The Shadow of Death Hotel & Tiger Tail Jerry

There was a man by the name of John Hawes who was a parish priest up to the 1930s in the Yalgoo/Murchison district. In a biography on his life he tells of how, after riding all day, he spent the night at a lonely wild spot with a well called the ‘Shadow of Death’. There was nothing left but the sad ruins of roofless old buildings composed of sun-dried mud bricks.

These were the ruins of a hotel that had been run by a man called Tom ‘Possum’ Oliver called the Golden Grove Hotel, better known as the Shadow of Death Hotel. It is described by John Hawes as a little wayside inn halfway between Fields Find and Yalgoo. It opened around the same time as the fields and had closed by the start of WW1. No doubt the coming of the automobile was its final doom as it was no longer required as an overnight stopping place for a change of horses.

The remains of the Shadow of Death Hotel in 1981 – Photo from “Yalgoo’ by Alex Palmer

The hotel was referred to by Constable Meginess in a very uncomplimentary manner after his first night there en route to Fields Find. Although it must not have been as bad as he had first thought, because he spent many a night there on gold escort duty without further complaint, I doubt he was spoilt by choice. By all reports, the inn was rough but homely, renowned for its hospitality though somewhat lacking in personal comforts and often ran out of liquor and forage. The police records show that it was sometimes in danger of not being re-licensed because of its lack of amenities. As late as 1909 Constable Jensen gave the following pre-licensing report ‘Its condition is much improved with a three stall stable and yard attached. A WC has been erected (prior to this one went behind a suitable bush). There is a little more furniture added to the bedrooms and a good supply of forage and liquor is at hand.

A teamster was on his way south with stores for the Shadow of Death Hotel. It was run by a tall black-bearded giant of a man called Tom Oliver. Tom and his missus were well known for their hospitality and what their shanty lacked in amenities they made up for in generosity. What matter if the berries blew into the soup or if the hens rested on your bed? What if the kids played cricket with the piece of rock salt the missus used for cooking?

Just how the inn became to be known as the Shadow of Death is a little vague. Toms’s son Ned says it was called the shadow because it was quiet and lonely like a ghost town, only a shadow, then some wag added ‘of death’, or the name may have been inspired by a verse of A B ‘Banjo’ Patterson’s poem-

Conroys Gap

This was the way of it, don’t you know
Ryan was ‘wanted’ for stealing sheep,
And never a trooper, high or low,
Could find him — catch a weasel asleep!
Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman’s Ford
A bushman, too, as I’ve heard them tell
Chanced to find him drunk as a lord
Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel.

D’you know the place? It’s a wayside Inn,
A low grog shanty – a bushman trap,
Hiding away in its shame and sin
Under the shelter of Conroy’s Gap.
Under the shade of that frowning range
The roughest crowd that ever drew breath-
Thieves and rowdies, uncouth and strange,
Were mustered round the Shadow of Death.

This was not a fitting description, belittling the proprietor and the location. Golden Grave conjures up a truer setting. Standing with its front almost on the road, it must have been a welcome sight for the weary traveler. A day’s ride in either direction was ground flat, shadeless, and covered by stunted vegetation but here, for a few kilometers, tall gum trees flourished in the little valley between the breakaways.

The licensee, Thomas Richard Oliver, married Jane Herbert in 1887 and by the early 1890s had established a home near Golden Grove where he ran sheep and cattle. In 1894 he acquired a liquor licence and opened the hotel. Thomas and Jane were to have ten children, most of whom were born at the inn. Jane died in 1910 due to septicemea after an attempted abortion. Understandably, she would have been reluctant to have any more children and this is why she took this dangerous solution which claimed her life. She is buried on the hill behind the hotel next to the grave of two of her sons George age 5hrs and Horace age 3yrs.

Oliver Family grave – Photo Find a Grave

Jane’s grandson, Bob Moorhead, who had a GML at the Iron Duke visited the site in 1946 while on his honeymoon and tidied the graves, and erected a fence around them. Bob was the son of Jane’s oldest child, Winifred Elizabeth Oliver. The Inn was to appear in the 1909 list of licenced premises, but by 1910 it had disappeared. It was assumed that this was when it closed. Time has erased almost all evidence and all that remains is a large mound of earth (see above photgraph) which is the remains of the mud bricks which made up the fireplace.

Geraldton Guardian 17 March 1908, page 4
‘The Shadow of Death Hotel’
Written, for the Guardian by ‘Hasaghan’

The scorching swirl of January willy willys swept across the East Murchison mulga plains. It was an ill-chosen day for a mail trip journey, and Cyril Wellsby found the reputed charm of Australian bush travelling to be rather mythical – at least, from a young Englishman’s point of view. He was a “colonial experience” Jackeroo, and on the present occasion happened to be the only passenger travelling with the mail. Eight miserable hours on the rickety conveyance had “petered out” the enthusiasm of the young fellow, and a series of bumps, more violent than usual, made him desperate.

