we?’
As the sun plummeted in a fireball behind the mountains to the west, Bart and Tate finally arrived on the outskirts of Fox Camp, exhausted, footsore and weak with hunger. They trudged between ranks of canvas tents and wooden shacks. The billowing smoke from hundreds of campfires hung in an aromatic cloud above them. Bart sniffed appreciatively at the tempting aroma of frying bacon, damper baking on hot stones and the scent of freshly made tea. As they made their way towards the main town, they attracted little or no attention other than a casual,impersonal glance from the bearded, mud-covered figures intent on preparing their supper. Mongrel dogs wandered in and out between the shelters, more intent on scavenging for food than barking at strangers.
Having reached the main street, Bart and Tate paused for a moment, taking in the scene. Fronted by wooden boardwalks, shaded and protected from the elements by canopies and awnings, the street was lined almost entirely by single-storey buildings. What struck Bart forcibly was the noise and bustling activity. He had grown accustomed to the silence of the wilderness and it was something of a shock to hear raucous laughter, raised voices and music emanating from the open doors of hotels and bars. The rumbling of cartwheels and thudding of horses’ hooves on the packed mud road throbbed painfully in his head. The street was crowded with miners, seemingly intent on having a good time as they lurched in and out of the bars. Lamps burned in shop windows, the stores being open to all comers even though it was Christmas night. He studied a board outside the Provincial Hotel advertising the cost of dinner and a bed for the night. He put his hand in his pocket and his fingers closed round a few pennies, all that was left of his savings. ‘How much money have you got, Tate?’ Bart counted the coins in his palm. Not enough there fordinner, let alone a bed and a much needed bath.
Tate shook his head. ‘Bloody hell, they must have struck it rich here if they can get away with these prices.’
‘I’ve got enough for a bag of flour, some tea and maybe a bit of bacon, but that’s all.’ Bart pocketed the coins. ‘We’ll have to pitch camp outside the town.’
‘Maybe not.’ Tate held out his hand. ‘Give us your money, old chap. I feel lucky tonight.’
Bart hesitated, following Tate’s gaze as he peered into the hotel lobby. ‘You ain’t going to gamble away my money.’
‘Have you got a better idea?’
The coins were heavy and cold in Bart’s pocket and his fingers touched the cowrie-shell necklace that he had bought for Eliza. He wouldn’t be much use to her if he died of cold and hunger; reluctantly, he parted with all but three of his pennies, dropping them into Tate’s outstretched palm.
Tate dropped his pack at Bart’s feet and strolled into the hotel lobby. ‘Meet me here later.’
This could be the worst decision of my life, Bart thought, as he hefted the two packs onto his back. If he loses, then we’re done for. There wasn’t much he could do about it now – their lives depended on the turn of a card or the toss of a dice. Bart walked to the nearest store and bought a pound of flour, a poke of tea and a half-pound bag of sugar: at least they would have some sort of meal. Not much, but something to keep body and soul together. He walked slowly back to the hotel. Tobacco smoke wafted out of the open door, together with the malty smell of beer. His mouth was parched – a pint would go down well at this moment, but he hadn’t even a farthing left in his pocket. He dropped his packs on the boardwalk and squatted down beside them with his head in his hands.
‘Hello, dearie, down on your luck are you?’
Looking up, Bart saw a shapely ankle peeping out beneath the hem of a scarlet taffeta skirt and a waist corseted so tightly that he was certain he could span it with his hands. As he jumped to his feet, his eyes rested momentarily on milk-white, twin
As the sun plummeted in a fireball behind the mountains to the west, Bart and Tate finally arrived on the outskirts of Fox Camp, exhausted, footsore and weak with hunger. They trudged between ranks of canvas tents and wooden shacks. The billowing smoke from hundreds of campfires hung in an aromatic cloud above them. Bart sniffed appreciatively at the tempting aroma of frying bacon, damper baking on hot stones and the scent of freshly made tea. As they made their way towards the main town, they attracted little or no attention other than a casual,impersonal glance from the bearded, mud-covered figures intent on preparing their supper. Mongrel dogs wandered in and out between the shelters, more intent on scavenging for food than barking at strangers.
Having reached the main street, Bart and Tate paused for a moment, taking in the scene. Fronted by wooden boardwalks, shaded and protected from the elements by canopies and awnings, the street was lined almost entirely by single-storey buildings. What struck Bart forcibly was the noise and bustling activity. He had grown accustomed to the silence of the wilderness and it was something of a shock to hear raucous laughter, raised voices and music emanating from the open doors of hotels and bars. The rumbling of cartwheels and thudding of horses’ hooves on the packed mud road throbbed painfully in his head. The street was crowded with miners, seemingly intent on having a good time as they lurched in and out of the bars. Lamps burned in shop windows, the stores being open to all comers even though it was Christmas night. He studied a board outside the Provincial Hotel advertising the cost of dinner and a bed for the night. He put his hand in his pocket and his fingers closed round a few pennies, all that was left of his savings. ‘How much money have you got, Tate?’ Bart counted the coins in his palm. Not enough there fordinner, let alone a bed and a much needed bath.
Tate shook his head. ‘Bloody hell, they must have struck it rich here if they can get away with these prices.’
‘I’ve got enough for a bag of flour, some tea and maybe a bit of bacon, but that’s all.’ Bart pocketed the coins. ‘We’ll have to pitch camp outside the town.’
‘Maybe not.’ Tate held out his hand. ‘Give us your money, old chap. I feel lucky tonight.’
Bart hesitated, following Tate’s gaze as he peered into the hotel lobby. ‘You ain’t going to gamble away my money.’
‘Have you got a better idea?’
The coins were heavy and cold in Bart’s pocket and his fingers touched the cowrie-shell necklace that he had bought for Eliza. He wouldn’t be much use to her if he died of cold and hunger; reluctantly, he parted with all but three of his pennies, dropping them into Tate’s outstretched palm.
Tate dropped his pack at Bart’s feet and strolled into the hotel lobby. ‘Meet me here later.’
This could be the worst decision of my life, Bart thought, as he hefted the two packs onto his back. If he loses, then we’re done for. There wasn’t much he could do about it now – their lives depended on the turn of a card or the toss of a dice. Bart walked to the nearest store and bought a pound of flour, a poke of tea and a half-pound bag of sugar: at least they would have some sort of meal. Not much, but something to keep body and soul together. He walked slowly back to the hotel. Tobacco smoke wafted out of the open door, together with the malty smell of beer. His mouth was parched – a pint would go down well at this moment, but he hadn’t even a farthing left in his pocket. He dropped his packs on the boardwalk and squatted down beside them with his head in his hands.
‘Hello, dearie, down on your luck are you?’
Looking up, Bart saw a shapely ankle peeping out beneath the hem of a scarlet taffeta skirt and a waist corseted so tightly that he was certain he could span it with his hands. As he jumped to his feet, his eyes rested momentarily on milk-white, twin
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