It's a Big Country

by The Author's Mighty Pen

John Bates is looking for a quiet, backwoods kind of job in Kiandra. He wants nothing more than to live alone, tend to his life, and do his job. He does not expect bushrangers, gold miners, anti-immigrant riots, angry locals, or the loveliest woman he ever saw to enter his life. But when he left Ireland for the colonies of Australia he forgot, it's a big country and he's only one m

1. Have Gun, Will Travel

The man was nothing special to look at. He stood taller than average, a little thicker than average, and seemed to hold his mouth in a bit of a permanent scowl but for this town that was average. He shouldered one large bag as he exited the carriage and exchanged a word with the driver before turning toward the town.

Any who saw him would think nothing of the rifle and shotgun slung over his back or of the two six-shooters holstered at his belt. No one up this far in the mountains would question the coat he wore or the outline of extra boots at the top of his bag. These were necessities, not frivolities.

In fact, no one really cared enough about him to question anything. He was new, that was all they needed to know. There were more pressing matters to attend to. No one cared about the new man in town.

No one, except the man with perfect hair.

As the new man walked toward one of the buildings away from the carriage depot, taking in the sights with an eye not for sights but exacting detail, the man with perfect hair stepped in his path. The new man paused, eyeing this stranger the same way he eyed all the buildings and people he passed, and raised a hand to his hat.

"Good day."

"I doubt it." The man with perfect hair looked over this newcomer, pushing his leather gloves more securely over his hands to show off the stitching more than to guarantee his gloves would not suddenly come loose. He took his time eyeing him up and down, letting the contrasts in their appearance come to the surface by inspection. After a moment he put his hands to his hips, pushing his jacket back enough so all could see the waistcoat that was just a tad too fancy for a town were puddles of water gathered in the muddy streets. "Where could you be going in such a hurry?"

"Not sure that's any of your business."

"How about I make it my business?" The man with perfect hair sucked the inside of one cheek, "I need to look out for the needs of this town."

"I highly doubt you're worried about this town."

"Really? And why's that?"

"First, you don't even carry a gun. Either you think you're too grand for one or you don't know how to use one. If not those than you have a tiny gun tucked into your boot like someone who knifes the opposition in a back alley instead of fighting them fair. You're too pretty for a fight and think you're too good for a gun."

The man with perfect hair scoffed, "You don't need a gun to look out for people."

"You do if you want to actually protect them. I get the feeling you're first protection is always yourself, leading me to number two, your hair is too tidy and your waistcoat too fine. It'd hard to keep that kind of material clean if you're willing to run into a fire or save an ox in the mire."

The nicely dressed man tugged at the bottom of his waistcoat, "It's not a crime to dress well."

"No, it's not, but I find putting on airs leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I suggest you stop with yours." The new man tried to push past, "Now, I'll be on my way."

The man with perfect hair grabbed the newcomer's arm and pulled him to a halt, "You don't know the lengths I would go for these people."

"I don't need to know because whatever they are they either serve you or they're not enough." The new man looked down at the hand on his arm, "I'd remove that before I remove it for you, Charlie."

"My name's Barrow. Thomas Barrow." The man with perfect hair hissed, "Not Charlie."

"It may not be your name but I've got a sneaking suspicion it's what you do." The new man shook himself loose from Barrow's grip. "But I'll keep your name in mind if I meet anyone who needs help with their backdoors in future, shall I?"

Barrow swung for the man but he ducked. He dropped his bag to the ground and blocked Barrow's next haymaker easily before planting a fist in Barrow's face. The force sent Barrow back a few paces, blinking as he tried to overcome the stunned sensation that expressed itself over his face.

The few people around them started whispering in shock as the new man bent to picked up his bag while Barrow stumbled to his knees in the muddy road. "And don't forget my name, Mr. Barrow. It's Bates, John Bates. Very simple, even you can spell it I'm sure."

Barrow put a hand on John's arm and went to throw another punch but John easily blocked it and cuffed Barrow just hard enough to set him on his back in the mud. As the other man blinked up at the sky John leaned over him, "Don't touch me again Mr. Barrow or you'll live to regret it."

"I'm not scared of you." Barrow coughed, trying to stand but John put a hand on his shoulder to keep him down.

