24. The Forgotten Telescope; and Killing The Fatted Calf
After smoko Zack and I were invited to join the miners, so we happily abandoned Nugget to the clearing up and took off after them. But they didn’t stop at the workings. Instead they kept walking, going up past the shaft and onto a well used path. This took us over the top of the main ridge and part way down the western side of the hill to where it terminated at the foot of a large rock face about six metres high.
This was the place they stored their explosives, in their so-called magazine. In reality it was just two rusty drums lying side by side, their top ends cut out, the bottoms set under an overhang in the rock formation.
Like the Palace, the whole thing was covered in spinifex to protect its contents from the hot afternoon sun. A heavy canvas flap over the open ends kept out rain and four well-placed rocks anchored it down.
Peter shifted the rocks away and folded back the flap of one of the drums. Inside it was enough gelignite to wipe Schraeder’s Claim from the face of the earth. Right then I realised: their magazine site had been selected very carefully. It was tucked under the far side of a very large rock formation on the other side of the hill to that of the mine and the camp. (I would have put it slightly farther, like on the other side of the country, but I don’t suppose that would have been overly practical.)
The second drum held several rolls of yellow fuse in a gelignite box. Also in the box were some fuse cutters, a small wooden spike and four small square metal tins. In the tins were the detonators, all packed in sawdust. Jasper and Peter retrieved a number of items from each drum, then sat on a couple of conveniently located flat rocks to make up the charges. There they showed me the proper way to connect a detonator to a length of fuse, and how to fix it safely in the gelignite – you know, the sort of thing every high school boy should know.
(Well Kevin, what did you learn about today?
I learned about gelignite, Father. I learned how to make a bomb.)
The men seemed totally unconcerned about being in the midst of all these explosives. They just sat there preparing their charges and discussing the performance of one of the local football teams. My own instinctive preference was to observe the proceedings from a slightly less exposed position – say with a high-powered telescope from somewhere on the far side of the next valley – but with Zack passing out sticks of gelignite like so many cold sausages I could hardly affect an exit. ...Besides, I’d forgotten to bring my telescope.
As soon as the charges were completed Peter packed away the excess and pulled the canvas over the ends of the drums, then he and Jasper began lifting the holding-down rocks into place. Zack was rolling one of the rocks as well, so I decided to start back up the path. But I’d only taken a few steps when a loud yell came and he hurtled past me. “Run Casey! RUN!!!” he yelled raggedly.
A gut-chilling fear clutched at my heart as my legs went into automatic. If Zack was leaving then they were leaving too, ice cold sweat and adrenaline super-powered reflex their primary driving force. And Zack was absolutely flying. He topped the ridge and disappeared before I’d even hit second.
In mindless terror I followed, waiting for that cataclysmic wash of doom to engulf me ... only to find Zack leaning against a boulder at the top of the hill, helpless with laughter. As I shot past him there came a moment of utter disbelief at his hysterical surrender to the Angel of Death.
…And then I realised. “Hook line and sinker” I believe it’s called, though here it was rod boat and everything. A quick glance back at Jasper and Peter would have disarmed the ruse in a moment.
They followed at a more leisurely pace, a hessian bag over Jasper’s shoulder holding the explosives. On topping the ridge they found us still lying helpless on the path shrieking with laughter.
“Y’s are all bloody stupidity-muscles and no brains, the pair of you,” Peter muttered as he stepped around us.
When he and Jasper were half way to the shaft we stood up ran after them. Even then we couldn’t stop laughing. Jasper and Peter just ignored us.
So did Nugget. He’d already started the winch engine. Jasper went straight to the shaft and put the bag of explosives in the kebble, following which he stepped up onto the rim. Nugget then hoisted him clear of the ground, opened the shaft-cover, then lowered him down to the working-level to charge the holes drilled earlier in the day.
Peter continued on toward the Palace. When he returned he was carrying a twenty-two calibre rifle and a light pair of binoculars. Both looked as if they’d been on many an adventure in the bush. “I’m going out to see if I can get a kangaroo,” he said as he walked past the shaft. “I don’t suppose you clowns’d want to come.” Without breaking stride or waiting for an answer he set off down the side of the rock strewn hill.
This invitation to the hunt caught Zack and I completely by surprise. We were quick to follow, however, but it wasn’t until reaching the level going at the bottom of the hill that we were able to catch him. We’d had to sprint, too; Peter’s natural walking pace was brisk, to say the least.
“Over the next hill there’s a patch of flat country where the kangaroos like to graze,” he said as we fell into rapid step beside him. “When we get there just stay behind me. And I know it’s pointless saying this, but no talking or acting the fool.”
