old

The old man drank the praise in like thirsty ground, and was soon telling him the best way to trap goanna, and where to look for sand grouse in the mornings, which banks the sand martens nested in, and how to steal their eggs without being mobbed by the entire nesting colony. Keilin was warm, he had a full belly and he was unused to alcohol, even a mild brew like this. It was hardly surprising that, when Marou finally said, “Now son, time for that story,” his answer was a snore.
The old man looked across at him, and sat silent for a while. Finally he spoke quietly, more to himself than the sleeper. “Don’t look much like a claim jumper to me. You’re lucky, boy. Five year ago I’d’a killed you just in case. In th’ morning I’ll feed you th’ antidote.” Burrowing among the rocks he pulled out a mangy old rug of rabbit pelts, and tossed it over the boy. “Sleep easy, son,” he said, a wry smile teasing the wrinkles.
It was just before gray dawn