Showdown at Boulder Ridge

By Gordon Plowman

In the tiny town of Wallaroo, isolated by the tyranny of distance and appalling roads, the locals seemed peaceable enough. But simmering just below the surface, the tensions of the racial divide were set to boil over. All it needed was a catalyst and that catalyst arrived along with a stranger in town, Bud Platz.
The activities of Platz and his partners may have been kept under control had not circumstances and a crooked cop conspired to assist their cause. By the time their evil ambitions became obvious, it was too late.
Platz recruited men of similar flawed beliefs and with them, terrorized those he hated most, the Aborigines. With little opposition, they did as they pleased until one day, they took a step too far and threatened the one person unafraid to stand up to them. Even with the bitter animosity between them, no one would have guessed that their differences would eventually be settled by a gun fight.
Of course, there are several interesting characters, all part of this drama. Kitty, a crack shot and sharp shooter was destined to become the heroine. Win the witch ran a sly grog shanty where many a thirsty traveler, if they were lucky enough to survive, never went there again. Lillian, a young maid fresh out of school but whose background wasn't all roses in the garden, fell in love. And, the loveable and intensely loyal Chinese market gardener, Wong Yong.
Most of us read westerns with tongue in cheek but this story is based on facts. The main theme concerns racial discrimination, so prevalent at that time.
The showdown at Boulder Ridge, the gun fight and the aftermath, was, in the interest of those forced to take up arms to defend a cause, kept as quiet as possible. But to this day, stockmen sitting around the camp fire and shearers on the wool-shed floor, listen, mouths agape, to those few who know the story of the showdown at Boulder Ridge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gordon Plowman
• Release date: May 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005650728

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SHOWDOWN AT BOULDER RIDGE

PUBLISHED BY GORON PLOWMAN AT SMASHWORDS

COPYRIGHT 2021 G. PLOWMAN

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You may wish to read another of my Smashwords publications:

MURDER AFLOAT, The true story of massacre aboard the brig, Carl.

SHOWDOWN AT BOULDER RIDGE

INTRODUCTION

Australia once had a wild west but unlike America’s, few cowboys ever walked about with revolvers slung at their hips. An all-in brawl seemed preferable to a gun battle. But gun battles did take place, often to the detriment of the indigenous population.

The States and territories of Australia as we know them today started out as separate colonies each with their own independent governments, armies and navies. In 1901, all the colonies and territories federated to become the Nation of Australia. Federation bought with it many benefits, social, economic and military and guaranteed a level of stability and cooperation between states and territories. But those to which the country once belonged, the Aborigines, Federation spelled disaster.

Aboriginal Australians were denied citizenship and had no voting rights. Legislation prevented them from claiming benefits such as the age or invalid pensions. It became an offence to supply an Aboriginal with alcohol. In some towns and cities, they were forced to observe a curfew and were likely to be arrested and jailed for any breach of this draconian law.

Government legislation made it illegal to pay wages to Aboriginals. Instead, employers were supposed to pay any wages due into a government nominated account. Aboriginal employees expected that at some time, the wages owing for years or even decades of work, would be redeemable. Very few ever saw a single penny of the money they had earned. The money, it seems, disappeared into the government coffers, never to be adequately accounted for.

The Immigration Restriction Act enacted after federation and known colloquially as the White Australia Policy, further discriminated against those of non-European origin.

Racial policies endorsed by state and federal governments encouraged widespread racism among the white population usually resulting in the mistreatment and exploitation of the Aboriginal minorities.

Many Aboriginal men and women who worked the cattle and sheep stations of the outback never received any of their wages. Among the vast majority of cattle and sheep barons who supported this policy, there were a handful of dissenters who treated their Aboriginal employees as equals. Where government legislation prevented them from paying wages directly to their Aboriginal workers, they paid in kind. New clothes, for example, or a new saddle or rifle and extra rations at Christmas with a new dress for the missus and toys for the kids.

Those who showed such charity were often despised by the majority who were keen to retain the principles of cheap labour in the interests of maximising their own profits and also by those who supported the racist policies of governments. Near the tiny outback town of Wallaroo, the owners of cattle stations, Yarran and Boulder Ridge were generally held in poor regard because they valued their Aboriginal stockmen and treated them exactly as they treated their white employees. Kingsley Aspinall of Boulder Ridge and Lofty Knight of Yarran station remained at odds with most of the local population and in particular, with a group which had become known as the Platz gang.

