Blood Red Days in the Golden West

Like every other gold rush in history, the outbreak of yellow-gold fever in Western Australia attracted many of the best, and a number of the worst, humans from far and wide. But it was not until the terrible hardships of the pioneers were known to have been overcome and only pluck, good health, and self-denial, were needed to reach the promised land, that a general rush of adventurers, square and crooked, rich and poor, from all parts of the civilised world, set in, with Coolgardie in the East and Murchison in the mid-west of W.A. as their objective — as Fate might lead them.

And so with this later invasion came the ghoul of the type of Deeming and Butler, single-handed workers or ‘hatters’ and the garroting, sand-bagging fiends who operated in packs. Many narratives of the depredations of desperadoes on the various fields have been published from time to time, but it is questionable if a more intimate tale of some of the most dreadful crimes of the blood-red days, between 95 and 97, has ever been told as that which is to follow.

June of 1896 found Coolgardie in the centre of the West Australian field. It was the hopping off base for the newcomer, and the spelling place of the man in from richer and further back camps. Kalgoorlie was fast gaining on it’s older rival for fame and popularity, but Hannan’s, as it was originally – was yet behind in the race, for Coolgardie held in its grip all the attractions in the way of hotel accommodation, gambling facilities, feminine companionship, and places of amusement.

Therefore, it was to Coolgardie that the gnats, hornets, and blow-flies swarmed, attendant on the human vultures that provide ghastly feast drawn from the ranks of the unwary digger, or any other subject likely to have gold or money in his possession. Coolgardie’s worst recorded week ended with the ‘bottling’ of poor “Paddy Roachock’ in the open yard of the Denver City Hotel, Bayley street, on the Sunday night following the first Coolgardie Cup meeting in August; 96. ‘Paddy’ was a remarkable athlete. In Adelaide, he was the finest footballer, wrestler, club swinger and all-rounder ever seen up to that time. “Coolgardie called, and Paddy answered”. Arriving, he did not search for a claim. He secured a large room and started a gymnasium, teaching wrestling, boxing, and kindred exercises. The first difficulties had been overcome and Paddy was on the high road to big money when the races came along.

With many friends from the Eastern colonies in the big camp — for the carnival had drawn men from all parts — Paddy was in his glory, and, needless to say, the great smiling, good-natured fellow was welcome among them all when in the evenings they gathered in a parlour to tell old stories and discuss the incidents of the roaring camp where they were then sojourning. In the company that Sunday night sat Sam Grimwood, Reginald Pell, Smiler Hales, Charlie Watson, Harry Bloom, Harry Power, Bob Phillips, Harry Huxtable, Paddy Roachock, and one or two others.

These names tell of the variety of sportsmen that graced that happy meeting. Racing owners, leading ringmen, champion billiardists, and international humorists, from all parts of Australia, were seated, and above them all Paddy Roachock’s naïve wit and bubbling bits of repartee were noted for future recollection.

But fate had ordained that only sadness was destined to memorise that fateful evening. It called, Paddy Roachock and the great athlete, humorist, and simple-minded fellow responded. Rising from his chair, Paddy strode to the door. Then, with what appeared to be an unnecessary courtesy, he apologised for having to leave for a few moments, and in that short apology he spoke the last intelligible words, he ever uttered on earth.

Ten minutes later — right under the light of a swinging hurricane lamp in the open yard of the hotel, they found the still form, of Roachock. Around him were the shattered remains of at least three beer bottles. The man’s clothes had been torn open and rifled, and three ghastly wounds were spurting blood. And, oh the pity of it, Roachock was the humblest and the poorest of them all. Tenderly they lifted the splendid form and carried it to the hospital. For six days the magnificent physique fought for life, but then the incoherent babbling grew inaudible, and after a gentle sigh, the spirit of Paddy Roachock fled to join those of the six others that had been murdered in the seven blood-red days of that week in Coolgardie and it’s surrounding bush!

It was in the following week that Frank ? was found sandbagged on the track leading from the hospital, where he had just carried the younger brother of the two Murphys — both of whom were noted barmen. From his errand of mercy, Frank had just learned of the death of the younger Murphy, and was taking the sad news to the distracted brother. As he turned a bend close to the railway construction works then in progress, Frank was smashed down. He was dead when found, and the older Murphy never fought against the double, blow. The loss of his brother and friend. The elder Murphy then contracted the deadly enteric fever which had taken his loved, brother, and the next day he was lying under the mulga bush shade in the hospital compound, waiting for a vacant, bed upon which to lie down on and die.