“Much more at this rate and I won’t be able to talk anyway,” said Zack. “I’m glad we’re not in a hurry.” Peter didn’t comment; he just kept up the pace. Before long we came to the ridge and started climbing.
At the top he sat on a rock and surveyed the valley through his binoculars. Recent rains had left it covered with new grass and a few kangaroos could be seen, mostly grazing in ones and twos. Peter selected his target, took note of the breeze, then explained how we could keep out of sight by walking down a nearby gully to its junction with a sandy creek. Besides providing cover, he said, it would allow us to move in from a crosswind direction. He then repeated all the “keeping behind and not talking” stuff.
And that was how we made our approach. A couple of times we used bushes growing on the edge of the creek bank to check our position. When we were close enough Peter inserted the magazine and worked the bolt ... then handed me the rifle. Before I could protest he whispered, “There’s a bullet in the breech. Release the safety catch when you’re ready. And watch out for the trigger, it’s very light.
“Try for a shot in the heart. Aim two inches below the armpit and about an inch and a quarter left for the breeze.”
An inch and a quarter? I thought. Who does he think I am, Davy bloody Crockett?!! From this distance I could cover half the target with the front sight. I had to try and get closer.
Before he’d realised what I was doing I’d backed down the bank and was skulking another thirty metres or so along the sandy bed. There I peeked carefully over the bank again. About forty metres away from me in the roo’s direction stood a bush a metre or so in hight. Its sparse leaves offered little in the way of cover but there was no better option. A few steps to one side put it directly between us.
The kangaroo seemed alert. It kept nibbling at the grass then standing up to look about while it chewed. When its head went down to crop another mouthful I’d creep forward in a low crouch; when it stood up I’d freeze.
I could imagine Peter watching this slow motion pas de deux in frustration, silently tearing out his hair as I tried to shorten the range. He knew as well as I that the kangaroo might see me but there was no way for him to call me back. Neither could he attract my attention by throwing a stone. Any sudden movement might alarm the roo and we’d have to start again. Whatever the case, I was certainly not going to look around to see how he was reacting.
On reaching the bush I lay forward, then slowly poked the rifle barrel through its twiggy branches. There was still no reaction from the kangaroo. It continued alternately to graze and look about watchfully. With the distance between us now considerably less than before I again took aim. The bush’s thin branches helped
support the rifle but even by holding my breath I was unable to keep it steady.
The problem was my own heartbeat. In no way was its rapid rhythmic thumping an aid to accurate shooting. As I lay there it seemed to dominate the universe.
I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to relax. Then I quickly took sight and fired. The kangaroo jumped forward to hop away but instead stumbled and fell to the ground. As it did I started running to where it lay, in case it was only stunned.
The roo looked toward me in anguish and desperately tried to stand up. Then, just as I arrived there, it fell back dead.
Suddenly I was overcome with a mix of emotions, all strong and conflicting. Deep inside was the primal satisfaction of having proved my worth as a hunter, yet I’d taken this poor creature’s life and I was torn with remorse. It took a considerable effort to convince myself that this was simply “killing the fatted calf”. Whether lamb or leghorn rooster (I kept telling myself), something got to die if someone going to eat.
Just then Peter and Zack walked up. “You’d be a pretty fair shot, I reckon,” Peter said. Both had an armful of leafy gum tree branches. They placed them in a heap and Peter lifted the roo onto them for butchering clear of the dirt.
“…You haven’t seen all the misses,” I replied when my insides had settled a little – inferring more experience than I’d intended.
Pete rolled the carcase onto its back and pulled a small skinning knife from his pocket. “Hold the legs apart,” he said as he started removing the hide. “I don’t need to see you miss,” he added without looking up. “You hit it about half an inch from where I told you.”
He skinned the legs to below the knees and the body to part-way up the front. Then, after discarding the lower legs and feet, he severed them at their hip joints. “Hold onto this,” he told Zack as he produced a cotton flour bag from his pocket. The legs went into the bag and the carcase was rolled over, following which he skinned the back and started removing the “sirloins”.
After a couple of final slashes where the meat remained attached he stood up. “…And don’t just say it was a lucky shot. I was watching with the binoculars, remember.” He dropped the sirloin sections into Zack’s bag. “You had me worried, though. The way you were sneakin’ up on it I thought you were set on clubbing the thing to death.”
Peter bent over again and removed the tail skin and all. “I’ll carry the bag; you can carry this,” he said to Zack. “And much as I hate it, the dingoes can have the rest.”
