Horses Too Are Gone, The

by Keenan, Michael

‘Think they’ll be any better tonight?’ I asked.

  Mick didn’t answer for a while. He stared into the blaze and drew his arms tightly across his chest. Fiona had gone to her tent. I sat on the ground near the fire. I didn’t feel cold, just weak. John got some hay from the truck and headed towards the horses. Whatever decision we made, John knew it was going to be a big day for the horses.

  ‘Ya hear the howl?’ Mick said at last. ‘Just before the rush?’

  ‘I’ve heard that dog before. High-pitched and long—scary sort of howl.’

  There was something on Mick’s mind, but as deeply troubled as he was nothing would be said. I’d seen it often as a boy. The men from two skins and two worlds were torn and confused. Sometimes I saw a level of acceptance and a depth of wisdom profoundly beyond my experience of civilisation.

  ‘Cut ya losses and walk straight for them high yards,’ Mick said quickly, still staring into the fire. ‘Might miss a few weaners. Get the buggers next muster.’

  ‘What if we don’t make it before dark?’ I asked. It was a fifteen-kilometre walk from the bore and the cattle had stampeded in the opposite direction.

  ‘We’ll be followin’ a fence won’t we?’

  ‘Heavily timbered though.’

  ‘Don’t matter,’ Mick said. ‘If the night come too quick we’ll hold up in a valley and night-ride ’em.’

  It was decided upon without further discussion. I broke a stick off one of the pines, smoothed out a patch on the bare ground and drew a map of the terrain as I knew it.

  ‘You’re going to need three horsemen, Mick.’ I glanced towards the tent and I thought Mick looked a bit dismayed. ‘Yarramin’s not a bad old cob and she’ll stick. She’s got to come anyway.’

  ‘Hard enough findin’ them cattle without watchin’ out for a horse all the time.’

  ‘Put her in between you both.’ I didn’t wait for any further argument. ‘I’ll ride ahead, open the gate up on the pass and wait out on the north side in case the lead misses the gate.’

  We had breakfast while the horses ate the hay. The meal was simply toast and tea, but we ate all we could knowing the next billy boil was unplanned and uncatered for. Fiona had lost that ashen colour in her cheeks and when she sat down on the camp log I noticed the camera bag.

  ‘We’ll lock your camera in the truck,’ I said.

  ‘I’m taking it.’

  Mick and John saddled the horses and I packed my backpack with the basics—billies, tea, coffee, bread and biscuits.

  ‘There’s one bottle of red wine left,’ Fiona said seriously as I began to close the backpack. ‘I know it’s too heavy to carry. Perhaps one of those saddlebags, the canvas ones, could go onto my saddle.’

  ‘The top will stick out.’ I paused and took the bread and biscuits out of my backpack. ‘You put these in those dual bags and I’ll take the wine. If we don’t make it tonight our camp’s a fire and backs to a tree. The wine might put us to sleep.’

  ‘You’re sending me with the men,’ Fiona said, in a tone which told me at once she wasn’t happy. ‘But you’ve forgotten. You can’t get back onto Circus by yourself.’

  She looked away when I spoke. ‘If there’s a rider behind the mob Mick and John can flank either side,’ I said gently. ‘You’re not just being cared for. We need you out there.’

  ‘Mick doesn’t think so.’

  ‘Communicate with John. He doesn’t say much, but if you’re not riding in the correct spot he’ll quietly put you right.’

  Mick tossed me aboard with a hefty thrust and I headed north for the pass.

  Circus strode along in his usual way and I reached the gate in less than an hour. The clip was okay, but the gate dragged a little on the ground and Circus had a bit of a hang-up about pushing gates open. On every attempt I moved the gate a little more and eventually it was fully open.

  Only two hundred metres from the pass a high ridge overlooked the narrow defile leading up to the watershed crest. To the north the water flowed all the way to the Fitzroy and emptied into the sea east of Rockhampton. To the south the passage was much longer. If water from a storm ever made it, and apart from flood waves it probably never did, the precious water flowed thousands of kilometres to empty into the Murray and finally the sea in South Australia.

  I had to dismount. Even if the cattle hadn’t gone far I knew the wait would still be two hours. I expected the lead to pass through the gate without hesitation, but if something spooked them they might swing to the east and walk into the mountains.

