The Stockmen

by Rachael Treasure

  Shaking more from fear than cold, and sighing with relief, Rosie began to relax. But suddenly Oakwood stumbled, his front legs tumbling deep into a hole. His shoulder fell away from beneath Rosie and his nose dipped below the muddy waters. His hooves flailed. Then his body surged sideways, and he fell. Rosie went with him. The dogs were washed from Oakwood’s back, and from the corner of her eye Rosie saw their tiny heads being swept away. Then she felt the water grasp her chest. It constricted her breath as coldness and fear choked her. She felt her legs float and lift away from the saddle as she was submerged in the angry water. It tugged her feet from the stirrups and began to pull her body downstream.

  ‘Jim!’ she screamed. She and Oakwood had been washed from the crossing and were now in the deep swirling water, moving rapidly downstream. She saw him turn and the look of terror on his suddenly pale face was the image she took with her as she was dragged under by the current. Her fingers grappled to find Oakwood’s mane or saddle. Anything. Whatever she could reach. She slung her arms about his neck. Oakwood’s every muscle was taut with fear and exertion as he battled to swim against the current to the bank.

  When Rosie surfaced, clinging to Oakwood and his reins, she saw the terrified roll of his eyes. His nostrils were flared up, red, like a dragon’s, then they would flatten and close as he breathed heavily and snorted, his big hooves thrashing in the current. Rosie felt the river’s fury. It sucked her boots from her. Her coat was drawn from her body like a rabbit’s skin. Time and again, she and Oakwood were pulled under, spinning about. Logs battered them. Sheep, long since drowned, ghoulishly bunted them as their bloated bodies floated past, their tongues swollen and pale, their eyes glassy.

  Beneath her, from the bottom of the muddy river, it was as if the fingers of the dead were grappling Rosie’s ankles, dragging her down. One moment she was in the dark raging underworld, then she was back looking up at the grey sky and watching the river bank pass by. She could feel Oakwood beginning to give up the fight. He was getting tired. Her muscles screamed with exhaustion too. The panic in her head, that fierce instinct to survive, was subsiding. Rosie began to relax. She realised in a calm, strangely detached way that she and Oakwood and the dogs were going to drown.

  Sometimes they were carried in the centre of the river, at other times they were thrown to the edges. Tree branches scratched at Rosie’s face and her skin was grazed by submerged rocks. As they swept round a sharp bend, the river took them under a cluster of willows. Their branches hung down like tendrils and bent with the current. Rosie reached up and grabbed a handful of slender willow branches. She felt the leaves pull away beneath her grip as the river tugged at her body. Desperately she grasped more willow branches as she passed and managed to hold fast, dangling there, the current pressing against her. With her other hand she clung to Oakwood’s reins. He thrashed his legs hopelessly, trying to stay with her, but it was no good. Rosie knew she had to let him go. She watched him wash away from her downstream, his eyes rolling in his head, his breath coming quick and fast. She was numb with sadness. She had ridden a beautiful horse to his death. She had drowned the dogs too. Her shoulders ached as she clung to the tree in the freezing water. She tried to swing like a monkey to a sturdier branch but the current held her. She was stuck. Resigned to her fate, she turned for a last glimpse of Oakwood.

  To her surprise, instead of being swept out of sight, he was still swimming just a few hundred metres downstream. The river had taken him to the edge of an eddy. His ears were now flickering forward as he began to swim in the heart of its calmness. He was making progress. He was out of the current and swimming towards the bank. Rosie watched as he heaved himself up and out of the river. His hooves slipped on mud, but soon he was standing on the bank, looking out towards her. He dropped his head low to the ground and shook the water from his coat, his sides heaving. His saddle hung beneath his belly. The blanket had been tugged from him and taken by the river. His bridle was pulled over one ear, the reins broken and dangling beneath his jaw.