So Peter carried the meat, I carried the rifle and Zack brought up the rear with the tail over his shoulder. Straight into the setting sun we headed, the shadows around us growing longer. Mostly we walked in single file. There was no talking.
And we were a good deal farther from the mine than I’d thought, too. In the excitement of joining the hunt I seemed to have lost track of just how far we’d come. In fact it wasn’t until the sun had dipped below the horizon that we eventually caught sight of the Palace.
25. The Boa Constrictor; and The Royal Doulton
We rejoined the track thirty or forty metres down from the shaft, about half way between the head frame and the Palace. On drawing nearer to the dwelling we could make out Nugget and Jasper. They were sitting outside on empty twenty-five litre oil tins, relaxing after the day’s hard work with a large bottle of beer each and staring into the flames of a campfire. Ever the optimist, Nugget had chosen to light the outside fire in anticipation of some fresh kangaroo steaks rather than stoke up the stove.
Despite the fading light it was obvious to him that Peter was carrying something. “And about bloody time, too,” he said as we came closer. “…And that certainly looks promising.”
“Don’t get too excited,” Peter replied. “It’s only a couple of rabbits. We never even saw a roo.”
“Oh yeah? So what the hell is it that Zack’s carryin’ – a bloody boa constrictor?”
“Kevin got it,” Peter confessed. “There was plenty of ‘em feeding on the flats there so I let him have the first shot. He didn’t need a second one.”
“Good on you, me lad; great work,” Nugget said heartily. “That means kangaroo steaks for dinner. On the coals, too; it’s the only way t’ cook ‘em.”
I handed Peter the rifle, then he and Zack went inside and transferred their loads onto the table. Zack had a quick drink of water then collapsed on a bunk; Peter put the gun away, retrieved some meat-hooks from a cupboard then hung the legs from a beam. Following this he sliced a section of one sirloin into steaks and put the remainder onto hooks as well. The tail was left on the table.
When he came back outside he was carrying a hurricane lamp. “You can skin the tail,” he told Nugget as he went by on his way down to the shower. “It’s on the table.”
I subsequently learned that Nugget used the tail to make a dish he called “soupe de la roo”. Those fortunate enough to have tried it judged it to be, by far, his finest achievement.
How widely this renown actually spread would have surprised even Nugget. In later years I would meet the occasional retired stockman, traveller or ex-company geologist who had visited one or another of his worthless little diggings during their earlier days. All of them remembered Nugget, and all could remember (despite Nugget’s unflagging optimism) the almost tangible feeling of hopelessness that hung over whichever of these pathetic little shows he was working at the time.
The deepest impression gained, however – the one thing which had touched them all – was the recollection of an evening meal that Nugget had set before them. And it wasn’t the view of the sunset from his lean-to high on the side of some hill which marked their souls so deeply, or the great yellow moon streaking the darkening countryside with gold.
It was Nugget’s kangaroo-tail soupe de la roo. And, in respect of this, each had come to regard Nugget Felstone Dorado as an unsung National Treasure.
Nugget picked up a log and worked it further into the fire, then moved a billycan nearer the coals. “Seems like you might be a bit of a marksman, eh Kev?”
“Not really. I’ve only ever had a few shots with my dad’s old twenty-two. I never thought Peter would want me to have a go.”
Nugget made no immediate move to answer. After a time he looked up at me and said quietly: “Come and sit around here me lad and I’ll tell you a story.” He stoked his pipe again then went back to staring at the flames.
As I settled myself on the five gallon tin alongside him Jasper rose to his feet. “Reckon I’ll stretch out on me swag for a bit,” he said as he disappeared into the Palace. There he evicted Zack from his bed.
After a time Nugget continued. “Peter used to enjoy going out hunting. He don’t like it much no more though, and I’ll tell you why.
“See a few years back we were minin’ mica on the Plenty River mica field. That’s this side of the Harts Ranges, about a hundred and seventy miles north east of Alice Springs. Three or four miles north of us was a show called the Whistleduck – five or six Italian blokes workin it. There was no track, but Sat’y arvo sometimes Peter used to walk there through the bush – for a game of cards an’ a yarn an’ a bit of vino. Afterwards ‘e might walk home in the moonlight – two or three in the morning sometimes, though if it was rainin’ or really cold he might stay till the next day.
“Well ‘e had this old half-breed cattle dog at the time. Boss ‘e called ‘im.
