Chapter 7. The Outdoor Workers; and Making A Worthwhile Trip
One sunny autumn afternoon, on the northernmost outskirts of Alice Springs, in the year two thousand and seven, a thin elderly pensioner stepped from the door of his residence and set off walking toward the town centre. It was a journey the old fellow made often and his usual goal was the Todd Tavern, a distance of some four kilometres. Occasionally someone stopped and offered him a ride. Mostly he just walked.
The pensioner’s name was Sayd Kaseem.
Sayd now lived in a lean-to shack on an undeveloped property at the edge of the Alice Springs hills. The block belonged to a former employer, a station owner with a small cattle transport and earth moving business. Sayd stayed there rent-free in return for keeping an eye on the trucks and machinery parked in the yard from time to time. There was a water tap by the lean-to but no power.
About mid way between the shack and the tavern lay the North Side liquor outlet. When Sayd was broke he’d stride resolutely past the place, so reaffirming to himself his non-reliance on the stuff and ever confident of finding someone in town who would buy him a beer.
It was different when his pension payment was in. Long before reaching there he’d have convinced himself that the day was too hot (or the wind was too cold or it looked like rain), so why walk the extra distance? He was no slave to the bottle, something he could demonstrate any time he wanted (which was any time he was broke).
The greater part of Sayd’s life had been spent in the bush, first as a child, then as a boy at Jervois and, after Jervois, on cattle stations – mustering mostly or droving mobs through to Queensland or the Alice Springs railhead. When younger he’d worked occasionally as a miner, but horse tailing was his forte.
Time had taken its toll, however, and with increasing age Sayd had found himself accepting the less demanding station jobs or using his experience to teach others.
Yet change had come to the pastoral industry as well. Ever increasing employment costs and the introduction of trap-yards had reduced teams of stockmen to a few station hands, while road trains and better roads had put paid to the big cattle drives. And along with these changes had come a diminishing need for men the likes of Sayd Kaseem.
As a result Sayd had more and more found himself marking time in town, hanging around the Stock Agents’ offices or the trucking yards in the hope of finding work. Eventually, with a sad inevitability and lacking kin or real friends, Sayd Kaseem had drifted into the arms of the Demon Drink.
He still regarded himself as a bushman, however, even though he’d resided in Alice Springs for the past decade. And despite his alcoholism and failing health he still stood straight, and when he spoke he spoke well.
At the door of the Todd Tavern Sayd checked his appearance. His reflection looked back at him, wrinkled but well turned out. His clothes were clean, his hair was brushed and his face clean shaven, so there’d be no trouble with management on that account. But there was no cash in Sayd’s pocket and he knew he’d have to be careful. If someone bought him a drink all well and good, if not he’d have to make a prompt and dignified exit and hope for better luck elsewhere.
In the bar he looked about to see who was there.
It didn’t look good. Of the ten or so present he knew only one, a station owner’s son, all full of himself and mean as buggery. The rest were occasionals. Best he move on.
Suddenly his prospects changed. “Over here Sayd,” said a big burly truck driver returning from the Gents. “You look like you could use a beer.”
Sayd only knew the fellow as “Knuckles”. Often while walking the streets waiting for pension day he’d see the big man driving around town delivering freight. And whenever Knuckles passed the old pensioner in the street he’d give him a wave and a blast from his overloud air horn.
He joined the truckie at the bar. “Gawd, Knuckles, what a life saver,” he said. “You’re a prince among men, old mate; a king among princes.” When the beer arrived he held it up.
“Cheers,” he said. He took a large mouthful then set the glass on the bar. “I’ll be making this up to you on pension day old son,” he added as his tremors began melting away. “You can count on that; nothing surer.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Knuckles replied. “It’s my shout, remember.” After a few minutes conversation Knuckles drained his glass, pulled a note from his wallet and put it on the counter. When the barmaid went past he said: “I gotta go now, Sandra. Give the old bloke here a couple more when he’s ready luvvie and keep the change.”
He turned back to Sayd. “…But you’d better watch out crossing the street, ay. I might get you next time.”
Sayd looked at the truckie with a twinkle in his watery eyes. “Yeah? You’ve been trying to get me for the last couple of years but I’m still here.”
