Snake’s Opals by W Watkins

Snake was afraid! It was dangerous to have ‘struck it rich’ when Harrod was around . . .

Snake Sherwood was just beginning his after-tea smoke when he heard the horse approaching through the mulga scrub that bordered the old opal cut. “Damn!” he muttered “Just as I get lucky, someone comes.” He pushed his aged little figure upright and squinted over at the setting sun, watching it shimmer over the ragged tops of the distant Stuart Range. “Now who the devil ‘ud be coming?” Then the rider broke through the boulders at the cuts edge and came slowly on towards him. The horse was walking and Snake watched it come, wonderingly. Then he could see the rider plainly and a cold fear crept over him.

It was Jake Harrod! – Snake knew Jake Harrod. All the old-time opal miners of Australia knew and feared Jake. His name was bad everywhere. He was suspected of swindling, robbery and even murder. He wasn’t one of those hard working miners who gouged for weeks on end and lived from a tin. No, that was too hard for Jake. He rode amongst them, in sandy creeks, up sloping ranges, and over stony plains, and as he rode, he listened. He heard stories of finds, and he rode on. Then, when only, the ants and wallabies could see, he struck.

The miners of the north knew that was Jake Harrod. But nothing was ever proved against him, and they kept still tongues. For Jake Harrod was bad out bush. So they just hoped that they might never get lucky when Harrod was around. The horse limped as it crossed the stony bottom, and Jake cursed and drove in his heels. He stopped near Snake and slid to the ground without a word. Then he hitched his horse and fronted Snake. “Good’ay, Snake.”

Snake wiped his moustache nervously. This big hard-faced man always made him feel jittery. “Good’ay Jake.” Jake sat down heavily by the tent and rolled himself a fat cigarette. “Got a cuppa tea Snake?” Snake gestured at the billy. “Just ‘elp yerself. Want grub?” Jake shook his bull head. “Nuh. I ate back the track.”

Snake watched him gulp his tea and his uneasiness increased. Only today he’d struck good opal, four figures worth, he reckoned. And here he was, a hundred miles north of Kingoonya, with Jake Harrod for a mate. It was bad to be caught out here by Harrod. Men should have nothing but their clothes when Jake Harrod found them in places like this. Jake continued gulping and his eyes kept flicking over at Snake, then round the cut. At length he let them rest at the mouth of the drive. He put down his mug and nodded over at it.

“Doin any good, Snake?” –  “I never do no good.” replied Snake.

Jake laughed in that rasping way of his and spat down on the hot stones. “You’re a fool, Snake.” “Yeah? Why’s that?” “Gougin out ‘ere. No opal out ‘ere, Snake. This ol’ cut’s finished. All these ol’ places are gouged clean out. Ain’t seen a good find out ‘ere for years.” Snake shifted his squat a little. “Looks that way.” Jake nodded and blew a cloud of smoke towards the tent. “I see you’re still mad on them pets.” Snake was glad to have his attention diverted. “Yeah,” he said eagerly. “I got three snakes and the dingo an’ er pups.”

Jake looked at him pityingly. No wonder this old bloke had carried the name of “Snake” all his life. He was a sucker for anything that wriggled. Harrod guffawed throatily, and walked over to glance in at the squirming things. He shoved a dingo pup aside with his boot and backed away as the biggest black snake reared its head. “It’s a pity the damn things don’t bite you Snake.”

Snake shook his head and the battered pipe swayed with it. “I’ve tamed ‘undreds. Never been bit yet. They’re good mates to me. I got ’em up at that old field at Anna Creek.” Jake laughed. “Been up there, too. You’re always stampin’ around some second hand ground. It’s no damn good I tell you.” Then, looking at the snakes still: “I thought you said you had three wrigglies. There’s only two here.” “She’s with’ er young; ‘uns.” Snake said. Jake spat again in disgust. “With ‘er young ‘uns! Big snakes, little snakes, an’ young snakes. Hell, you’re mad, Snake.”

He shoved his big hands in his pockets and walked towards the drive. “I’ll see what kind of a miner you are.” Snake stood up quickly and hobbled after him. Jake must not go in too far. His opals . . . the shaft . . . Jake must not know. He tried to delay him at the mouth but Jake brushed bast him and went in. Inside, he peered round at the walls. “How long you been working it?” Snake’s face twitched nervously. “Just just a few weeks.” Jake stooped lower and nosed further in. “Hey, Jake I wouldn’t go in too far. It’s pretty rotten up top! Crumbly.”

Ahead of him Snake heard Jake’s reply reverberate in the drive. “Dirt don’t scare me, I’ve been in worse than this.” Snake went after him, his heart pounding. Soon now. He must be nearly there. “Jake! Jake!” “Orright, orright. Here I am!” Snake nearly stumbled into him in the blackness. He stood near the form, and in the silence he heard the deep breathing as Jake looked down at the shaft. “Gone down far, Snake?” His voice echoed eerily, and Snake jumped. “No, No, Jake, not far. Just a few feet, I ain’t usin’ it now. Chucked it, too hard.”

