by Peter Corris
Wimmera Gold
By Peter Corris
Copyright © 1994, Peter Corris,
First published by Bantam books, Australia, 1994
Peter Corris was born in Stawell, Victoria in 1942. He has worked as a lecturer and researcher in history, as well as a freelance writer and journalist, specialising in sports writing and personality profiles. In the late 1960s and early 1970s he travelled in the Pacific Islands, including Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands and Fiji. The author of many books about the Sydney-based private eye Cliff Hardy, he has also written spy novels, a social history of prize-fighting in Australia, quiz books, radio and television scripts and co-wrote the life of eye surgeon Fred Hollows. He has written several successful historical novels, The Gulliver Fortune, Naismith's Dominion and The Brothers Craft.
Peter Corris is married to the writer Jean Bedford, has three daughters and lives in Sydney and on the Illawarra coast.
CONTENTS
Prologue
PART I: Henry Fanshawe and John Perry
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
PART II: Daniel Bracken
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
PART III: Wesley Lincoln
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
PART IV: John Perry and Daniel Bracken
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
PART V: Wesley Lincoln and John Perry
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue
Prologue
Mount Perfect Ranges,
Colony of Victoria, 1872
Daniel Bracken swore as a droplet of icy water fell from the roof of the cave and ran down the back of his neck. His snarled curse was thick with brogue, although the accent was only faint in his normal speech. He wiped his wet hand on his trousers and felt a sharp twinge from a rotting tooth. His companion, Wesley Lincoln, laughed quietly.
'You're too goddamned nervous, Danny,'
'I don't like this place. It gives me the horrors.'
'That's the idea,' Lincoln said. 'The white folks around don't know spit about these caves and the blackfellows are scared of 'em.'
Bracken shivered. 'Blackfellows. My god, Wesley. I wish you'd picked somewhere else.'
Lincoln shook his head. 'We had to disappear off the face of the earth for a spell and this is the place to do it. Now try to relax. We got some thinking to do.'
Bracken forced a smile. 'You're right. Now that we've got the bloody thing we have to decide what in the name of Jesus to do with it.'
Lying on a blanket beside the smoking camp fire was an irregularly shaped nugget of gold about the size and roughly the shape of a large marrow. It had a dull, greenish sheen for the most part although it glinted and sparkled when the struggling fire flared up. Bracken and Lincoln appeared to be entranced by the nugget, staring at it as if it was the only thing on earth that mattered.
'Can't sell it,' Lincoln drawled. 'We turn up at some assay office with this beauty and word gets put out within seconds. This has got to be the second biggest nugget ever found, after that … what's it called, Danny?'
Bracken didn't like being addressed as Danny by the American, but he bit back his annoyance. Lincoln had been very useful; in fact the exercise could not have succeeded without his expertise with women and horses. 'The Welcome Stranger,' Bracken said. 'Found a bit east of here by two of the luckiest men ever to walk the earth. Picked it up on the surface they did, after a cart-wheel hit it—ten thousand pounds worth. There was another big one found down a shaft, but twenty or so split the proceeds.'
'Well now, there's only just us two,' Lincoln said, 'so I guess we're near just as lucky as those two guys you mentioned. I got to say they never found nuggets this size in California that I ever heard of.'
Bracken moved away from the persistent dripping. The fire had begun to conquer the damp wood and the cave was heating up. He reached into his saddlebag for the rum bottle, uncorked it and took a swig. He swilled the spirit over the aching tooth and inflamed gum and felt some relief. He passed the bottle to the American.
'There's a look in your Yankee eye, Wesley. What's on your mind?'
Lincoln drank and wiped his mouth. Like the other man he was bearded and his hands and face were dirty after a long, hard, muddy ride. Dried mud clung to his dark beard like food that had missed its target. He drank again and spat into the fire. 'Gold is for making things—brooches, tie-pins, rings, right?'
'Of course.'
