After the visitor left I sat on my log seat for a long time and dwelt upon the unbelievable. Over the years I had heard about outlaw pockets in Queensland and the Northern Territory. It had always been my private belief that some men duffed cattle, resorted to shoot-outs where bullets were never aimed at human targets and plunged into pub brawls to fill a vacuum of loneliness and despair.
Outback Australia possibly comprises the loneliest landmass on earth outside the great ice wastes of the poles. There are vast deserts in Africa, but people live in them and have created culture going back thousands of years. There is no longer a culture in the remote areas of Australia. The Aborigines first lived on stations following the destruction of their own culture. And had the situation been left alone by bureaucracies and by people passing through this world who at the end of the day have acquired zero knowledge of any facet of human existence, I believe more of these people would today own and manage cattle stations in the outback.
The Aboriginal people today live in old mission camps and on the edges of towns and the majority survive in the cities. If it had not been for the opening of the live export trade, Top End cattle stations would have been reduced to lonely homes in a wilderness, for cash flows would not have even equalled the cost of mustering. An area half the size of western Europe may have become almost uninhabitable with a climate alien to all but the Aboriginals. The dark people belong there and will save that fragile land from the irreversible ravages of the southern arid zone.
The unbelievable was that I had blundered into one of the last remaining pockets on the edge of civilisation. For the cattle I had no regrets. The only mob not secure now was the two hundred cows left at Amby Creek. For myself I had to admit I had no regrets in the short term. I enjoyed the return to the wild. It is always nice to dream about a world that is a spinning nightmare, in which you alone can step off and on as you please. The reality is you only ever step off once. The fantasies soften the blows and those who can never indulge in fantasies grow old before their time. My immediate fantasy was to have Sal here with me. Together we could escape the world for a time, observe the cattle in this beautiful setting of forest, gorges and high tablelands, and at night listen to the possums squabble, the dingoes howl like the violin of the Dreamtime and wake to the shrill call of the curlew. But alas it was a fantasy. We were locked apart and loneliness would fall heavily upon her now.
Next morning, Saturday, I loaded the empty diesel containers and left for Mitchell. About sixteen kilometres down the track I stopped to watch a feeding frenzy. Seven or eight wedge-tail eagles had set upon a kangaroo hit by a vehicle overnight. They tore at the carcass with their claws and their huge beaks pulled the meat from the skeleton. I felt privileged to be able to watch. These birds are the lions of the sky—the largest eagles surviving in the world today. A larger bird in the Philippines is so close to extinction it may not be a valid comparison.
I observed no fighting among the birds. There was a total acceptance of one another and they appeared to have little interest in me. I had been watching for more than five minutes before I saw why. Perched in a tree high above them a pair of beady eyes stared down on the truck. This bird was the sentinel.
Throughout my life I have been saddened by the basic lack of understanding we humans have of all other creatures. We have become too removed from the natural world and basic commonsense. I have always defended this magnificent eagle and an Aboriginal whom I have employed on odd occasions told me of a white man in the Quilpie district who shot eagles relentlessly for forty years with no drop in lamb losses. The Aboriginal shot a large sow one day and gutted it in front of this man. Its insides were full of young lambs. There is a tragedy in paradox here. The eagle was the only ally this man had. An eagle can swoop and take a piglet, whereas a dingo has to face mum.
What we have lost in the name of civilisation is difficult to define. While I watched these birds feasting I pondered over the millions of magnificent animals the white man has shot needlessly over the last hundred years. I didn’t hear the vehicle coming from behind, such was my trance. The first warning came from the sentinel. The bird’s huge wings expanded and those on the carcass responded immediately. With a beat of wings they rose into the trees. One only alighted to a nearby log.
Beside me a four-wheel-drive trayback had stopped. There were three blokes in it. The driver already had a rifle out the window. His hat cast a shadow over his face. The one nearest me I could see. He had heavy jowls and his scruffy face badly needed a razor. The life in his eyes had died long ago and he sucked on a stubbie of beer the way he might have thirty years before with a bottle and a teat.