  Hanging there in the willows, Rosie knew she had to let go. She had to chance being washed into the stillness of the same eddy. Let fate decide. Before she unclasped her frozen fingers from the willows, she closed her eyes and pictured Jim. If she were to die, she wanted his face as her final image. His gentle, kind eyes and his full kissable lips. The way one of his smiles could light her up or soothe and calm her. She felt so blessed to have met him, this stockman, Jim Mahony. The first man who had touched her soul. Then the river took her. She stretched her arms out in front of her and let the logs and sticks bump past her. Rolling on to her back, she watched the grey clouds looming low in the sky. Then she felt a stillness about her as she was gathered up and spat out with the other flotsam the river had captured. And with her last bit of energy she began to swim.

  Chapter 22

  Standing shivering on the river bank, Rosie slung her arms about Oakwood’s neck and panted. Then she tugged at the buckle of his girth. The sodden saddle dropped to the ground like a giant dead stingray. It was too heavy to pick up, so she left it there and led Oakwood away from the river. They waded through wet marsh country until they found the fenceline. Rosie knew to travel upstream, but she didn’t know how far. She had to find Jim and the cattle again. Standing on a fallen log, she swung up onto Oakwood’s back. She felt the warmth of his body through her wet jeans, but still she shivered uncontrollably. Time slipped away as she followed the fence, balancing carefully on Oakwood’s bare back as he weaved through the scratchy fingers of ti-tree. Every now and then she called out to Jim, but the wind and the rain swept her words away.

  When Rosie at last came to a clearing she saw the Cattleyard Swamp sprawling out before her. The rusty red dots of cows and calves were still standing on the ever-shrinking islands that rose up from the shallows. There was no sign of Jim. She looked about and screamed out his name. Tears came to her eyes. Had he followed her and drowned? She scanned the silver sheen of water that now covered the river flats, trying to turn every tree and every dark shape on an island into Jim. But the rain continued to fall and it washed away her hope. Rosie slid from her horse and sank onto her backside there in the mud, beginning to sob. Having just experienced the savageness of the river, she was certain Jim was gone. She began to think of the kelpie spirit … the horse-like ghost looming up from the river. And she began to pray to it. She prayed for the dogs, the mare, and for her stockman. As she began to chant ‘Please let them live’ she felt a warm sensation on her scalp. She looked up to find Diesel sniffing at her and licking at her ears. Gibbo stood nearby, his tail wagging, sticks and leaves still caught under his collar.

  ‘Oh, my dogs! My dogs!’ Rosie clutched them to her. Frantically, she looked about for Jim and called out again and again, but only the furious wind in the treetops answered her. She felt panic flutter in her stomach but she resolved to ignore it … she couldn’t let the cows on the river flats experience the terror of a drowning death. She had to finish the job that she and Jim had started.

  Rosie summoned up all her strength and clambered back onto Oakwood. She had to be brave. She had to trust her dogs and her horse. Just like Jack Gleeson would have.

  WESTERN WIMMERA

  Jack ducked forward in the saddle, his heart beating fast, as Bailey plunged into the fast-moving river. He held Kelpie tight to his chest beneath his coat and dragged Idle along in the water by the scruff of the neck as he felt the mare’s legs striking out as she began to swim. He gasped as the water crept up through his clothes. But Bailey was strong, and the river was clean of debris, so she was soon wading through the shallows again, safely on the other side. Bailey shook the water from her and moved on in a sprightly walk along the track beneath low-slung gums. Then Jack let the young dog leap down from the horse, while Idle grumpily trundled on behind them.

  ‘You’re my good-luck charm when it comes to river crossings,’ Jack said to Kelpie as she shook the water from her coat. He wondered when the drizzly rain would stop.
He’d had a torrid few days crossing the waterlogged plains. He looked up hopefully to the ridges which were washed grey in the distance. He’d have to ride fast if he were to find a dry camp site for the night. Jack was aiming to reach Ballarook station before shearing. He had his heart set on the Wimmera, where the men said sheep grazed in their thousands. Wool was cut by the ton and bullock teams as long as a mile towed wool bales as heavy as bullions of gold. But so far the Wimmera hadn’t been a golden landscape for Jack. Instead it was drab and grey. Mud and dangerous river crossings had marred his journey and he had been cold and wet most of the time.

  When Jack at last rode up onto the ridge above a flooding billabong, he was relieved to see a clearing ahead where smoke trailed up to the sky like a thin skein of spun wool. The fire was struggling against the damp weather, but the camp site looked inviting.