Then came the Kalgoorlie, White Feather and l.O.U. race meetings and naturally the human vultures followed the trek of the crowd, bent on celebrating the first gathering of the kind to be held in those hectic towns. Kalgoorlie’s epochal meeting had passed without tragic happenings apart from a few holds ups, but on the morning of the White Feather (Kanowna) meeting, the late Harry Huxtable, ex-champion Footscray rower and then a popular fielder in Melbourne, narrowly missed being numbered among the WA victims of the ghoul, Butler.

Huxtable was known to be a keen and discriminating chap, both on the racecourse and in the club— splendid sole whist and draw poker player — but that he would have walked into the grave prepared for him by Butler, is beyond. doubt had he not listened to a chance remark of a somewhat inconsequential young fellow, who was a personal friend of Harry’s, and who “chivvied” him on his apparent interest in the tale he was absorbing from a whiskered stranger. It happened like this —

Huxtable and the stranger were standing aloof from the sweating crowd under Tom Doyle’s hotel veranda. It was just after breakfast, and the young chap noticed Hux’s new friend, and that there was something strange in the association. When Harry left the whiskered man and made as if to enter the side door, the young fellow followed, and said with a quizzical smile:

“Who’s your friend, Harry? “Was he a big punter; a cove with a show to sell?”

Why? asked Huxtable looking keenly at the youth. “Oh, I don’t know, but he’s a tough-looking Joker and I don’t recollect having seen him about the fields since I’ve been here,” was the answer.  “Well, come in here a minute” said Huxtable, and. the pair passed into a small unoccupied room. “That felIow.” said Huxtable, wants me to go about four mile’s’ from here to look at a show he’s found. He says that it’s a jeweller’s shop, but he’s afraid to be again robbed by showing it to the usual mining investors. He will take me alone, and if I don’t fancy it there’s no harm done he says because I’d never find, the spot again even if I didn’t go in with him.”

I think ‘it’s a good chance and I’m going to have a look at it, anyway, but here ‘Cocky’ don’t. get clever and talk.

“Don’t worry Harry” said the youthful one. “I’ll talk now what I’ve got to say. If you go out into the scrub with that cove, you’re not the shrewd man I thought you were. He looks like a cove that’d come at anything, and I’ll bet he’s a ‘hatter.’ You’re mad if you believe his tale. There’s been a lot of men topped off lately about these parts, and; — ” “That’ll do, snapped Huxtable, I’ll stay here, butt; see don’t get talking outside. “I was a mug, let’s go and have a drink. That it was  Butler is beyond any possible doubt, – because when the ghoul was landed In Sydney the. young man referred to positively identifying him as the man who was going to take Harry Huxtable to see the. “Jewellers’ shop” that morning at Tom Doyle’s’ in the distant White Feather.

If Harry Huxtable was a close call, and Coolgardie’s dreadful record of murder, was appalling, the  experience of Dave Linehan at bloody Magnet (Mt Magnet) was even closer to the Eternal. It was the November of the same year and in ten consecutive days Magnet and its vicinity yielded

thirteen battered – dead men

The tally began between Yalgoo and Magnet, and the nick recording the thirteenth victim was notched three miles west of The Island, Lake Austin. Why young Linehan was not the fourteenth nick on that rod of destiny is one of those things that has kept millions of humans sincere in the belief  that a Great Providence watches over all poor mortals. It happened like this this —

Dave Linehan, pad rider, occasional dryblower, an optimist and a restless lump of perfect physical condition, had ridden right across practically virgin scrub from Margaret, to Nannine for the purpose of attending. Cue’s big Cup meeting in that November. He had, incidentally arranged with Dave Plant, who was a grand 100 yards sprinter, and well remembered in Sydney as a winner of a £100 and Plant had a match in view at Cue where a local lad was ‘thought to be an world beater.

However, Linehan reached Cue, and when the. races were over and the match proposition was hanging fire, he suddenly announced his intention to leave next day (Sunday) by the pad and ride to Mullewa past Yalgoo, the then head to the contractor’s rails. Plant, Sonny Herman, Con Hurley  and Daly, of the Murchison Club Hotel, vainly tried to dissuade Linehan from riding alone over the lately blood stained track toward the coast, but the young fellow laughed and said he was not afraid, And anyhow, “Those fellows would never try it on him, as he had never knocked anybody back that needed a pound.”— He was due for an awakening!

