The hotel specialised in fish. God knows where it came from, but top quality frozen fish was brought in from the coast. With a few rums and a good meal I felt a lot better. Of all the western pubs I’ve had a beer in, New South Wales included, this one had a unique homely atmosphere.
Even though it was a Tuesday night, the local farmers soon filled the bar. One couple and their children took up a table next to me for dinner. The bloke had a beard flecked with grey and a straight-brimmed hat. He said his name was Gil Campbell and he owned Claravale Station, north of Mt Kennedy. I was instantly tempted to ask him about the October duffing raid the visitor to the bore had mentioned, but it was none of my business.
The crutches aroused interest, something I found I had to get used to, and Gil Campbell told me he had a steel plate in his knee. He had gone to pull a bore and when he climbed the anchor pole to attach the block and tackle, the twelve-metre pole gave way. That he survived was a miracle.
‘I am not fifty yet,’ he said. ‘But by fifty there are not many of us left unscarred. You got past fifty before this!’ He grinned. ‘Then you got a bonus.’
What he said was true and I hadn’t thought about it before. In Queensland the risk of serious injury on a property is high. There’s isolation, rugged terrain, cattle not often handled and half wild horses, not to mention the heat which saps concentration.
I drank half the bottle of rum and I don’t know how I got to my room on the crutches. The rain began about midnight and next morning the Muckadilla creek was a banker. If it had not been for the relieving manager and his wife, the next three days would have been miserable.
They had a copy of a manuscript called ‘Black and White’, by Blagden Chambers. In 1865 Chambers set out alone with one packhorse from what is thought to be Chesterton Station, not far to the north-west from where my cattle were. He was looking for new pastures on the upper Warrego and indeed found bluegrass tablelands, similar to those I have already mentioned. But during his ride north he saw stark evidence of atrocities committed by the Mounted Native Police which apparently had the sanction of the colonial government. A tragic but all too common story of those days, but what makes this account unique is Chambers’ actions in preventing further bloodshed, and the friendship that was shown to him in return.
It was a Saturday when I left Muckadilla. If it had not been for the crutches I would have left a day earlier, but I had to be sure the roads were dry enough. To bog the truck and then swing my way to the nearest station in the heat was an endurance test that may have been beyond me. I wasn’t worried about the cattle. The rain had been general across the Maranoa and I thought there would be some surface water.
When I arrived at Mt Kennedy I was surprised how quickly the puddles from the rain had dried up. I still hadn’t got used to the high component of sand in all of the country here, except the high basalt tablelands. Water on the ground one day; gone the next.
At the tank there was a day’s supply left. I went over to the bore and put the two crutches on the ground. Holding the compression lever I could stand on my good leg and I bent down to pick up the crank handle. It was then I saw the tracks. Someone had come to the bore since the rain. I tried to see through the shadows of the surrounding timber and saw a dingo lurking a hundred metres away. One of the calves, still sick from the germ-infected water of the black hole, had died. The smell of the carcass invaded the whole area and as I stared at the footprints the smell grew stronger. I picked up the crank handle and started the engine.
I waited by the bore. Ten minutes and still no water. Sometimes the valve a hundred and fifty metres below got sediment trapped in it and let all the pipe water leak out. If that happened it took twenty minutes for water to appear. After twenty-five minutes I stopped the engine and sat down on one of the diesel drums. Cattle were streaming into the access paddock to drink at the trough.
It was times like this I headed for the ‘switchboard’—Annette. I hadn’t seen any of my friends in Mitchell for about two weeks. I went into the bakery and received the usual burst of mirth.
‘I heard there was a war out there,’ she said. ‘Looks like you’re losing.’
I never went into the bakery without having the delicious coffee Annette served. Better still, she always found time to have a cup with me. As always, she knew who to go and see. His name was Rob Carr and he lived only a block away.
‘And you can’t camp out there in that condition,’ she added firmly. ‘There’s a room in our house and that’s where you stay.’
Rob Carr’s wife, Caroline, told me he was at a bush fire brigade conference and wouldn’t be back until Sunday night. The good news was he would definitely fix the bore.
