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Stiffner's ragged grey head was on a cushion, and a broad maudlin smile on his red, drink-sodden face, the lower half of which was bordered by a dirty grey beard, like that of a frilled lizard. The red handkerchief twisted round his neck had a ghastly effect in the bright moonlight, making him look as if his throat was cut.
Behind it the great curse of the West is in evidence, the chief trouble of unionism drink, in its most selfish, barren, and useless form. All was quiet at Stiffner's. It was after midnight, and Stiffner lay dead-drunk on the broad of his back on the long moonlit verandah, with all his patrons asleep around him in various grotesque positions.
Some shearers would roughly call her "a squatter's girl". But she "drew"; she was handsome where women are scarce very handsome, thought a tall, melancholy-looking jackeroo, whose evil spirit had drawn him to Stiffner's and the last shilling out of his pocket.
Dave didn't say nothing for awhile, and then he said: "Did you hear about that red-headed barmaid at Stiffner's goin' to be married to the bank manager at Bourke next month, Joe?" says Dave. But no, not a single word out of her; she didn't even look up, or look as if she wanted to speak. Dave scratched his ear and went on with his puddin' for awhile.
There was a great grey plain stretching away from the door in front, and a mulga scrub from the rear; and in that scrub, not fifty yards from the kitchen door, were half a dozen nameless graves. Stiffner was always drunk, and Stiffner's wife a hard-featured Amazon was boss. The children were brought up in a detached cottage, under the care of a "governess".
Well, one afternoon, after a long, hot tramp, we comes to Stiffner's Hotel between Christchurch and that other place I forget the name of it with throats on us like sunstruck bones, and not the price of a stick of tobacco. We had to have a drink, anyway, so we chanced it.
The name stuck to him closer than misfortune did, for when he rose to the proud and independent position of landlord and sole proprietor of an out-back pub he was Stiffner still, and his place was "Stiffner's" widely known. They do say that the name ceased not to be applicable that it fitted even better than in the old dingo days, but well, they do say so.
I seen Bill on ahead pegging out for the horizon, and I took after him and reached for the timber for all I was worth, for I'd seen Stiffner's missus coming with a shovel to bury the remains, I suppose; and those two were a good match Stiffner and his missus, I mean. Bill looked round once, and melted into the bush pretty soon after that.
All we can say is that when a shearer arrived with a cheque, and had a drink or two, he was almost invariably seized with a desire to camp on the premises for good, spend his cheque in the shortest possible time, and forcibly shout for everything within hail including the Chinaman cook and Stiffner's disreputable old ram. The shanty was of the usual kind, and the scenery is as easily disposed of.
The chaps in the bar of Stiffner's shanty were talking about Macquarie, an absent shearer who seemed, from their conversation, to be better known than liked by them. "I ain't seen Macquarie for ever so long," remarked Box-o'-Tricks, after a pause. "Wonder where he could 'a' got to?" "Jail, p'r'aps or hell," growled Barcoo. "He ain't much loss, any road."
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