‘These birds are protected,’ I yelled to the driver as I got out of the truck.
‘Not here mate. We use ’em for target practice.’
The bird perched on the log didn’t like me leaving the truck. It followed the others back into the timber. The eagles selected high trees and were already out of range for anything but a freak shot.
‘You the Mexican?’ the driver asked when the bird had gone. He moved the rifle back into the vehicle.
I nodded. I didn’t feel like saying anything. There was no need for any introductions either. I reckoned the driver was Frankie of the Wild Bunch.
‘None of my business what you do,’ I said at last. ‘But I was enjoying watching those birds feed. Nothing special to you blokes because you see them all the time. Where I come from they’re rare.’
‘That’s alright mate,’ the driver said in a tone that let you know it wasn’t alright. He too hadn’t shaved for a while. The stubble was slightly reddish on a belligerent-looking face. His hair was brushed back sharply revealing a broad forehead. The size of his arms suggested a heavy build and someone not too fit.
I stepped away from the vehicle and they drove off. The eagles were well away from the road now, maybe two hundred metres and when the vehicle drew level with them I saw a barrel emerge from the passenger-side window and a shot was fired harmlessly in the direction of the birds. The report was sharp and loud and the big birds rose into the sky and drifted away.
I drove on to Mitchell, filled the diesel containers and went to see how things were going with the horses. Vodka had run a good time and Bill, his trainer, was keen to start him. He had looked through the western districts programme and all the clubs had shut down for January. We had to wait for Wandoan at the end of the month. The story of the three year old was less encouraging. He had bucked like a veteran rodeo horse.
Mary, Bill’s wife, always provided tea with some scones and in no time the morning had vanished. I look back on those morning teas with Bill and Mary Anderson as some of the best moments in Queensland.
The next stop was the Old Boy’s. He had already moved the cattle onto better feed. His cultivation paddocks had exploded with summer weeds, some of which cattle loved. He said there was no need to move for two weeks, which was a relief. My calculations on the bore had not been quite accurate and I had to run the engine sixty percent of total time to keep ahead of the cattle. It appeared I might have to sell the remainder at Amby Creek.
After a drive out to the cattle in the Mad Max machine, a cup of tea, a report on the rats and the last lot of jokes he had gathered from various bars, I went on to Muckadilla. Someone would have found my spectacles by now!
It was late in the afternoon when I arrived and the hotel was packed. Donna was so busy I didn’t get to speak to her for an hour. No glasses had been found to her knowledge. Ask so and so—they went to Roma, but should be back before dark. I decided to take the gamble and stay for a while. If I got the glasses I could drive back to the camp after a meal. If no one had them I had to wait until morning.
The hotel had a party atmosphere from the moment I walked in. There must have been twenty kids diving and splashing in the pool. The tables set around the pool, under umbrellas, were all taken by travellers. Those from Brisbane and Toowoomba on holidays stood out. The men wore shorts and short-sleeved shirts
and the women soaked up the last of the sun in two-piece costumes. Inside, the locals hugged the bar. Caps never came off, but most of the women wore frocks and filled the long bar with a measure of femininity I had not seen before.
With a beer in my hand I began to look for faces. The young guide-post flattener Nick and Rupert had chatted to was there. He raised his glass. For the moment he was sober. I couldn’t see anyone else I knew and must have looked a bit lost, for Donna appeared at my side and took me across to a table where four blokes were seated. They were drovers, enjoying a bit of a break from the cattle. I had not seen them before and I found them much easier to talk to than the bullies in October. They told me about the lady boss drover. She had cows with young calves and heat had caused havoc with the calves. The men had thrown it in and left. The stock route south from Mitchell had plenty of feed and little water. When they left Mitchell storms had filled every gully and ditch and no one had anticipated such a rapid evaporation of the water.
