a book to stop procrastinating. Do it. Find something you are passionate about and write passionately about it. It can be an extraordinary journey.
Clancy Tucker
2011
SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA: PRESENT DAY
Chapter 1
Gunnie Danson strode into his bedroom and threw his schoolbag on the floor. It was Friday, the end of another school week.
‘I hate school!’ He flopped into his computer chair and gazed through the window. His mother soon appeared in the doorway.
‘Hi, Gun. How was school?’ Gunnie scowled. She always asked the same dumb question. She knew he hated school. Everybody knew.
‘It was boring, as usual. And to make matters worse I got an assignment for social studies. I have to write 500 words on the drought.’ A deep frown etched in his forehead. ‘What would I know about drought?’ he grumbled. His mother folded her arms and Gunnie felt another lecture coming. His attitude to school had been a hot topic for ages. It was simple. He loved sports but school sucked. To avoid the lecture he smiled and changed the subject. ‘How come you look so grubby, Mum?’
‘Grubby? What do you mean?’ Kim Danson rarely looked untidy, even when she gardened. She glanced in the mirror and frowned at the smudge marks on her cheeks. ‘Oh. Been cleaning out the hall cupboards.’ Gunnie watched his mum take a tissue from her pocket and gently dab her face. He was proud of her in a way. She always dressed neatly and wore nice clothes, but without being a snob like some of the other kids’ mums.
‘You’re always cleaning, Mum. This place looks like a palace,’ he said hoping to sway her mood, but his mum spun round like a gunslinger. Gunnie sighed. Maybe he hadn’t avoided the lecture after all.
‘Well, your father and I like to live in a clean house. Unfortunately, you kids don’t. Look at your room, Gunnedah Danson! It looks like a bomb’s hit it. And your sisters’ rooms aren’t much better. One day when you, Sam and Jackie have teenagers of your own, I’ll tell them exactly what you were like at their age.’ His mother folded her arms with a smug look and surveyed his room with satellite-accurate eyes. Almost every centimetre of wall space was covered in basketball, football and rock star posters, and almost every centimetre of floor was covered in clothes and discarded junk. His favourite colour, blue, featured in everything.
Gunnie’s mum turned her gaze on him and Gunnie looked down at his uniform. His shirt wasn’t tucked in, his shorts were dusty, and his socks and shoes looked like they’d been through a sand storm. He peered into the mirror to inspect his face and a pair of steel blue eyes looked back at him, surrounded by a suntanned face and shoulder-length blonde hair. He spied a new spot on his chin – a fresh pimple. Luckily, it didn’t look like it would amount to much.
‘What about you, Gun?’ said his mum with raised eyebrows. ‘Why are your shorts so filthy?’
‘Touch footy,’ he said, inspecting the zit in the mirror. He glanced down and brushed his shorts.
‘Hm. I guess touch footy is like cleaning cupboards, eh?’ She gave him a sneaky grin and he poked his tongue out at her playfully. Gunnie’s mum never stayed annoyed with him for long. Gunnie’s friends all reckoned their folks were un-cool and had no idea what teenagers thought about. But Gunnie liked his mum’s sense of humour. She was easy to talk to – which was why his friends spent so much time at Gunnie’s place. She was a good mum, plus, she worked three days a week in the local op-shop, walked every morning, kept their house in immaculate condition and did most of the gardening. All in all, Gunnie thought his mum was okay. ‘Oh. Almost forgot!’ She disappeared into the hall for a moment and brought back a large cardboard box.
‘What’s that, Mum?’ said Gunnie surveying the box.
‘Don’t know. It arrived today by courier. It must be important. I had to sign for it.’ He flopped onto his bed to open the strange delivery.
‘Is it an early Christmas present from you and Dad?’
‘Nope. Check out the envelope on the box.’
Gunnie peeled the sticky tape away and found an envelope addressed to him: Gunnedah Swenson Danson. In the top left-hand corner was the name of a legal firm.
‘Looks pretty official,’ he muttered. His mother sat on the bed next to him. She looked as curious about the box as he was.
‘Open it and find out,’ she urged. Gunnie ripped the envelope open and unfolded two sheets of paper. The first one was a letter from a solicitor’s office.
Mr Gunnedah Danson
Re: Last Will and Testament of Blake Angus Danson
As solicitor acting on behalf of your late grandfather, I have been instructed to forward you the contents of this box. Attached is a letter addressed to you from your grandfather. Please contact me should you require further information.
Yours sincerely
Blythe Carrington, LLB
Gunnie was gob smacked. ‘It’s from solicitors. Gramps left me this box of stuff. Hold on, Mum.’ He flipped the page over to find a letter from his grandfather. Gramps had died two months before and Gunnie still missed him. He and his grandfather had enjoyed a special friendship, and just thinking about him made tears well in Gunnie’s eyes. His mother peered over his shoulder, keen to read the mysterious letter.
Gunnie,
You often said, “Gramps, you’re the man.” I loved it when you said that. It made me feel special. Now I’m saying it to you. “Gunnie, you’re the man.”
I want you to do me a favour. This box contains several things that will interest you. The contents certainly enchanted me. Inside it, you will find a manuscript written in 1911 by your great-great-grandfather, Smokey Danson. At the time, Australia faced the worst drought in its history. It’s amazing how history repeats itself. Now we are in the grip of another crippling drought. In the box, you will also find Smokey’s diary, along with a diary written by a miner in 1871 and the working notes of a constable from Gunnedah – a constable who spent four decades trying to solve a double murder. I’m not going to tell you who finally did solve the double murder … you’ll find that out for yourself. Also enclosed is a copy of a 1911 edition of The Gunnedah Gazette – one that mentions your great-great-grandfather.
Gunnie, I want you to read everything in this box. Begin with the manuscript. The other items will become relevant as you read this wonderful story of an amazing man and his best friend, Molly Jane Swenson.
I’m counting on you to carry out my wishes. When you’ve read and studied everything, I want you to have the manuscript published. I have left money in my estate to cover its publication costs, and my solicitor, Blythe Carrington, will arrange everything. I found this box in the attic at Wiralee Station and I’m sure glad I did. Please do NOT open the envelope at the end of the manuscript until you have read the entire story.