Late in the afternoon, he questioned the mailman as to their whereabouts and the likelihood of reaching civilization in time for tea.

”How ever much more of this wretchedness have we to endure?” he asked petulantly. ‘Is it far to our next stopping place, Mr. Driver ?”

‘Was yer talkin’ ter me?’ roared the old man. “If yer was, Is mout as well tells yer that my names not ‘Mister Driver’,  it’s Jerimiah Hitchins. ‘Tigertail Jerry’ wot me mates call me. As fer’s the miles ter the pub goes, is about six more but, thar way this pair of ‘orses is goin’, we’ll be lucky if we reaches ‘The Shadder’ afore dark.” “The Shadow’ did you say?” interrupted the new chum. ‘Is that our next stage, Hitchins? ‘If I’m not mistaken, Charlie Rodan recommended a place of that name to me as being an excellent wayside inn.’ What? -Why do you laugh’?”
The mailman became seized with an uncontrollable fit of laughter for no apparent reason. “Yes, that’s the place,” explained Jerry, subsiding abruptly. ”We be there fer the night. You’ll think things a bit out of the hordinry  even though it is a bush ‘otel.’ ”Indeed? I’m glad of that,” said Cyril, rather relieved. “But surely, in such a desolate district as this apparently is, there is not the sufficient business for even small pot houses. What an awful name, though — ‘The Shadow of Death’ — whoever named the house?”
The New Chum – Photo SLWA

Tigertail proceeded to favor his fare with historical details, but it should have been obvious that he was drawing on a vivid imagination. ” ‘O’ course,” he continued, “the signboard over th’ door as got ‘The Golden’ Grove Hotel’ wrote on it, but all us ole ‘ands reckons that name’s too flash fer such a shanty, so it’s called ‘Th’ Shadder’ fer short. It wuz a multy millionaire sort uv chap as give the ‘ouse the name. ‘E had a beano there, years ago, ‘n got took away to th’ Cue horspital in the horrors. Yes, crook on the grog!” How scandalous! had you no excise inspectors at that time?” asked the jackeroo. “Yes, but, yer know, it wuz funny carryin’s on in them days. I tell yer, young chap, yer ain’t never ‘eard tell of such times as wuz in th’ boom days. W’en th’ fields fust broke out, water wuz dear as beer, pretty nigh. We used champagne fer shavin’ water, them days.”

Cyril remarked that such a state of affairs was incredible to him, but related a circumstance which he thought relevant to Australian boom times. He had heard that three college chums of his, having been lured from luxurious homes by glowing reports of the colonies, had migrated to the Riverina— wherever that might be. He believed, though, that they had since left that district and gone in for whaling, and taking into consideration how badly things had gone with him of late, he often wished that he had invested his small patrimony in the same venture.

bush-shanty-The-Worlds-News-18-September-1935

Bush shanty – The Worlds News 18 Sep 1935

Towards evening the jangle of horse bells and chinking of hobble chains close to the track indicated the mail’s approach to civilization. One more supreme hanging-on effort, on the part of Cyril, was necessary by the time Tigertail and his team negotiated a dry water course. After crashing over granite rocks and fallen trees for a few minutes, the open clearing in front of a mud-walled, thatch-roofed building was reached. A community of piglets and goats were scared away from the bar door as the trap jerked to a halt, whereupon a strident female voice from within the bar screamed out that

‘Jerimiah Itchin’s had better chuck ‘is flashness

an’ keep ‘is bloomin’ mail-coach off yon pigs.” ‘Ere’s ‘Th’ Shadder,’ Mr. Wells ,” said Jerry. “Jump down lively an take out water to the ‘orses ; there’s the well over there agin th’ goat pen. It’s a ‘underd ‘n’ forty foot deep, but, being such a strong bloke, th’ wind-up won’t be nothink ter yer. Be careful yer don’t git hit in the ‘ead fr’m the ‘andle.

As an afterthought, Tigertail added “Yer might as well full th’ trof right up while yer ’bout it, but be sure there ain’t nothink dead in it fust. I lugged out a dead lamb ‘n’ two bungarras las’ trip, which pervided fresh meat fer a week up at th’ ‘otel.” The jackeroo’s previous ‘colonial experience’ did not include a knowledge of the correct thing in regard to situations similar to his present one. Before leaving England, he had been advised to acquire the virtue of taking things as they came, out in Australia. Well-informed friends had told him that such was a necessity, but, although quite willing to adapt himself to circumstances, he in the present instance, thought Hitchins command rather immoderate. He was moreover, not ‘good’ with horses.

