Gunnedah Hero

Gunnedah Hero

© Clancy Tucker

Published by Morris Publishing Australia on Smashwords.

ABN: 67142307238

This book is available in print from our website.

Website: www.morrispublishingaustralia.com

December 2011.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-646-56847-8

Tucker, Clancy Lawson

Dewey Number: A823.4

Young adult fiction.

Copyright © Clancy Lawson Tucker 2011

Clancy Tucker asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or be transmitted by any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Illustrations, poetry and photography copyright © Clancy Lawson Tucker 2011.

Grateful thanks to ‘Stockman’s Reward Trailrides’, Eildon, Victoria, Australia.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Dedication

This story is dedicated to the farming pioneers of Australia - men, women and children, their horses and dogs. People who struggled through tough times; those who loved the land and worked tirelessly beneath the Drover’s Blanket.

Acknowledgements

I am deeply grateful to many people who have encouraged me as an author, especially close friends, many of whom are not avid readers. Thanks must also go to my devoted young readers, kids from eight to sixteen-years-of-age who read my work, kept me on-track and encouraged me: Kate, Judy, ‘GP’, Lauren, Robin, Brooke, Kelly, Mara, Monica, Pete, Anna, Mona, Sam, Nugget, Kerry, Alisha, Molly, Gae, Lucy, Keisha, Emma, April, Kayla, Sarah, Nick and my old mate Jack.

Thanks to my editor and poetry guru. Both have added lustre to this story. A special thanks to my mother and doctor, Owen Crompton. Both encouraged me to keep writing. I’m grateful to my IT guru, Peter, and my printing expert, Howie. Both kept me in touch with technology and printing. To Albert Ullin, a special thanks. He had great faith in my work and offered me extraordinary opportunities.

I encourage anyone who has considered writing a book to stop procrastinating. Do it. Find something you are passionate about and write passionately about it. It can be an extraordinary journey.

Clancy Tucker

2011

www.clancytucker.com.au

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA: PRESENT DAY

Chapter 1

Gunnie Danson strode into his bedroom and threw his schoolbag on the floor. It was Friday, the end of another school week.

‘I hate school!’ He flopped into his computer chair and gazed through the window. His mother soon appeared in the doorway.

‘Hi, Gun. How was school?’ Gunnie scowled. She always asked the same dumb question. She knew he hated school. Everybody knew.

‘It was boring, as usual. And to make matters worse I got an assignment for social studies. I have to write 500 words on the drought.’ A deep frown etched in his forehead. ‘What would I know about drought?’ he grumbled. His mother folded her arms and Gunnie felt another lecture coming. His attitude to school had been a hot topic for ages. It was simple. He loved sports but school sucked. To avoid the lecture he smiled and changed the subject. ‘How come you look so grubby, Mum?’

‘Grubby? What do you mean?’ Kim Danson rarely looked untidy, even when she gardened. She glanced in the mirror and frowned at the smudge marks on her cheeks. ‘Oh. Been cleaning out the hall cupboards.’ Gunnie watched his mum take a tissue from her pocket and gently dab her face. He was proud of her in a way. She always dressed neatly and wore nice clothes, but without being a snob like some of the other kids’ mums.

‘You’re always cleaning, Mum. This place looks like a palace,’ he said hoping to sway her mood, but his mum spun round like a gunslinger. Gunnie sighed. Maybe he hadn’t avoided the lecture after all.

‘Well, your father and I like to live in a clean house. Unfortunately, you kids don’t. Look at your room, Gunnedah Danson! It looks like a bomb’s hit it. And your sisters’ rooms aren’t much better. One day when you, Sam and Jackie have teenagers of your own, I’ll tell them exactly what you were like at their age.’ His mother folded her arms with a smug look and surveyed his room with satellite-accurate eyes. Almost every centimetre of wall space was covered in basketball, football and rock star posters, and almost every centimetre of floor was covered in clothes and discarded junk. His favourite colour, blue, featured in everything.

Gunnie’s mum turned her gaze on him and Gunnie looked down at his uniform. His shirt wasn’t tucked in, his shorts were dusty, and his socks and shoes looked like they’d been through a sand storm. He peered into the mirror to inspect his face and a pair of steel blue eyes looked back at him, surrounded by a suntanned face and shoulder-length blonde hair. He spied a new spot on his chin – a fresh pimple. Luckily, it didn’t look like it would amount to much.