He stopped talking and felt the oppressive silence settle about him. What was Jake thinking? Had he guessed? Snake Sherwood’s mind raced back to the things he’d seen and heard. Broken miners, swindled out of their fortunes. Men with great chunks of blue and pinkish opal, suddenly becoming careless and falling down shafts. And experienced miners and bushmen becoming lost in arid parts of the far north.  Jake gripped his arm. “C’mon, you’re all shaky. Let’s get outa here.” Out in the cut Jake looked at the old man keenly. He saw the anxiety in the bleary eyes and heard the subdued excitement in the voice. He’d never seen it with Snake before; though with many others.

He knew Snake Sherwood had struck opal.

They walked over towards the tent and Jake talked amiable. He gestured at the pinkish sunset. “Pretty.” Snakes spirits rose. He hadn’t guessed. “Always is good over them sandhills.” They sat down by the tent and let the cool breeze that had followed the scorching. day fan them. “Going far?” Snake ventured. Jake smiled thinly. “Just ridin’. I’ll cut south to Kingoonya tomorrow. They’re getting it rich down south. And this heat’s getting me down.” The desire to get this man out of his sight forced Snake to ask the next question: “You campin’ here tonight?” Jake smiled again and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I reckon I will, Snake. We’ll talk over old times, eh?” “Sure,” said Snake.

Then he dwelt for a while on old times. He remembered a time way up in the North West of New South Wales, when two old miners had gone out with Jake after surface opal that had come down the creek from an old field. A month later Jake had come back alone. The old blokes had fallen down one of their own shafts, he’d said, and after that Jake had lived high down in Sydney for a year. They sat talking until it was 11 o’clock And when Jake yawned and rose, Snake was happy. “Gotta be off early,” Jake said, picking up his swag.

“Gunna sleep inside” Snake asked, “It gets nippy out.” “Not with them damn wrigglies.” He threw down his swag and stretched his big frame out with a happy sigh. Snake went inside his tent and lit his candle. He took out his pipe and sat down to think. They were pleasant thoughts. Thoughts of the city and of snug fires when it was cold. There wouldn’t be any more living under tents for him. He’d never have to eat from a tin for months on end, just because it was too dry for any living thing to haunt the plain. That was all over. He could retire. He was a rich man. Then Jake’s snores reached him, and he slumped back on bis bunk and fell into sleep.

Outside, Jake Harrod continued snoring with his black eyes open and alert. Jake was planning, it would be simple. He’d go down the shaft and see if he had opal, and if he did, the rest would be easy. He’d kill the old man in a jiffy, then ride into the railroad and report that he’d found him down the shaft. Accidental death. It happened every day. He continued thinking like that until he reckoned it would be about 4 a.m. Then he sat up. Through the fly of the tent he could see the motionless Snake Sherwood – Jake decided he was asleep, and stood up. He watched the sleeping figure in the tent. It didn’t move.

He crept stealthily towards the drive. He paused at the entrance to glance reassuringly back. Nothing moved. Then, hoping that his guess was right, he entered. He groped along the narrow drive, his breath rasping as his whole body tensed in anticipation. When he reckoned he was nearly to the shaft, he struck a match. He walked to the edge, and lifted the match. The shaft sloped down steeply, and he couldn’t see the bottom. He noted the recently disturbed earth and smiled grimly. “Bloody ol liar. Doesn’t use it, eh?”

A rough, wooden ladder led down one side and Jake eased his weight on to it. It felt firm. “Now, Snake. We’ll see what’s what,” he mused and started the descent. He went down cautiously, feeling each step with his foot. After a dozen steps he stopped and struck a match. “Hum.” He was half way. He could just make out the rock bottom. Swiftly now, with pulses hammering, Jake Harrod descended. ‘Opal-opal-opal, Money – retirement’. It hammered at his head, forcing him down faster. Then he was on the bottom, and the cold, clammy air settled about him.

He struck a match and it hissed loudly in the stillness. His eyes darted along the bottom, up one side, then down the other. God! There! Right there in front of him were the unmistakable layers of colour. His eager eyes followed the seam up. He took a piece of rock and scratched the surface, it threw off a faint, bluish hue. He stared at the bed again, and it stared back at him, making him utter a low cry of ecstasy. “God!” he gasped. “Opal, you’re mine, mine, mine.” !!!

He struck another match and looked fondly at it again. What was that? Nothing. He would act now. He’d – was that a shadow that had fallen across the matchlight? Uneasiness crept over him. Someone was watching him. Something was moving. There! Stark fear seized him He panicked. Right above him was something. He looked up. He gasped. The moving thing lunged down, and he yelled in a shrill cry for help. There came the thud, the smack, the bite. Again and again the deadly tiger snake struck until the fear crazed man had clambered above it.

Jake reached the top and went staggering to the mouth of the drive. A dull ache was cramping his shoulder, and another feeling, as when a dentist draws a tooth. with insufficient cocaine, was flowing into his neck muscles. He stood at the mouth of the drive and called in a fearful shriek: “Snake! For God’s sake, Snake!” Snake Sherwood stumbled over to him and rushed him back to the tent. He slashed the wounds and applied ligatures. He tried hard to stop the swelling with boiling water. But the bite of the tiger snake is deadly, and there was no medicine to fight the poison with. Jake Harrod died that morning. Snake went down into his shaft and patted the clammy underbelly. “My guardian and ‘er young,” he soothed. Then he went back to Jake, and wrapped him up in a blanket.

He rode south that day, to report it. An accident, of course. It happened every day!