Free Liberty Hill (Western Tide Series) by Sonja Heisinger

own.
                “But sir-” the porter protested.
                The traveler waved him off.
                “G’day!”
                He walked off in search of a place to set his belongings, while the porter pursued him.
                “You cannot stay on deck for free ,” the porter insisted. “Sack or not, I must collect the money.”
                The vagabond delivered him a hard look. The porter was a small man, and he seemed to shrink beneath the stare.
                “I paid my passage,” the larger man growled.
                “Then consider it gratuity for the inconvenience.”
                The porter held out the flour sack to make his point.
                “You’re a greedy little bugger, aren’t you?”
                “Just doing my job, sir.”
                The traveler sighed and muttered, “bloody hell”, while reaching deep into his pocket. He dropped a five-dollar coin into the porter’s hand and snatched the flour sack.
                The porter looked confused.
                “But I thought you said-” he began.
                “I said I got my bed,” the traveler interrupted. “Didn’t say I couldn’t use a pillow.”
                He took his things to a portion of the deck laden with cargo, where crates formed a nice area for sitting and he could sleep at night without being tripped over. Nearby, another passenger had formed a makeshift sunshade with his own flour sack, and he was lounging beneath it with a battered flask and an even more battered book.
                “That’s a handy contraption,” the newcomer told him, indicating the sunshade. “How much did the little man swindle from you?”
                “Two dollars. You?”
                “Krikey. I got taken for five.”
                “Bastard’s getting smart.”
                “I reckon we’re about to encounter more like him.”
                “I reckon.”
                “Name’s Brock,” the newcomer introduced himself.
                “Simon.”
                “Pleasure.”
                Simon nodded and returned to his book.
                “You going to California?” he asked, eyes still on the page.
                “Sure as hell.”
                Simon nodded again.
                “That’s the place to be, I hear tell,” he said.
                “You a Southerner?”
                “Home is Mississippi. You Australian?”
                “Was once.”
                “Your ship sink or something? What were you doing in Cuba?”
    Brock smirked.
                “I was on holiday.”
               
                Brock settled against a barrel and gazed around the deck, studying his shipmates. He considered himself a student of physiognomy, and after some time, he figured there were two classes of men aboard this ship: ruffians and well-to-dos, men who would rob you blind and men who were just waiting to be robbed, either by the ruffians or by California itself. Most greenhorns were between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five, with fairy-tale expectations of discovering the goose who laid golden eggs, and careless as to how much money they spent to find her. The truth was the golden goose did not exist. Instead, there was a rugged, uncivilized land with smoldering summer days and frigid winter nights, territorial natives and fearsome wildlife, venomous snakes and debilitating diseases.
                Brock had spent his first twenty-six years on a ranch outside Sydney. He knew a thing or two about the rugged and uncivilized. He almost felt sorry for these other blokes, whose fingernails were still