The steak was sizzling and releasing delicious aromas when the lights of a car appeared on the road. For a few moments the car didn’t move. The driver didn’t know who we were. I walked to the edge of the camp and yelled out.
The vehicle turned in and moments later Scalp emerged into the lantern light.
‘How youse all goin’?’ he asked. He seemed genuinely pleased to see us all.
I introduced him to Sal and the boys. He was nervous, as though unsure of himself. I thrust one of Johnny’s stubbies into his hand. Johnny had split the case open end to end with a knife.
‘Youse takin’ off a draft of weaners?’ Scalp asked. He had a good pull on the stubbie.
‘Got to move too,’ I said. ‘Be alright if I reconnect the water to the brigalow paddock?’
‘Hell yes!’ Scalp exclaimed and tilted his wide-brimmed hat so that the lantern light reached his face. ‘Good feed on the burnt country. Them cattle’ll do well.’
‘Far fence looks like a boundary,’ I said.
‘Fence stops at the cliffs. Off that strainer another fence runs west and it’s a boundary too, but I ain’t involved there. Them escarpments are the boundary. But north of that fence …’ He started to laugh and Johnny giggled.
‘The stirrup fighters,’ Johnny cut in, and giggled louder.
‘Heavens!’ Sal straightened from her cooking over the fire. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘When they’re musterin’ and there’s a heated blue they fight with the stirrup irons on horseback.’
‘They couldn’t,’ Sal uttered in dismay.
‘You bet they do,’ Johnny said, taking a swig.
‘They must just about brain each other,’ Nick said incredulously.
‘They got none,’ Johnny exclaimed and went off in another giggle.
‘How do we keep clear of them?’ Tommy asked, more than a little disturbed.
‘Oh, they’ll boil the billy and wave you over,’ Scalp said, and then laughed. ‘Just don’t take any of their cattle, because they don’t call the stock squad.’
‘A bloke caught duffin’ gets taken to the nearest trough,’ Johnny added.
He saw the sober look on the boys’ faces and I could see he was going to paint a vivid picture. ‘From one to the other, they run him up and down the full length with his face to the bottom. The poor bastard kicks and splutters and for a whole five minutes they make him fight for his life. Then they throw him out and thump the water out of him.’
‘I couldn’t imagine they’d have a duffing problem,’ Richard said quietly.
The comment took Johnny by surprise. I had heard of the trough treatment.
‘They don’t, no.’ Johnny drained his stubbie.
‘But don’t worry,’ Richard said. ‘I won’t ride in there. In fact if I am asked to join them for billy tea I’ll go on foot.’
There was a lull then and I asked them if they had seen Frankie.
‘Have a beer with him occasionally,’ Scalp said, gazing into the fire.
‘I heard he’s been burnin’ again,’ Johnny giggled. ‘Givin’ the Dawson Bar a bad time. They lost so many cattle last year they hired a troubleshooter.’
‘It’s not the cattle,’ Scalp said. ‘This bloke’s a bit of a pro. He’s hangin’ around Josie and she’s a butterfly—lappin’ it right up. He’s aimin’ to get Frankie mad with jealousy.’
‘Frankie might make the big mistake too,’ Johnny confirmed. ‘But the cock-sparrow will be the mistake. Bet he don’t know Frankie can drop a dingo at five hundred yards.’
‘I hear this bloke’s good too,’ Scalp said soberly. ‘If he’s a pro he’s only gotta catch Frankie holdin’ a gun. It’s one-sided.’
‘Don’t follow you, Scalp,’ Johnny said forcefully.
‘The grog’s got Frankie. He runs the cleanskins sober. Carries a gun to scare anyone, but would never use it. Before his mother died he copped a lot of that bible stuff.’ Scalp paused and looked evenly at us. Sal had removed herself to the dark side of the lantern and was busy with some kitchenware.
‘Frankie won’t shoot sober,’ he went on. ‘Drunk he’ll do anything and it don’t affect his accuracy.’
‘Frankie’s alright,’ Johnny muttered.
No one spoke for a few moments. I sensed a loyalty among rogues. They knew each other’s weaknesses and accepted them.