  ‘Hello?’ Jack called out as he approached, but no one answered. The campfire smouldered lazily, its coals barely glowing. A billy, half full, sat on the edge of the fire, ashes clinging to its rusty sides. A neat black gelding with a white snip on his nose pricked up his ears from where he was tethered under a tree. He stretched out his neck and whickered a greeting to Bailey. In the treetops, pink and grey galahs screeched and danced like jesters.

  ‘Hello!’ Jack called louder. Then there was a yipping and barking of dogs as they scrambled excitedly up and over a creek bank. There were three of them, all wet and dancing with excitement. With frantically wagging tails held up in the air like flags signalling peace and goodwill, the dogs sniffed at Idle and Kelpie. Jack noted they were healthy, happy types of collies with good breeding. He was amazed to stumble across such impressive-looking dogs. He felt as if it were an omen. Was it not by water that he had first gained Kelpie? Then he heard a high-pitched whistle from below and within a split second the dogs had scuttled past him, over the bank to their master. Jack could see a man washing the carcass of a kangaroo on the lake’s edge while his dogs danced about him.

  Jack’s jaw dropped in amazement.

  ‘Be buggered! Tully? Mark Tully? Would that be you?’

  ‘Holy Mary, mother of God!’ Mark said, standing with the roo’s tail grasped in his large hands. He scrambled up the bank. Jack slid from his horse and the two young men shook hands, embraced, then shook hands again, laughing into each other’s faces at their chance meeting. Memories of their boyhood down at the portside yards came flooding back and Jack felt his skin bristle with goosebumps. A good omen it was.

  With the fire stoked back to life and the billy boiling merrily, Jack and Mark huddled beneath an old canvas cloth that was strung beneath a thick canopy of trees and tripped over their words in their haste to recount their adventures since leaving their homes.

  ‘So here I am heading back to Ballarook with not a single cow in my herd. The boss is going to be as dark as this night.’ Mark jabbed the fire with a gnarled old stick and let out a breath through his nostrils. ‘But I know you can sweet-talk him, Jack. You’re good at that. It’s not my fault his other stockmen let them wander and the silly beggars picked the wrong bit of dirt to stand on when the floods came. He’s always getting me to clean up the other men’s muck-ups. But just you wait till shearing. It’ll be grand.’

  ‘I can’t wait to break this young lass in here with the work. She’s ready to start,’ said Jack, nodding towards Kelpie.

  ‘What’s her story? She’s a nice type.’

  Mark listened to the story of the secret swap in disbelief.

  ‘Bloody hell! Albert would take his cane to you for sure. Swapping his colt for a pup! Are you mad?’

  ‘I know it sounds that way but I have no regrets,’ Jack said. ‘She’s a smart one, and once I find a good sire dog for her she’s bound to throw good pups.’

  He pulled his damp coat about him and looked at Kelpie. She was watching him with her head tipped to one side and her lop-ears pricked up, as if she knew he was talking about her. Within a matter of weeks, she was leaving the pudgy pot-bellied pup stage behind and growing into a lean, fine type of northern collie. She rested her chin on her paws, her eyes glued to Jack for as long as she could keep them open. Then she let out a snuffling sigh and drifted off to sleep. All Jack’s hopes rested in the little dog that lay before him. It was his dream to supply her pups to others so that Kelpie’s bloodlines would flow on like a river throughout the countryside. He began to tell Mark about his vision.

  ‘I want people to be able to trace her pedigree through the landscape like tracks on a map,’ he said earnestly. In his travels he wanted to scatter Kelpie’s well-bred pups along the way, as if scattering the seeds of a precious new plant that would change people’s lives.

  ‘And I vow I’ll give the pups to any man, rich or poor, grazier or shepherd, so long as he can guarantee them good training, good tucker and a life full of work.’ He reached down to ruffle Kelpie’s long black coat and scratched her tenderly on a small white patch that marked her chest.

  ‘A vision splendid, indeed,’ said Mark, grinning.

  ‘Ah, you can mock me,’ Jack said, nudging his friend. ‘But I see you pride yourself on keeping the best dogs.’ He nodded at Mark’s three, curled up nose to tail beneath the sheltered side of a tree trunk. ‘How did you come across such a fine line?’

