(An Excerpt from “Grog Wars”)
“I’ll take the little hinny with me on patrol, but it’ll be a pig-shearing expedition,” he grumbled.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what that means, Queensy. But I do appreciate your taking Bleeker with you.”
Queensy smirked and asked his friend, “Have you ever tried shearing a pig?”
“Certainly not; why would anyone do such a–”
“Exactly, Mate! It’s too much squealing, and too little wool. When it comes to hunting renegade Indians with the Pommie, I think I’d rather take my chances with the pig”.
“You there, Pommie, three of us are heading out tonight; we’ll leave in an hour, maybe two. Hard to notice you haven’t been of a scouting party, so far. And I hear you’ll be leaving us tomorrow when we reach the fort.” He clucked facetiously. “So, you know what that means, Pommie? Tonight is your night. We need a fourth, an’ you’re it.”
Bleeker stared aghast at Queensy for several long seconds before he found his voice. By then, Queensy was already headed back to check on the horses and cattle. “I wouldn’t go to a party with the likes of you, ever–Indian or otherwise, Mr. Queensy. I don’t bear fools!” he hollered after him, tossing his nose into the air.
Queensy stopped in his tracks, turned slowly and smiled wicked at the snit they called Bleeker. “Well, I find that wonky queer, mate. Your mum certainly did.”
Bleeker could only spit and huff at Queensy–to do more would be to invite pain. He snatched up his journal and pencils and hurried off for his buckboard.
Detergent blue sky, birdcalls and nothing else; it was too early to be morning already. Queensy shook his shoulder until he woke.
“Georg-without-the-e didn’t make it back last night. Don’t know if he’s off on the one-way trail, or not. The, uh, the Pommie didn’t make it either–so they tell me. One of the others in the party, that meaty-pawed cooper, he saw Georg in a bit of a pickle, he told me. At the time, he was locked in fierce battle himself and couldn’t be of a help to Georg. He went looking for him later on, but there was nothing for it. Everyone was gone.”
Burke shook the cobwebs from his head and expelled them with a yawn. “What…well, how bad a pickle was Georg in, did the cooper say?” Burke asked, concerned.
“Well, the cooper said Georg had hollered to him that his sidearm only had two pops left in it. When the cooper looked Georg’s way, he saw an Indian on Georg’s left, and another savage to his right. An’ as I mentioned, the bookish little pommie, Bleeker, whinger about everything under the sun, including the sun, well, the cooper caught sight of him too—of course he was carrying on like a hinny, savages all around and he’s worthless as tits on a bull—I tried to tell you, Burke, pig shearing…”
Burke exhaled audibly. “We all know how you feel about him. Well, did the cooper say whether Georg had managed to shoot the Indians?”
“That’s just it, Mate. Georg didn’t shoot either one! The cooper said Georg shot that pommie twice, instead!”
If you agree with Anne Sweazy-Kulju (and Anatole France) that history books that contain no lies are extremely dull, visit her website: www.Historical-Horse-Feathers.com, and read more of the author’s fun perversions of the past!