"Nor am I of you, Mr. Barrow. But I'd steer clear of me all the same. If I'm not mistaken, buggery may not be punishable by hanging anymore but it's still something I can toss you in a little cell for should I find the right person to accuse you of public lewdness."

"You can't do anything to me." The slight quaver in Barrow's voice matched the tremor of terror in his eyes.

"Actually I can," John pulled back his coat enough to show the guns at his waist, "I'm the new deputy in town and if I ever meet you like this again I won't be as kind. Run along and try not to piss yourself over this."

John stood up, rearranged his bag on his back, and walked through crowd gathering around the wobbling Barrow. He weaved through those joining the growing crowd and finally found the sheriff's office. He walked up the wooden steps and knocked at the door. A deep voice from within called out for him to enter and John pushed into the office.

It was dry, lit, and Spartan. The man standing at the desk, in front of a cell holding a man arguing at the top of his voice with an older man on the other side, did not look up as he finished something he was writing there. He motioned with a hand and John continued forward, keeping a grip on his bag and another on his belt as if ready at any moment to slip around to the ivory handle of his gun.

"What can I do for you?" The man finally looked up and John confronted some of the most intimidating eyebrows he ever saw. "Well? I don't have all day and there are already bushrangers to deal with."

John found his voice and smiled, "Then I can help with that Sheriff. I'm your new deputy. They said in Melbourne they'd send a telegram to let you know I was coming."

"Finally the main office realizes the seriousness of the situation." The older man at the cell door turned to face John, "With all these riots it's a wonder it's taken them this long."

"Maybe if you hired someone who actually cared about your miners there wouldn't be as much trouble." The man in the cell, his Irish accent echoing in John's ears like a whiff of home, banged on the bars with the flat of his hand. "If you hired someone, anyone, other than Barrow you wouldn't need a deputy… no offense."

"None taken." John raised a hand at the man, "Dublin?"

"Just outside of it. You been?"

"I worked as a copper in Belfast." John extended a hand toward him, "John Bates, Deputy."

"Then I expect you'll see a lot of Mr. Branson here Mr. Bates." The Sheriff put his hands behind his back, looking sideways and down at the shorter Branson just releasing John's hand of the shake. "He tends to follow trouble like it follows him."

"I keep telling them to leave the door open and I'll just come right in and make myself at home." Branson winked at John, "Save me time and wages paying board in town."

"Then remember those wasted wages before you start another bar brawl, Mr. Branson, "The Sheriff opened the cell door, "And be gone now. I'm sure Mr. Crawley here would rather you be taking out your strength in his mines."

"I'm sure Mr. Crawley'd rather I be taking out a lot of things in a lot of other places." Branson sniffed at the identified 'Mr. Crawley'.

The Sheriff pointed to the door with a raised arm to match his raised eyebrow and Branson huffed. He collected his gun from the rack, his coat from the hook, and hat off a bench before raising an arm in farewell to John. John matched the signal and waited until the younger man shut the door behind him before turning to the other men in the room.

"Well, Mr. Bates, your references seem to be in order and if the main office thinks you're fit I've no reason to expect you'd trek all the way to Kiandra just to decide the job's too much for you." The Sheriff extended a hand, "I'm Sheriff Carson, your direct superior, and this is Mr. Robert Crawley. He owns the contract on the local mine so we see a lot of him and his men here in town."

"They tend to make quite a ruckus, as you just saw." Robert shook John's hand, "For which I apologize."

"I get the feeling Mr. Branson's arguments with you are a little more personal than accusations of wages or having one too many on payday."

"He's not a fan of Mr. Barrow, the foreman of my operation here."

"I can't claim to be much of a fan either." John motioned toward the door, "I scuffled with him myself within a few minutes of arriving."

"Barrow likes to make a scene, I'm afraid." Robert shrugged, "He's good with the mine and understands the business. It means I don't have to always be here to personally manage it."

"Where do you spend your time, if I may ask?"

"I own a cattle ranch a little further south."

"Enjoy the tranquility of it?"

"Tranquility?" Robert almost guffawed, "There's nothing tranquil about the mooing of a thousand head of cattle or what they sound like in spring. No, I do it for the beef I enjoy eating, the leather I like wearing, and the dresses it buys my wife."