‘She won’t make it through if the Wet don’t blow up again,’ one bloke said. He had a moustache and a rugged face to carry it. His western hat had character, shaped for his head. So many of the hats worn by stockmen conjured up the brainless cowboy look.
‘Make it where?’ I asked.
‘Down the dry track,’ he said. ‘It’s like a desert to St George. Very little water. The Maranoa runs underground.’
News like this made me count my blessings. Two hundred and twenty kilometres of scrub and dry stages. One woman and two girls. I began to wonder whether the women in the twenty-first century might have to do the front-line fighting while the men managed the supply lines.
‘She’ll make it,’ the drover with the long nose said. ‘Stubborn bitch they say.’
We drank a round and conversation swung around to my cattle.
‘Yeah, know the place.’ He didn’t speak much this bloke. Balding slightly, he spoke and looked at you with his head tilted back. Not the most friendly of the foursome, but the best of them if strength of character is indeed registered in a man’s face.
‘Bloke from Longreach lost fifty percent in there,’ he said. ‘What they could muster they walked out. They walked north.’
‘North,’ I said in disbelief. ‘A couple of good stations and then the most hostile country in Queensland.’
‘They slipped down through the Great Divide. Good belt of country there.’
‘There was a fight at the yards,’ the long-nosed bloke said. ‘Some mad bastard said he was gonna shoot ’em all. So they went north to avoid the pass.’
The beers softened the reality of the rangelands and I resigned myself to at least two weeks of night blindness. The tall bloke whom I last remembered trying to shoot the moon after the barbecue had arrived with his woman. She had a pretty face but the muscles of a man. God help him if his virility failed.
The bar had become a sea of faces and hats. I excused myself to have a wander through the crowd. Near the pool table I found Scalp and Jenny. I made sure I shook Jenny’s hand firmly. I wondered whether she had the same rule for kissing.
‘Have a New Year drink with us,’ Scalp said cheerfully. ‘We missed the barbecue. Make up for it tonight.’
‘Don’t make up for the hangover.’
‘My hangover’s waitin’ for the first beer.’ Scalp wore mischief like some women wear cheap perfume.
‘Met the mob up there?’ Jenny asked.
‘I’ve met them. Guns and a shot thrown in as well.’
‘They’re taken pot shots already?’ She looked stunned and I saw a glimpse of the real woman.
‘They fired at some eagles,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘They have to drop their sights a fair bit yet.’
‘Come on Jen,’ Scalp laughed and put a beer in her hand. ‘Make the man nervous, lookin’ serious and all like that. They’re just larrikins them blokes. Be here in a minute. We’ve got some musterin’ plans.’
‘Bit of bronco work too I suppose,’ I said.
‘I’m going up to keep ’em in line,’ Jenny said firmly. ‘The buggers get drunk and are rough on the horses.’
Four blokes had appeared on the verandah, through the open double doors. Three of them had been in the trayback. The one not at the eagle scene was Johnny. Short and dark, his face travelled from sombre to the widest grin I have ever seen. If he played poker he would lose every hand. He bowled up and shook hands with Scalp and gave Jenny a kiss and a squeeze. There were no introductions. He knew who I was and it was party talk as though we had known each other for years. He wore a red shirt with the long sleeves rolled up and a red bandanna to keep his black hair in place. Not a man in the bar looked as striking as this bloke. He had shaved and unlike his mates he had a strong face with just the faint crease of mirthful lines coming away from his mouth.
Frankie’s entrance was about the reverse. Close behind Johnny, he sneaked in, his eyes working overtime to take in every angle of the big room within his vision. Ike had the big characterless cowboy hat on. He wasn’t too worried who saw him enter. Tall and lean he looked the stockman only for the hat. Lenny slunk in like a mongrel dog. There are some men in this world that couldn’t buy it, and if a woman did oblige she would deserve the community medal. Nature herself let the miracle of procreation down sometimes and one would be inhuman not to feel compassion for the victim. Yet these blokes had accepted him and I wondered briefly whether they were merely larrikins after all.
