Chapter one.
One Penny.

Lindsay Tanner saw it first, a shiny new penny that half poked out of the bulldust in front of the Grand Hotel.
In an action he would later regret, he failed to call ‘mine’ as he lunged for the copper prize as his younger brother Henry saw the coin also and leapt toward it.
Lindsay made it to the penny first and scooped it up, starting an argument that would span two generations.

The day was Thursday November 23, 1899, and both boys had spent most of it hanging around whilst men gathered to add their names to a list of ‘bush fighters’, all volunteers, itching to fight for Queen and country in Southern Africa against a new enemy, the Boer.
The boy’s own father, Malachai Tanner was one of the first to make his mark, using his burly frame to push through other men and slam down his fist on the rickety table where a young Lieutenant sat calmly overseeing the press of what he thought of as only cannon fodder.
‘See, my hand is hard and steady boy!’ Shouted Malachai, ‘I can shoot straight and am willing to die for my country’s honour,’ he continued, although it did not seem to impress the smartly dressed officer who remained indifferent to every man’s inevitable boasting.
Malachai continued,
‘I will kill many Boer for you sir, send me and my friends into battle for the glory of our nation!’ At that all of the men erupted in cheering and chest thumping that caused the Lieutenant to stand and wave his arms around in a calming way that eventually stopped the commotion.
‘Thankyou, thankyou for your fervour and obvious patriotism,’ he shouted above the din, ‘I have no doubt that all of you men gathered here today will do your duty in the best way that you can, but we need to be orderly like an army, not a gang of rabble! Please, gentlemen let’s get this done quickly and properly so that I can process everybody and get you to where you want to be, alright!’
Malachai snatched up the fountain pen on the table and scratched his barely legible name in the next available space. When he casually replaced the pen, he glared at the man on the other side of the desk with undisguised malice. Malachi Tanner had little time for authority and was used to making his own decisions, without jumped up boys telling him what he already knew.
In outback Queensland, you had to learn how to survive quickly, and Malachai was a born survivor, orphaned at birth in 1869, he clawed his way out of poverty and used a quick wit and heavy fists to become one of the town’s most admired and feared men. A blacksmith by trade, his arms bore the scars and knotted muscle that told most not to mess with him.
Being one of the first to rally the townsfolk around the cause for volunteers, Malachai had looked forward to this day for some time now, and strode away with his head held high in a show of either pride or big-headedness (probably the latter).
Noticing his two sons squabbling in the dirt, he ran over and grabbed each one by the ear, ‘what are you two doing, brawling in the street like a couple of common urchins?’ He barked.
‘Nothing Pa, nothing at all, we was jus...’
Malachai cut Lindsay off with a jerk to his ear and he remained silent, he knew that there was nothing he could say that would make any difference now, they were both headed for a beating as soon as they could be dragged back to the house and that was that.
A couple of men had noticed the boys scuffling and piped up, ‘better take those two with you to Africa mate, they look like they can fight well enough!’
Malachai was already enraged at his boy’s behaviour but adding public ridicule to the offence took it to a new level,
Lindsay was the elder of the two, being eleven whilst Henry was a year his junior. However, this made little difference as Henry appeared at least a whole year older than Lindsay. Shooting up when they were just toddlers. Henry had the frame and strength of his father, whilst Lindsay obviously took after his smaller, weaker mother.
A mother that was rarely spoken of in the Tanner household, as she was five years in her grave, succumbing to tuberculosis after almost three years sufferance. Whilst he never voiced it, Malachai silently blamed his youngest son’s birth for the occurrence of the blight on his wife’s health.
Both boys knew of this, but were too scared to make any comment, but they understood that life (in particular theirs) was cruel, and whilst they were little, they had no say in the way that they were raised and that was the unfortunate truth.
Nobody in the assembled crowd batted an eyelid at the blacksmith’s behaviour, he was just another facet in the much -repeated outback town’s history, one that stretched back for almost one hundred years when its namesake, one Christopher Jeremiah Scott camped on the banks of the Dawson river before moving up a small tributary that was now called Scott’s Creek.