‘What about you, Gun?’ said his mum with raised eyebrows. ‘Why are your shorts so filthy?’

‘Touch footy,’ he said, inspecting the zit in the mirror. He glanced down and brushed his shorts.

‘Hm. I guess touch footy is like cleaning cupboards, eh?’ She gave him a sneaky grin and he poked his tongue out at her playfully. Gunnie’s mum never stayed annoyed with him for long. Gunnie’s friends all reckoned their folks were un-cool and had no idea what teenagers thought about. But Gunnie liked his mum’s sense of humour. She was easy to talk to – which was why his friends spent so much time at Gunnie’s place. She was a good mum, plus, she worked three days a week in the local op-shop, walked every morning, kept their house in immaculate condition and did most of the gardening. All in all, Gunnie thought his mum was okay. ‘Oh. Almost forgot!’ She disappeared into the hall for a moment and brought back a large cardboard box.

‘What’s that, Mum?’ said Gunnie surveying the box.

‘Don’t know. It arrived today by courier. It must be important. I had to sign for it.’ He flopped onto his bed to open the strange delivery.

‘Is it an early Christmas present from you and Dad?’

‘Nope. Check out the envelope on the box.’

Gunnie peeled the sticky tape away and found an envelope addressed to him: Gunnedah Swenson Danson. In the top left-hand corner was the name of a legal firm.

‘Looks pretty official,’ he muttered. His mother sat on the bed next to him. She looked as curious about the box as he was.

‘Open it and find out,’ she urged. Gunnie ripped the envelope open and unfolded two sheets of paper. The first one was a letter from a solicitor’s office.

Mr Gunnedah Danson

Re: Last Will and Testament of Blake Angus Danson

As solicitor acting on behalf of your late grandfather, I have been instructed to forward you the contents of this box. Attached is a letter addressed to you from your grandfather. Please contact me should you require further information.

Yours sincerely

Blythe Carrington, LLB

Gunnie was gob smacked. ‘It’s from solicitors. Gramps left me this box of stuff. Hold on, Mum.’ He flipped the page over to find a letter from his grandfather. Gramps had died two months before and Gunnie still missed him. He and his grandfather had enjoyed a special friendship, and just thinking about him made tears well in Gunnie’s eyes. His mother peered over his shoulder, keen to read the mysterious letter.

Gunnie,

You often said, Gramps, you’re the man. I loved it when you said that. It made me feel special. Now I’m saying it to you. Gunnie, you’re the man.

I want you to do me a favour. This box contains several things that will interest you. The contents certainly enchanted me. Inside it, you will find a manuscript written in 1911 by your great-great-grandfather, Smokey Danson. At the time, Australia faced the worst drought in its history. It’s amazing how history repeats itself. Now we are in the grip of another crippling drought. In the box, you will also find Smokey’s diary, along with a diary written by a miner in 1871 and the working notes of a constable from Gunnedah – a constable who spent four decades trying to solve a double murder. I’m not going to tell you who finally did solve the double murder … you’ll find that out for yourself. Also enclosed is a copy of a 1911 edition of The Gunnedah Gazette – one that mentions your great-great-grandfather.

Gunnie, I want you to read everything in this box. Begin with the manuscript. The other items will become relevant as you read this wonderful story of an amazing man and his best friend, Molly Jane Swenson.

I’m counting on you to carry out my wishes. When you’ve read and studied everything, I want you to have the manuscript published. I have left money in my estate to cover its publication costs, and my solicitor, Blythe Carrington, will arrange everything. I found this box in the attic at Wiralee Station and I’m sure glad I did. Please do NOT open the envelope at the end of the manuscript until you have read the entire story.

What’s in this box will convince you of two things: Smokey Danson was right; this story must be told. More importantly, Wiralee Station should never be sold off – it’s our heritage.

You’re the man.

