Geoff and Clara stopped dancing. They sat on the ground beside Jenny and Mack joined us as well. Johnny offered us his plonk and told us we had no heart for not drinking the stuff. Josie had danced Pig’s Arse to a standstill and hauled Frankie to his feet. He wasn’t keen on dancing, but if Josie said jump he did.
We yarned until midnight and before that hour we shifted towards the fire—at six hundred metres above sea level the nights cooled off. The stars sparkled, an owl hooted, and the possums squawked and raided the camp for titbits. At last I threw my bed-roll onto the ground and fell into a deep sleep.
I woke to the smell of camp fire smoke and the sun in my eyes. The cattle were hollering and dust drifted from the yards on a light northerly breeze. The temperature felt perfect. If it could have locked in at seventy degrees Fahrenheit for the day I might have sprung off the swag and headed for the trough. But before smoko time it would be knocking at the old hundred.
From the yards I heard ‘Whoa there, whoa there.’ I raised myself on one elbow and watched Geoff catch a horse. Mack stood among the horses too, bridle in hand. A little closer I could hear water being splashed. Ike and Mary were at the trough. ‘And wash under yer armpits,’ I heard her say to him.
In the opposite direction smoke drifted away from the camp fire. A little figure sat near the fire, almost huddled, as though cold. It was Anne. Jenny stood over the billies. One was near the boil and I knew the tea-leaves were in her hand. Clara stood away a bit, bent over. She was feeding something. At a distance my eyes were down a bit on small objects. ‘He’s already eaten half the cheese,’ Jenny growled. When she was irritated she had the voice of a woman whose hormones are not quite right. I still couldn’t see, but I expected a possum was overdue for bed.
Away a bit to the left of the camp fire, maybe thirty metres, a crumpled heap lay under a blanket. An empty flagon lay on its side. Beyond him two figures lay entwined. Not a move from either. And where was Pig’s Arse? The vehicles were scattered all over the place among the trees. I saw a pair of boots sticking out of the window of one of the utes.
I took my turn at the water trough and walked over to the camp fire looking for a mug of tea. On the way from the trough I passed by Johnny. A heavy-calibre rifle lay beside him. I strayed off course to get a closer look at Frankie’s swag, which at twenty-five metres looked like a big lump under a blanket, and sure enough a rifle lay beside him as well. No one noticed me until I reached the fire.
‘How did you know I just made it?’ Jenny said, greeting me with a smile. She hadn’t been to the trough and it would have helped.
‘I saw you watching the billy. And Clara you were feeding a possum.’
‘Possum in the daylight!’ Clara exclaimed, as though I should know better.
‘A cheeky bloody goanna,’ Jenny growled. ‘Feed the bastards once and they’re everywhere but in yer bed.’
I said good morning to Anne and she nodded, but with no enthusiasm for the day. Johnny had bombed out and I wouldn’t have liked being near his breath.
‘Get some toast and jam into you Mick.’
Jenny had given Anne a mug of tea and let her be. I soon got the feeling Jenny didn’t want to hang around the camp fire for long.
By the time I had eaten some toast Mack and Geoff had walked across from the yards. Their horses were saddled and tethered to the rail. Ike and Mary were in the process of catching their mounts. The plan which emerged from breakfast conversation was for the four of them to run the big mob of horses in from the ranges. They spoke of them as the brumbies, but in actual fact breeding was strictly controlled with just one stallion.
The cattle in the yards were the responsibility of Johnny and Frankie. Jenny thought they would have to be let out into a holding paddock as neither of them would swing into a saddle today. Where the cattle came from and where they were going was not my business and no one made me any the wiser.
The two stockmen were after horses. Geoff was a contract musterer and it seemed Mack was doing part-time work for him. The work was infrequent and over twelve months earnings were less than those of a stationhand, but it was a life in the saddle and freedom. I told them I knew solicitors in Sydney who earned more money in one year than they would see in a lifetime, yet would trade them places tomorrow if circumstances allowed.