  I tied Circus to a shady tree with a bit of grass in reach. It was a chance for a short nap. After the drama of the stampede it was delightfully peaceful. A cool breeze drifted across the sandstone escarpments which continued towards the southwest until they were a distant fading blue. Small birds chattered overhead and as always the eagles soared.

  When I woke the coolness had gone and it was quite hot. I walked to the edge of the steep slope and looked down. Cattle were filing through the gate. Looking north I could see them disappearing into the timber, suggesting the lead may have passed by an hour before. The cattle were strung out and there was no sign of any riders. I had to go for the lead immediately and steady them.

  I had never in my life had difficulty getting on a horse. Sometimes I have had difficulty staying on. I tossed the reins over Circus’s head and lifted my left leg to the stirrup. The pain struck with such force I gasped and fell back. Within seconds I was sweating. After the pain eased I tried pulling myself towards the saddle, but my hand, already swollen, refused to grip. It was hopeless. I couldn’t get on. Walking in the rocky terrain was very difficult, but I just had to lead Circus and hope the lead cattle had stopped to feed.

  I didn’t reach the lead. Two hundred metres off the fence I walked as straight a line as possible to avoid pushing cattle ahead of me. I walked for more than two hours before I saw the gate and road leading to the yards and the hut camp.

  To my surprise Scalp was at the camp working on a bulldozer. Johnny was working on a saddle. When I looked closely I saw he was mounting a rifle scabbard to the pummel.

  ‘Well I’ll be damned!’ Johnny exclaimed.

  ‘No, I’m the one damned,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t think that horse needs a rest,’ Scalp said cheerfully.

  ‘Can’t get back on. We’re mustering and the lead’s bolted.’

  ‘You goin’ to move ’em?’ Scalp asked.

  ‘Just the weaners. Cows’re going back.’

  ‘He wants us to chase the lead,’ Johnny said with animation.

  ‘Right up my line.’

  ‘Run the horses, Johnny,’ Scalp ordered.

  ‘They mightn’t be far ahead,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t matter if they are,’ Johnny said, as he straddled a bike near the bulldozer. ‘I might get a dingo scalp.’

  ‘There’s beer in the Esky.’ Scalp pointed to the back of his ute. ‘You look as if you need one.’

  ‘One stubbie and I’d be drunk. I’ll settle for water.’

  ‘How’s it been goin’?’

  ‘Had a rush last night from the bore paddock.’

  ‘Cattle don’t hold well there. That bloody sandstone bluff nearby is popular with the dogs.’

  ‘It was a dingo.’

  ‘Johnny and I have a competition between us. A hundred bucks on it.’ Scalp smiled. ‘Small stakes, but we might knock out fifty dingoes or more.’

  ‘How’s the work?’

  ‘It’s like strippin’ wheat all year round.’

  Stripping the planet of its vegetation is what he was really saying. There was no point in saying what I thought. Men out here still had a frontier psyche: the concept or indeed the very urgent necessity of preserving the environment was not something they had ever given any thought.

  We weren’t talking for very long when the horses galloped into sight with Johnny behind them on the bike. They shot into one of the yards. Johnny closed the gate and gave the bike full throttle again as
he came over. Scalp grabbed a saddle from the back of his ute and Johnny took the one he was working on. They caught and saddled their horses within minutes and led them over to the bulldozer. Then the rifles came out from the front of the ute. Johnny strapped his to the saddle scabbard. It was open-sighted and looked like a Hornet 222. Scalp had a much heavier rifle mounted with a scope. It had a sling and he carried it on his back.

  ‘You look more like a raiding party than a couple of blokes riding for the lead,’ I said, a bit bewildered.

  ‘The dingo pups are weaned now,’ Scalp said. ‘They’re everywhere.’

  Johnny legged me up on Circus and I rode out with them. While they were saddling up, I’d found a couple of empty bottles and filled them at the trough. I had missed the waterhole coming in and I didn’t feel confident of finding it on the way back.

  We parted at the gate. Cattle were walking past and I had a sinking feeling the lead might be kilometres to the north.

  Scalp and Johnny made an odd sight for the 1990s. It was the wrong time of the day for dingoes. I felt sure dingoes had nothing to do with those long-barrelled rifles.

  I rode south, back over the same ground. All the way cattle were walking towards me and about an hour later I reached the tail and the musterers. They were in thick pine.