I knew the cattle would run out of water on Sunday and I knew they would be alright if they got a drink on Monday. In emergency situations it was usually possible to have water carted in with shire tankers. Following the heavy rain the dirt roads would take no weight and even if they did, a big lorry tanker would never make it through the sand-based soil to the trough.
I tried to shut my mind to it and drove out to the racecourse to see Bill Anderson.
‘They got ya,’ Bill said grinning.
‘No, it was …’
‘No need to explain. Lucky the bullet never went through your head.’ When Bill laughed his whole chest shook. ‘Now this horse. He’s burnin’ the track up. Wandoan’s this week. We got to go there.’
I hadn’t seen Vodka for two weeks. He’d gone from a daggy-looking hack in November to a muscled-up racehorse with a sleek dark brown coat. I could see he was restless. He was never quite at ease with humans and never entirely settled into a stable routine. I waited by the rails of his exercise yard and he walked up to me, just briefly. He kept looking at me with one eye, never taking it away, as though I alone might understand him.
I had seen the look before and later listened to the jockeys. Then maybe it was my mood. Bill and I went inside and we had another one of those very long tea breaks. Afterwards I went out to Annette’s home, Rowallan.
The family made me feel very welcome. I have never seen a homestead in my life where so many people came and went in any given hour between midday and midnight. I settled back with a rum and found myself yarning with a bull rider, only he wouldn’t be riding again for a while—his whole arm was set straight in plaster. Next minute Annette’s brother Jamahl burst through the door with his electric guitar and sang his version of ‘The Boys from the Bush’. I would have given anything to have heard this version sung at a conservative picnic race ball down south. Noel, who’d been minding the poddy calves, didn’t say much sober, but as the rums went down his eyebrows shot up in rapid jerks and he didn’t shut up. Kids wandered in and out, some of the prettiest little girls I have ever seen, and somehow Noel’s wife Joan got the last word in. At some stage in the evening Annette fetched me to have dinner with her and her husband, Billy.
On Sunday the Rowallan camp remained as diverse as before. On the verandah there was guitar practice and out in the workshop two or three blokes tinkered with cars and trucks. I found a quiet spot and read. Never far from my mind were the cattle.
On Monday morning Rob Carr, Caroline and I left Mitchell very early. They followed me out to Mt Kennedy. It was to be a three-person team—Rob to disconnect the rods, Caroline in the four-wheel drive and me on the big rod spanner.
To pull the bore, a steel-cable pulley had to be secured to the top of the fifteen-metre bore pole. Steel spikes led the way to the top and Rob climbed up to assemble the gear. Then a clamp was attached to the rods and the four-wheel drive took the weight. Caroline reversed until Rob raised his hand, which indicated the join onto the next rod had risen above the level of the bore. I placed the rod spanner under the join and, obeying another signal, Caroline drove far enough forward to lower the spanner across the bore pipe. With the weight of all the rods below resting on the spanner, Rob was able to disconnect the rod above ground. Another signal and Caroline drove forward to lower
the rod so Rob could lay it along the ground.
The monotonous procedure seemed to take hours. I felt the swelling increase in my leg and every time I looked for a brief escape I saw the white faces milling around the dry trough. Late in the morning we stopped to boil the billy. There were at least three hundred cattle at the trough now and they were beginning to make a bit of a din. I don’t think any of us enjoyed the tea much, but with the heat rising again we had to have a short break.
By early noon we had all the rods up and inspected the leather buckets in the pump. There appeared to be nothing wrong and this disturbed us. Reluctantly, we spent the next three hours returning the pump and rods down the bore. The last rod was the one that pushed the pumping buckets into the pump cylinder. It wouldn’t go in. The buckets refused to slide into the pump.
It was very serious now. The cattle were becoming more and more vocal. There were now five hundred venting their misery. I have never seen it, but western Queensland stockmen have told me cattle will pass into a mindless panic without water and self-destruct by running and overheating.