Lincoln tossed the bottle back to Bracken. He shrugged off his oilskin coat, reached into a pocket of his heavy calico jacket and took out a short cherrywood pipe. He scratched in his tobacco pouch and packed the pipe full.
Bracken felt a sudden, overwhelming distrust. He moved his brand new Winchester rifle, puchased for precisely this operation, into a position where he could quickly snatch it up and cock it. He had very little experience of firearms, but he was determined that if it came to shooting it would be Daniel Bracken who'd be breathing in the end, not a smooth-talking Yankee.
Lincoln lifted a glowing twig to his pipe and puffed luxuriously. 'I say we cut it in half. It's what Mr Henry Fanshawe would have to do, sooner or later. Or he'd sell it to someone who would. Let's us do it now.'
'That's an extraordinary suggestion. It's metal, man. How would we cut it?'
Lincoln clenched his white teeth on the pipe and puffed smoke. A knife appeared in his hand and he began to whittle at a chunk of mulga. Bracken watched the sharp knife dig into the wood and flick out the chips. He had the uneasy feeling that Lincoln could do things with the blade other than whittle.
The American smiled. 'I brought a saw with me and a few other tools. I think we can make a fair division. Better we should carve up the nugget than each other.'
Bracken was relieved at the potentially amicable solution. His tooth was becoming quiet but he took another small drink and extracted a cigar from a leather case. 'It makes sense, always supposing that the sawing can be done fairly.'
Lincoln laid his pipe and the piece of carved wood aside and pulled a carpetbag towards him. Bracken's fingers locked into the cocking arm of the rifle. Lincoln drew out a package wrapped in oilskin. He undid the binding to reveal a thin-bladed saw mounted on a wooden frame, along with a hammer and chisel.
'Gunsmith's saw,' Lincoln said. 'For cutting hard metal. It'll produce a quantity of dust, I reckon, which ain't no bad thing.'
Bracken released the rifle and poked a twig into the fire. When it caught, he lit his cigar from the flame. The tobacco and rum improved his mood. 'Jesus, I do like to work with a man who has confidence.'
Lincoln leant over the nugget. It was irregularly shaped, knobbly at both ends and thinner in the middle. He adjusted the screws that held the saw blade and unbuttoned his jacket. He was built on slim but wiry lines, and the length of his long, splayed-out legs would put him well above average height. His right arm and hand
were developed from work with horses; the left arm was less powerful and the gloved hand was noticeably smaller and moved stiffly. He put the nugget on top of the piece of oilskin, took up the saw and made three small cuts. He looked inquiringly at Bracken. 'That's fair, right? Four pieces, pretty much the same size.'
Bracken nodded. The American removed his hat and bent forward over the nugget. The saw cut easily through the metal, screeching when it struck quartz particles and other impurities which it dislodged. Fine yellow dust mixed with sand fell on the oilskin and the light glinted on the freshly exposed metal. Bracken added wood to the fire. Lincoln paused several times to wipe sweat from his face. The sawing was not hard work but concentration and an even pressure were required to keep the blade moving smoothly and straight. Also the fire was steadily warming the small cave.
'Can you manage?' Bracken said.
Lincoln, concentrating on the work, did not answer until he had completed a deep cut. He put the chisel blade into the fissure and tapped, then brought the hammer down solidly. He handed the lump of gold to Bracken. 'First piece's for you, Danny. It was your idea.'
Bracken nodded. It was true. It was his scheme, his information, his plan. But the American had certainly played his part. On the other hand, was not the greater credit due to himself for choosing such an able lieutenant?
'Cultivate her, Wesley. Win her confidence.' That was what he'd said to Lincoln. And how well he had executed the commission.
Bracken wrapped his soft, white, mud-smeared hands around the gold and tested the weight. 'It's hard to believe.'