Love Gramps

Gunnie re-read the letter from his grandfather and showed it to his mum. ‘Mum, there’s stuff in this box about a drought in 1910,’ he said. He broke the seal on the box and removed the lid to investigate its contents. A musty old smell wafted into his nostrils. Inside the box were five separate parcels, all clearly marked. Written on the first parcel were two words: ‘Gunnedah Hero’. ‘This one’s got my name on it – Gunnedah. Cool, eh?’ he said to his mum.

Kim Danson peered at the box and frowned. Then she looked at her watch and stood up. ‘Well I have to finish the cupboards and start getting dinner ready. The girls will be home soon. Let me know what it’s all about. I’m curious.’

As she headed to the door, Gunnie had a strange feeling.

‘Hey, Mum,’ he said calling her back. ‘Can we spend the weekend at Wiralee Station?’

‘Wiralee? Why?’

‘I can’t explain it, but I’ve got a weird feeling I should be at Wiralee Station when I check all this stuff out. It’s Friday. We could pack up and go tonight. I could ring Uncle Dan and tell him we’re coming. What do you reckon?’ Gunnie looked pleadingly at his mother.

‘We can’t, Gun. Your sisters are playing netball tomorrow.’

‘Damn,’ he muttered then came up with an alternative plan. ‘What if Dad and I go? You know, just the two of us?’

She smiled. ‘He’d probably enjoy spending time with you and catching up with his brother. Why not go and call him,’ his mother said and walked off to finish cleaning the hall cupboards.

Fired up, Gunnie ran downstairs to ring his father at work. It’d been a while since either of them had visited Wiralee Station. The large property had been in the Danson family since 1848, and although Gunnie enjoyed visiting to ride horses and motorbikes, it was a place he knew little about. He dialled his father’s direct line and waited.

‘Mr Danson’s office,’ came a familiar voice.

‘Hi, Miss Pearson. It’s Gunnie. Can I please speak to Dad? It won’t take long.’

‘Hi, Gunnie. Just a second.’ For some reason his father’s personal assistant liked him. Gunnie was always polite to her. Miss Pearson had worked for Roley Danson for five years and, according to his dad, she was the best in the business. She decided who could and who couldn’t speak to the busy executive. When his father’s voice came on the line, it was blunt. His dad was obviously busy so Gunnie didn’t waste any time.

‘Dad. Got a cool idea. Why don’t you and I go to Wiralee for the weekend? You need time away from work and you always say Wiralee is a great place to relax.’

‘What’s suddenly inspired you to visit Wiralee, Gun?’ asked his father.

‘I’ve got something I need to do there. I got a big box today … a box full of stuff from Gramps. He left it to me in his will. It’s stuff I have to read and I want to be at Wiralee Station when I read it.’ Gunnie waited for a positive reply, hoping his father would agree.

‘Your timing is perfect, Gun,’ said his dad. I need to speak to Wirra about a few financial issues.’ Gunnie smiled. ‘Wirra’ was a nickname for his Uncle Dan, a shortened version of Wiralee, the family station. Gunnie was rapt but then he remembered something.

‘What about golf, Dad?’

‘The guys will just have to lose without my help, eh?’ said his father at the other end of the line. Gunnie chuckled. He knew his dad was being modest. Roley Danson was a top golfer. In fact, he’d been the club champion on many occasions.

‘Awesome!’ said Gunnie. ‘While you’re talking to Uncle Dan about the Wiralee stuff, I can do what I’ve gotta do. I’ll ring Uncle Dan and tell him we’re coming and ask Mum to pack your things for when you get home.’

Gunnie hung up and punched the air. ‘Yes!’ he shouted, grateful that his father had given up his regular Saturday golf game to drive to Wiralee. He grabbed a handful of biscuits and dialled his favourite uncle, the man who ran Wiralee Station. Sadly, his aunt answered the phone with a snooty voice.

‘Wiralee Station. Kate Danson speaking.’

‘Oh. Hi, Aunty Kate. It’s Gunnie. Is Uncle Dan there?’

‘Hello, Gunnedah. Yes. Hold on. I think Daniel is in his study.’ Gunnie disliked his aunt. Uncle Dan was a great guy but Aunty Kate was a snob. She spoke with a snooty voice and whined all the time. And she did nothing to help around Wiralee.

‘I’ll hold on,’ he replied politely, glad she didn’t want to talk to him.

