Fool's Gold

by Fleur McDonald

  Melinda looked at Dave. ‘A card game? Hustle and bustle? There isn’t any of that out here!’

  Dave shrugged. ‘That’s probably what she means. She doesn’t like hustle and bustle. And this is the wild west. Card games and gambling are normal.’

  Dee was already a way in front of them by the time they tumbled out of the ute and got their footing. Dave felt his feet sink into the dirt a couple of inches and once again marvelled at the softness. Good soil to roll a swag over, he thought.

  ‘This way,’ Dee called. ‘Watch your step. There’s no rails or anything flash out here to stop you from falling in.’

  ‘I reckon occupational health and safety would have a field day with you,’ Dave called as he realised Dee was wearing thongs.

  ‘I’d be the least of their worries,’ she laughed. ‘They’re more concerned about the mines and the workers than a little Contiki tour that I don’t charge for. Here you go.’ She pointed down.

  It took Dave a moment to see what she was pointing out. A tree root had grown over the entrance and it was clear this shaft hadn’t been used in years.

  ‘Wow,’ muttered Melinda, getting out her camera. ‘And people used to go down these?’

  ‘Still do.’ Dee walked along the top of the ridge and looked down. ‘If you come up here, you’ll be able to see it follows the line of rock.’ She held her hand out in the direction the shaft ran. Dave took a couple of steps and jumped up.

  ‘I see,’ he said half to himself. ‘The shaft is long rather than deep.’

  ‘This one runs for about one hundred metres along this ridge. If you go up a little further, you’ll be able to climb in a way. Dunno how deep it is. See, in the old days the miners would put false floors in their shafts, so even if you chucked a rock down, you could never be sure when you heard it drop whether it was the real bottom or not.’

  ‘Why’d they put false floors in?’ Melinda asked, shooing away the flies which kept clustering around her eyes.

  ‘They’d know if someone had been there. If there was nobody to stay and guard the mine, people would come along and have a go at seeing what they could find, even if it was registered to another miner. If someone was at the bottom of the mine when they came back, they’d either be dead or badly injured, depending on how deep the shaft was. It made people think twice about raiding someone else’s property.’

  ‘Severe.’ Melinda grimaced a little.

  Dave walked ahead, loose stones scattering under his feet. He could hear them tumble down into the darkness and thought about the old blokes, the ones who’d lived out here in the heat and flies, without water and company, looking for that one piece of gold which would make them rich.

  Coming to the crevice where Dee had told him he could climb in, he looked down and saw the clear lines of quartz running through the rock. He clambered down and ran his fingers across them, feeling the coolness of the stone. Had a miner stood here decades ago, with excitement in his belly? Filled with equal parts hope and fear? Had he wondered, as he climbed down into the darkness for the first time, whether he’d be going home that night, or had that thought never entered his mind? Did it even bother him? Was he prepared to die trying to find the prize?

  Dave tried to conjure up the sounds of the gold rush. Men laughing and calling to each other. The tinny noise of pick on stone and the groans as they shovelled the soil into buckets and tied the rope to the handle and called up for their partner to pull it out and comb through it.

  Hearing it all in his head, he had flashes of men, filthy with red dust across their faces and sweat lines across their brows. The smell of campfire smoke and chatter of children laughing as they hauled buckets of water back to their tents. The sobs of women who were burying their men or children, and the silence of men grieving.

  Taking a few deep breaths, he became aware of the muted sounds of the bush as he climbed down that little bit further. There really wasn’t anything but silence. A heavy silence; no birds or crickets. Occasionally the wind rubbed the leaves of the trees and bushes together.

  A stone dislodged from the wall of the mine and skittered down the side, causing Dave’s heart to stop for a moment in case there was more above him that could come down on his head.

  He peered up and could only see trees and blue sky, and although it was an odd feeling not to be able to see across the land, it was strangely peaceful and calming.