Rob and Caroline commenced the re-pull. All the pipes would have to come up and Rob needed at least one strong man to help him. I didn’t know what was going on up at the hut, but it was worth a go. When I got there the horses were in the yard and Scalp was there himself with Ike and Pig’s Arse. They rallied immediately and back at the bore Rob and Caroline were more than halfway, despite being a man short.
The pulling went on through the night and into the early hours. Caroline reversed the Toyota to haul out the last pipe and the pump cylinder screwed on at the bottom.
The cylinder was full of shale. The bore had been sabotaged. No one said anything. We washed the shale out and with his newfound offsiders Rob began the massive task of lowering twenty-five lengths of pipe and the same number of rods. Caroline had been relieved from the Toyota and I had ceased to be of any use before the sun set. The men worked from the lights of my truck. The cattle intensified their din and seemed to focus their attention on us. It was as if they knew we could help them—I am sure they did.
Not long after dawn every piece had been reconnected. Scalp kicked the old diesel up and we all stood there and waited for the water.
First the air came, then the gurgles, more air … then that wonderful sound of water falling on the dry bottom of the tank. Minutes later there was feverish activity at the head of the long trough. For hours the poor things jostled and pushed one another and it may have been mid-afternoon when the last thirsty animal got its fill.
Everyone was exhausted. Bore pulling is not only hard work, but demands a hundred percent concentration. We didn’t even boil the billy. Rob and Caroline went back to Mitchell. Scalp and his men headed back to the hut. I slept in the tent and didn’t wake until late afternoon. The fluid on my knee forced me to re-adjust the elastic bandage.
I stepped outside with the crutches and had a look around. Most of the cattle had gone. Hungry after their drink, they had headed up into the tablelands. It was such a relief I didn’t think much about my leg. I had a yearning for about three mugs of coffee and slowly collected some wood.
No one had uttered a word about the shale in the pump. Whatever you might do in the outback, don’t be a troublemaker. It’s unwritten law in the Australian bush, and I think maybe it’s a unique character trait known only in this country.
I don’t know who sabotaged the bore. The stakeout was an impulsive reaction to the calf killing and maiming (the injured calf died within a week), sparked by anger. The Wild Bunch would have been very disturbed. The bore may have been to force me to muster up quickly and head for the nearest water, which was towards Mitchell. In short: get rid of me. They didn’t know I was injured and I would never accept that they intended the cattle to perish.
While I sat drinking coffee and breathing in the smoke, for I am addicted to camp fire smoke, I suddenly remembered the horses. They hadn’t come in for water. A feeling of dread overtook me and I felt like burning the crutches. With two good legs I could have started looking instantly and hopefully had peace of mind for the night.
I hadn’t brought any fresh food out. When we left Mitchell I’d thought we’d pull the rods, charge the buckets, drop everything back and head back to town. Anyway, rice and stew out of a tin was always tasty with a heap of herbs thrown in and all washed down with rum. I made sure I slept okay.
I left the tent soon after dawn and didn’t have much for breakfast. The spring in the gorge! They had to be there. The problem was covering the ground. The skin on my right hand had healed and I found I could get along at the speed of a slow walk on one crutch. The spring I could reach in about an hour and a half.
I took a bridle and some biscuits. Using the crutch I had to watch the ground most of the time and not far from the spring I began to see a lot of flake. Among the flake were the core stones, from which the Aborigines had moulded their tools. The spring had been a source of water for a tribe and somewhere in the vicinity the signs of a camp might still be traceable. It wouldn’t be in the gorge. Too cold in winter and too open to attack from above.
The spring was a muddy bog hole. Desperate for water, some cattle had walked away from the bore to suck up a mouthful of soupy slime.
Good springs don’t stop seeping water, so keeping to the side, where the rock gave firm footing, I got into the cave and cupped my hands under the trickle running down the side of one wall. The horses had been going to the mouth of the cave and pawing a hole in the mud for a drink. Once the trickle of water reached the muddy bottom it was converted into little more than liquid mud. There was a danger their kidneys would pack up in the hot weather.