What’s in this box will convince you of two things: Smokey Danson was right; this story must be told. More importantly, Wiralee Station should never be sold off – it’s our heritage.
You’re the man.
Love Gramps
Gunnie re-read the letter from his grandfather and showed it to his mum. ‘Mum, there’s stuff in this box about a drought in 1910,’ he said. He broke the seal on the box and removed the lid to investigate its contents. A musty old smell wafted into his nostrils. Inside the box were five separate parcels, all clearly marked. Written on the first parcel were two words: ‘Gunnedah Hero’. ‘This one’s got my name on it – Gunnedah. Cool, eh?’ he said to his mum.
Kim Danson peered at the box and frowned. Then she looked at her watch and stood up. ‘Well I have to finish the cupboards and start getting dinner ready. The girls will be home soon. Let me know what it’s all about. I’m curious.’
As she headed to the door, Gunnie had a strange feeling.
‘Hey, Mum,’ he said calling her back. ‘Can we spend the weekend at Wiralee Station?’
‘Wiralee? Why?’
‘I can’t explain it, but I’ve got a weird feeling I should be at Wiralee Station when I check all this stuff out. It’s Friday. We could pack up and go tonight. I could ring Uncle Dan and tell him we’re coming. What do you reckon?’ Gunnie looked pleadingly at his mother.
‘We can’t, Gun. Your sisters are playing netball tomorrow.’
‘Damn,’ he muttered then came up with an alternative plan. ‘What if Dad and I go? You know, just the two of us?’
She smiled. ‘He’d probably enjoy spending time with you and catching up with his brother. Why not go and call him,’ his mother said and walked off to finish cleaning the hall cupboards.
Fired up, Gunnie ran downstairs to ring his father at work. It’d been a while since either of them had visited Wiralee Station. The large property had been in the Danson family since 1848, and although Gunnie enjoyed visiting to ride horses and motorbikes, it was a place he knew little about. He dialled his father’s direct line and waited.
‘Mr Danson’s office,’ came a familiar voice.
‘Hi, Miss Pearson. It’s Gunnie. Can I please speak to Dad? It won’t take long.’
‘Hi, Gunnie. Just a second.’ For some reason his father’s personal assistant liked him. Gunnie was always polite to her. Miss Pearson had worked for Roley Danson for five years and, according to his dad, she was the best in the business. She decided who could and who couldn’t speak to the busy executive. When his father’s voice came on the line, it was blunt. His dad was obviously busy so Gunnie didn’t waste any time.
‘Dad. Got a cool idea. Why don’t you and I go to Wiralee for the weekend? You need time away from work and you always say Wiralee is a great place to relax.’
‘What’s suddenly inspired you to visit Wiralee, Gun?’ asked his father.
‘I’ve got something I need to do there. I got a big box today … a box full of stuff from Gramps. He left it to me in his will. It’s stuff I have to read and I want to be at Wiralee Station when I read it.’ Gunnie waited for a positive reply, hoping his father would agree.
‘Your timing is perfect, Gun,’ said his dad. I need to speak to Wirra about a few financial issues.’ Gunnie smiled. ‘Wirra’ was a nickname for his Uncle Dan, a shortened version of Wiralee, the family station. Gunnie was rapt but then he remembered something.
‘What about golf, Dad?’
‘The guys will just have to lose without my help, eh?’ said his father at the other end of the line. Gunnie chuckled. He knew his dad was being modest. Roley Danson was a top golfer. In fact, he’d been the club champion on many occasions.
‘Awesome!’ said Gunnie. ‘While you’re talking to Uncle Dan about the Wiralee stuff, I can do what I’ve gotta do. I’ll ring Uncle Dan and tell him we’re coming and ask Mum to pack your things for when you get home.’
Gunnie hung up and punched the air. ‘Yes!’ he shouted, grateful that his father had given up his regular Saturday golf game to drive to Wiralee. He grabbed a handful of biscuits and dialled his favourite uncle, the man who ran Wiralee Station. Sadly, his aunt answered the phone with a snooty voice.
‘Wiralee Station. Kate Danson speaking.’
‘Oh. Hi, Aunty Kate. It’s Gunnie. Is Uncle Dan there?’
‘Hello, Gunnedah. Yes. Hold on. I think Daniel is in his study.’ Gunnie disliked his aunt. Uncle Dan was a great guy but Aunty Kate was a snob. She spoke with a snooty voice and whined all the time. And she did nothing to help around Wiralee.
‘I’ll hold on,’ he replied politely, glad she didn’t want to talk to him.
With a mouthful of biscuit, Gunnie lounged across the kitchen bench, thinking about the mysterious box on his bed. He also wondered about the envelope he’d find at the end of the manuscript and the name his grandfather had mentioned in his letter – Molly Jane Swenson.
‘Swenson is my middle name,’ he muttered. Then his uncle came on the line.
‘Wirra Danson.’ His uncle sounded busy so Gunnie jumped in.
‘Uncle Dan, it’s Gunnie. Is it okay for Dad and me to come up for the weekend?’
‘G’day, Gun. Sure it is. It’ll be great to see ya. Are the girls coming?’
‘Nope. Jack and Sam have netball.’ Gunnie detected disappointment in his uncle’s voice.
‘What a shame. Yeah, no worries, Gun. Ya Dad and I have some things to sort out anyway.’
Gunnie thanked his uncle and said they’d see him tonight. With another fistful of biscuits, he bolted upstairs to his bedroom, yelling as he pounded up the carpeted stairway.
‘Mum! Everything’s cool with Dad and Uncle Dan. We’re leaving as soon as Dad gets home from work.’
His mother gave him a grin. ‘Mm … Well you’re big enough and ugly enough to pack your own bags. Do it now and don’t wait till the last minute like you usually do.’
‘Thanks for the compliment,’ he smiled back.
‘You’re welcome.’