Next morning, with £800 in notes strapped round his waist, a thoroughly renovated road racing bike, new water bag, some tucker, and a big Smith and Wesson gun close to his reach. Dave Linehan set out for Mullewa. At Day Dawn — four miles out, and within sight of the imposing Carnage Gold Mine, partly owned by, and called after W. R. Wilson’s famous Derby winner — Linehan pulled into Bill Gollop’s Hotel, and after a refresher, told the once great billlardist that he was going through to Magnet, and would stay there until daylight next morning, and then go right through to Mullewa and take the train to ‘Perth. He was going back.’ East for a spell.

Gallop. George Lang, and Austin Leadley – A big mining investor connected with the famous English ‘Venture Syndicate’ of mine buyers — all joined in advising Linehan, to wait till, someone else was going coastward, and Leadley, was ‘particularly emphatic’ in his opinion of the pad rider’s foolhardiness, but the advice, was all in vain.

Passing; through Lake Austin, many lay-abouts and others wondered at the appearance of the lone rider, but he went on after a short spell. Taking his time he leisurely rode into Magnet about tea-time, and engaging a room, washed, and sat down to meal of tinned meat and bread, with, tinned butter and jam. The fetid air of the dining room and the passages all leading to the crowded bar sickened him, and he walked through to the front of the miserable shanty which was called a hotel. From the bar, a babel of curses and drunken song, mingled with ribald jest, reached him, and so he decided to seek the solitude of his hessian walled room.

He. removed only his shoes and placing the foot of his bed against the thin pine door, which he locked and threw, himself on top of the rickety bed. The babel of the bar sounded as if it were ten feet away, and intermittent brawls were heard until about midnight then they began to ease, and shortly after sounds of turning keys, and husky ‘good nights’ and then came silence.

Linehan dozed off and then a slight sound of a try at his door, brought him upstanding on the bare floor. Outside he heard distinctly a hoarse whisper.

“I tell yer, he’s got a big squirt, I saw it, lets go on ahead and wait!”—”Naw -we’ll bust In and —-

Dave Linehan didn’t wait for any more, he pulled on his shoes, and felt for the wall of his, room. This wall faced an open yard and with one long slash he slit the hessian four or five feet and picking up his bike which was standing by the wall, he looked out and there was no one there. He lifted the machine through and stepped after it. He paused a moment to listen, and then with gun in hand, carried the bike down the yard and then out into a cleared patch. At daylight he was twelve miles away, and before 6 that morning the man who had suggested “waiting ahead” for him, was lying senseless, under the slit wall with a fractured skull — a touch given to him by, “Corney Davis,” the one whose record was to kill any mate, who “died on a heavy job.” Corney himself told the story before he committed suicide on the Nullagine field 18 months later.

Linehan’s luck, you might say, but here a strong, fearless, if somewhat hardened adventurer is, though weary and tired, unable to sleep, even after the hell of brawling sound and fearful discord had died down, and so he over heard the half drunken plans to destroy him. Baxter, the remarkable and sporting contractor, who with Sadler, constructed the Southern Cross, Coolgardie Railway, and also built the Mullewa-Cue line, tells of the finish of Linehan’s eventful journey to the coast. He often told it around Perth.

“We were pulling back four or five miles from Yalgoo, that evening, and Ted— our driver— was going like hell – Suddenly he put on the brakes, and then I saw him pointing to the figure of a man lying in the dust of the broken pad, close to the railway. When Ted pulled up we went back, and found a big young fellow, unable to speak and writhing in agony. Naturally, we thought it was another case of ‘sand bagging’, but it wasn’t.

The crown of the bike was broken, and in pitching head foremost, the young chap’s breast bone had been smashed in through striking a short mulga stump, and he was in a bad way. but we took him aboard and landed him at Mullewa, and next day they took him on to Fremantle where he was fixed up at Nurse Burrows hospital on Mandurah road.

“My word, that cove was lucky getting through on his own with. over £800 on him.’ “Through Magnet,” “Whew! , he was lucky,” –

“Yes, I had a good win on Newhaven. He was a champion. I wish I was there to see him bolt with the Cup.” Baxter always ended his stories, with a racing reference.