It was a conversation not many women would like. I started it, but I was keen to know how Frankie had been. Women like to feel secure. They don’t like to have to think about a lonely man in the bush who’s okay if he’s sober and dangerous when drunk. Tina had gone back to the hunting truck and I think had been making up a bed in the back. Sal busied herself with the cooking. At the first opportunity I swung the conversation around to tree pulling.
‘I’m booked up for months,’ Scalp said. ‘They’re gettin’ the permits while they can. Some tribe up north’s goin’ to claim half the Cape they reckon. If they get it the shit’ll hit the fan. I don’t know nothin’ about it. I just push the throttle and pull ’em down a chain at a time. But that’s what them blokes are sayin’ up there and everyone down here’s worried.’
‘But why pull it if you can’t develop it?’ Tommy asked. Young people everywhere were worried about the forests.
‘Cattle and politics, I reckon,’ Scalp answered. ‘Get the cattle on the country and ya halfway to winnin’.’
Scalp was right. In Queensland the rate of clearing had increased, pushed by a shift in purpose. It appeared some leaseholders were pulling to beat the fallout of Mabo. The High Court in 1993 stated native title was extinguished where indigenous people no longer had an ongoing relationship with the land. What appears to be not understood is that under Aboriginal culture an ongoing relationship need not be pragmatic. Their culture is a complexity of beliefs intrinsic to the land itself and therefore transcends physical presence. They may have vacated the land a hundred years ago, but their ancestors are buried there. The confusion may persist for decades as the finding has sparked a clash between two diverse cultures with entirely different interpretations of the fundamentals of existence.
A few beers and the sizzling of steak had stirred everyone’s appetite and not much was said while we all ate, balancing the plates on our knees. Scalp and Johnny put away several stubbies in the next couple of hours and Scalp laughed a lot. Johnny got sick of the beer and carried a flagon of red wine from his vehicle.
Scalp left first. He said he’d saddle up at daylight and meet us at the south bore. The boys were short-handed for the drive and I was very grateful. Johnny couldn’t come. He was anxious to get to the station and claim his shooting territory before another shooter arrived.
The wine didn’t do Johnny much good and he looked like sleeping by the fire. Sal and Tina had a chat over coffee, washed up in the bucket and left for bed. Before Johnny slipped into a heavy sleep he managed to unload something on his mind.
‘Scalp’s got to find a fair bit of money.’
‘Who for?’
Johnny stared at me through glazed eyes. ‘The bank.’
‘Won’t the pulling help a bit?’
Johnny nodded. He had his head on an old blanket Tina had given him. ‘But he won’t be here. Neither will I. Yer goin to be on your own Mick.’
Next morning a light film of frost clung to the tents, lay along logs in fine powder, formed little crusts of ice on the plates left out to dry, and in the washing bucket a dirty block of ice was stuck to the bottom.
Johnny had woken at some stage and all I could see was a crumpled quilt in the back of the truck. I didn’t expect him for breakfast and when I woke the boys I whispered to them to be quiet. I was worried Johnny might decide to come and delay us.
I suggested Sal wait for me at the camp, giving her an opportunity to cleanup after breakfast. I thought Johnny and Tina would sleep in. Sal and I had made a rule that no one apart from myself was to be left alone in the camp.
Carrying a last piece of toast to the
four-wheel drive, the boys piled in and we set off for the bore. We chatted about horses until the final kilometre. Would we just see trees and black dirt, or a cluster of red hides as we neared the bore? With enormous relief I saw Scalp on a grey horse and he had about thirty head of cattle pushed up against the gate. Another swerve of the four-wheel drive and there were all the cattle—a patch of red against the green backdrop of the forest. It may have only been a small thing in the broad spectrum of events, but seeing those cattle still yarded that morning was another victory over the odds. I had a roadtrain already on the way from Dubbo and I had enough horsemen to drive them to the yards.
‘Where’d you find them?’ I asked Scalp.
‘They were here. Come in for a drink and blocked by the gate. Rogues though—night drinkers. When they saw me they tried to break.’