With his bag packed and his clothes changed, Gunnie peered into the cardboard box. Almost reverently, he removed the topmost parcel, the one titled Gunnedah Hero. He slowly removed the waxed paper covering to find a sizeable book neatly tied with string. On the cover was written:
Gunnedah Hero
by Smokey Danson, 1911
‘Jeez. Smells ancient,’ said Gunnie pulling back the hard leather-bound cover. Inside, on the first page, was a poem.
Our Wiralee was peaceful
up until the big drought came
and Nature, She was rough on them
and played an awful game.
It didn’t rain for years,
there was no water for the grass,
they prayed and waited for
the toughest drought of all to pass.
For five long years they suffered
on this dry and dusty land
with hungry, sorry beasts and
pastures made of arid sand.
A drover mounted-up his
aim to head on for a drive
because they were no quitters
and he wanted them alive.
Molly Jane Swenson
1910
Gunnie read the lines of verse. Besides the beautiful handwriting, he noticed three things.
‘Wow. My full name is on this page … Gunnedah Swenson Danson,’ he muttered. He was about to turn the page when his mother hollered his name. He closed the journal carefully, placed it back in the box, and ran downstairs, annoyed he’d been interrupted. His mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner.
‘Watch this,’ she said pointing to a large plasma television in the adjoining family room. ‘It’s a special report on the drought.’ Gunnie flopped onto the couch and stared at the screen.
Gunnie had never really thought about drought before, but his social studies assignment and the unexpected delivery of the box from his late grandfather had changed that. Sure, he knew Australia was the driest inhabited continent on earth – he’d learned that in Geography. He’d even heard drought mentioned on the nightly news. Plus his parents had talked about the water restrictions – especially his mother, who loved her garden. Now, with a mysterious box containing a story about a drought in 1910, Gunnie was keen to watch the special news report.
On the television screen, Gunnie saw nothing but desolate farmland. Farmers were handfeeding sheep and cattle. The grass had long gone, the earth looked parched and barren, and the dams and rivers had dried up. It looked like a moonscape, and the farmers and their wives wore pained expressions as they were interviewed. Gunnie heard the tension in their voices when they described the hardship of the current drought – the physical, mental, and financial hardship.
‘I never realised it was that bad,’ he murmured as he watched a farmer having to shoot a mob of sheep. The animals were skin and bones. Gunnie’s mouth dropped when the reporter mentioned the names of places he knew. They were towns he’d passed through on his trips to Wiralee Station – places like Walcha, Werris Creek, Murrurundi, and Premier. ‘Hey, Mum. These are towns near Wiralee,’ he called, pointing at the screen. ‘They look awful. Crikey, I hope Wiralee isn’t that bad.’
Gunnie leaned forward and his mother stopped what she was doing to watch the television. They stayed motionless and listened to an interview with an expert from the Bureau of Meteorology.
‘… severe rainfall deficiencies have been experienced by the vast majority of Queensland, New South Wales, most of south west Western Australia and the eastern side of Tasmania. Central Queensland and northern New South Wales have experienced their lowest rainfalls since 1900.’ Gunnie was shocked.
‘It must be all that stuff about climate change. You know, global-warming and the El Nino effect, eh?’
His mother’s reply was interrupted when Gunnie’s two sisters arrived home from school. Sam and Jackie went to a private school in the city, whereas Gunnie went to the local high school. Samantha was sixteen, often rowdy and irritating, especially when Gunnie wanted some peace and quiet. She’d been extra annoying since she’d broken off with her nerdy boyfriend. Gunnie’s best mates all thought she was really hot though. But they didn’t have to live with her and put up with her outbursts. His sisters were opposites. Sam was boisterous, cheeky, and lippy. Jackie was sensitive, quiet, and caring.
‘Hiya, Mum!’ Sam shouted as she entered. Gunnie scowled.
‘Shush, Sam. I’m trying to watch something on TV,’ he snapped.
‘What’s up with you, grumpy bum?’ she snapped back.
‘Leave him alone, Sam. He’s watching this program because he’s got an assignment about the drought,’ said his mother, trying to keep the peace.
Sam shot Gunnie a look and stuck her finger down her throat, pretending to throw up. Gunnie’s youngest sister, Jackie, stayed out of it. She never got involved in Gunnie and Sam’s arguments. Jackie was twelve, two years younger than Gunnie, and the quietest of the three Danson kids. Gunnie got on okay with his youngest sister. They’d become close when she’d been diagnosed with leukaemia a few years ago. For two painful years, she’d fought the disease and won, and ever since she’d been in remission Jackie had deliberately worn really long hair. It was her way of celebrating all that time feeling awful and losing her hair due to chemotherapy and radium treatment. Gunnie admired Jackie’s courage and spirit and always made a point of complimenting her on her beautiful hair.
The program finished. Inspired, Gunnie turned to his mother and sisters, eager to share some historical facts.
‘One of those experts said that between 1905 and 1911 Australia lost nineteen million sheep and more than two million cattle because of drought. That’s just terrible, eh?’
‘Really? That sucks,’ said Jackie sympathetically.
‘It sucks big time, Jack. I hope stuff like that never happens at Wiralee.’ The expert had mentioned an important date and Gunnie wanted to investigate the box from his grandfather. As he breezed past, he gently tugged on Jackie’s long locks. ‘Gorgeous, Jack,’ he whispered, saying the two words she loved. His youngest sister beamed.
Gunnie rushed into his room and grabbed the journal. He flipped it open to a random page and began reading.
“The snake became more and more aggressive and unpredictable. Sam was growling deeper now and had crouched on the ground in the attack position. Roscoe and Jedda were also awake, aware of the slippery predator and barking loudly. Their noise didn’t help the situation. In a split second, Sam attacked the snake and I felt its cold tail crease my forehead as it writhed in battle. I took a chance, got to my feet and jumped to a safe place on the other side of the campfire. While my brave kelpie fought the snake, I searched for a large piece of timber that would do the reptile some damage. Normally I’d have used the stockwhip to kill it, but Sam was too close. I was petrified I’d strike her by mistake.