  ‘You got water?’ Mick’s voice was hoarse.

  ‘I think it should be boiled,’ I said. ‘I’ll boil the billy and make tea.’

  ‘Bugger the boilin’.’

  I began to take the backpack off.

  ‘Missus first,’ Mick whispered gallantly. ‘She don’t say anything, but that little woman must be dry.’

  ‘She doesn’t drink gallons of beer like you either.’

  I handed Mick one bottle and rode over to Fiona. She was about a hundred metres away, riding along with John. I had the other bottle in my hand before I got to her. To my surprise she didn’t look affected by either heat or lack of water.

  ‘Mick insists you drink first,’ I said.

  ‘Sounds like I’ve really made it.’ Her voice was a bit croaky. She drank a quarter of the bottle and handed it to John.

  ‘John says we’ve lost the cattle. He says the lead’s miles ahead.’

  ‘Scalp’s gone for the lead,’ I said. ‘If they don’t pull up he’ll probably shoot one or two.’

  ‘Who?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Oh, it’s a long story. Scalp’s a bounty hunter.’

  John passed the bottle back to Fiona and rode off. I caught a smile on his lips.

  ‘I should have realised,’ Fiona said quietly, almost to herself. ‘Your sense of humour!’

  ‘I don’t have one. At least, what’s supposed to make me laugh doesn’t.’

  ‘There are three tiers of humour,’ Fiona said seriously. ‘The contrived, the real and the outrageous. It’s the last one you enjoy.’

  We rode on in the heat. It was four o’clock. I had been looking forward to a breeze off the ranges that usually picked up about this hour, but it may have been fortunate it stayed hot as the bolters had overheated and stopped. When we arrived at the gate it was open and most of the cattle had gone through. Scalp and Johnny had dismounted and waited in the shade.

  I knew Fiona had a horror of guns and was not surprised she hung back. Johnny, of course, couldn’t contain what was in his mind. From a distance Fiona looked very young. Her clothes were youthful and she kept her figure in excellent shape.

  ‘Blonde and all,’ he said loudly. ‘To leg ya on, I suppose.’

  Only for the ache in my leg I would have taken Fiona with me and ridden back to the bore. There was a heap of grog in the ute and it looked like being a rough camp.

  There was nowhere to run the horses. Scalp had thirty in his horse paddock and to let ours loose among them was unthinkable. After the cattle were yarded Mick and John gave them a long drink at the trough and led them to a patch of feed where they held them. They did this for an hour and then put them in a spare yard.

  The only food we had was the bread and biscuits in the canvas saddle packs carried by Yarramin. We all drank so much water I don’t think anyone was hungry. I placed my back against an ironbark near the trough and that was where I intended to stay. I didn’t argue when Fiona took off the bandage that was now charcoal-coloured and put my hand in a bucket of warm water.

  ‘Give me your pocket knife,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to try and work these stitches out. Your hand’s swollen too.’

  ‘Did Mick think he got them all?’

  ‘He thinks a few got away.’

  ‘Drafting won’t take long. I’ll have to ask Scalp if he’ll drive to Southlands and ring the transport people.’

  ‘Why have they got guns?’

  ‘Been a bit of trouble out here. I’m too tired to explain.’

  ‘Well I’m here now and you’re not fit enough to protect me.’

  ‘No one will bother you.’

  ‘One looks wild. He’s got a red thing tied around his dirty hair.’

  ‘They’re just misfits. Among men of the world they’re close to innocence.’

  ‘Look like cattle duffers to me.’

  ‘They’re not. One’s a contractor and one’s a rodeo rider.’

  ‘I don’t feel safe just the same.’

  ‘Out here you’ll find desperate men.’ I looked over towards Scalp and Johnny. They had let their horses go in the paddock. Johnny had a fire going and Scalp had some tinned food and saucepans on a big cardboard box. ‘But you’ll be hard pressed to find a bad man. Most of them go to work in a hundred dollar shirt and a hundred and twenty dollar tie.’

  ‘You’ll be asleep in a minute.’

  ‘And you’ll be entertained. They’re bushmen. Plenty of good yarns and I can see a meal being put together.’