I opened the gate and we put the little mob through. The boys caught and saddled their horses and together we discussed how six hundred head of very hungry cattle might be held together during the initial stages of the drive.
Richard and the big bay got the worst position—holding the lead away from the steep country running to the plateau. Nick and Black Cotton were posted at the lead on the south side. Scalp was to turn them as they came out and Tommy was to run them out of the small paddock. In fact Tommy didn’t have to do much as the cattle charged through the gate and everybody was instantly galloping. If the gate at the pass was left open again the lead might bolt and take days to track down. I drove quickly back to the camp and collected Sal. I had a feeling Johnny might leave immediately he woke and I was right. Sal was happy and not the slightest bit nervous. She had the camera bag out.
‘There’s no time for photos,’ I said anxiously.
‘Oh yes there is. Even if the cattle stampede there’s time for photos.’
I began to think of at least ten reasons she was wrong, but the topic of photography rubbed a raw nerve and I had as much chance as a jockey trying to tell the steward he didn’t push the favourite over the rails. Minutes later we arrived at the pass.
‘Mum told me one day,’ Sal said as she attached the telescopic lens, ‘to cherish the few years you have your children. They’ll be grown up and gone so quickly. There’ll be days when it all seems like a vivid dream.’
‘Did we ever get photos of them on their ponies?’ I thought maybe I’d taken a camera on one ride.
‘I was so busy I never knew where that old camera was.’
Sal set out for the craggy cliffs that overlooked the road leading to the pass. I couldn’t leave. When the tail was in sight my job was to open the gate and let the bunched-up cattle go. Richard and Nick couldn’t risk riding in to open the gate. On Richie’s side a bolt for freedom would take the mob to the high plateaus and a canyon beyond. On Nick’s side a deep scrubby ravine dropped away to the west, just beyond the little hump that formed the actual pass.
Sal didn’t have much time up her sleeve. The cattle had walked quickly and I saw the dust a few minutes before I heard the mooing. Some cows and calves constantly communicate with one another and others amble along in silence. Before the lead poked their white faces over the pass I saw Richard high up. He was taking no chances. I couldn’t see Nick and it was then I heard the scramble. There was the distinct thud of rocks bouncing down a steep slope and I could hear the snapping of brittle undergrowth. There’d been a break and I felt helpless. If I walked over to have a look I would spook the lead. It must have been three minutes, then there was a surge through the herd. They were coming over the pass at the trot and I flung open the gate, hopped into the four-wheel drive and sped away. If the lead couldn’t pass through the gate, Richie alone had to hold them.
Weeks later the photos Sal snapped told the little story of the break. All hell had broken loose and Nick, Tommy and Scalp had to gallop to the summit of a sandstone escarpment to turn back fifty breakaways. With some spectacular riding, they got them all back, while Richie managed alone to hold the rest of the mob. Maybe we did miss those early photographs, but Sal certainly made up for it that day.
The mob went through the gate quickly and Richard and Nick galloped forward to take up their positions. Tommy’s bad-eye mount was behaving, but I never saw his ears forward. Scalp rode over to me.
‘We’re makin’ such good time I know a patch where we can hold up for dinner. Bit of good grass. Give ’em about three hours.’
‘Track in there?’ I asked. ‘I could drop the water and lunch.’
I was going to take the lunch to the yards before I left, but I knew the boys would be ravenous hours before they got there.
Scalp said there was and dismounted to draw a dirt map. We left immediately, picked up the overgrown track and found the burnt stump Scalp had mentioned. By the time Sal and I left for Mitchell I could feel the tightening in my stomach. Time was the enemy and I was lagging behind.
At Mitchell I went to see a mechanic who had helped me out on a number of occasions and he agreed to work on the supply line engine provided I took him out. We went on to Roma and called at a business which specialised in fibreglassing. The manager thought he could fit me in some time in about a week. I hammered the urgency hard and when I explained exactly where I was with the cattle his attitude softened.
‘That’s bad country to be in,’ he said, shaking his head. He was in his sixties with snow white hair and the lines in his face suggested a lifetime of toil. ‘It’s never been any different in my time.’ He paused and glanced through the door into his large shed where several men were working. ‘How many gallons did you say?’