With a mouthful of biscuit, Gunnie lounged across the kitchen bench, thinking about the mysterious box on his bed. He also wondered about the envelope he’d find at the end of the manuscript and the name his grandfather had mentioned in his letter – Molly Jane Swenson.

‘Swenson is my middle name,’ he muttered. Then his uncle came on the line.

‘Wirra Danson.’ His uncle sounded busy so Gunnie jumped in.

‘Uncle Dan, it’s Gunnie. Is it okay for Dad and me to come up for the weekend?’

‘G’day, Gun. Sure it is. It’ll be great to see ya. Are the girls coming?’

‘Nope. Jack and Sam have netball.’ Gunnie detected disappointment in his uncle’s voice.

‘What a shame. Yeah, no worries, Gun. Ya Dad and I have some things to sort out anyway.’

Gunnie thanked his uncle and said they’d see him tonight. With another fistful of biscuits, he bolted upstairs to his bedroom, yelling as he pounded up the carpeted stairway.

‘Mum! Everything’s cool with Dad and Uncle Dan. We’re leaving as soon as Dad gets home from work.’

His mother gave him a grin. ‘Mm … Well you’re big enough and ugly enough to pack your own bags. Do it now and don’t wait till the last minute like you usually do.’

‘Thanks for the compliment,’ he smiled back.

‘You’re welcome.’

With his bag packed and his clothes changed, Gunnie peered into the cardboard box. Almost reverently, he removed the topmost parcel, the one titled Gunnedah Hero. He slowly removed the waxed paper covering to find a sizeable book neatly tied with string. On the cover was written:

Gunnedah Hero

by Smokey Danson, 1911

‘Jeez. Smells ancient,’ said Gunnie pulling back the hard leather-bound cover. Inside, on the first page, was a poem.

Our Wiralee was peaceful

up until the big drought came

and Nature, She was rough on them

and played an awful game.

It didn’t rain for years,

there was no water for the grass,

they prayed and waited for

the toughest drought of all to pass.

For five long years they suffered

on this dry and dusty land

with hungry, sorry beasts and

pastures made of arid sand.

A drover mounted-up his

aim to head on for a drive

because they were no quitters

and he wanted them alive.

Molly Jane Swenson

1910

Gunnie read the lines of verse. Besides the beautiful handwriting, he noticed three things.

‘Wow. My full name is on this page … Gunnedah Swenson Danson,’ he muttered. He was about to turn the page when his mother hollered his name. He closed the journal carefully, placed it back in the box, and ran downstairs, annoyed he’d been interrupted. His mother was in the kitchen preparing dinner.

‘Watch this,’ she said pointing to a large plasma television in the adjoining family room. ‘It’s a special report on the drought.’ Gunnie flopped onto the couch and stared at the screen.

Gunnie had never really thought about drought before, but his social studies assignment and the unexpected delivery of the box from his late grandfather had changed that. Sure, he knew Australia was the driest inhabited continent on earth – he’d learned that in Geography. He’d even heard drought mentioned on the nightly news. Plus his parents had talked about the water restrictions – especially his mother, who loved her garden. Now, with a mysterious box containing a story about a drought in 1910, Gunnie was keen to watch the special news report.

On the television screen, Gunnie saw nothing but desolate farmland. Farmers were handfeeding sheep and cattle. The grass had long gone, the earth looked parched and barren, and the dams and rivers had dried up. It looked like a moonscape, and the farmers and their wives wore pained expressions as they were interviewed. Gunnie heard the tension in their voices when they described the hardship of the current drought – the physical, mental, and financial hardship.

‘I never realised it was that bad,’ he murmured as he watched a farmer having to shoot a mob of sheep. The animals were skin and bones. Gunnie’s mouth dropped when the reporter mentioned the names of places he knew. They were towns he’d passed through on his trips to Wiralee Station – places like Walcha, Werris Creek, Murrurundi, and Premier. ‘Hey, Mum. These are towns near Wiralee,’ he called, pointing at the screen. ‘They look awful. Crikey, I hope Wiralee isn’t that bad.’

Gunnie leaned forward and his mother stopped what she was doing to watch the television. They stayed motionless and listened to an interview with an expert from the Bureau of Meteorology.