One day Sayd had wandered into the traffic. Knuckles locked up the wheels of his big truck trying to stop in time, bringing it to a halt just as the bull bar gave Sayd a shove and knocked him over. The pensioner was badly shaken, but apart from a few bruises he’d not been hurt. Now the two were friends and this was a silly game they played. Knuckles would shout Sayd a couple of drinks if he saw the old pensioner in the pub before he “got” him.
A little later, as Sayd spun out the last of Knuckles’ beers, two men came in and sat at a corner table. To Sayd they looked like outdoor workers, in their mid forties and holidaying from interstate. Tourist types like this were the easiest marks, he’d found, especially older retired ones.
Here was a true bushman, they’d think. The real article. And because of his disarming manner he was rarely asked to move on.
Soon the old bushman would be regaling his new-found friends with tales of the bush, of pioneering days and of outback life in general, and all the while his glass would be kept full.
Often his stories would prove greater in number than his audience had time to hear. In such cases they’d usually leave him a few dollars to buy an extra round or two as they departed.
Just then the barman spoke to Sandra and left the room. Sayd had been watching him; here was his opportunity.
He emptied his glass and wandered over to the corner where the strangers were sitting. “Any chance of a few dollars for an old pensioner to buy a beer?” he asked, alert for the barman’s return.
The heavier-set, more senior looking one waved him away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’re discussing some business here.”
But on an impulse the smaller man disagreed. “Come on, Simon. No harm in shouting the old bloke a beer. He should know the country around here if anyone does.”
He stood up and gathered their empty glasses. Over at the bar he ordered another round.
“If you are going to join us you had better sit down,” the older man said. “What is your name?”
“Sayd Kaseem,” the pensioner replied.
“I am Simon Tyler and my associate is Alex Watts,” Sayd was informed. He reached across the table to shake hands then settled on a chair. “You’re not from around here, are you,” he ventured.
“And neither are you, sir, judging by your name. Yet your accent and racial characteristics would seem to refute this. As a result I would say Mister Watts’ estimation was correct, in that you know the country around here quite well.”
Just then the barman returned. When he saw what was happening he came over and asked if Tyler wanted Sayd ejected.
“Certainly not,” Tyler replied. “We are purchasing Mister Kaseem a drink, in return for which he is going to tell us of the changes since we were last here, and what developments have taken place in the mining and prospecting business.” The barman rolled his eyes to the ceiling and returned to the bar.
Tyler then informed Sayd he was a geologist and that Mister Watts was his assistant. They were in the Centre to do some reconnaissance work for their company, he said. When Sayd mentioned he’d worked at a number of mining ventures in his younger days the conversation warmed.
“
How very interesting it must have been,” Tyler remarked. “Where exactly were you employed?”
“When I was ten I went to live at Jervois Range,” Sayd replied, “about four hundred K’s north east of here. Two old blokes with a copper and silver mine took me on there after my parents died. Years later I was at one of the Winneke gold shows, and later I was mining on the Wauchope wolfram field, south of Tennant Creek.”
“And have you always been a miner?”
“No; I put in most of my time droving and contract mustering, but when I got too old for that I worked mostly as a horse tailer and later as a Jack of all trades – fencing patrol, camp cook; whatever was going. It didn’t last forever, though. In the end I ran out of work and came to town. Now I live on a block up the north side and look after the trucks and things there.”
Just then Watts arrived back with the drinks, and during the subsequent conversation Sayd described the mines where he’d worked. Tyler asked about their geological nature, the economics of the different operations he’d seen, plus their current status and what Sayd thought of their potential. Sayd made an effort to describe these things and explain them as best he could.
Eventually the two had heard enough and the talk began to ebb. By any measure Sayd had drunk enough, but his glass was empty again and he was hoping the meeting might stretch to one more refill. When he realised this would not be the case he tried to think of something to prolong the conversation.
Suddenly a long-repressed suite of memories popped into his drink-befuddled mind, its locked enclosure breached by the alcohol. This should keep them interested, he thought, and started bragging about knowing of some gold. Then he stopped abruptly, mid sentence, a look of alarm on his face. His no-go reflex had activated, its stronghold door slammed tight.
