Pat Ritter. Books

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'The Drover' - Page 138:

‘I haven’t a clue. I suppose him being the Premier he would know what’s going on better than we do. I’d like to know what he’ll do for us if he got me away from all this.’ Harry said in puzzlement.

Months turned into years and eventually the words from the Premier echoed in Harry’s ears – Hopefully, I’ll get you away from all this.
After five years of wondering, Harry knew it was the end of the road for droving. What would he do? It’s all he knew.
The children grew up fast; Claire finished school and wanted to go droving with her father.
‘It’s finished girl, you’ll need to find something else to keep you busy. Droving is finished.’ He told his daughter with a tear in his eye.
Eventually Harry got a job as town slaughterman employed by the local butcher. This meant he commenced work at six o’clock each day and finished when he’d slaughtered sufficient stock. At times he killed up to forty sheep; six pigs; and three bullocks per week.
Whilst the job paid the bills Harry wasn’t completely happy with how life had turned out. He’d rather be on the open plain droving sheep or cattle along the stock routes from daylight until dark. Rather than droving them he was now slaughtering them for the town folk of Cunnamulla.
At least Harry could afford to feed and clothe his children, all twelve of them, and he knew in his heart his sister looked down from above to see her children had grown up to be proper adults.
Unfortunately he didn’t see much of Les over the years, at times when Les visited Cunnamulla to see his children; he didn’t stay long enough to become acquainted. The children knew Harry and Rose more as their parents than they did their own father.

Harry was now fifty-six years old, he suffered what he thought was a common chest cold. Although he was tough and thought he could get through anything life dealt out to him, the doctor told him he had cancer; the probable cause being constant smoking of cigarettes since an early age.
Harry underwent a number of operations to find a cure, unfortunately the cancer spread rapidly; he lost the one fight he wanted to win and passed away in the Cunnamulla Hospital with his family by his bedside.
At his funeral service there wasn’t a dry eye in the church, the same church he and Rose married almost thirty years before.
Most of the town folk joined the family at the service and later Harry was laid to rest at the Cunnamulla Cemetery beside his son and sister. His hat and spurs placed in the coffin beside his body just in case he needed them in heaven.
The following words inscribed on the headstone –

Here lies Harold (Harry) Clarence Williams
The Last Of The Ole Drovers
May He Rest In Peace
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'The Shearer' - Page 1:

New Book: 'The Shearer' is the first book in 'Outback Australia' series: Enjoy!
The Shearer:
Published by Pat Ritter on Amazon
Copyright 2014 Pat Ritter
Thank you for downloading this ebook. It remains the copyright property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents have been produced by the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, or to any actual events or precise locations is entirely coincidental or within the public domain.
ISBN 9781310718373
Acknowledgements:
Front and back covers:
TOM ROBERTS
born Great Britain 1856, arrived in Australia1869, died 1931
Shearing the rams 1890
oil on canvas on composition board
122.4 x 183.3 cm
National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne
Felton Bequest, 1932
Permission from Jennie Moloney
Senior Publications Coordinator
National Gallery of Victoria
180 St Kilda Road Melbourne VIC 3004 Australia
Front and back covers. I want to express my gratitude to Melissa Smith. Thank you for doing a great job. If you want Melissa to create your next cover, I highly recommend you do: she can be contacted on melissasmithbooks@hotmail.com.
If you have enjoyed reading this book, or if you haven’t enjoyed it, still let me know. I would love to receive your feedback. You can contact me on my e-mail: patritter@outlook.com.au. I’d love to receive your feedback.
Pat Ritter
Author/Self Publisher
http://www.patritter.com.au
TO READ MORE ABOUT PAT RITTER – AUTHOR: CLICK ONTO THE FOLLOWING LINKS:
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Thank you dub: Page for today: 'The Shearer' - Page 2:

Chapter 1

A sliver of light crept through the crack in the wall and shone directly into Joe’s left eye, startling him awake. His throat felt full of cotton wool, his right eye swollen and unable to open; urine and excrement filled his nostrils. He coughed, tried to sit from a lying position, each muscle in his body tight and sore. His mind filled with wonderment–where am I?
A shearer’s stretcher where he laid, kapok mattress, thin blankets puzzled his mind. He couldn’t open his right eye. His left eye blurry, vision of solid wooden walls; faint light illuminated enough to fill the room. Steel bars positioned a third of the way to the ceiling told him that wherever he was, there was no escape. His head throbbed; fear enveloped his mind.
He pushed up upon one elbow and saw his surroundings through his blurred left eye. Where am I? Echoed through his mind, how did I get here? The stench of vomit, urine, excrement almost made him spew. He slowly swung his legs from the stretcher to the cold wooden floor. Each muscle in his body screamed in pain. His shoes, socks and belt discarded.
He gazed around the room, not much larger than a bush dunny with a steel door and small trap door positioned two thirds of the way toward the top. This is a bloody police cell. What am I doing in a police cell? Remember Joe.
‘You awake Ryan?’ a loud voice from outside echoed. A key turned in a lock. The steel door creaked on its hinges when opened. ‘Here’s your breakfast’. Joe couldn’t make out the voice; his voice sounded Irish with authority.
A steel tray contained a steel plate with two pieces of bread covered with baked beans and a pannikin with steam rising from black tea, filled the tray placed on the floor. ‘Enjoy,’ said the voice as the cell door closed and the key in the lock turned.
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Thank you dub: Page for today: 'The Shearer' - Page 3:

Joe moved from the stretcher toward the tray deposited on the floor. He leaned down to pick the tray up, almost falling, regained his footing and returned to the stretcher holding the tray of food on his lap making certain not to spill any of the contents, his mouth felt dry, and his throat, as if a steel rasp had been shoved down his throat through to his stomach. He couldn’t remember when he last ate food. He devoured the bread and baked beans, using his fingers.
He picked up the pannikin of black tea in his right hand lifted the edge to his lips, ouch – hot – my lips are swollen. He slurped the contents. The golden liquid passed through his mouth, down his throat and into his stomach. Satisfaction overcame once his desire for food finished.
He needed to remember how he came to be locked in a police cell and why. His thoughts returned to the past couple of days. I’m certain I live in Cunnamulla. I’ve lived here for the past couple of years. What happened to land me in this cell?
Stench rose from a bucket in the corner almost making Joe choke causing phlegm to rise in his throat. He quickly placed a hand over his mouth and nose to stop the vapour entering his nostrils.
Come on – get back to how I come to be in this cell, he ordered his mind - nothing. I’ll need to wait for someone to come and get me before I know why I’m here. He pondered.
After finishing his meagre breakfast, he replaced the tray and contents on the floor near the door and returned to lie on the stretcher. No thoughts entered his mind. Apart from not being able to see out of his right eye, each muscle in his body ached as if he’d been run over by a mob of cattle.

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'The Shearer' - Page 4:

A noise alerted him. ‘You finished breakfast?’ A thick Irish voice echoed as the door opened to shine light into the small cell.
‘It was good.’ Joe had trouble getting the words out because of the soreness in his throat. ‘Why am I here?’ He choked on each word.
‘Don’t you remember? Last night you were pissed and your right eye came in contact with my right elbow. An accident. You were swinging your fists all over the place and called us all the names you could lay your foul tongue on. It was the only way to keep you down and took three of us to carry you from the pub.’
‘When can I get out?’
‘Now–if you want. We put you in here for your own safety. Actually thought you were going off your head. You’ve got to do something about your drinking or else you could land in here again.’
Joe dropped his head ashamed to have carried on like that. ‘Where are my boots, socks and belt?’
‘Over at the police station. We didn’t want you to hang yourself. Come with me I’ll release you.’
Joe followed him through the corridor of the cell block down steps and along a path toward the rear of the police station. ‘Up this way’, the officer beckoned. He followed him onto the rear veranda then inside of the police station.
‘Here’s your boots, socks and belt.’ He handed them to Joe who sat on a chair and put his socks and boots on. He fastened his belt through the loops in his trousers and tightened the buckle to hold his trousers in place. ‘Sign here and you can go. Next time don’t drink so much and get yourself into trouble again.’ The officer dipped a nib of a pen into the ink bottle, handed Joe the pen to scribble his signature in the property book. Joe scribbled something.

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'The Shearer' - Page 5:

‘Ah…thanks.’ Joe stuttered and staggered from the police station, almost falling when his foot slipped on the top step. His head pounded as if a thousand drums were playing inside his head, his right eye closed, nausea surged through his stomach. He needed to get home and rest. Tomorrow was work, back to the only thing he knew how to do, shearing sheep.
Staggering across Stockyard Street toward the Railway Hotel, on the corner, he thought he’ll call in and have a “hair of the dog”. Walking from the street into the bar he spotted the barman, Alex.
He shouted and looked angrily at Joe. ‘Don’t come in here Joe you’re barred until further notice. After last night you’ll never be allowed in here ever again.’
‘Sorry, Alex, what’d I do? I only want one drink. I feel bloody crook, mate.’ ‘Sorry mate, after last night - you’re barred. You and those other bloody shearer mates of yours cause trouble each time you all land in here after being out-of-town. You’d think you lot owned this place the way you all carry on. It’s not on – out!’ Alex pointed to the door.
Joe left and wandered home. His lodging was Ma’s Guest House, where he rented a small room, large enough for a single bed, small wardrobe and kerosene tin turned upside down to use as a bedside table to hold his meagre belongings such as tobacco, Tilly lamp and matches. His room was only used when he was in town on a weekend after working in a shearing shed during the week.

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'The Shearer' - Page 6:

Ma looked after Joe like the son she never had. She washed his clothes, cooked and did odd jobs to make him and the other shearers comfortable in her boarding house. At different times she had room for up to six shearers or ringers from around town.
Mixing flour for her bread making, she heard a noise coming from the back steps. ‘Who’s there?’ She shouted and kept on mixing the dough.
‘Only me Ma – Joe’, he answered walking into the kitchen. Heat from the wood stove blasted across the small room as he entered.
‘What happened to you?’ She wanted to know.
‘I kind of run into an elbow Ma – I got locked up for me troubles.’
‘Were you drunk again?’ She asked, continuing to knead the dough to make bread.
‘I don’t know – must have been. I called into the Railway Hotel on the way home to have a “hair of the dog”. Alex barred me from the place.’
‘Good on him, serves you right.’ Ma blasted. ‘When are you going to learn you can’t always drink? You going out to the shed tomorrow?’
‘Yeah – I’d better have a bath.’
‘Waters hot in the copper out the back – help yourself.’ Ma returned to her bread making.
Joe walked from the kitchen to the outside yard. The copper, a cast iron stand about three feet high, held a copper tub filled with water. Beneath the copper tub, wood burned to heat the water. Once the water was hot enough, it was bucketed from the copper tub using a four gallon kerosene tin open at the top with gauge eight fencing wire, fastened on either side to use as a ...