*****

STRANGERS IN TOWN

In the dry, dusty spinifex country of outback Queensland, the tiny town of Wallaroo rarely had occasion to welcome visitors. Travellers going west passed through without stopping, anxious to cover the next forty dusty miles of dirt road to the much larger, and some would say, the more civilised town, of Wattle Brae. Those headed easts were seldom attracted by the sign on the parapet above the cantilevered shop front which proclaimed, General Store and Cafe.

Next to the general store, a small wooden building contained a cramped office and a strong room with steel bars across the windows. Above the front door the somewhat inconspicuous sign read, Australian Joint Stock Bank.

The next most important building in town, the Post Office was about to undergo an upgrade ahead of the expected increase in telephone subscribers.

An hotel, conspicuous by its absence, meant that those with a craving for strong drink had to travel eleven miles to a roadside inn of dubious reputation known as The Cross Roads. The building of the railway line, scheduled to pass through Wallaroo within the next two years, had sparked interest in building an hotel there, and an application for a building permit had already been lodged.

To the west of the general store, a dusty side street wound around on a gradual arc and finished at the police paddock where horses used for police work had access to feed and water. A small fenced-off area served as the pound where stray or stolen horses could be housed until their rightful owners claimed them.

On the town side of the police paddock stood the police sergeant’s residence and in front of it, the police station and the Court of Petty Sessions, or CPS, office.

Hidden from street view by a tall and unkempt oleander hedge were two small wooden jail cells each with a barred window high up near the ceiling. Heavy doors of closely spaced steel bars and secured shut by heavy padlocks, provided the only access to each cell.

Like other western towns of the time, anyone who wanted to graze a couple of horses or run a few goats for milk or meat could let them loose on a large public area of land designated as the town common.

A handful of houses, a Chinese gardener and a blacksmith’s forge on the outskirts of town completed the make-up of Wallaroo.

Old Arnold Fairchild, considered by many to be a teller of tales and general nuisance, spent most of his time lazing about sticking his nose into other people’s business. He kept the police sergeant well informed of all the town gossip.

Stranger just rode into town wearing fancy cowboy clobber. Seems a bit showy for these parts. He’s riding a magnificent bay gelding. Seventeen hands if it’s an inch. Thought you’d like to know.

Does he intend to stay or is he riding on through?

Dunno. He never said nothing to me.

Where is he?

His horse is hitched up outside the general store. Guess he’s inside.

Sergeant Edward Iago, the one and only police presence in and around Wallaroo, liked to know exactly who came to town and why. Iago, suspicious of anyone he didn’t know, strutted off with military precision in the direction of the general store.

The new-comer had seen the faded sign, General Store and Cafe. He dismounted, stretched his legs and ran through a series of calisthenics to ease his sore muscles, hitched up his horse to the rail and went inside.

Morning.

Morning.

What can I do for you?

I could go a cup of tea and something to eat.

Will a bacon sandwich suite?

Sure will.

While the ‘blow-in’ sat at the table waiting for his order, Sergeant Iago marched in purposely pounding his heavy boots on the wooden floor.

Joe, the shop keeper, poked his head around the greasy drapes separating the kitchen from the dining area. You made your presence felt, he said.

Saves me waiting for you to wake up.

Can I get you something?

Not just now. I see there’s a stranger sitting at that table near the window. I think I’ll have a word with him.

Sergeant Iago, always anxious to exhibit his authority, strode over the stranger.

Mind if I join you?

Be my guest.

You’re new in town?

Just arrived. Name’s Bud Platz.

You heading on through, mister Platz?

Depends.

On what?

Whether I find work here.

What kind of work?

I’m a stockman, always have been; hope I always will be.

Anything else?

I used to ride buck-jumpers at rodeos. I still ride rodeos but in the gentler events like camp draft.

Any good at it?

Fair to middling.

I’m surprised you had to come this far west to look for work.

The seasons haven’t been kind. Not much station work available at present. Back east at Strathconnell they’re pushing the railway line into the west. I was offered a job on the tracks but I couldn’t see myself hammering railway dogs into wooden sleepers all day so I decided to move on.

I might know someone whose looking for a stockman.

I’d be mighty obliged if you can put me in touch.

The sergeant slipped a note book and pencil from his pocket.

The name of the station is Sunset Plains. It’s nine miles out of town along the worst road in the district. I’ll draw you a map otherwise you won’t find it. A man named Ivan something-or-other owns it. His sir-name is unpronounceable, Valenkovski I think it is. Around here he’s known as Ivan the Terrible. He’s a big man, a bit eccentric but I’m told he looks after his men if they’re any good. Bludgers get the old heave-ho. Still interested?

Sure.

Tell him Eddie Iago sent you. That should help.