I grabbed a sizeable piece of lumber and turned back to the verandah. As I swivelled around, I heard a piercing squeal and saw Sam limp away. She flopped under the lemon tree and frantically rubbed her snout with both paws. The snake had been badly mauled by her sharp teeth but it was still writhing close to my saddle, smearing blood on the floorboards of the verandah. I was furious and smashed the snake with the timber at least half a dozen times. It was still moving so I thumped it another three times until it was dead. Roscoe and Jedda sniffed at its messy remains while I dashed towards Sam. It was too late. She was dead.
Tears welled in my eyes as I pulled her from beneath the tree where she’d sought refuge. I tucked her in my arms and walked to the back of the house where I found a piece of rusty steel to dig a grave. Jedda and Roscoe looked on as I buried my brave cattle dog. Covering her with dusty soil, I erected a crudely-made cross from two flat boards I found nearby then scrawled ‘Sam Danson’ across it with a piece of charcoal I’d rescued from the campfire. I squatted on the parched earth and wept, overcome by an enormous sense of loss.”
Gunnie choked up and felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. ‘Jeez. That’s unbelievable. What awesome dogs,’ he muttered. His father drove up the drive and sounded the horn twice. ‘Bugger. Too late,’ whispered Gunnie. He closed the journal and placed it in the box. Hugging the cardboard box in his arms, he headed downstairs.
‘What’s that?’ said Sam as he marched through the kitchen.
‘Never you mind, miss snoopy nose.’
‘Ooooh. Sorry I asked,’ Sam replied sarcastically. Gunnie ignored her and walked outside, keen to stash the box safely in the car. His father was on the driveway looking as conservative as ever – blue suit, matching tie, and shoes so polished you could see your reflection.
‘What’s that, Gun?’ said his father. Roley Danson was a tall man with steel grey hair. A bulging briefcase dangled beside him.
‘Tell you later when I’ve checked it all out, Dad.’
‘Okay. You packed and ready to go? I can’t wait to get to Wiralee and have a few beers with Wirra.’
‘Yep.’
With the cardboard box securely packed in the car, Gunnie grabbed his bag from his room and said goodbye to his mum. He stopped at the back door with one final, taunting message for his older sister.
‘Hey, Sam.’
‘What?’
‘Do you know why I’m going to have an awesome weekend?’
‘Why?’ she barked.
‘Because you won’t be there.’ Sam glared at him and Gunnie walked out grinning.
‘See you, Jackie babe!’ he called out to his youngest sister.
‘Bye, Gunboy!’ Jackie replied using the nickname he loved.
WIRALEE STATION: PRESENT DAY
Chapter 2
Gunnie felt a hand on his knee and woke with a start. ‘We’re almost there, Gun,’ said his father’s voice. Gunnie rubbed his eyes and sat up in his seat. ‘So it’s all about that big box you’ve stashed on the backseat, eh?’ said his dad. Gunnie yawned and nodded.
‘Yep. That’s why I wanted to come to Wiralee.’ The four-wheel-drive slowed down to turn into an avenue of ninety-year-old oak trees. Gunnie leaned forward and smiled at a large sign announcing the entrance to a property that had been in his family for more than one hundred and fifty years.
Welcome
to
Wiralee Station
Established 1848
*Wiralee Pastoral Company*
(Est. 1911)
‘What was my great-great-grandfather like?’ asked Gunnie. He was curious to learn all he could about Smokey Danson, the man who’d written the manuscript in the box on the back seat. His father didn’t answer straight away. He stared at the road ahead. When he did finally speak, it wasn’t what Gunnie expected.
‘Smokey was complex, interesting, well-read, influential and …’
‘And what?’
‘Well. He was loved and hated. Some folks disliked him because he was successful and forthright. He was a straight shooter. There was no in-between with old Smokey … and certainly no bullshit. He had no time for lazy people or useless conversation.’
‘Who did like him then?’ Gunnie asked. His father turned carefully into the driveway and chuckled. Gunnie looked sideways at him wondering why his question had been so amusing.
‘Anyone who didn’t hate him I guess. Some were Aboriginals, politicians, ordinary farmers, homeless kids, and young students. Rich and poor people loved and admired him. He was extremely generous with his time and his money; he helped lots of people over the years.’
Gunnie enjoyed listening to his father speak. Roley Danson had a distinguished voice, sounding almost like a newsreader. He was well educated, clever, and respected by those who knew him, but he was nothing like his brother. They were miles apart. Roley was a top business executive. Wirra was a smart farmer.
‘I was nineteen when Smokey died,’ continued his dad. ‘It was the biggest funeral I’ve ever attended.’
Gunnie pursed his lips with surprise. ‘Who came?’
‘Family of course … politicians, the State Governor … all sorts of people. One thing really impressed me, though – Smokey was ninety years old when he died and most of his mates were long gone, but their relatives still turned up to pay their respects. That’s how much he’d meant to some people. Also, Aboriginals came from all over the place. Some Aboriginals flew down from the Gulf. I met one guy who was a great-great-grandson of a mailman old Smokey had befriended when he drove cattle up the long paddock. A really nice bloke … flew in from London. There were lots of people like him at Smokey’s funeral. It was incredible.’
Gunnie’s face scrunched up. ‘What’s the long paddock?’
‘Farmers used to drove their cattle along the public roadways during a drought – you know, searching for feed and water to keep their animals alive.’
‘Jeez. It must have been lonely, eh?’
‘I guess it was, Gun.’
Gunnie stared through the windscreen almost mesmerised by the avenue of oak trees. A brass plaque he’d seen as a kid said they’d been planted in 1916. Now they were monstrous. He thought for a minute about what his dad had said. ‘Why would Aboriginals fly down from the Gulf of Carpentaria to attend a funeral?’ he asked.
‘Out of respect. Smokey’s best friend was an Aboriginal drover, a guy named Billie. Check out the family cemetery and you’ll see what I mean. Billie is buried there. Smokey did him proud and buried him in style. Your great-great-grandfather legally adopted him as a brother. As I said, they were best mates. They loved each other.’