Christopher Scott’s diary was found on the place where the small town stood by a group of men searching for any trace of the missing adventurer, as he was bound for Mount Isa from Rockhampton, but failed to arrive.
The diary described a perfectly placed water source, nestled in between rolling hills in a part of the country that would support cattle, sheep and various crops if the seasons remained kind and drought-free.
After searching for months with no sign of the missing parties, thoughts kept returning to the comments in the diary, and further investigations found that indeed it was an excellent location for a town.
Situated roughly 100 Miles inland from Gladstone, the nearest civilized town being Biloela, that in itself was of a similar age, as it took almost fifty years of establishment to secure the town’s existence.
Many came and many went, especially during the great drought of 1877 when nothing could be dragged from the land and the once plentiful river actually dried up. Malachi Tanner knew all of this, having endured the heat of the drought as a small boy, but none of it mattered now as he slung his progeny into the darkness of the smithy and prepared to exorcise some of his demons at his boy’s expense.
He believed that a good thrashing developed character and taught children to behave in front of their elders. His stepfather bashed it into him, and it had done him no harm at all, so he was just carrying on a family tradition that was perfectly normal.
So normal it seemed that when his eyes adjusted to the light, the sight of his boys with both of their buttocks exposed and ready for the belt was just another thing that he thought was right. They knew the rules, they knew what was coming, and as he un-buckled his belt and looped it around his fist, he was almost pleased that they were so well trained as to accept their punishment on such formal terms as this.
Henry was first, he was always first, once again the lingering smoke of blame descended upon Malachai and he gave the first searing crack of the belt to his youngest son with zest.
Usually three was enough, but today his blood was up, today he wanted to hurt something, the Boer would get their chance, but today, right now, it was time to make a point.
Henry endured the three cracks whilst looking sideways at his brother, a look that spoke volumes to Lindsay. ‘You are going to get it when we are alone brother,’ it said. And he knew that it was not just for this punishment alone, he would want that precious penny that was for sure.
When the fourth stroke met Henry’s already red and sore flesh, he cried out, something that he never did, no matter how hard the punishment he was always the brother that took it in silence, tears were for girls, and Henry was tough, but not so tough that his father could break him, and he suddenly became afraid.
Lindsay chanced a look at his father and saw a frightening thing. He was raining blows at a furious rate, five, six, seven, eight, and on the ninth Henry fell forward, unable to stand anymore. This incensed Malachai even more and without missing a beat, he cruelly directed the attack to the only set of buttocks standing.
Lindsay had endured this before, but never to this level of ferocity, on the fourth stroke, he turned slightly again and caught sight of the glaze that had spread across his father’s face. A snapshot that would burn into his mind forever, eyes that did not seem human anymore and a thin trail of spittle spinning from the corner of his mouth as his clenched teeth seemed to grin maniacally.
Henry had already crawled across the floor and was hastily and carefully pulling his trousers back up when it happened.
Lindsay kept his glance for a moment too soon and instead of enduring another crack to his rear, watched in horror as Malachai reversed the belt into his left hand and struck out buckle-first in the direction of his head.
Disobeying a standing order not to move until punishment finished was one thing that Malachai would not have. Turning to look him in the eye was another level of insolence and without consulting his mental rulebook, he instantly lashed out.
The centre of the belt caught Lindsay across the shoulder, but this only gave a snap! Of momentum to the buckle end that wrapped around and embedded itself in his tender cheek.
Malachai pulled his belt back and the buckle tore across the boy’s face.
Spun around by the force of the blow, Lindsay screamed at the same time he faced his father. Shocked by the sight before him, Malachai dropped back, just as the boy decided to flee. Hopping and tripping over his trousers, he ignored the stinging pain in his face and made for the bolthole that Henry was rapidly disappearing into. Not daring to look back as he reached the small hole in the smithy wall that they frequently used, he slid through and started to run as fast as he could.
Had he dared to look back, he would not have seen any pursuer, as Malachai was frozen to the spot, immobilized by what he had just done to his own flesh and blood, not able to process the thought that he might have gone too far, nor able to think about what he might do next.
Henry on the other hand was still running, smashing through the scrub and heading for the place where he and his brother could hide, away from the edge of town, where Malachai could not find him. He chanced to look back and saw the horror of Lindsay also running blindly to the same place. Slightly to the left of his own path, but gaining rapidly, he watched in horror as with every step, a flap of skin bounced and squirted blood across his brother's face.
Lindsay was screaming and running erratically now, he could see that some of the blood was in his eyes and must have caused further panic as his vision clouded into redness.
Henry made a split decision and turned in his brother’s direction, catching up quickly and tackling him around the waste. He felt a warm splash of blood on his own cheek, and even a sickly taste of metal and salt as some ended up in his own mouth.
‘Lin, stop, Lin I’ve got you, stop now you’re safe,’ yelled Henry to no avail as Lindsay wriggled from his grasp and started off again. Reaching out and grabbing his ankle, Henry managed to cause Lindsay to fall awkwardly cracking his temple on a hard rock and blessedly becoming unconscious.
Henry rolled his brother over to reveal the horror that his father had created. Blood pooled in his open mouth causing an involuntary cough as it made its way down his throat. Henry could see bone beneath the gaping buckle-shaped wound and started to feel sick. He wrenched his shirt over his shoulders and wrapped it around his brother’s head, staunching the blood flow and hiding the hideous wound.
Carefully picking Lindsay up he managed to get to his feet and start the long walk to the one person who would be able to help them, but he had to turn back in the direction of the town and for one moment hesitated at the thought of what may lurk there in the smithy.