“How very interesting, Mister Kaseem,” Tyler murmured. “Please do go on.”
But Sayd baulked and tried to warn them off. “It’s a really important Aboriginal site,” he told them. “A dead-set secret. They’re serious about it, too – deadly serious. Just forget I said anything about it. And there’s only a trace there anyway; just a few specks. Not enough to feed a blowfly.”
Tyler turned to his companion. “In that case, Mister Watts, I believe we are finished here for now. Let us offer Mister Kaseem a lift back to his residence. We can detour through the adjacent liquor outlet and purchase further refreshments from there.”
A short time later Sayd was directing Tyler to his shack from the back seat of their big Toyota Station Wagon. On arriving there Watts opened the rear doors, pulled out three folding chairs and set them up under the lean-to. Then, in the gathering twilight, the two plied the old pensioner with drink and surreptitiously probed the subject of his earlier comment. And slowly, bit by bit, Sayd’s tongue began to loosen.
Soon he was elaborating on the time he was a lad working at Jervois Range, a feeling of comradely warmth welling in his veins. Tyler was only interested in comments about the gold but listened patiently to everything he said in case of missing something relevant.
Sayd told of his days with the gougers McCullock and Johns, two of a number mining on the Jervois field. Their little copper and silver show was in the bank of a creek, he explained, which occasionally flooded the mine. Instead of pumping out the water they’d sometimes go away for a while to let it drain – to town for supplies perhaps or to help someone with their stock work.
“Sometimes they’d go prospecting,” he told them, “and one time they went down into the desert country. But McCullock’s old army truck would’ve used too much fuel there so they sent me ahead with half a dozen horses. We camped just up from a soakage called Marshall Bar, then for a week they rode out at daylight while I looked after the camp and the spare mounts.
“Some Aboriginal people were living there at the time – on the other side of the creek, not too far from the water – and I’d sometimes walk over for a yarn or to have a game with the kids. McCullock and Johns usually rode in around sunset, but a couple of times it was well after dark. I’d boil the billy and dish up their tucker then unsaddle the horses. Down at the soakage I’d hobble them out. Four the next morning McCullock would rouse me out to find them again.
“A few weeks later we made a second trip,” Sayd continued.
“I was sent off in front like before but this time mostly with pack horses. We camped at the same place and in the morning loaded our gear onto their pack saddles, then we rode out to this hill where McCullock reckoned they’d got onto some gold.
“But it was only small and was hard for them to find again, because the country there all looks the same. Their tracks were everywhere, too, from their earlier prospecting. Half a day we rode around looking for the place, then only fell over it by accident.
“‘Take all the horses back to Marshall Bar,’ McCullock told me after we’d finished unloading. ‘Bring them out again in ten days time. —And not along the same tracks, either,’ he said. ‘Go a different way each time.’ He was worried about the others following us, see.
“Well, that was pretty easy. All I had to do was go north to the Marshall River then head down to the soakage.
“When the time was up I took the horses back out like he’d said. After lunch we loaded everything and set off back to Marshall Bar – by a different way again.”
Just then an icy chill went through the pensioner’s old bones and his warm alcoholic glow suddenly evaporated. In a moment of sober clarity Sayd realised he might have told his new drinking mates a good deal more than he should have.
“No, wait a minute,” he said, trying to act confused. “I’m getting it all mixed up. The gold was at Winneke. We were rounding up stray cattle south of Marshall Bar.
“—Yeah, that’s right. About twenty there were, watering at the soakage. We mustered ‘em up and pushed ‘em through to Queensland to sell. That hill I was talking about was south of Winneke – back towards the Arltunga goldfield.”
Tyler was unconvinced. He wanted to know more and started probing determinedly.
“Gold? No no no,” Sayd waffled. “You must have got confused. There’s no gold in that country, only sand and spinifex. Who said anything about gold?”
Watts then tried to push him around but Sayd became incoherent. Shortly after that he passed out.
Back in Tyler’s motel room the pair discussed what the old bushman had told them. Tyler decided that a trip to this Marshall Bar place might be very much worth their while...
McCullock's Gold Page 9