‘Smokey must have been an interesting guy,’ Gunnie muttered. ‘What else do you know about him?’ His father thought for a bit and rubbed his whiskered chin.
‘That’s a hard one to answer. I do know he loved your great-great-grandmother and he sure loved dogs, horses, and farming. But he almost gave up on life when Molly and his daughter, Jane, died. It was his best mate, Billie, who kept him alive. Dad told me that.’
‘Crikey. They must have been pretty special friendships, eh? Molly and Smokey … and Smokey and Billie.’
‘You’re right, Gun. Old Smokey told me that many times. Whenever he spoke of Molly, he’d have a misty look in his eyes, as if he was ready to cry. Visit the family cemetery, Gun. Look at all the gravestones if you want to know about Smokey Danson. They say a lot about the man and what he thought of those he buried there.’ Gunnie couldn’t wait to get to Wiralee, check out the cemetery, and read everything in the box.
The homestead lights came into view and the car came to a stop. It had been three solid hours of driving and Gunnie got out and stretched. He looked up into the clear night sky and saw billions of twinkling stars – something he never saw in Sydney. Barking dogs sounded in the distance and the air smelt fresh. Roses and freshly cut hay wafted in the air as frogs and crickets sang a combined chorus. Gunnie saw his uncle slouched against a verandah post of the homestead with his arms folded. A cigarette dangled from his mouth.
‘What took ya so long? Typical city slickers,’ said the broad-shouldered farmer with a sly grin.
‘Uncle, Dan!’ Gunnie hollered and ran up the stone steps that led to the wide verandah.
‘G’day. And the name’s Wirra, not Uncle Dan. Okay? Get with it, Gun. Ya make me sound like an old man when ya call me uncle.’ Gunnie grinned and shook the man’s monstrous hand. Wirra Danson was an easy character to like. He was friendly and his smile was as broad as Wiralee. Gunnie admired him for many reasons, especially his jokes. According to Gunnie’s dad, Uncle Dan was a well-respected farmer. He spoke with a slow drawl but he was no fool. The same man was a crack rifleman, a good tennis player and a celebrated bush poet. There was only one thing Gunnie didn’t like about his uncle: his wife, Kate. She was bad news.
Gunnie ran back to the car and grabbed the big cardboard box from the back seat. Wirra ambled to the top of the steps and grinned at his brother.
‘Roles. How’s the big smoke, brother?’
‘Good, Wirra. Good. How are you?’ The men shook hands and hugged – something Gunnie had always admired. His father and uncle lived in two different worlds, the city and the bush, but they were close mates and didn’t mind showing their affection for one another. Gramps had been the same.
‘Fitter than a Wiralee bull. Come in, guys. Got some supper ready for ya.’ With both hands tightly clasped around the mysterious box, Gunnie made his way up the front steps. ‘What’s that, Gun?’ Wirra drawled.
‘Not sure. Gramps left this box of stuff for me in his will and I want to spend the weekend checking it out. I reckon it might be pretty interesting. Got a cool feeling about it.’
‘Sounds suspicious to me,’ said his uncle, raising his eyebrows. ‘Hey. I’ve got a job for ya, Gun.’
‘A job?’ Gunnie stopped at the top of the steps and looked at his uncle. Wirra was tall and solid with two similar features to Gunnie: stunning blue eyes and blonde hair.
‘Yep. Got a new foal and I need a name for it. So, put ya thinkin’ cap on.’
‘Sure,’ smiled Gunnie, proud to be asked. Wirra laid a strong but gentle hand on Gunnie’s shoulder and opened the flywire door.
‘Great. Knew I could count on ya, mate. You’ll be in the usual room upstairs. That okay with ya?’ Gunnie’s eyes lit up. He went inside while his dad and Wirra chatted on the verandah. Nothing had changed. The homestead was exactly how he remembered it – immaculately clean with photos and paintings everywhere. He strolled towards the old staircase and headed upstairs, glancing at the photos on the wall. He’d never taken much interest in the pictures before, but this weekend would be different. Gunnie had a feeling he was about to learn lots about his family.
He entered his room and grinned. It hadn’t changed either. It was the room he’d always used at Wiralee, complete with the clean smell of wood. It wasn’t a big room but it was quiet, comfortable and the dormer window had one of the best views of the station. Gunnie had always loved waking up in the morning, rolling over and peering through the window. Wiralee Station was an enormous property. At night, you heard frogs and cicadas, and in the mornings, it was chortling magpies, chirping sparrows and other birds waking up to an exciting new day. Through the open door, he heard his uncle holler from the kitchen that supper was ready. Gunnie strolled downstairs and into the kitchen. The homestead kitchen was like everything on Wiralee Station – gigantic. The table was the biggest he’d ever seen. It was made of wood that had been cut on the property and, according to Wirra, it was over a hundred years old. The combustion stove was also big. It had eight burners on top, two monstrous ovens and produced hot water from a tank called a water jacket. The stove always gave off the wonderful smell of burning wood.
‘Grab yourself some supper, Gun. Wirra and I have some business to discuss. Can you find something to do?’ said his father.
‘Sure, Dad. I’ve got all that stuff to read.’
Roley Danson was one of three directors of the Wiralee Pastoral Company, so it wasn’t uncommon for him to discuss business with Wirra. The other two directors were Wirra and Aunty Liz. Roley looked after financial and investment matters, Aunty Liz oversaw all legal issues and Wirra ran the station. Gunnie helped himself to some sandwiches and a slice of cake. One thing he did like about his Aunty Kate was her cooking. She was magic in the kitchen. Kate Danson made the fluffiest sponges Gunnie had ever eaten.
‘Hey, where is Aunty Kate?’ asked Gunnie helping himself to another slice of cake.
‘Oh … at some charity fund-raiser,’ said Wirra, pushing his chair back noisily on the tiled floor. ‘She’ll be home later tonight. Kate’s always on the go, involved in something … anything but farm work,’ he said and turned to his brother. ‘Let’s go, Roles ... time for a beer and some business.’