“‘On yer feet, Boss,’ he used to tell ‘im. ‘There’s work t’be done’. Sometimes he’d say: ‘Yeah? You might be the Boss, but far as I’m concerned you’re just a mongrel dog – so what d’you say to that?’ An’ ol’ Boss use t’ give ‘im a look like he’d bite ‘im on the bum first chance ‘e got.
“Course ol’ Boss always went wif ‘im, when he walked across to the Whistleduck. Any’ow, one Sat’y night, him an’ Boss is headin’ home through th’ mulga when ‘ol Boss gits the scent of a dingo bitch on heat. Well, wif ‘is balls bein’ bigger’n ‘is brains ‘e takes off after
‘er. Peter can hear ‘em yippin’ an’ yowlin’ way off in the dark an’ tries t’ whistle ‘im back. Ol’ Boss but, he’s got better things t’ do.
“In the end Peter just walks home an’ leaves ‘im to it, cos ‘e figures ol’ Boss orta know ‘is way around the place pretty well by this. Anyway next mornin’ there’s no sign of ‘im, an’ when I ask Pete where he is ‘e tells me what’s happened.
“Now me boy, it’s a real furphy that out in the bush a dog’ll go off wif a wild dingo bitch an’ do a bit of cross-breedin’, an’ anyone tellin’ you that’s got no idea what they’re talkin’ about. See what actually happens is this: the male dingoes all stop fightin’ amongst themselves an’ gang up on the stranger. Mostly they just kill him. If he’s any sort of a fighter he might get out of it alive, but whatever happens, he don’t get no chance wif the girl.
“All I could say for the Boss was that Pete should take his rifle out an’ try an’ find ‘im. Wif a bit of luck he might still be all right, in which case he’d probly appreciate a bit of help wif the odds. Turned out I was wrong, but.
“Anyway Peter goes back t’ where the Boss cleared out, see, an’ it don’t take ‘im long to pick up his tracks. Then after a time he comes on where they’ve all been fighting. Course by this time there’s more dog tracks than round a fox ‘unt.
“Pretty soon he finds ol’ Boss – but gees, he sure wished ‘e didn’t. The old fella is just lyin’ there, torn an’ chewed to pieces. ...Still alive but. When ‘e sees Pete he gives a whimper an’ tries t’ wag his tail, but it just flops a bit cos it’s broken an’ half torn off. There’s nowhere he can even pat the poor bugger without hurtin’ ‘im – big flaps of skin ripped off, an’ one eye out by the look of the blood. He’s just done for see; too far gone fer anythin’.
“So Peter’s got to shoot the poor bloke – y’know, to put him out’v his pain. Course ‘e don’t want to; he don’t want to be the one that has t’ do it.
“There ain’t no choice about it but. He just has to.
“Anyhow, when he turned up back at the camp he never said nothin’. He just gets one of the shovels an’ goes back into the bush. And he never come back till late that afternoon, neither.
“‘E just spent the day walkin it out of ‘is guts, I s’pose. ...An’ lookin’ for a dingo t’ kill. See that’s why ‘e took off so quick today, when you went out hunting. He likes t’ get it over wif quick as possible.
“An’ that’s why ‘e give you the rifle, too. He don’t like shootin’ nothin’ no more. ...Sept dingos that is. Peter’s always happy t’ shoot a dingo.”
By this time the log on the campfire had burned down to a rich bed of embers. Nugget stood up and went inside, then returned with the steaks and a blackened piece of wire mesh which he placed directly on the coals. After a few moments he spread the meat on the mesh to grill. Some potatoes were simmering gently in the billycan he’d moved earlier.
Soon Peter came back from the shower. “I shoved a couple more sticks under the hot water drum,” he said as he walked past. “There should be plenty for everyone.” He was dabbing at a little patch of blood under his chin.
As he arrived at the Palace Jasper came out with a towel over his shoulder. Peter handed him the lantern. Jasper held it up and surveyed Peter’s wound. “Gees mate, you look like a botched suicide attempt”, he said. “I’ve told y’s before, if you’re gunna be fair dinkum about it then usin’ one of them safety blades is hopeless. Get y’self a decent razor.”
“Yeah? And I’ll do a trial run on your throat first.”
Jasper ignored the retort and continued on past us down to the shower. “I won’t be long,” he said to Nugget over his shoulder, “so don’t go burnin’ me steak,”
“You like it burned to buggery anyway,” Nugget shouted after him, “so take as long as you bloody like!”
Then Peter came out of the Palace with a kerosene-fuelled tilly lamp. He sat down, fuelled the primer and applied a match. After half a minute he worked the little pressure pump on the tank and the mantle began to glow with a bright clear light.
