Geraldton Guardian 12 September 1925

Crooks at the Crooked Shoot Mine
by C.P.J

‘Coo-oo-ey! Coo-oo-ey!’ sounded faintly through the semi-darkness of a cloudless night, which enveloped the ‘Crooked Shoot’ gold mine, situated in a hollow between two low-lying hills in a remote part of the Murchison Goldfields. A field of mulga spread like a carpet over every part of the surroundings, giving the spot an appearance of isolation, which was only partly true, for the glimmer of the light some distance off marked the spot where the small town of Rayton stood.

The Crooked Shoot mine had not been long in operation, and the clearing-off process, which takes place around every mining site, had not yet taken place. On the south side of the mine, the whitewashed roofs of the iron buildings which constituted the manager’s house and offices could easily be discerned in the sombre field of bush. On the veranda of the office, the familiar Australian call was heard by Jack Gordon, the bookkeeper, and a friend, as they sat smoking and conversing on topics of the day.

‘Now what in the world is the matter? ‘ said the former as he strained his ears and paused for a moment, listening for a repeat of the call.

A few seconds later the call was repeated, and the location was determined by the listeners. “It sounds as if someone is in trouble near the dam,” said Gordon, as he rose and commenced running down a pad towards the mine battery, which was in full swing, and making a noise loud enough to drown any ordinary noise in the near vicinity.

Without pausing at the battery, the two men quickly passed on and, wending their way between stacks of firewood, lengths of mine timber, and across water races, were soon at the dam. On arriving at a spot where a plank crossed part of the dam, the runners were surprised to see two very much bedraggled men, arm in arm, standing waist-deep in the slime which usually may be found in an enclosed space known to all persons connected with mining, as the slime dam. Gordon immediately broke into a roar of laughter, which almost caused him to lose his balance and slip into the quicksand himself. His friend, whose name, by the way, was Johns, and was known by the distinctive appellation of ‘Slimey,’ through having had considerable experience in the process known as cyaniding, wasted no time in mirth but proceeded to rescue the unlucky two by reaching out to them a piece of timber to grasp. In turn, the men were thus dragged to solid ground and escorted as quickly as possible to the engine room, where they got rid of their grimy lower garments and put on miners’ dungarees, borrowed for the occasion.

Both men were well-known to Gordon, one being Bill Sutherland, as an employee on the ‘Crooked Shoot,’ the other Tom Jenkins, filling a similar position on a claim adjoining the mine property. As they went through the process of changing, Gordon laughingly ‘chipped’ first one then the other on their sorry plight, and asked how they had strayed from the narrow path. Sutherland, the elder looking of the two, who was in a merry mood, apparently brought about by libations of liquor obtained at ‘the pub’ about half a mile distant, guffawed loudly, swore fluently, and spat viciously as he related how he and his companion had ‘seen several planks’ and unfortunately tried to walk along the one which was not there!