I didn’t feel very comfortable in the camp, even though no-one had been unfriendly. I drained my tea mug and went over to the yards where I gathered an armful of dead wood from under an ironbark and lit a fire. I waited for the red coals to form and put the brand on, which I always had with me in the truck. I wanted to brand the cleanskins, load up and get out of the place.
Most cattle yards have a long narrow race where work can be performed on the animals at close quarters. I needed a hand and it was Jenny who volunteered. I stood on top of the race, leg either side and she passed me the brand from the fire. The brand had to be returned for reheating after each beast. Cattle have exceedingly thick hides and although they jump a bit when the brand’s plonked on, it doesn’t hurt them much. The cleanskins were cows and had missed out on their brand when they were calves. Either they missed out in the muster or they were out-of-season calves.
With Jenny’s help I loaded them onto the truck and took them down to South Bore where I jumped them off, near the trough. There was an unloading mound there.
I did a bit of camp straightening and then left for Amby Creek. There was still a big mob there and not much feed. I didn’t want to sell them. Cows are a breeding man’s capital, but the only country available was the north-west portion of Mt Kennedy and I had been told the bore was out of order. That could be fixed of course, but the presence of the Wild Bunch had me deeply disturbed.
The Old Boy was away and I didn’t feel like driving eighty kilometres back to the camp. It was hot and I felt exhausted. I continued south and at the Muckadilla pub took one of their rooms. I had a shower and when I hit the bed I didn’t wake until late afternoon.
In the bar Donna had a message for me. ‘That bunch from up there,’ she said and rolled her eyes. ‘They dropped in for a drink and wanted to talk to you. I told them to leave a message with me.’ She paused and handed me another beer. ‘They’ve gone to the rodeo at Taroom and wanted you to throw the horses some hay in the morning. Also check the water trough.’
‘They’re breaking in several young ones,’ I said. ‘I saw the hay in a trailer.’
‘How do they know you’ll be back up there?’ Donna asked.
‘Pump water. My cattle are drinking thirty thousand litres a day.’
‘Seems out of character to me,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘They wouldn’t give a stuff about them.’
She was wrong, I felt. The breaking might have been on the rough side, but they wouldn’t leave the horses locked up without feed. It was their general behaviour in the hotel she disliked so much.
‘In effect you’re saying someone wants me to go to those yards.’
Donna shrugged. ‘Just watch yourself.’
I was getting weary of the rumours and the innuendoes. I had made a fool of myself the day before and the whole thing was getting to me. I thought no more about it.
I left at daylight next morning and two hours later reached the turnoff to the yards. There was a vehicle track—fresh. Vehicle tracks didn’t stay fresh for long, because kangaroos, wallabies, goannas and snakes were continually on the move. These tracks were no more than four hours old. I decided to walk and have a peep from the protection of the forest before I drove in.
I locked the truck and with the magnum for protection, I went in through the pine forest. Three hundred metres from the yards I skirted away to the side, crouched low, my head level with the taller grasses. I reached a wide gully that ran down the slope towards the yards before it swung away to the left. I instantly spotted the roof of a vehicle and when I moved a little closer I saw it was an old model Holden. It was an assortment of colours, as though some
one had started to reduco and abandoned the task.
The sides of the gully were thick with sandalwood and it was some minutes before I could focus on two men. They were carefully hidden in the sandalwood, frozen still, looking into the timber in the direction of the truck. They had heard the truck and were expecting me. I could surprise them from behind, risking confrontation. But one bolt-action gun against two was hopeless odds. I backed off and when I left the protection of the sandalwood I got down on my elbows and knees for about two hundred metres until the forest had closed off all around me. Whoever they were, they had made the decision for me. I would sell all the cows and calves at Amby Creek. Upon reaching the truck, I headed for Roma to make the arrangements with Dalgety’s.
