– As told by Riverbend, Don Skadario, and the spirit of my old man –
There are stories.
And then there are stories so wild they smell like gunpowder, sweat, whisky, and the distant regret of a stolen horse.
This morning I found myself parked under old Don Skadario — the River Bushwillow with more secrets than a bar fridge during load-shedding — holding court over Brooder Shade like a retired Vaal general with a pipe and a past. Leia was stretched out next to me, snoring like a wet Staffie with nothing left to prove, and in my hand? A tin mug of moerkoffie so strong it could tow a barbel upstream.
I was paging through my old man’s archive box…
…and then boom — this flipping legend jumps out:
Scotty Smith – Robin Hood of the Diamond Fields
(Born with a rifle, died with a rumour.)
Scotty wasn’t your average hero.
He was a horse thief with a conscience.
A jailbreaker with manners.
A diamond robber with feelings.
And possibly the only man in history to escape Bloemfontein jail by stealing the president’s carriage.
The Legend Kicked Off in the Saddle
He could lift a saddle without waking the horse.
Once, a windgat at a bar in Zeerust bragged about his steed. Next morning? No horse. Only reins on the door handle and a note:
“Lekker geslaap, dankie.”
Scotty could disappear into the night like a fart in the Free State vlaktes.
Skeletons, Sand & a Shovel
In the final year of his life — 1919, just after the Spanish flu ravaged the land — Scotty was 74… and still hustling.
He started collecting Bushman skeletons.
Not artefacts, boet. Actual bones.
Sold them to universities for “research” money — though some had bullet holes in the skulls, and people started asking questions.
He buried them, dug them up again, and sold them twice.
Say what you want — the man had hustle.
He Stole for the Right Reasons
If you were rich and arrogant, he’d take your horse and your diamonds.
If you were a struggling widow, he’d give you a horse.
And if someone wronged you?
Scotty would “redistribute justice” the old-fashioned way —
with a bit of rope and a laatlam rifle with a story.
That’s why the people never turned him in —
They respected him. Even the ones he robbed.
One Last Ride
He died in 1919, in Upington. Quiet. No sirens. No drama.
No monument. Just a name whispered around fires and in the veld.
He left behind stories. Bones.
And one hell of a dusty trail — dustier than the road to Bloemhof.
He refused to let journalists write about him or his biography —
but turns out my old man had a little Riverbend version stashed away.
Handwritten notes. Newspaper clippings. A program from a 2009 Delwersfees dinner.
And now here I sit…
Under Don Skadario, with Leia dozing off and that old Riverbend wind curling around my boots…
And I swear, I can hear Scotty chuckling from the River’s edge.
With acknowledgment to Johan Neethling and F.C. Metrowich (1962),
and to my old man — the original archivist of Christiana’s soul.
Now part of Riverbend’s campfire chronicles.
Leia says she would’ve been Scotty’s getaway Staffie.
So ja Swaer…
When next you sit under Don Skadario’s shady judgment,
sip your coffee (or Brandewyn or OBS) slowly and listen.
Because if the wind whispers in a Scottish accent,
And your horse looks slightly nervous…
Scotty Smith is still around.
I read it out loud to Leia, and Don Skadario silently approved — offering the faintest nod, sounding like Bushwillow leaves rustling in the breath of a light breeze brushing gently over his old, weathered frame.