"Congratulations." John risked a moment to let his bag drop to the floor. "Marriage is a wonderful thing."

"Are you married?"

"I was. She-" John swallowed, "She died in Ireland, I'm afraid. It's part of why I came to New South Wales. I thought a new start might do me good."

"Did me." Robert smiled and cuffed John on the shoulder, "I made a fortune in the Ballarat mines in Victoria and then built the enterprise here."

"Then I hope to be half as lucky as yourself." John nodded, "I look forward to getting to know you better, Mr. Crawley."

"Please," Robert waved a hand, "Call me Robert. I'm far too young to be addressed like people addressed my father, as my mother keeps reminding me."

Robert turned to Carson and shook his hand, "Thank you again, Carson, for keeping an eye on Branson."

"It's my duty, sir."

Robert shrugged and shook John's hand again, "When you get settled you should come to Downton for dinner. My wife'd love to hear about Ireland and I think my daughters could use the entertainment."

"I'm at your service sir." John returned the shake and waited for Robert to leave the office before facing Sheriff Carson again.

Carson paced around John a moment before nodding, "You seem a bit older than I was expecting for a Deputy."

"I served fifteen years as a copper in Belfast sir. I'm more than qualified."

"As I said, I've no argument with your references. However, qualifications are nothing if your body gives out on a treacherous cliff." Carson puffed his chest, "We've a solemn duty to maintain the honor and dignity of our office, even if we are on the edge of the world here."

"Yes sir." John agreed, "I'm here to do the best I can."

"Can you ride?" Carson paced around John like a general quizzing a new recruit. John kept his focus forward, breathing steadily.

"Very well sir."

"Are you ready to track bushrangers for days?"

"If the situation calls for it." John raised an eyebrow but tried to maintain his composure at the humor in this exercise.

"Are you ready to quell mine riots and handle the anti-immigrant sentiments?"

"Depends on the immigrants sir?"

"What?" Carson stopped, "Explain yourself."

"Well sir, if the immigrants are Irishmen than I simply offer to buy them all a pint and talk about home. If they're from somewhere else I may be at a bit of a loss." John shrugged, "I don't speak enough Chinese to help with the Chinese immigrants."

"They won't be a problem."

"They rioted earlier this year sir. I read all about it when I arrived in Melbourne."

"Their riot ended and we'll have no more concerns from the Oriental front."

"How can you be sure sir?"

"All the Chinese we work with here answer to Mr. Crawley. And they're very dedicated to him as he is to them."

"Robert Crawley works with the Chinese personally?"

"No, his son-in-law, Matthew. He handled their response to the riots this year and they listen to him. If anything you'll be helping him protect them from those less kind to the idea that others want a share of the gold in the ground." Carson paused, "Unless you want them out of the way to take gold for yourself."

"I don't hold much to the power of minerals buried in the earth only to sacrifice hours of one's life just for a tiny taste of it." John shook his head. "It's a waste of effort in my opinion."

"And where would you give your time, Mr. Bates?"

"To the land. It's always been my dream to have enough to buy a little plot to call my own sir."

"Hm." Carson nodded, "Then you'll be pleased with the Deputy's cabin."

"I'll be happy enough right now for a roof over my head and a fireplace where I can warm my feet sir."

"I appreciate the attitude Bates." Carson collected his hat and coat from the rack before buckling on his gun. "Leave your other belongings here and come with me while I show you the town Mr. Bates."

John left his things and followed Sheriff Carson out of the office. As he stood on the porch he saw a woman, herding a stream of children in front of her, walk by. In a moment their eyes met and John felt his whole being freeze.

Her eyes were bluer than the ocean he crossed to get here. The smile that covered her face bigger than the moon in its sliver. Her laugh sweeter the sound of bells rung by angels or the harps strummed by the same beings. He wanted desperately to know this woman in the second it took her to pass her glance from his to what lay ahead of her and he imagined that was the moment his life changed.

He answered an advertisement with the American sentiment, "have gun, will travel" but never in his life did he expect to experience holding infinity in the palm of his hand and eternity in an hour as he looked on this woman.

John decided, in that second, it did not matter who she was because he was hers forever.