Lincoln put down the saw, pulled a harmonica from his jacket pocket and played a few tremulous notes. He sang in a quavering, mock-emotional tenor:
'My spirits now are low, and I'm feeling quite downhearted
Upon these blessed diggings I've been an awful while,
But I'm no better off now than when from home I started,
And left my native land to come and make my pile.'
'You'll be heading for old Ireland, to be sure,' Lincoln said. 'You'll be able to play the swell in Dublin town. Go to church three times on Sunday and wash away your sins.'
'I may just do that. And what would a heathen Yankee like yourself know about church-going?'
Lincoln began the second cut. 'Well now, my people on my ma's side were Espanolas, savvy? And the women were forever going to church and praying. Crossing themselves, Mother Mary this, and Mother Mary that. Can't say the men took much to it.'
'And where was this?'
'Snakehole, Texas. Your partner's one half dago, Danny. How's that sit with you?'
Bracken shrugged. 'You don't look it. Not really. Tell me about the other half.'
'Well sir, my daddy was actually a preacher man himself. Might still be if'n he's alive. I wouldn't know on that score. Plenty of churches in Snakehole. Plenty.'
The saw jumped and skittered as it hit a pocket of quartz and the American swore as he lost his hold on the nugget. It rolled towards the fire but Bracken's hand shot out and stopped it. 'I'll get it melted down later, Wesley. If you don't mind.'
Lincoln laughed, took a firm grip on the nugget and resumed work. Bracken wrapped a flannel shirt around his piece of gold and placed it near his saddlebag. He took a long pull on the rum bottle and resisted the impulse to think about the green fields and soft mists of Ireland. He had no intention of going back there anyway, this was the land of the future. And he knew he needed to concentrate on the here and now. He'd noticed the young American's quick sureness with his right hand and slow deliberateness with the other. He wondered why he always wore a tight black leather glove on the left. Some instinct had told him not to ask. Lincoln was dangerous, that was for certain, and it would be impossible to relax until there were many miles between them.
Lincoln paused again, snapped off a short piece of eucalypt branch, peeled off the bark and threw it on the fire. A pungent odour rose and filled the cave. Lincoln inhaled deeply and resumed cutting. Bracken watched the American's smooth, precise action that was going to make him a rich man at what he thought of as the considerable age of thirty-one. A muttered curse from Lincoln brought him back to the present.
'What's wrong now?'
'Goddamn fault in the gold, a crack. Goddamn hard to make the cut where I want it.'
Bracken instantly became suspicious, thinking that the American had contrived a way to give himself a larger share. Lincoln, aware of the suspicion, worked the saw, carefully reducing the pressure and the length of his cuts, trying to feel his way through the flaw. He was not greedy by nature and had no thoughts of defrauding Bracken. The saw slid into a hard section of the nugget, sliced through it and the cut was completed to the American's satisfaction. He used the hammer and chisel again.
'Got it,' Lincoln grunted.
Bracken breathed out heavily. 'Good work, Wesley.'
The last cut and break were easily made and Lincoln carefully brushed dust from the saw onto the oilskin and tapped the residue into a pile which amounted almost to several ounces of gold mixed with quartz and sand. His knife flashed in the firelight as he divided the pile into two portions.
'Enough there for a travelling stake each, I'd say. Gold dust. No questions asked.'
Bracken took a spotted kerchief from the pocket of his serge coat, smoothed it out and allowed Lincoln to trowel the dust onto it. A few grains spilled onto the dirt floor of the cave but Bracken ignored them. He knotted the kerchief around the gold and stuffed it back into his coat pocket. Lincoln lost a few specks too as he smoothed the gold dust into a compartment of his tobacco pouch and tied it carefully.
'Very convincing,' he said. 'Poor old Yankee miner got himself a grub stake.' He took up the three lumps of gold and made as if to juggle them. 'Which one you fancy, Danny?'
Bracken reached out and touched the lump Lincoln held in his gloved hand. 'This one.'
