Page 56 of Stockman's Stormcloud

‘Who’s your boss?’ Dex asked.

‘The publican, lad,’ replied Charlie. ‘All the locals call her God. She knows everything that happens in the town of Elsie Creek, that her family started.’

‘Hey, how did we get the name Elsie Creek Station when we’re an hour away from town? The Station Hand said it was because one of our rivers is the headwaters into Elsie Creek.’

‘Yeah—nah, it was a bet.’ Charlie chuckled, as he pulled the juicer apart to clean it.

‘So the Station Hand was wrong?’

‘Nah. It’s true about the river, but the bet is why.’

Dex scratched his head confused. ‘Lemme guess, there’s a story to it.’

‘Too right, there is,’ said the old storyteller, hitching up his jeans. ‘And the story goes that the first overseer to purchase the land that was to become Elsie Creek Station was staying in town, flirting with the original Elsie. Her husband was the first stationmaster, who’d named the town after her.’

‘Is this going to take long?’ Lenny dragged out a chair and sat heavily at the table.

‘Oi, be nice to the lad. It’s his property we’re going to map out.’ Charlie frowned at Lenny. ‘Don’t mind, Lenny. He’s always cranky, usually with another hangover.’ Charlie finished cleaning the juicer, and let it drain in the sink. ‘Anyhoodle, the original overseer for this station was sweet on Elsie.’

‘You said that already,’ mumbled Lenny, resting his chin on his hands with his elbows on the table.

‘I’m telling the story, not you.’ Charlie wagged his finger at Lenny. ‘Anyhoodle, it was the year 1910, and the overseer and his mustering mob were stuck at the pub, at the height of the wet season, because they couldn’t cross Leviathan Creek, like most of the stockmen in the region. So on this particular day he sat at the front bar, filling out the paperwork where the place was originally going to be called Mitchell Plains.’

Dex raised his eyebrows.

‘I know, I know.’ Charlie raised his hand, cutting off anyone from speaking. ‘That overseer soon learned from the locals in that pub that in the Territory Mitchell was the name of our wild grass.’

‘So how did it end up with the name Elsie Creek?’ Dex asked.

‘The story goes, it was raining, the dirt roads were all flooded, and they had a pub full of beer, so everyone got into thegame of naming this new cattle station.’

‘Sounds like a session.’

‘It was the stuff of legends, for sure.’ Charlie gave a wry wink.

‘And the more they drank, the names would have been—’

‘Crazy. Like proper cray cray.’ Charlie’s grey eyes were so bright. ‘There was Sock-it Hill Station, Elbow Bend Downs, Bung-nosed Possum Station and Golden Gullet Ridge. The stockmen even suggested names from their best muster dogs, their first loves, their favourite pig—so Christmas Dinner was tabled as a station name a few times, and so on.’

Dex had to chuckle with the old man. ‘So how did they decide?’

‘Well, the publican, the original Elsie, came up with the idea that they should write their name for this new cattle station on a piece of paper, then roll it up tight and slide it into an empty beer bottle.’

‘Like a lucky dip?’

‘But outback style.’ Charlie nodded with a wolfish grin. ‘To make it fair and above board and all, the publican had her bartenders mix up the empty beer bottles, then her cook lined them up against the back fencing rail. And anyone who wanted a shot at making their name a part of history, had to be blindfolded, and pay for the privilege to not only name the station but win half the prize pool.’

‘Like a bet?’ As a betting man Dex had never placed a wager on naming a station before. But if he’d been there, he would have.

‘Exactly. So the publican set the bet at five shillings, the equivalent of a day’s wage back then, where they’d have a chance to take home a month’s worth of wages.’

‘To be fair,’ butted in Lenny, ‘they were naming a cattle station, so it deserved big bickies.’

‘How many took their shot?’ Dex asked.

‘Over thirty stockmen, miners, farmers, and train-line workers. And they blasted the hell out of those empty beer bottles.’ Charlie chuckled.

But thenhe wiped his chin, his voice hushed as he leaned over the kitchen bench. ‘But when the smoke cleared and their ears stopped ringing from the gunfire, only one bottle remained standing. The publican emptied the bottle and unrolled the piece of paper that was tucked inside, and the station was named…’

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