‘Thirty thousand.’
‘I’ll do it. We’ll leave at three o’clock in the morning.’
Everything was set for the deadline. Scalp said he could spare one drink for my cattle from his horse paddock dam. He thought he had only a few weeks left for his horses, then the lot would have to be bushed into his mountain country. After the horse paddock, I was relying on water from the old bore.
Before leaving Roma Sal and I both had a shower at the Commonwealth Hotel. The simple things we take for granted sometimes become monumental when they are denied. A quick coffee at ‘Double Bay’ also helped fortify us for the trip back to the rangelands.
The boys hadn’t long started the drafting when we arrived at the yards. The roadtrain was due at five o’clock and by six o’clock it would be dark. The horses were still saddled.
‘We’ll have to break the rule,’ I said to Sal. ‘Be seven o’clock before we’re finished here.’
‘I’ll be right,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll get the fire going and prepare dinner.’
I took Sal to the camp which was only five kilometres away and when I left I didn’t think I’d be long. I wanted to see the roadtrain driver, explain the permit conditions and give him his border crossing papers. The boys could do the rest and come back to the camp with Scalp. It didn’t occur to me the roadtrain driver might get lost. Fortunately he didn’t panic and after a closer examination of his map he found the correct road. I tied a bit of old sheet to a steel post to mark the track he was to turn into. It was about six-thirty when he arrived. Loading young cattle in the dark is usually difficult and the driver looked exhausted. He had covered the nine hundred kilometres from Dubbo without a sleep, and not used to ten hours in the saddle the boys were very tired. I decided to stay.
Roadtrains are loaded from the side and with older cattle it works well. Weaners, however, baulk when they get to the door. They see the confined space and don’t like it. We had to work hard to load that hundred and seventy-three weaners. Fortunately, the bulls walked on as though they were frequent travellers. They were poor and destined for hand feeding. As the train eased away from the loading ramp I contemplated the superhuman effort the driver would have to demand of himself to steer forty metres of vehicle, loaded with a hundred and eighty head of cattle, across the vast plains for another nine hundred kilometres. He didn’t expect to reach the border until 4.00 a.m., when he planned to sna
tch three hours sleep before the border inspector opened his office at seven o’clock.
We all watched the train leave. It was an awesome sight; enough lights for a city arcade creeping along a track too rough for a pedal bike in a forest already enveloped in darkness. The driver wasn’t young. He was grey and balding and the last we saw of him was a tiny head through the cabin window.
The horses were the next job. The boys and Scalp led them to the horse paddock dam for a drink and then let them loose in a yard with some hay. It must have been about eight o’clock when we headed for the camp. Scalp declined my invitation for dinner. He said he had to go to Injune.
About a kilometre past the turn-off to the yards we saw the four-wheeler bike on the side of the road. There was someone on it and as we got closer we saw it was a woman with hair across her face. It was Sal. She was wiping tears from her eyes and looked very distressed. Obviously she had been trying to find us, but didn’t know how to turn the bike lights on.
‘A man arrived in a car.’ Her voice was weak and frightened. ‘I jumped on the bike. He followed me. He had the lights on me and I didn’t know what he was going to do.’
I led her to the four-wheel drive. ‘What did he look like?’
‘Cowboy hat and beard.’
‘Something he did must have frightened you.’ I felt very concerned.
‘He just looked like a wild man,’ Sal said miserably. ‘He didn’t do anything wrong. He had a carton of beer under his arm.’
It was a reflex reaction. Any lone woman would have reacted the same way in this territory. It was my mistake. I should have briefed Richard on the paperwork and left it to him. It’s often hard to admit the truth to yourself, but I knew I’d wanted to be where the action was.
Obviously Frankie had found the camp during the day and thought if he contributed a case of beer he would be welcome. It was most unfortunate.
The incident dampened the spirit of the camp that night. It was a good example of the effect of rumour and innuendo. Fear seemed to stalk every valley and range.
Horses Too Are Gone, The Page 28