Lincoln threw the piece towards him and the Irishman just managed to catch it. 'I reckon that makes it fair. Let's not worry about a few ounces.'
'That would be foolish, certainly.' Bracken put the second piece of gold next to the first and wrapped the shirt around them. The American had had several chances to use knife or gun on him and Bracken judged that this was not his intent. He smiled at the thought that he had gone into partnership in a criminal enterprise with an honest man.
'Something funny, Danny?' Lincoln was wiping perspiration from his face. 'Be glad to share the joke.'
Bracken shook his head. He uncorked the bottle, took a drink and passed it over. 'Nothing. I was worried about that knife of yours. Have you ever used it on a man?'
'Not this one. But I killed a man with a knife once. Had no choice. In Mexico.'
'Ah, Mexico. What's it like there, then?'
Lincoln shrugged as he wrapped his pieces of gold in the oilskin. 'It's better than Snakehole, Texas, which ain't saying much.'
Bracken went to the cave entrance and looked out. The rain had stopped and the night was frosty under a full moon. He was anxious about his next step but he was afraid of his own greed and very unsure of the outcome if he were to attack the American. He returned to the fire and tidied his belongings. 'The moon's up. Time I was on my way.'
'Sure you've got it straight?'
'I have. We've been over it enough times, surely.'
Lincoln put another coal in his pipe. 'One thing to study a map and talk roads and distances, another to do it at night, tired like you are.'
'I have to catch that coach in Portland the day after tomorrow. That's all there is to it.'
'Make sure you take the right horse, Danny,' Lincoln said. 'That bay mare ain't a bad horse but she ain't in Jackson's class.'
Bracken tugged on his greatcoat, closed his saddlebag and settled his hat firmly on his head. 'I wouldn't try to ride that beast of yours, Wesley. I'm sure it'd trample the life out of me. Goodbye and good luck to you.'
They did not shake hands. Lincoln began to whittle again. 'So long, Danny. If
you ever get to Texas, look me up.'
'Unlikely.' Bracken crouched low, clutching his bag and rifle, and backed out of the cave. The cold air made him shudder as he caught the hobbled horse and strapped on the saddlebag and thrust the rifle into a makeshift sling. He mounted and pulled heavy leather and wool gloves from his greatcoat pocket. The horse stood quietly. The mare had been chosen by Lincoln and had proved reliable in every way. Bracken clicked his tongue and the horse moved off down the track towards the creek which he could hear bubbling in the darkness. The large, dark shape of Lincoln's stallion loomed up and the mare skittered nervously.
'Be off with you,' Bracken said.
He urged the mare forward. The track was clear under the high bright moon and Bracken managed the ride comfortably. He had ridden horses as a boy in Galway but that was long ago—almost in another life, it seemed. He was glad that he'd lately shed many pounds of excess flesh in preparing for this exercise, but he looked forward to restoring them with good food and drink when he was finally able to reap the reward of his enterprise and ingenuity.
Wesley Lincoln piled wood on the fire, more to produce light than heat. The cave gave off strange sounds and smells as the air inside it warmed to the highest temperature experienced in the space for a great many years. He smoked to counteract the smells arising from bones and animal and human droppings. He knew something of the history of the cave and, his body and brain exhausted by the events of the day, his imagination activated by the rum, he felt as if long-past events were taking place around him.
He heard whisperings and started up, reaching for his knife. He realised that he had dozed and that the only real noises were the wind outside the cave and the creaking of the expanding rocks. He took out his mouth organ and played a few snatches of tunes, but the music failed to comfort him. He heard a scuttling in a corner of the cave and threw a blazing stick in the direction of the sound.
'Goddamn it,' he said. 'I'm a rich man and I'm sharing a stinking cave with a passel of rats.' The thought made him laugh but the noise was eerie and haunting in the enclosed space.
'Wesley Lincoln,' he said. 'Time for you to head on back to the Lone Star state.'