When his father and uncle left the room, Gunnie grabbed a fistful of leftover cake and sandwiches. He wrapped them in a serviette and headed upstairs to begin reading Smokey’s manuscript. He wasn’t tired, having slept most of the way in the car. Now, more than ever, he was keen to investigate the box left to him by Gramps. Gunnie walked slowly up the wide staircase taking great interest in the photos hanging on the wall. Almost all of them had a caption beneath, written in old-fashioned script. Halfway up the stairs he stopped and stared at one particular photo. It was of two young men, one white and the other Aboriginal. Gunnie leaned forward and his eyes honed in on the Aboriginal in the photograph. The man had the biggest hat he’d ever seen. It was like an umbrella. Written beneath the photograph were the words: ‘Magic’ Billie and Smokey. Best mates. Wiralee Station 1911.
‘Cool. So that’s what they looked like. I wonder how he got the name Magic?’ Gunnie whispered.
At the top of the staircase were some photos of animals. Two dogs and a horse were framed in ornate, expensive-looking gold frames. Gunnie read what was written beneath the photograph of the first dog, which looked like a Queensland blue heeler. Roscoe Danson: Saved my life in 1911. The next photograph had a similar inscription, but this dog was a border collie. Jedda Danson: Saved my life in 1911. Gunnie’s eyes skipped to the picture of the horse. At the bottom of the photo were similar words to those on the photographs of the dogs. Cracker Danson: Best horse I ever had. Another gold frame nearby caught Gunnie’s attention. This frame contained no photograph, but it did have an inscription. Sam Danson: Killed saving my life in 1911. A brave dog – a real mate.
Gunnie stood back and stared at the four gold frames. Compared to the other photographs on the wall, something was different about these four. They’d been placed together for a reason and each photograph had been signed Smokey ‘G’ Danson. Gunnie recognised the names of the dogs from the section of Smokey’s manuscript that he’d looked at, and wondered if they were the same animals.
‘Wow. These animals must have been really special,’ he murmured. ‘I wonder what the ‘G’ stands for in Smokey’s name?’ he said and entered his room. Gunnie was soon propped up in bed with the old manuscript in his lap. ‘Tell it like it was, Smokey,’ he muttered and pulled the hard cover back. He flipped through the first few pages and frowned. Written now and then was a term of measurement still used by his uncle and father to measure distances: it was the word ‘miles’. ‘Smokey wrote this in 1911 … back when they used the old measurements,’ Gunnie murmured. Now, of course, everyone measured in kilometres.
Gunnie glanced up at the bookshelf searching for a small black dictionary he’d used for homework on previous trips to Wiralee. Fortunately, it was still there. He stood up, grabbed it, and found a pen in his bag. At the back of the dictionary was a page that converted weights, measures, and distances. ‘Gotcha,’ he whispered, and carefully wrote what he’d need on a serviette.
1 foot = 0.304 metres
40 inches = 1 metre
1 foot = 30 centimetres
1 yard = 0. 914 metres (almost a metre)
1 mile = 1.609 kilometres
2.5 acres = 1 hectare
1 acre = 4,046 square metres
2.2 pound = 1 kilogram
With the conversions beside him, he grabbed the manuscript and opened it. ‘Now. Let’s get stuck into this story.’
‘WIRALEE STATION’: 1910
Smokey’s story begins.
Chapter 3
I will never forget one particular day in December of 1910. It was the day my brother, Angus, and I talked about my father’s trip up the long paddock – a day that changed my life forever. Years of drought had forced Dad to head north, droving our remaining cattle along the public roadways, searching for feed and water to keep them alive. He’d also be taking what was left of Uncle Jake’s herd and Mitch Saunders’ herd as well; maybe a hundred head all up. Angus was twelve years-of-age at the time and he was concerned about Dad leaving. I was too. According to The Age newspaper in Melbourne, Australia had lost nineteen million sheep and more than two million cattle since 1905. Five hard years of drought had decimated Australian farming communities.
‘It’s going to be awful with Dad gone,’ said Angus as we cantered towards Wiralee Station on the way home from school. ‘It’ll be the first time we won’t be together for Christmas. I’ll miss him.’ I knew what Angus meant and didn’t need to be reminded. Dad had told us about his trip a few days before and since then I’d thought of nothing else. Moving cattle to keep them alive was a huge responsibility and there were two things I thought about constantly that day: I had no idea when the drought would break, and I had no idea when I’d see my father again.
Less than a mile from the homestead, I noticed something strange near the old muster yards. Dad’s horse, Dancer, was saddled but standing alone. Something was wrong. I pulled my horse up and leaned forward in the saddle.
‘Look. There’s Dancer … but where’s Dad?’ Angus’s eyes followed my outstretched hand. He said nothing but a frown etched itself in his forehead. The hairs rose on the back of my neck and my heart pounded. I kneed Cracker in the belly and he took off. I slowed as I approached Dancer so I wouldn’t spook her, then dismounted and quickly checked the horse for injuries. ‘Easy, girl. Easy,’ I whispered. She looked fine. I glanced around the muster yards. Just inside the fence, I saw my father lying on the ground. ‘Jeez. Angus, grab Cracker and Dancer! Dad’s been hurt.’ Sick with worry, I ran towards the old yards calling Dad’s name at the top of my voice. Perspiration poured off me as I clambered through the post and rail fence and sprinted to my father.
I thought he was dead but after a moment, he opened his eyes and looked at me with a strange expression. He was conscious but his face was white. I didn’t need to ask what had happened; it was obvious. A few yards away was a dead black snake and one of Dad’s trouser legs was rolled up. He’d been bitten, but had used his scarf as a rough tourniquet, wrapped tightly above his knee to stop the poison from spreading. My mind raced but I tried to stay calm and work out what to do. When Angus squatted beside me, I gave him a quick glance. He grew pale as he gaped at Dad lying on the ground.
‘G’day,’ my father croaked. ‘A black snake bit me. A real cranky one.’
