Central Otago, New Zealand, 1893. A mining camp. Scaffolding at rear rising up to where Cray is working to extract ruby ore from the rock cliff.
 
MCLEAN: Calling up to Cray. Come down and see the haul we have so far.

 
As Cray climbs down, McLean picks up a small pile of red gemstones off the ground and spreads them out on a platform.
 
CRAY: Not much to show for a week's work.
 
MURRAY: You're mad, man. There'd be a thousand pounds worth there. For a week's work!
 
MURRAY: There's plenty more to come. The deeper we go, the more chance for bigger stones. Wait and see.
 
CRAY: We've lost a lot through them coarse sieves too, I bet.
 
MURRAY: Listen! You've earned more in one week than in any year of your life. And you still complain!
 
CRAY: I'd give anything for a decent night's sleep.
 
MURRAY: Try a decent day's work.
 
CRAY: Flashes back. I work as hard as you.
 
MCLEAN: Trying to make peace. Dreams still troubling you, Cray?
 
CRAY: Mind your own damn business.
 
Walks off in a fury and climbs back up the scaffolding.
 
MURRAY: You've known Cray for a while, haven't you.
 
MCLEAN: Whaddya mean?
 
MURRAY: You didn't just meet him on the boat on the way over.
 
MCLEAN: Why do you say that?
 
MURRAY: It's obvious. You have a history between you.
 
MCLEAN: Yeah, well.
 
MURRAY: Tell me.
 
Pause.
 
How can I trust you if you don't talk to me?