I arrived in Roma in the late afternoon and went straight to Dalgety’s before they closed. On the way in I’d had a quick look at the cattle at Amby Creek. The feed had cut out in my absence. I discussed the situation with the manager at Wesfarmer’s and he agreed I had no alternative but to meet the market. There was no agistment in the district and every drover was tied up with a mob. Bleaker still, the drought looked like extending into the whole of western Queensland. He predicted that if no rain fell before the end of the month the store market in Queensland would collapse. It was the Queensland store market that had put a floor in the market for drought-stricken New South Wales cattlemen desperate to sell. The elimination of this market spelt total collapse. In fact the only feed in eastern Australia south of the tropic line was in the Augathella and Charleville districts where there had been storms. He said my cattle would go there. It seemed I was lucky to have buyers so close.
It was approaching mid-January. With the Hamilton boys—Annette the ‘switchboard’s’ brothers—to help, I mustered up about two hundred cows on Amby Creek and sent them to Roma by roadtrain. Taking two days the Dalgety men split the cows and calves into twenty-head lots and the dry cows were drafted out for Mt Kennedy. I anticipated the market would be tough and decided not to sell them.
While the drafting was going on in the Roma saleyards I bought some Santa Gertrudis bulls and floated them out to Mt Kennedy. I still had to keep going out there to run the bore, no matter how busy I was. I wasn’t needed at the yards and I decided to camp the night and return to Roma early next morning for the loading of the dry cows and about thirty weaners.
It was a Monday. It just seemed like another routine day—check the bore, cop the heat and snatch a beer whenever possible. When I got to the Roma yards there was a semitrailer waiting for the cows and the pen of weaners were waiting for me.
A very willing young man, Stephen, was the driver of the semitrailer. He and his boss loaded the semi first and I pushed the weaners into the loading yard just as Stephen bolted the semi’s loading door.
The whole western end of the Roma saleyards is a raised ramp stretching for fifty metres. Several loading chutes terminate at the edge of the ramp. Roadtrains load from the side and smaller trucks are backed into these chutes. The edge of the loading ramp is plated with steel and when I put my right hand on the steel to do a little jump off the ramp I was unaware it had only minutes before been replaced and welded at the joins.
The shock of pain sent me reeling. I fell sideways and down the side of the ramp. My right leg buckled underneath me and I thought I had broken it. The pain was swift and intense. I tried to steady myself and control my breathing. For a few seconds I didn’t want to look. I expect all of us receive a shock of pain from a minor accident in almost any year, and after a minute or two it goes away. I can remember screwing my eyes shut, waiting for that pain to go away so I could get on with my work. It didn’t and I made myself look down. The leg was bowed inwards. Accidents have the same effect on all of us. You cannot believe your personal situation can change so drastically in the space of two seconds.
It is more than one hundred and forty kilometres from Roma to Mt Kennedy. The driver of the semi had not the faintest idea where the cattle were to be unloaded and there was no one else to drive my truck. Furthermore, the cattle had not been fed since the previous afternoon. The owner of the trucking firm didn’t think I could make it, but when I explained the situation to him they loaded my truck.
With only weaners aboard, my truck only had about six tonnes in weight and I found I was able to operate both the clutch and the brake with my left leg. The injured leg I placed on the accelerator and lifted it off when I wanted to stop. It wouldn’t have worked on a busy highway!
If we could have simply jumped the cattle off on the side of the road I may have received medical attention by early afternoon. These cattle, however, were strangers to the paddock. They may have followed the other cattle to water, but in 100 degree Fahrenheit heat the risk was unthinkable. They had to be unloaded in the bore access paddock.
The track into the bore was narrow. I had no problems with my truck and unloaded the weaners near the trough. Because of the timber, the driver couldn’t turn the semi directly onto the track. He had to manoeuvre the big long vehicle to get a straight entry. I checked the ground for him and thought it was okay. To my horror I saw the front cabin wheels sink in the sand, right up to the axle. I hobbled over and wondered how the hell I had directed him in there. I think he did too, but he was one of those very decent placid blokes.