‘Yeah, I can see it, Dad. Don’t panic,’ I said softly, telling myself to stay calm. I leaned closer to my father’s leg and squinted, looking for two small red marks. ‘Got ’em,’ I whispered. The snake had bitten him on his calf and I placed a finger on the spot so I’d not lose sight of it. I delved into my trouser pocket and grabbed my knife, wiping the sharper of its two blades on my trouser leg to clean it. ‘Hold on, Dad.’
He knew what I was about to do. He leaned back and grabbed the bottom rail of the fence. As quickly as I could, I made two quick cuts near the bite, making sure I didn’t cut too deep. Dad made a grunting noise and blood oozed out of his leg. I leaned in and pinched the skin around the wound, sucking out the venom and spitting it on the grassless soil. I repeated the action three more times then looked around the muster yard for a way to get Dad home.
‘Angus. Open the gate, tie two ropes to that old sheet of tin. See it? Then grab Cracker and tie the ropes to his saddle. We need to make a sled to carry Dad home. Get my water canteen too.’
Angus ran off and returned with my water canteen. I took a couple of swigs and spat them out to rinse any venom from my mouth, then continued to suck the venom from Dad’s leg. Every now and then, I glanced up at my brother as he feverishly prepared a makeshift sled to get Dad back to the homestead.
‘All ready to go!’ he finally shouted. He brought Cracker and the tin across and I saw he’d done an excellent job. Dad’s eyes were still open, which was a good sign. I placed a gentle hand on his stomach.
‘Can you roll onto the sheet of tin, Dad?’
‘Yeah, sure,’ he murmured. We helped him onto the rusty sheet of flat tin and I mounted Cracker and moved away slowly. Dad lay back and grabbed both sides of the sled to stop himself from falling off. My heart was thrashing but I calmed myself and shouted further directions to my brother.
‘Angus, take Dancer, ride ahead and tell Mum!’ The homestead wasn’t far away but Dad wasn’t out of the woods yet. He’d need more medical attention as soon as we got home. I was grateful it had been a black snake. Had it been a tiger or a brown, things might have been different.
Angus had opened all the gates to give us a free run, and when I got Dad home I found Mum waiting anxiously. Luckily, living on a large station had taught her many things. She was well experienced with medical matters and knew a lot about antidotes for different ailments.
‘I’ll be fine,’ Dad mumbled as Mum and I helped him up the homestead steps.
‘Let me be the judge of that,’ Mum said to him, and quickly washed his wound with vinegar then made a concoction of salt, breadcrumbs, and linseed oil. She wrapped the mixture in a piece of calico material and tied it to Dad’s leg. Angus and I watched in awe. I’d seen a snakebite dressed before but my brother hadn’t.
‘What’s that do?’ he asked. Mum offered him a quick smile.
‘It’s a poultice … draws out all the poison.’ My father was perspiring feverishly, but hopefully that was a good sign. When Mum finished dressing his wound, she covered him with a heavy blanket and laid a cold compress across his forehead to reduce his temperature.
***
I didn’t sleep much that night. I tossed and turned, worried about Dad. The next morning I bolted out of bed and ran into the room where my father had spent the night. Pop had always called it the reading room, but to us it was the living room, a room with plenty of natural light, lots of books and four large couches. Dad was on one of the couches talking to Mum. Relief must have shown on my face because he offered me a weak smile.
‘G’day, Smokey.’
‘G’day, Dad. How are you feeling?’ He glanced at my mother with a grateful expression.
‘Well. Thanks to you, Angus and your mother I’m alive.’ I sat on the couch opposite and minutes later Angus arrived, his face showing the same relief mine had. ‘Hey. I was damn proud of you two yesterday,’ said Dad. ‘Damn proud. If it hadn’t been for you fellas I reckon I’d have died.’ The hairs rose on the back of my neck and a grin spread across my face. Dad never said stuff like that to us.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ Angus answered with a proud smile, but I was too surprised by his compliment to answer.
‘Smokey. Can you do me a favour?’
‘Sure.’
‘Give Dancer an extra biscuit of hay before you go to school. She deserves a treat. After that snake bit me, she stomped on it until it was dead. Got to admire that sort of loyalty, eh?’
‘Sure, Dad,’ I replied proudly. Dad was never one to offer praise, but what he’d said to my brother and I had given me goose bumps. Still grinning, I ran to the stables where I gave Dancer a few caring pats and lots of hay. I was still beaming when Angus and I mounted our horses and cantered off to school.
Chapter 4
‘Smokey, do you think Dad will still go up the long paddock with our cattle?’ asked Angus as we neared the school. ‘Maybe Roley will take his place … or Uncle Jake or Mr Saunders?’ Angus had asked an interesting question. Snakebites were serious business. My cousin, Roley, had been bitten by a snake a few years back and was sick for ages.
‘Not sure. Don’t think Mr Saunders will go. He’s too old to be camping out. Not so sure about Uncle Jake either. He’s been talking about selling his property. He’s had enough of farming and drought and wants to go into business with a stock and station agent.’
‘What about Roley? Maybe he’ll take our mob up the long paddock.’
I shook my head. ‘No hope there. He’s looking for a wife. Roley told me he might get a job at a big station … one with jillaroos.’
‘Really?’ Angus blurted.
‘Yeah. He wants to settle down and have kids. Roley could do the job but I don’t think he’ll find himself a wife on the long paddock. It’s too lonely. Pop told me that.’
‘So Dad will have to go?’
‘Probably,’ I replied. ‘He’s the only one who can do it.’
***
Two days later the worst drought in Australia’s history turned my life upside down. After a hot and dusty ride from school, Angus and I arrived home to find our parents, Uncle Jake and Mitch Saunders sitting at the kitchen table. Dad was sitting awkwardly with his leg propped up on a chair. It was the first time I’d seen him at the table since the snakebite.
‘Angus. Smokey, me boy,’ Mr Saunders greeted us in his deep voice. Mitch Saunders was a highly respected landowner in our parts. I liked him because he always appeared calm, even in a disaster. He was in his early sixties, stood tall with a wiry body that was strong as a bullock, and his sun-parched face showed miles of character. Many times, I’d seen him single-handedly reach down and pick up some heavy piece of machinery or a three-month-old calf and do it with ease. He had an infectious laugh that made everyone smile.