  ‘They’re Rutherford’s stock. You know him?’

  ‘Indeed, I’ve heard of Mr Rutherford. The one from Yarrawonga way, with family in Scotland?’

  ‘One and the same,’ said Mark. ‘I did some labouring for a fella who had naught to pay me … so I asked for his Rutherford pair and his old dog. I don’t think he knew their true value as he gave them up gladly. So there I was, with Rutherford dogs, imported from his family’s stud in northern Scotland! The best about.’

  ‘Of that I’m sure. My girl here has similar lines. I’m looking for a good sire for Kelpie when she’s old enough. A good strong dog that will throw classy types. Not just any old mongrel hound. Would you be interested in selling me a pup one day when they have a litter?’

  ‘Sell you a pup?’ said Mark with a scowl. ‘Me? Sell you a pup? Oh, don’t be daft. There’s no way.’

  Jack looked at Mark’s face. His mouth was set in a serious line. Jack tried to disguise his hurt and disappointment. He was about to beg when Mark’s mouth stretched upward in a smile.

  ‘I wouldn’t sell you a pup, Jack, you big eejit. I’d be happy to give you a pup though … you can take one when the bitch whelps. And I’d be honoured to have one of my dogs sire pups with your slut. I’ll show you their work at Ballarook this very shearing – but take my word for it, they’re both strong, hard-working dogs. There’s none better about.’

  A few hours later, after a fine supper of potato and kangaroo stew, followed by damper and treacle, Jack and Mark Tully joked by the fire as if they were fourteen years old all over again, remembering Albert’s tall tales and laughing until their bellies hurt and their faces ached. Then, when they had fallen silent for a time, Jack slapped his old friend on the back.

  ‘You know, Mark, some days they just pass as days, but others, oh my Lord, other days … you just know the universe is working to make things happen. Great things will come from this meeting, of that I’m sure.’

  The firelight illuminated Jack’s handsome face as he spoke. ‘This is just the start of something much bigger than you and me and this night and these dogs. When we’re no longer here on this earth, and these dogs have gone to dust, there’ll still be blood flowing in the veins of living dogs far off from now … the blood of our dogs here.’

  ‘Oh, Jack. Don’t talk like that now when it’s so late in the evening and my belly’s too full for my brain to think. All I’d like to know is that in the future my blood will be getting about in the veins of my grandkids … that way I know I’ve lain with a woman!’

  ‘That’s all you ever think about,’ laughed Jack.

  ‘Well, it’s better than all you ever think about – dogs, horses and stinking bloody sheep and cow
s!’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that? At least you don’t get God looking down on you seeing all your sins.’

  ‘Oh, Jack, you’ll be wanting confession once you see the girls on Bunyip station.’

  ‘Bunyip station?’

  ‘Aye. It’s next door to Ballarook and in the house there are the prettiest sisters I know. Good strong girls too, out of a brood of eleven. Some are prettier than others, but when you’ve been bent double over a sheep all day, even the plainest daughter sets your head in a spin.’

  ‘Are you courting one that’s taken your eye?’

  ‘Bah! Don’t be daft, Jack. They are the daughters of Launcelot Ryan. He’s put together the three properties of Bunyip, Eldorado and Mt Elgin, so the station he owns is some seventy thousand acres all-up. He wants better than us stockmen for his lasses.’

  ‘I don’t reckon a grazier’s daughter would have eyes for the likes of us anyway,’ said Jack, staring into the fire.

  ‘Well, for tonight let’s forget the women – and we ain’t got no wine. So we’ll have to settle for some songs … shall we sing a few from the old days?’

  And they began to sing the folk songs they had learned in their childhood, their Irish voices carrying over the river into the night. They held their heads up to the sky and sang to the darkness, and soon all the dogs began to howl along, causing Jack and Mark to fall about laughing.

  Chapter 23

  Rosie urged Oakwood on through the shallow floodwaters and rode out towards the cows and calves. Gibbo and Diesel hovered on the dry bank watching her go, their tails jammed between their legs, whining anxiously. But their loyalty drew them out into the shallows, following their master.