The mailman, in the meantime, had lurched over to the hotel bar. He called for his usual perquisite drink, and requested that his drop of “square” was not fortified with methylated spirit, as was too often the case with “The Golden Grove” liquors. ‘I ain’t no primus stove, missus, even if I do flare up a bit at times, pleaded Jerry. A bottle, villainously labeled “Best Gin,” was placed before him for a few seconds. A jerk of the thumb in the direction of the well, and a questioning lift of her eyebrows, indicated Mrs. Oliver’s curiosity as to the new arrival. “Oh ! ‘E’s a silvertail new-chum,” explained Hitchins, ‘ n’ as green as they come. ‘E took on hawful comin’ up th’ track w’en I told ‘im about “Th’ Shadder o Death.’ ” The landlady grabbed the neck of a bar carafe and shrieked out that she would brain the next man that dared call her husband’s house by such a name. Bodily harm was threatened, so Tigertail went outside again. He strolled across to the well, to find out how his instructions to Mr. Wellsby were being carried out. ”

‘Ave yer watered them ‘orses yet?” he bawled.”

The young man was making frantic efforts to pull the stall off a refractory horse.”Yes, I have ; and a nice job it was, handling that bucket with the bally wire rope all frayed out,” complained Cyril, whose hands were bleeding.”Well, why ‘aven’t yer ‘obbled ’em?” Jerry laughed uproariously. “I have hobbled one of them, Hitchins, but I require more hobbles for the other one,” said Wellsby. ‘Wot ? ‘Ow -many pairs d’yer want fer only two ‘orses ? Wot’s th’ matter with this ‘ere moke that ‘e ain’t foragin’ about in th’ scrub fer a feed? There ain’t no chaff or oats fer ‘im, Th’ mail contrack price won’t run chaff, ‘nless th’ ‘orses is nearly dyin’, we feeds ’em up a bit then ter keep ’em alive.” A horse, standing helplessly alongside an adjoining bough shed attracted Tigertail Jerry’s attention. He went over and investigated. A roar of laughter increased Cyril’s discomfiture. ‘Well, if ‘e ain’t a ‘oodlum!” observed Jerry. ‘I’m blowed if ‘e ain’t obbled th’ ‘orse for’n’aft.”

After things were adjusted satisfactorily, Wellsby followed the mailman into the hotel bar. Sound advice had been given to the new arrival by Hitchins, who suggested that it would be politic, on Cyril’s part, to ‘shout’ immediately on arrival. The landlady, her eldest daughter (the barmaid), and the mailman were therefore invited to take something, but the young gentleman was surprised to notice that seven juveniles had been pushed into the bar and included in the round without his authority. The children had to consume a half nobbler of weak condensed milk and water each. A sovereign was tendered in payment, and the coin was bitten before being surreptitiously consigned into Mrs. Oliver’s bosom. Having become nearly stupefied by sampling something out of a “Best Whisky” bottle, the jackeroo asked to be shown to his room.

“We stay here for the night, I believe, madame,” he said. ‘Yes, Mr. Wellsby, sir, you stays till mornin, but I’m sorry your room won’t be ready till bedtime. You know, there are so few callers that wants beds at ‘The Golden Grove,’ that the public bedroom doesn’t get slept in more’n about once or twice a year, so we uses it for keepin’ ‘roo and sheepskins in.The profits of the ‘otel are so small, that my ‘usband— ‘Possum Oliver’— ‘as to do a bit of trading’ in skins and sandalwood, to keep ‘ouse and ‘ome together, so you see the bedroom comes in ‘andy for a storeroom . Before you go to bed, though, I’ll sprinkle insectibane over the pillows and blankets, to keep the weevils and ticks off ‘o you.” The sybaritic young Englishman thought hard. Disgusted and dazed with the gastric turbulence that his drink of whisky induced, he went outside and sat down on a bench on the veranda. Presently Miss Oliver came out to him and handed him a dingy looking towel. She told him he would find a lump of soap under the horse trough if he wanted a wash before dinner.

Upon returning to the hotel, Cyril was startled by the noise caused by a youngster vigorously battering a disused frying pan, which, with the handle broken off, and painted up, was suspended in a passage-way to do duty as a dinner gong. He was escorted to a breezy lean-to which served the double purpose of dining and harness room. “Ah! Mr. Wellsby, ‘ere you are at last,” gushed Mrs. Oliver. “We thought you’d never finish slooshing yourself at the trorf. This ‘ere’s your place at table.” Heroic efforts were made by the young fellow to eat some of the boiled goat and pumpkin provided, and Mr. Hitchins volunteered the information that the presence of chaff, floating about in his cup of tea, was due to an accident in the storeroom. Cyril would, however, only be charged for tea, not for the feed of chaff. Milk was “off” so the hostess said, and explained, “Our goats ain’t kidded yet. and till ‘Possum’ turns up with the wagon, there ain’t none in the ‘ouse,’cept for bar use.”