‘… severe rainfall deficiencies have been experienced by the vast majority of Queensland, New South Wales, most of south west Western Australia and the eastern side of Tasmania. Central Queensland and northern New South Wales have experienced their lowest rainfalls since 1900.’ Gunnie was shocked.

‘It must be all that stuff about climate change. You know, global-warming and the El Nino effect, eh?’

His mother’s reply was interrupted when Gunnie’s two sisters arrived home from school. Sam and Jackie went to a private school in the city, whereas Gunnie went to the local high school. Samantha was sixteen, often rowdy and irritating, especially when Gunnie wanted some peace and quiet. She’d been extra annoying since she’d broken off with her nerdy boyfriend. Gunnie’s best mates all thought she was really hot though. But they didn’t have to live with her and put up with her outbursts. His sisters were opposites. Sam was boisterous, cheeky, and lippy. Jackie was sensitive, quiet, and caring.

‘Hiya, Mum!’ Sam shouted as she entered. Gunnie scowled.

‘Shush, Sam. I’m trying to watch something on TV,’ he snapped.

‘What’s up with you, grumpy bum?’ she snapped back.

‘Leave him alone, Sam. He’s watching this program because he’s got an assignment about the drought,’ said his mother, trying to keep the peace.

Sam shot Gunnie a look and stuck her finger down her throat, pretending to throw up. Gunnie’s youngest sister, Jackie, stayed out of it. She never got involved in Gunnie and Sam’s arguments. Jackie was twelve, two years younger than Gunnie, and the quietest of the three Danson kids. Gunnie got on okay with his youngest sister. They’d become close when she’d been diagnosed with leukaemia a few years ago. For two painful years, she’d fought the disease and won, and ever since she’d been in remission Jackie had deliberately worn really long hair. It was her way of celebrating all that time feeling awful and losing her hair due to chemotherapy and radium treatment. Gunnie admired Jackie’s courage and spirit and always made a point of complimenting her on her beautiful hair.

The program finished. Inspired, Gunnie turned to his mother and sisters, eager to share some historical facts.

‘One of those experts said that between 1905 and 1911 Australia lost nineteen million sheep and more than two million cattle because of drought. That’s just terrible, eh?’

‘Really? That sucks,’ said Jackie sympathetically.

‘It sucks big time, Jack. I hope stuff like that never happens at Wiralee.’ The expert had mentioned an important date and Gunnie wanted to investigate the box from his grandfather. As he breezed past, he gently tugged on Jackie’s long locks. ‘Gorgeous, Jack,’ he whispered, saying the two words she loved. His youngest sister beamed.

Gunnie rushed into his room and grabbed the journal. He flipped it open to a random page and began reading.

"The snake became more and more aggressive and unpredictable. Sam was growling deeper now and had crouched on the ground in the attack position. Roscoe and Jedda were also awake, aware of the slippery predator and barking loudly. Their noise didn’t help the situation. In a split second, Sam attacked the snake and I felt its cold tail crease my forehead as it writhed in battle. I took a chance, got to my feet and jumped to a safe place on the other side of the campfire. While my brave kelpie fought the snake, I searched for a large piece of timber that would do the reptile some damage. Normally I’d have used the stockwhip to kill it, but Sam was too close. I was petrified I’d strike her by mistake.

I grabbed a sizeable piece of lumber and turned back to the verandah. As I swivelled around, I heard a piercing squeal and saw Sam limp away. She flopped under the lemon tree and frantically rubbed her snout with both paws. The snake had been badly mauled by her sharp teeth but it was still writhing close to my saddle, smearing blood on the floorboards of the verandah. I was furious and smashed the snake with the timber at least half a dozen times. It was still moving so I thumped it another three times until it was dead. Roscoe and Jedda sniffed at its messy remains while I dashed towards Sam. It was too late. She was dead.

Tears welled in my eyes as I pulled her from beneath the tree where she’d sought refuge. I tucked her in my arms and walked to the back of the house where I found a piece of rusty steel to dig a grave. Jedda and Roscoe looked on as I buried my brave cattle dog. Covering her with dusty soil, I erected a crudely-made cross