  Fiona was right. I soon fell asleep and didn’t wake again until sunrise. The men had an early breakfast and put the mob through the pound. In Queensland a few cattle at a time are run into a small forcing yard. The next little yard is known as the pound and has four gate outlets. The poundman has a long drafting stick and cuts one beast off at a time. As the beast trots into the pound the poundman yells out the yard it’s to be placed in—‘steer’, ‘weaner’, ‘cull’, or ‘cow’. The man at the appropriate gate (and sometimes one man operates two gates) jerks the gate open and the beast darts through. The drafting procedure is very fast and this mob of nearly seven hundred were put through in under three hours. I’d had the easiest job. I sat on a tall post and when a possible cull ran into the pound I gave the nod.

  In the end Fiona took Scalp’s ute and drove down to Southlands to telephone for the trucks. They were on standby in Roma and left immediately. When she came back her camera ran hot again.

  ‘Barely had a photograph taken in me whole life,’ Mick grumbled.

  ‘She’s made up for it then,’ I said, looking for a bite.

  ‘About bloody five hundred of me in the last two days.’

  We would have liked to have camped through the heat and taken the cows back in the cool, but they were thirsty and we had to keep moving. John caught the horses and we saddled up. The cows knew the bore was their next drink and strode along. By mid-afternoon we had the billy on at the base camp and we began to think about packing up. Scalp and Johnny had turned back after the last of the cows trotted through the gate at the pass. Scalp offered to help load the two semis when they arrived from Roma. The young cattle and the steers were headed for Echo Hills, Ken Slaughter’s place near Surat.

  ‘They were okay last night?’ I asked Fiona as they rode away, with their rifles strangely prominent.

  ‘Scalp made a rice pudding. It was really delicious and Johnny told me all about bull riding. I want to go to a bucking bull rodeo now.’

  ‘And Johnny would have told you Injune’s on next week.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  I took Fiona to her friend’s place in the Arcadia Valley and dropped the truck at Rowallan. Next day I caught the bus from Mitchell. I w
as heading home.

  I arrived home to a community that had not been so hard hit since the Depression. Everybody had aged. More striking still was that tired, despairing profile that I had never seen before in the country. It was as though we had fought a war and lost. Eighty percent of properties in the district were unofficially on the market. Families whose forebears had owned the land since the last century were ready to sell. No one had a trace of optimism.

  In 1994 forty decks of cattle were sent to central Queensland from one New South Wales property. There were many stations in New South Wales carrying more than a thousand cows. The ‘big lift’ reflected the folly of running large numbers without adequate fodder reserves.

  Yet the 1965 drought had been more savage than the drought of 1994. It had begun in December 1964 and the next fall of rain across western New South Wales was not until the following November. By the end of March no one had any feed and we went into a winter of brown dirt. A dust haze emerged from any breeze and in July we endured a freak fall of snow. Where snow had never before fallen it lay ankle deep. On the Warrumbungles a foot of snow caused heavy sheep losses and roads were blocked. Seven hundred kilometres to the north the Carnarvons were also under a mantle of snow—a sight not previously witnessed by white man.

  On Myall Plains the crunch came in July 1965. The old AML & F Co, a pastoral agency, was very strong in those days. The Sydney office got busy with its Victorian branches and they found us agistment just outside Melbourne at Dandenong. We booked a train. The cattle were loaded at Binnaway and were unloaded at Wodonga where they had twenty-four hours rest and a feed of hay. The second leg of the journey took us through the centre of Melbourne. I can remember surprised peak-hour commuters staring into the cattle wagons. For some reason we had to stop and wait at Melbourne’s central railway station. Compared to Queensland twenty-nine years later the trip was a breeze. We lost only three cows and two calves. The bureaucracy was much more flexible in those days. At Junee they stood the Melbourne to Sydney express on a side line while we went through. The cows and calves were given priority over people.

  The train drovers travelled in the guard’s van at the rear of the train. Old Jack had been at it all his life. In his early days the steam trains accounted for almost all stock movements. Roads that are highways today were little more than sulky tracks in his youth. Property owners walked their stock on horseback to the railheads and a train drover took over. The first thing impressed on me was the value of a good engine driver. At Dubbo we got a bad one. When he stopped it was a chain reaction jerk. The cattle were thrown forward and weak ones fell. At any stop of more than five minutes we got into the wagons and helped them up. To avoid kicks I was taught to stand against their rumps and the worst cattle to be in with, old Jack said, were Angus. ‘Kick like mules,’ he said.