‘Meet Starlight’s shadow,’ Johnny said suddenly and giggled. It was an infectious giggle and despite being the target I laughed myself. The others closed in and we shook hands as though the eagle incident had never occurred. ‘There’s some camp fire yarns in this bloke,’ Johnny blurted out and slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Steals horses and runs bank managers out of town.’ Back went his head and he roared with laughter. Even Lenny smiled. I felt desperately uncomfortable. Some people had turned to take a peep at us. Then the girls arrived. They must have gone to the powder room first. Wherever they came from they arrived just in time. I almost introduced myself. Johnny’s girl had a wave of blonde hair across her face. Soft and young with a rare femininity for this region, she would have adored a wild and colourful man like Johnny. Her name was Anne. Beside her stood Josie, a wild-eyed brunette. She had fun and naughtiness written all over her and I felt she might have been only Frankie’s on a whim. Frankie had stopped glancing around the room and was already asking her about a drink. It was Dutch shouting which greatly relieved me. I had four on board already and a whole round with this group might not put me down, but I had become instantly nervous of Johnny’s mouth. There had been an incident with a bank manager and I had been within my rights, although above the law. That Johnny knew about it was staggering and I decided to deny any knowledge of what he was talking about.
Ike’s girl probably used horse sweat for perfume. Thin, dry skinned and with stringy blonde hair she was typical of those women who give every ounce of their love to horses. Not that I have contempt for them. These women set the standards for horse care and we need them. I can pick them at a glance and before I was married I steered clear of them. Their passion for horses is beyond the capability of the male. I once saw a mate of mine emerge from a stable pulling up his pants. It was an autumn afternoon, a long time ago.
‘I don’t believe it,’ I said to him. I knew the girl.
‘Bale of hay,’ he grinned. ‘Her horse had no hay.’
I eased myself out of the group and had a steak from the barbecue. I rang Sal and there was an atmosphere of strain between us when I hung up. The cattle were settled and the bore had proved to be reliable. Why wasn’t I coming home? It was a fair enough question and I had to make up stories about mending fences and packs of dingoes. I couldn’t tell her about a band of outlaws. I wasn’t confident she would believe me. Who would in 1995?
I felt low in spirits after the phone call and had no desire to go back into the hotel. I couldn’t see well enough to drive, so I pitched a small Frenc
h army tent I carried as a spare. They were the most durable tents I have ever seen and this one I had carried around for twenty years. I walked across the road and over the railway line. On the second trip back to the truck I picked up a thin mattress and half an hour later I closed my eyes.
The first shot woke me out of a heavy sleep. With the second shot I even heard the bullet cut the air. Right over the top of the tent it went. I may not have moved if it had not been for the shouting, both male and female. During the next few seconds I absorbed a few jumbled words. He’s this and that, roared someone. A woman screamed ‘Don’t shoot!’ I had my boots on in a flash, but I fumbled badly with the tent’s gauze zipper. When I got out I ran for a pile of railway sleepers and squatted behind them. The shouting had stopped and in the dim glow of the only two street lights I saw a small blurred figure walking back to the hotel. No one had emerged from the hotel. There was music from a tape deck and even if anyone heard the rifle shots they would be too drunk to care. I couldn’t help smiling when I thought of the tourists lying in their little rooms. The party in the bar was in full swing and judging by the language I could hear, a rough one.
I couldn’t stay outside naked for long. The mosquitoes homed in and I found myself slapping parts of my body I normally take good care of. I went back to the tent and slumbered fitfully until dawn. I must have felt safe then, because I fell into a heavy sleep.
The tent was so hot I crawled out in the nude and had a look about. It didn’t matter because there was no one around. Not even the tourists had stirred and it was after eight o’clock. The only sound was the crows kicking up a ruckus in a tree near the kitchen door.
Horses Too Are Gone, The Page 14