‘G’day, Mr Saunders … Uncle Jake.’ I stood in the doorway wondering why they were here. I glanced at my mother but she smiled nervously and got up to pour us some lemonade. I could tell by her face that the meeting had something to do with me. I sat on the nearest chair and dropped my hat on the floor beside me. My heart was racing. There was tension in the air. Something was about to happen. I could feel it.
‘Smokey, we’ve got a proposal for you,’ my father announced.
‘Proposal?’ I glanced at Uncle Jake and Mr Saunders but was met by blank looks.
‘We want you to take our remaining cattle up the long paddock.’
I gulped and my eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. Me driving cattle up the long paddock? My hands started to perspire. My heart pounded.
‘Who with?’ I asked, assuming I wouldn’t be taking the trip alone. My parents glanced at each other but wouldn’t look at me. My heart sank.
‘Just you, Smokey,’ said Uncle Jake. My father folded his arms and finally met my eyes.
‘Son. It’s the only way we can keep our remaining stock alive. This snakebite might lay me up for a while and we’re desperate for feed. The cattle will die if we don’t find them some tucker. Mitch is too old to go and Jake’s planning to sell his property and move on.’
‘What about Roley?’ I said hopefully, but my father shook his head.
‘He’s found himself a job at a station. I’m truly sorry, son. Blame me … it was my idea to send you. I was so impressed with you the other day. The way you reacted when I was bitten by that snake was damn amazing. I could have died out there but you saw what had to be done and you did it. You’re so like your pop.’ I thought about Pop and what he’d always told me about his own trip up the long paddock. He’d done it when he was a young man, and for the same reason – a drought. My grandfather had mentioned how terribly lonely it was to spend day after day moving hungry, thirsty cattle in the heat of a drought. Now, in 1910, history was about to be repeated.
A million questions rattled through my mind. The whole thing seemed too much responsibility for a boy of fourteen. I had another horrible thought: for the first time in my life, I wouldn’t be home for Christmas.
‘Roley will ride with you,’ said Uncle Jake. ‘But only to Yanergee. From there, he’ll turn off to Binnaway. He’s found a job as a stockman and we sure as hell need the money.’ Yanergee wasn’t all that far away and I’d be on my own when Roley turned off. Being alone was a frightening thought. My mother looked worried. Dad didn’t look all that happy either, but I was used to his frown after years of drought. Wiralee Station had never looked so lean and hungry. It was more than one hundred square miles in size, a good parcel of land, and we’d inherited two rivers that coursed their way through our property. But the rivers only flowed after good rain and both of them had dried up four years ago. We were luckier than most because we’d always kept a good supply of grass hay. Dad often vowed it was better than money in the bank. Now our herd was looking sad and depleted. More than ninety percent of our stock had already died and the hay had almost run out.
‘So, do you reckon you’re up to it?’ Mr Saunders asked bluntly. I didn’t answer straight away. After five long years of drought, I knew we had to keep the remainder of our cattle alive. The twenty remaining cows had delivered their calves but these would only survive if we kept enough feed up to their mothers to produce the milk the little ones required. Some time back the decision had been made to keep the calves alive at any cost. Vealers had always been successful for us. We sold them when they were ten months old and always got a good price for them.
‘Smokey? Can you do it, son?’ Dad said more loudly.
‘Oh … sure,’ I replied, trying to sound more confident than I really was. I was scared stiff. I could handle cattle, ride a horse, and manage cattle dogs, but I’d never been away from home for a lengthy period. I’d spent my entire life on Wiralee. I loved it and had never considered leaving. My father had always expressed great faith in my ability as a stockman. Never in words, but he always offered me a broad smile or a thump on the back when I’d completed some difficult chore. Dad was one of the most successful station owners for miles around and had taught me all there was to know about working a large property. Pop had taught me lots as well. Sure, there was an adventurous side to their proposal, but I was more worried about the loneliness … and the possibility of failing.
‘Good. That’s settled,’ said Dad. ‘You’ll leave in two days. Now get up here with Mitch and Jake so we can have a good look at the map.’
‘Two days! What about school?’ I said. ‘Can’t I say goodbye to my friends?’
‘You’ll have to forget about it for the time being,’ he replied. ‘Today is Wednesday. You’ll leave on Friday.’
‘But I have to say goodbye to my mates. It might be ages before I see them again!’
My mother spoke for the first time. She placed a hand on Dad’s arm but spoke directly to me.
‘Smokey. You’ll go to school tomorrow and see your friends. I’m sure they’ll want to wish you well.’ Dad didn’t look at Mum but Uncle Jake and Mr Saunders did. She knew what they were going to say and cut them off. ‘Smokey needs to say goodbye to his friends before he heads off. And, there will be no further discussion about that.’ She shot the men a steely look. Uncle Jake just shrugged his shoulders. Dad and Mr Saunders said nothing. They all knew she meant it.
For the next while, I sat at the table with my father, my uncle, and Mr Saunders discussing my journey north. According to Mr Saunders, we were in the worst drought ever recorded.
‘You’ll be taking eighty head of cattle plus twenty calves,’ he said.
‘Right,’ I replied, trying to convince myself it was really happening.
‘You’ll take forty steers from my place, twenty steers from Jake’s herd, and all the cattle left on Wiralee. Tomorrow we’ll brand them with the Wiralee ‘W’ and they’ll be ready for you in the home paddock,’ he added. I looked at Dad.
‘What about dogs? I’ll need good cattle dogs to work with.’
‘Thought about that, son,’ said Dad. ‘You’ll take Jedda, Sam and Mitch’s blue heeler, Roscoe.’ Jedda was a border collie and Sam was a kelpie. They were excellent workers. I’d seen Mr Saunders’ blue heeler many times. It sure was a mean-looking dog – much stronger and larger than our two.
‘What about food and things like that?’ I asked.