  ‘There you are.’ Melinda’s head appeared over the top. ‘Ugh, that looks a bit scary. Nothing but a big black pit.’

  ‘Pass the camera down if you don’t want to join me,’ Dave called up. ‘It doesn’t look like this one has got any timbers reinforcing the sides.’

  ‘It will have further down,’ Dee answered; she was at Melinda’s side, scrutinising where he was. ‘But it’s best not to go any further. Got no idea what’s down there, hey.’

  Dave picked up a stone and tossed it into the inky blackness, listening. He didn’t hear it land. ‘Must be bloody deep!’ He started to climb out, slipping and sliding on the steep walls. He put a foot wrong and slid all the way back down, fear stabbing through him. Dave tried to reach out and grab something to stop his fall, imagining he was going to end up like the stone, but there was nothing but loose stones and solid wall. Without meaning to he let out a small cry of alarm.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ he muttered. His fingers finally found a tree root and he hung on tight.

  ‘You okay there?’ Dee called down, laughter in her voice. Dave wasn’t sure why—he didn’t think it was a laughing matter! ‘Fine,’ he answered, but his heart was beating so fast he felt it was going to come out of his chest.

  ‘Sweetheart?’ Melinda’s voice held dread.

  ‘I’m okay, don’t worry.’ He started up the side again, this time watching his footfalls. Finding a solid piece of stone to use as a hand grip, Dave hoisted himself up, finally reaching the surface.

  Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he grinned at them both. ‘Wasn’t sure what was about to happen then,’ he admitted.

  ‘It’s scary when you slide back down, I know,’ Dee said. ‘I’ve done it heaps of times, but you couldn’t fall in because the ledge you were standing on while you were down there would have stopped you. Doesn’t stop you from freaking out though.’

  ‘Dead right.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll take you up to the wedding hill.’

  Piling back into the ute, Dave turned to Dee. ‘You said the pub was won in a card game? That’s pretty intriguing.’

  She nodded, crunching through the gears as she drove towards a large hill on the horizon.

  ‘Yeah, the guy who owned it had a gambling problem.’ She looked over at him, a humorous look on her face. ‘I know you’ll find that hard to believe since he bet his own pub!’

  Melinda gave a shout of laughter and reached out to hold on to Dave’s arm as they went through a bumpy river crossing.

  ‘Anyway, he didn’t have anything else to put up and he wanted to be in the game. He’d lost his car, savings, some of the stock from the pub—mostly rum. Had nothing left. My stepdad just played his cards right and won it.’

  ‘Just won it?’ Dave said, shaking his head.

  ‘Can you imagine it? Four fellas sitting around a campfire in the middle of the bush, drinking, watching the flames, and someone pulls out a deck of cards. They were playing poker. Unusual for out here. Two-up is more the go. Probably a good thing there were a few others there because otherwise he would have been in danger of being shot or murdered somehow so the owner didn’t have to pay up!’

  Dave glanced across at Dee but he wasn’t seeing her, he was seeing a campfire. Men silhouetted by the flames, the glint of knives and guns, the distrust between men palpable. The cards were held by each man and a look of disbelief passed between the players as Dee’s father laid down the winning hand. He could hear the crackle of the fire, the hiss of anger as the previous owner stared at the cards.

  The black cloud of flies above Tim Tucker’s min
e shaft flashed into his mind’s eye and suddenly he realised how many complicated motives for murder there could be in this area he now called home.

  Chapter 12

  Tim Tucker sat out on his verandah, listening to the sounds of the bush. The sun had started to dip below the trees and the darkness was beginning to spread across the land. On the opposite horizon, the hint of the coming moon smouldered a deep orange.

  He’d left his mates at the pub, deciding he really wasn’t in the mood for drinking and talking to people. That was one of the reasons he lived where he did—he didn’t like the energy it took to deal with people, and he was used to being in his own company. Miners had to be like that. Loners.

  He hadn’t always been that way, but time changes people and he was a different man from the one he’d been in his younger years.

