Scattered Stones

Chapter 1 – Unwashed Memories

The air was filled with sandflies and the sound of the mighty, rushing river. Pat slapped at a sandfly on the back of his neck, splattering blood. Heads bent close together, Pat and his father, Jim, worked the cradle, their hungry eyes searching for gold. Sleeves rolled up, hats low on their ears, wearing thigh-high boots, the pair sifted the river with pick, pan and shovel. Pat’s eyes gleamed; a nugget the size of a small pea lay on the matting in the bottom of the cradle among specks that glittered like stars. They had won a tremendous haul since pegging out The Redemption. Yet, up until now, the majority of the winnings had been spent on rebuilding the Welcome Home, which was destroyed by fire when Charles Butler had attempted to kill Ma. Now the building work was finished, and the hotel up and running again, perhaps there would be money left over, money that could be used for the finer things in life. For Pat, the finer things were wine, women and song. Ah, the memories, Pat thought wistfully. Aye, he missed chasing a bit of skirt, the opium dens, and drinking till he dropped. And damn it, he missed Tiny. Jim clapped his hand on Pat’s muscular shoulder. He grinned. “We’ll be as rich as kings, son.” Pat wished Tiny were there to share in their good fortune. Smiling sadly to himself, he remembered the last time he and Tiny drank together. It was the night before the Big Flood. The night they thought they’d have a feed of wood pigeon. After a day spent on The Arrow with little to show for it, they had retired to their tent, leaving the side flaps open to let in the breeze. They were resting on their cots when Tiny spied the bird sitting in the Lucky Tree. Perched on a crumbling ledge above the river, and growing at a perilous angle which would mean certain death should anyone try to cut it down, it had been spared the usual fate of being turned into firewood or pegs. Tiny sat up, reached for the rifle, raised it, took aim at the bird, and fired. The pigeon didn’t budge, but as if fascinated by the fire and smoke it blinked, and continued to stare at Tiny from its lofty perch. Tiny went outside to meet the courageous bird, raised the rifle and fired again. “You missed,” Pat scoffed from the safety of the tent. “You cock-eyed buffoon! You couldn’t hit an elephant if you were right in front of it.” Once again, Tiny took aim. There was a loud bang. Again, the shot missed. The curious bird blinked but didn’t move. Seven shots later, Tiny was out of powder and out of sorts. “Throw the rifle and you may well hit the overstuffed budgerigar,” Pat chuckled, amused. Cursing his bad luck, Tiny threw the empty rifle back in the tent. “Come on,” he’d said to Pat, “we may not eat tonight but by God we’ll drink.” Together they set off to Fox’s township. The pair were great mates, both being red-headed Irishmen who loved to drink. Tiny was a bear of a man with fingers the size of sausages whereas Pat was tall, all bones and cunning. At The Oak, Tiny complained to Ned the barman, that he’d wasted no end of good powder on an enchanted wee beastie in the Lucky Tree.
“Perhaps he was lucky because he was sitting in the Lucky Tree.” The barman tried to jolly Tiny out of his bad humour. “Or perhaps Tiny’s a rotten shot,” Pat said, elbowing Tiny in the ribs. “Damn bird was laughing at me,” Tiny muttered darkly. Taking another slug of brandy he emptied the bottle in a single draught. Chalking it up, Tiny ordered nobbler after nobbler until he was roaring drunk, and Pat’s knees were beginning to buckle. “Bloody bird was laughing at me!” cried Tiny, thumping his fist on the bar. Aware of a presence behind him, Tiny turned to see Constable Brick standing there. Arms folded, face stern, the constable looked down his long nose as if summing up how drunk Tiny was, and more importantly, whether he’d be able to take him. Adding curses for emphasis, Tiny told the constable his story. Grasping Tiny by the elbow, the constable said, “Come along, man, you’ve had more than your fill tonight.” Tiny shrugged him off like the nuisance that he was. “He’s one of the little people, I tell you.” He belched, his fumy breath overpowering.