There was only one thing to do. Unload sixteen cows at a time into my truck and shuttle them to the trough. My knee had become very swollen and the fluid had formed a sort of casing, allowing me to put a little weight on the leg without it giving way. I didn’t know then, but the two principal ligaments had been seriously damaged. My hand felt raw and very sore, but compared to the leg it was no more than a scratch.
The next hour and a half must have been one of the worst I have ever put in. Stephen couldn’t help me. He had to get in with the cows and count sixteen out each time. Standing among cranky cows that are hot, tired and thirsty can be very dangerous. Not because of bunting, but because of savage kicks.
For me the nightmare was opening the heavy sliding door to let them out on a raised mound near the trough. Normally the door is simply pushed open at ground level, using thigh and back muscles. I had to haul myself up the side of the float and kick the door open with my left leg. It only took three or four kicks, but the shot of pain from each kick can only be described as excruciating. The right leg was only hanging and I don’t know why that happened.
With the cattle off, the next problem was the semi. I carried a heavy chain and when it was hooked between the rear of the semi and my truck there was sufficient length in it to allow the rear wheels of the truck to get a solid grip on the road. Not having any weight left in the semi was a great help and after a lot of tedious hand-scraping around the semi’s front wheels we managed to extract it by about four o’clock. Stephen had been driving throughout the previous night and looked about as close to collapse as I have ever seen a man. When I set out for Roma hospital I felt as sick as he looked. I soon knew I couldn’t make it to Roma and headed for Mitchell. At the hospital they strapped my knee and gave me a set of crutches and some painkillers. I went on to Muckadilla and I don’t remember much—in fact I don’t remember arriving.
Some of the pills were sleeping tablets I think. I woke in the morning with a heavy head and dull ache right through my leg. I went to sit up and saw my hand, as though for the first time. The first layer of skin was peeling off. I felt the soft breeze from a fan and there was a jug of water beside the bed. In disbelief I looked at the crutches lying on the floor by the bed. Time seemed to float and I became aware of a woman in the room.
‘You’ll have to have a shower,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ve brought you some plastic. When you feel up to it, tie it around your leg to keep the bandages dry.’
I don’t know whether she dressed my hand or I did it, but there was a problem holding the right crutch. Eventually I got going and drove the truck to Roma where I called at the hospital to have my hand examined. Then I went to the sale.
It was t
he worst cattle sale I had seen since the crash of the mid-seventies. Little did I know then there was much worse to come in 1996. The auctioning went on all day to clear a massive five thousand head. It was like listening to bursts of machinegun fire and overhead the sky rumbled and lightning flashed on the western horizon. That night it rained inches. It came too late.
After the sale I drove back to the Muckadilla hotel and lay on the bed for a while. Early in the evening, when it had cooled off a little, I telephoned Sal. Her immediate reaction was to fly up and be with me. Nick and Greg were ploughing up country around the clock. There had been some rain and Sal had seized upon the opportunity to fallow for wheat. I explained there was nothing she could do for me. At that stage I had hoped it would be simply a matter of rest. Reluctantly, Sal agreed to stay and look after Nick and Greg. Shift work on the tractor is tiring and incredibly boring. Good meals and a cheerful face when you come in are essential.
The only public telephone was a hundred metres down the road from the hotel. It seemed quite a way on the crutches and on the way back I had plenty of time to take the weather in. A huge bank of clouds had formed in the west, blocking the sun and casting a sombre light across the plains. The sweat poured off me. It was going to rain in tropical fashion and I was thinking about this when shots exploded from the other side of the village. Dogs yelped and there were more shots. I swung my way into the bar and bought a bottle of rum. The bloke behind the bar I hadn’t seen before. In late middle age, he looked distinguished and retired from a profession quite different to running a country pub. It turned out I was right. He was a retired man from Brisbane and just relieving.
‘How did the sale go?’ he asked cheerfully.
‘It was okay on the day.’
He nodded gravely. ‘The leg?’
‘There’s two sorts of painkillers. Pills or rum. The rum tastes better.’
He laughed. ‘What about a good meal? Judy’s getting fidgety in the kitchen.’
Horses Too Are Gone, The Page 18