  Taking another sip of his beer, he savoured the coolness as it slid down like a balm. Chief was lying on the dirt near his chair, waiting for him to move—he shadowed his owner everywhere. His was the sort of company Tim liked. Not the people who asked questions and used up generosity. Not the ones who promised things and didn’t deliver. Chief loved unconditionally. He protected, warned and adored. And he’d never let Tim down.

  The tinkle of a piano seemed to filter through on the evening breeze and he turned his head to listen. Immediately it disappeared. Even after so many years, when his mind played tricks like this he still thought Marianne was here, playing the melodies she’d treasured and knew by heart. Filling the evening air with the music that made the birds’ song sound like sirens.

  The familiar ache of grief sat in his stomach every day, but it was worse on nights like these.

  He’d met her when he was only nineteen and he remembered the day so clearly. The Barrabine north wind had tossed his hat from his head and it had skipped across the dirt road, becoming covered in red dust—even more than it was already. As he’d chased after it, he’d heard the music. He hadn’t known what the instrument was, or who was playing it, but the notes were sweet and sad at the same time. It’d made him imagine raindrops, even on that hot and dusty day when he’d felt grimy and gritty.

  Tim could see himself stopping and picking up the hat, slowly walking towards the music. Why the window was open on a day like that was beyond him, but he stood there for nearly twenty minutes…stood in the sun even, and listened.

  Then he saw her. She was standing in front of the window, reaching up high to pull it shut. Raven black hair falling over her shoulders, deep olive skin and a flash of silver-blue eyes. Eyes that looked straight at him as she was closing out the heat, closing out the dust and snatching the music away.

  A mopoke called loudly from the tree above him and Tim was brought back to the present. Realising there were tears on his cheeks, he stood up quickly, annoyed with himself. He tried to keep Marianne out of his thoughts these days, for thinking of her served no purpose. She’d been gone for so much more time than they’d had together.

  Another reason to stay out here. No one bothered him with questions. Although it had been a long time since anyone had asked about her. Marianne would be forgotten by most of the old-timers now. Remembered only by him, her husband. The one who had loved her the most.

  Trying to dispel the memories, he walked out into the night—it had cooled down from the heat of the day, but it wasn’t so chilly that he needed a jumper. The moon cast a white glow across the land; the shadows of the trees were slim and long.

  Not needing a torch, he kept walking, one foot in front of the other, sidestepping bushes and trees and keeping an eye on the moon so he knew which direction he was going. Chief walked silently at his side—the dog was as fit and lean as he was. He’d heard Caitlyn say at the pub earlier that you could boil both of them down and you wouldn’t get enough fat to make a cake of soap. He’d grinned at that, knowing he was wiry, but he had never thought about making a cake of soap out of his fat!

  Chief went in front a few steps and looked back to make sure he was following and knew where he was going.

  ‘Where are you off to, old mate?’ Tim said, his voice sounding loud against the bush silence. There was a flutter of wings suddenly overhead; he must have disturbed an owl.

  The dog didn’t stop walking, just kept in front, following the invisible track. Tim walked behind him, enjoying the freshness of the night air against his skin. As he got older, he was finding each summer a little harder to bear, but he’d already decided to stay where he was until he died. What else was there for him to do? He didn’t like Barrabine; there were too many people on the pathways to walk in a straight line. The noise of the cars had given him a headache the last time he’d stayed for more than a day. No, that place was not for him.

  Dee had suggested he buy a small block on the outskirts of Oakamanda and build a house. ‘You could have air-con and be comfortable,’ she’d said. ‘Build a smelter shed. You’d still be able to do all the things you want. You could still go out and mine—use your loader and dry blower. Find gold in an easier way rather than being underground.’

  Air-conditioning was tempting, to be sure, but living so close to people, even to people who were his friends? No, that didn’t interest him either.

  Nope, it was the bush for him, no other place.