Thanks sergeant. I’m exceedingly grateful.

Good luck, and Bud, call me Eddy.

I owe you one, Eddy.

Bud set out for Sunset Plains, grateful for the sergeant’s assistance. He couldn’t help thinking the sergeant was just a bit too affable. He told himself, there is something not to be trusted about this fellow.

After Bud left, the shopkeeper came over and spoke to the sergeant. You sent him to a job out of town?

Far enough away to keep him out of my hair but close enough for me to keep an eye on him.

*****

Bud Platz rode up to the station homestead and knocked on the door. Startled by a sliding sound he glanced to his right. A face appeared at a small opening in the wall. State your business, a deep voice said.

I’m Bud Platz. Sergeant Iago said you might be looking for a stockman and I’m here to apply for the job.

Sergeant Iago, you say?

Yes.

The door opened and Ivan the Terrible beckoned Bud to come inside. We’ll discuss terms, he said.

After a lengthy discussion, Ivan said, You will act as head stockman. I have a busted leg and can’t do much around the station so you will have to take charge. The cabin on the left, is yours, he said pointing. "The small building at the rear is the bath house, no hot water I’m afraid. The bigger building is the communal kitchen. I don’t employ a cook so you have to look after yourself.

"At present I have only one stockman, he’s in the middle cabin. His name is Ron Foxton, a good worker but likes to do things his own way. Naturally, they call him Foxy.

Now, off you go and settle in.

Bud and Foxy did not exactly see eye to eye. Bud considered him to be a pain in the arse, but despite their differences, they worked together and began to restore the neglected station property to full production. Then, one day when they were riding out to repair a problem with a windmill, they saw a family of feral pigs including a sow and her eight piglets.

Quick, Foxy yelled. we’ll get after them on foot, run down a couple of those piglets; fatten them up back at the homestead. Pork makes a mighty fine change from our diet of beef.

Foxy jumped from his horse and ran.

One little pig lagged behind the fleeing mob and Foxy ran for it. Fleet of foot, he gained ground on the animal until he came close enough to tackle it to the ground and make the capture. He had readied himself to make a dive for the pig when a rifle shot echoed out across the plains. The pig fell dead. Platz, still perched up on his horse had shot it. Had he pulled the trigger a fraction of a second later it would not have been a wild animal lying dead, it would have been Ron Foxton.

For a few seconds, Foxy could not believe what had happened. He remained still, glaring at Platz until the truth slowly dawned upon him. That bullet had probably been intended for him. Platz wanted him dead and out of the way. What better alibi than a shooting accident. Fuelled by shock, hatred and revenge, Foxy ran to Platz’s horse, grabbed the barrel of his rifle and wrenched it from his grip. He threw it on the ground and shouted, Shoot me now, you murderous bastard.

Foxy took a firm grip on Platz’s leg intending to up end him off his horse and give him a beating. Platz seized the split-second initiative, sunk his spurs into his horse’s flanks and galloped toward the homestead where he could hide in relative safety.

Foxy picked up Platz’ rifle and, still shaking from the ordeal, fired in the direction of the rider.

Platz heard the rifle shot and pressed his body toward the horse’s mane to limit the target area. He heard the next shot. He reined his horse left then right on a zig zag pattern.

Foxy fired off shot after shot until the magazine emptied. Not a single bullet hit his target. Platz was home safe. He quickly dismounted, ran to the safety of his cabin, rushed inside and locked the door.

Foxy, still shaking with rage, belted Platz’s rifle against a tree until the sights were totally destroyed. He won’t ever shoot straight again, he said, leastways not with this rifle.

After he’d cooled-down, Foxy went to see Ivan and asked for his final pay cheque.

I’m sorry to leave you Ivan, but if I stay either Platz or me are going to end up dead.

Ivan handed Foxy his cheque and as he left the homestead he turned and said, A word of warning, Ivan. Platz isn’t what he appears to be. He’s a real bad egg and you should watch him closely.

Platz remained holed up inside his cabin.

Before he left, Foxy pounded on Platz door and yelled, Come out and face me like a man you coward.

Platz did not budge.

Foxy rode away.

Platz breathed easy.

*****

Ivan needed at least three stockmen to run his place. He hobbled over to see Platz. What am I going to do? he asked.

These words were like manna from heaven to Platz. This could be the chance he had long dreamed about, the opportunity for him and his two old mates to work together again.

I know two for the best stockmen in the business. I reckon if I can find where they are, they will be more than happy to come here. Then, between us, we could really make a difference to this place.

Do it, Ivan said. "I’ll pay whatever it costs to get them