Nugget pronounced the steaks ready just Jasper came up the path from the shower. He transferred them to an enamel plate then took them inside. I carried the billycan with the potatoes; Peter brought the tilly lamp and hung it from a rafter.
Zack was now occupying Peter’s bed. “Hey! get up and bloody make y’self useful fer a change,” Nugget told him. “Get th’ knives and forks and set the table. You get the plates, Kevin. They’re in the cupboard there. And seein’ it’s a special occasion I reckon we should use the Royal Doulton.”
Royal Doulton? I thought. What Royal Doulton. All I could see there was a collection of battered enamel plates. It looked as if they’d been recovered from the trenches of Gallipoli and badly abused ever since.
“Umm, Nugget,” I said. “All I can see here are these...”
“What’s bloody wrong with you, boy,” he grumbled as he came over. “Are y’s bloody blind? Don’t you reckernise the quality stuff when you see it?” He grabbed one of the enamel plates and waved it about in front of me. “See what’s writ there? Royal Doulton! ...Least it was before it got chipped off.”
He counted off another four and thrust them into my hands. “And if you believe that you’ll believe anything. Struth mate, I thought you were quicker than that.”
Yeah. Great, I thought. Lightning Kevin strikes again. “I can’t think too good when I’m starvin’,” I told him lamely. “All the blood goes to me guts. Anyway, what do you mean, ‘special occasion’?”
“In honour of your visit. In honour of your new-found status as The Mighty Hunter. In honour of your providing sustenance for the starving gougers at a time of great need.”
“What time of great need?”
“About six thirty in the evenin’. When the cook don’t know what he’s s’posed to be gittin’ fer dinner. When bully-beef fritters again is the subject of mutinous talk among the ranks.”
By this time Zack had finished setting the table. And he’d certainly done a comprehensive job. Along with the cutlery were bottles of sauce, a tin of butter, some jam, some golden syrup and a plate of bread he had sliced. The salt and pepper were in Sal Vital tins. I didn’t recognise what they were until noticing all the little holes in their lids.
I also noticed that Zack was now sitting at attention, alert and ready to engage vigorously anything put in front of him. Our Palace chef, meanwhile, was unceremoniously dumping a couple of boiled potatoes and a charred piece of meat onto each plate, then handing them around.
“Git that into y’ boy, it’s good for you,” he told Zack as he passed it over. He needn’t have bothered. Zack was making the first cut in his steak before the plate hit the table.
I was no less hungry than Zack but harboured apprehensions about my first taste of kangaroo. Instead of starting I began cutting up my potatoes to help them cool – a ruse by which means I was able to delay the steak experience momentarily and watch what the others were doing.
The first thing I noticed was Zack not applying the usual half bottle of tomato sauce to his meal. Instead he added a little salt and pepper then tucked straight in. Encouraged by his enthusiasm – and his unbridled demonstration of sauceular restraint – I did the same.
And I have never, never, never tasted a piece of meat so tender and so gloriously succulent. (Nor since, I might add – fancy restaurants notwithstanding. Nugget was right. It had to be cooked on the coals of a campfire.)
After we’d finished Nugget cleared away the dishes then took some hot water from the stove and began washing up in a galvanised iron basin. For this, and to wipe the table, he used what I believe must be the foulest article ever to have been graced by the term “dishcloth”. I can only say, however, that it barely succeeded in displacing from that position, the item with which I was invited to wipe up.
That done, Zack and I took our towels and a hurricane lamp and headed down the path to the show
er. Jasper followed us to the door. “Make it quick,” he shouted after us. “The water has to be carried from town, remember.”
By the time we arrived back Jasper had set up two more cyclone stretchers and put our swags on them. Suddenly, as I began undoing the straps, I realised how tired I was.
Zack too. He’d rolled his out more quickly and had already flopped onto it.
He looked across at me as I collapsed onto the blankets. “Gees Casey, I thought you’d know by now,” he muttered cryptically.
“Know what?”
“That you take your shoes off when you go to bed.”
I was too tired to reply.
Meanwhile Nugget had gone to the kero fridge and turned on the radio. After a little fiddling with the dial it produced the familiar sound of Bob Dyer and his popular radio quiz program, “Pick-a-Box”. Back at the table he poured mugs of tea for himself and the other two and they all sat there listening to it.
Suddenly I remembered the explosive charges in the mine. Jasper said they’d fired the shots earlier, while we were out hunting. That way it gave the dust overnight to settle, he explained, and would we now please shut up.
I was asleep before the compere asked the next question.
Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles Page 27