The tracks were not hard to find. They were using the main cattle pad to walk up to the bluegrass. The sensible plan would have been to wait until they returned for water, but the gorge was heating up and if I took it slowly I could make it to the top.
Flake lay on the ground all the way up the escarpment and not far from where the cattle pad led over the final lip onto the tableland I noticed a raised point that served as a natural lookout. I have some sort of a compulsion towards lookouts and didn’t have a stone age tool site in mind when I poked my way over.
What I stumbled on was an archaeologists’ paradise. Stone tools lay everywhere. For the next hour I was like a boy lost in a David Jones’ toy department. There were spearheads worked into shapes like the famous clovis points of the early American Indians. Backblades of a classic type were so prolific that I didn’t even examine samples that would normally be declared as a trophy find. The backblade, or stone age skinning knife, can be razor sharp. A famous American archaeologist was so keen to prove a point he insisted a surgeon use a backblade on him when he was undergoing an operation.
The most exciting find was an axe head that had been hafted to wood. The wooden handle had disintegrated, perhaps a century or two ago, but the haft stains on the artefact were clearly visible. It was a battle-axe head as the shape was too broad on the cutting edge to use on timber. An archaeologist once told me that relics of this ancient weapon are so rare in the southern half of the continent that the few that had been found were probably traded from the north. It depended on the stone source. In other stone cultures throughout the world axes were popular battle weapons, but in Australia the Aborigines had invented the boomerang, which they put to deadly use in tribal warfare.
I became so absorbed with this site I forgot about the horses for a while. To a lot of people it would seem a bit loony getting around on a crutch in the heat and examining stone artefacts. But I had studied archaeology at the University of New England and had a basic grasp of Aboriginal culture. With the people I’d had only minor contact—it had mainly been with rabbiters and trackers when I was a small boy.
There was no sign of the horses and I couldn’t track through the litter of volcanic stone. The stone the Aborigines worked was chert and they had carried it in. At the foot of a tree was a large chert rock weighing abo
ut twenty kilograms. The carrier had intended to use it as a core stone and one would be inclined to think not long after this stone was placed on the ground the white pastoralists arrived.
Thirst drove me back to the spring and the cave. The horses would come in. It wasn’t much of a place to wait, so I found a flat rock in the shade and fell asleep. When I woke up Yarramin was standing almost over me. The biscuits were eaten. He was still sniffing the paper. I sat up and felt the irritation immediately. A roo tick had got to me. I had forgotten to pull my socks over the trouser cuffs and the blood-sucking insect had burrowed into my groin.
I carry a small sharpening stone in a separate belt pouch and immediately put an edge on the small blade of a pocketknife. Then I scraped a few leaves up, put a match to them and scalded the blade to kill any germs. Going through the skin is the worst part. Once through, the blood flows and it doesn’t hurt so much. This was a big tick and when I got it out I had to reheat the blade and hold it against the wound. Sounds gruesome, but it was all over in two or three minutes.
Yarramin had never minded a bridle going on as I think he identified it with food. It was a slow old lead back to the bore and Circus, as always, followed behind. They looked a bit tucked up and had a long drink at the trough. I got Circus’s bridle and tethered them to the trough while I backed the truck up against the earthen loading ramp. Climbing up the side of the float and winding down the tailgate was just as difficult as the performance a week before, but it was a relief to have them both on board.
The diesel engine wouldn’t catch up for another thirty-six hours. I filled the fuel tank and decided to let the supply tank overflow, which meant I didn’t have to return for two days. The most pressing issue was to see the local doctor. There was no improvement in my knee and with the ongoing problem of supplying water for the cattle I didn’t know what to do about it.
The thought of a beer was never far away when I got to town. I parked the truck and bought a case of XXXX. There are four hotels in the little town of Mitchell. One was the local bloodhouse—every town in western Queensland has one; one was where you looked for accommodation; another had the weekend bands and there was another owned by a lady. She always greeted me and asked how things were. It was nothing of course, but when you’re a stranger you appreciate it. I bought all my beer and rum from her.
Horses Too Are Gone, The Page 19