  Tim knew every stone and shrub on his lease, which was why the nightly walks he took didn’t frighten him. Fifty-nine years he’d been here and during that time he’d learned the land had her moods. Watched her bloom in spring and die in summer.

  Chief stopped, the hackles rising on his neck, and he growled a low, long snarl. Tim stopped too, his hand going to his belt for his pistol. His eyes darted from one side to the other but he couldn’t see anything. He sniffed quietly, trying to see if he could smell campfire smoke or body odour or something to indicate there was a person in the blackness.

  That was how he’d caught the bloke who’d been in his hut back in 1962. Body odour.

  Tim’d had a win. His third big win. Forty ounces of gold. He’d told no one but, still, somehow word had filtered out—he guessed the bank manager or gold buyer had opened their mouth a little too wide. Confidentiality had had a different meaning in the goldfields back then. There were very few secrets and nothing could be done about it. Since he’d been to town to put most of the gold in a safe box and cashed in the smaller nugget for groceries and a few essentials, he’d had a few blokes come to ask if they could help him mine. He always said no, happy on his own and happy he didn’t have to share what he found with anyone.

  This particular night, about two weeks after his visit to town, he’d arrived home from a long day down the mine. Again, he’d had some luck—this time he had thirty ounces in his pocket—the reef he’d stumbled across was proving very profitable.

  It was spring and the wildflowers were out, covering the country with white and pink, the green leaves of the trees standing out against the deep red of the earth.

  Tim had thought something was a little odd when he’d first walked in through the front door—the mat was a little crooked. He had stood at the door for a while, casting around, making sure he couldn’t see anyone. Nothing else seemed to be out of place—the floor still had the sweep marks of the leaf broom he used, and there wasn’t any noise. Even so, a little sense of worry had itched at the back of his neck and he’d kept his hand on his gun, watching, waiting.

  That was how it had to be out here—always watchful and mistrusting.

  He had taken a small step inside the hut and stood still again. Then another. And another.

  Then he had smelled him. A stink so bad it had made him want to throw up. It wasn’t him; a fox can’t smell its own scent. There was someone inside. Inside his house.

  Quietly he had backed out of the hut and went around the back where there was a slit in the tin. Tim had peered through and had seen James Bell crouched behind the wall in the bedroom. He had slowly cocked his gun and fired it into the dirt at James’s feet.

  Tim smiled as he remembere
d the terrible scream the man had made and the dust that had ballooned up into his face. Rotten bastard, trying to get in and steal his gold. He wouldn’t try that again!

  James Bell had taken off before he had got back around to the other side of the house, running out into the bush, not stopping to look behind him. Tim hadn’t bothered to chase him.

  He stood still in the darkness, listening for a stick cracking or any tiny noise that wasn’t the bush. All the while reliving the memory of James Bell. Chief had stopped growling, he realised. There couldn’t be any danger or he’d still be on guard. He started to walk again, lost in memories.

  Those were the good old days. Anyone could fire a gun and no one got upset. Except the fella you were firing at! People could protect their property however they wanted to. He gave a little satisfied grunt. James had never come back to bother him. In fact, not too many people had after word had got out.

  Tim brushed his fingers over a broombush and felt moisture on his hands. He looked up and assessed the moon again. Going to be a dew tonight, he thought.

  Chief gave a bark and bounded out of sight. It was then Tim realised where he was.

  He stood still, not wanting to go any further. But somehow his feet continued to walk of their own accord. They took him closer to Pammy, Kenneth and Kelly.

  The ache started in his heart once more. The one he’d felt when he’d heard the ghostly tunes from the piano. His mouth opened slightly, wanting to apologise again; but what was the point? The twins had been gone for fifty-three years, while Kelly, fifty-two. He’d apologised every time he came. Didn’t make any difference. They were still in the ground. His regret didn’t bring them back.

  The wire that held the rough handmade wooden crosses together glinted in the gentle light of the moon and distracted Tim from the deteriorated fabric of the teddy bear and the faded plastic flowers he’d bought once on a whim.