At the conclusion of the meal, Mr. Wellsby was asked if he liked music, and an adjournment to the bar parlor was suggested. Tigertail ventured that his passenger was a vocalist. ” Yes, Hitchins, I sing a little, but I see no piano here to accompany me, and I fear I couldn’t pull through a one, really.’ ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Jerry explained. “Miss Oliver ‘ll company ya on ‘er mouth-organ. She’s real ‘ot.” The “Old Bull-and-Bush” was attempted, but the young man’s wheezy, gramophone tenor was ill-suited to such a classic. Tigertail, to “keep his end up” favored the company with a few steps, and tore up the floor considerably, before finally collapsing.

After being entertained for an hour or so, Mr. Wellsby rose to retire to bed. The fumes of cigars and whiskies which he had, in a spirit of bravado, indulged in, were beginning to make such a move necessary. He complimented the company on their efforts at entertaining guests and followed his hostess, who rose to escort her lodger to his room — a foul-smelling, mud-walled apartment. “That there is your bed, sir,” instructed the lady. A jerk into the room of the bottle-candle that she carried revealed the stretcher and greasy blankets awaiting him. “When you get into bed, Mr, Wellsby, sir, please don’t poke your feet right down into the bottom corner, as there’s a hen settin’ ‘en there with fourteen eggs under ‘er. I didn’t like to rouse ‘er out, as she’s only got two more days to go. Some, of them eggs is raddled, but if you don’t poke your toes amongst ’em, it’ll be all right. Goodnight, young sir.”

Cyril’s condition was such as to deaden any of his usual fastidious ideas otherwise his feelings would have revolted at the squalor of his surroundings. After placing his boots outside the door, he braved the perils of the bed. The close proximity of maternal poultry speedily convinced him that the satisfactory state of affairs that existed in the front bar —

“No tick here” – was not the case in the bedrooms.

The insectibane, promised by Mrs. Oliver, was evidently forgotten. At sunrise, the unannounced entry into his room of a young girl awoke him. She carried in a bucket of water, soap, and towel Giv me a schillin’, Mister’ she begged. Cyril couldn’t refuse, of course. Before leaving the ‘femme de chambre’ handed in the lodger’s boots from off the goat-skin door mat.

They were still dirty. When explaining later to the landlady that his boots had been left untouched, that lady indignantly informed him that everybody at ‘The Golden Drove’ was honest, ‘omely people, and you could’ve left your purse on the mat — not alone your boots — and it wouldn’t be touched, just the same.” “Hulloa, Cyril !” roared a voice from the bar ” ‘ad a good night?” “With certain reservations, Hitchins, I have.” “Begorra ! yer don’t look’ like’s if yer ‘ad, ye’ve got sich a ‘cow-in-a-pound’ look, don’t yer think so, Missus ?”

All set to go – Photo SLWA

Don’t be so disrespectful to my customers, Jerimiah ‘Itchin’s,” snapped Mrs. Oliver, with finely simulated indignation. “Would Mr, Wellsby like a pick-me-up,” she asked “Really, Madame, you are too kind, perhaps just one would set me up. I will try a small drop of Martel and Spa-water.” The landlady and Tigertail Jerry exchanged looks of perplexity. ‘Wha-a-at’s that’s asked, Mrs. Oliver. “You’ll ‘ave ter ‘ave gin, whisky, ‘n brandy, — fightin’ beer, that is – but I’ll turn tee-total if I’ve ever ‘eard of Spar water” The available “Shadow” eye-openers were declined in favor of a cup of black coffee at breakfast. Cyril was instructed not to dwell long at the meal, as the mail-trap journey was to be resumed almost immediately.

Scrambled emu-egg was consumed, and shortly afterward the mailman ordered “all aboard.” At starting, the polite jackeroo turned in his seat, to wave his adieu to the Oliver’s. His farewell bow would have been graceful, had the side of the near-side front wheel not collided with a post.

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Moya Sharp

Owner at Outback Family History

My name is Moya Sharp, I live in Kalgoorlie Western Australia and have worked most of my adult life in the history/museum industry. I have been passionate about history for as long as I can remember and in particular the history of my adopted home the Eastern Goldfields of Western Australia. Through my website I am committed to providing as many records and photographs free to any one who is interested in the family and local history of the region.

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