Power of Pinjarra

by Sandra Dengler

  He had cemented the deal just last week, buying the mixed mob of Herefords, devons and a smattering of poleys from a going-broke squatter by Julia Creek. It was a bold front, a desperate move. Marty was one step short of bankruptcy. Less—half a step. On the brink. Either the drought would break and he would turn a profit on this mob he had just purchased, or the continuing drought would kill them all, and his dreams as well. The hundred bullocks that had been added to the deal, he’d whip into shape and try to sell as draught animals; it had worked once before.

  And what if Mr. Conlin didn’t know who he really was? Being a squatter, dressing primly and properly, wielding power, making vital decisions and shouldering heavy responsibilities—Marty was sick of it. He’d been doing that now for four and a half years. That could, for once, wait for tomorrow. Opportunity knocked here—and a chance for a temporary fling at carefree childhood. For a brief spell he would enjoy what he loved best—working cattle with no responsibility involved. He sent a letter home explaining this turn of events.

  When Mr. Conlin took delivery, Marty kept his hat pulled low and made certain he was nowhere near anyone who might recognize him as the young buyer, son of a well-known squatter. He turned his gray mare in with the drover’s mob and rode an inconspicuous bay gelding.

  And they were on their way.

  Marty marveled at how quickly life on the track settled to a routine, and how easily both drovers and cattle fell into it. Each morning the cook and horse tailer put the wagon—the plant—on its way, along with thirty-some spare horses. The drovers strung the cattle out loosely across half a mile, ambling at a most leisurely pace across the flat vastness.

  At midday the point riders would circle the cattle until they lay down. Marty would sit in the shade of a scrubby tree or, lacking trees, in the shade of his horse, to eat lunch—whatever had been left over from breakfast. When the cattle caught up to the plant in the evening, the cook would already have a tarp stretched over a ridge pole—wasn’t much, but it was home. His fire would be built, the damper started. Boiled kangaroo or boiled beef and damper. There was a routine to the menu, too.

  Being Jacky Raw, the new boy on the block, put Marty at the bottom of the pile. He rode all day at the very back, urging the stragglers forward. Dust—constant dense bulldust. No need to complain; that’s where the new boy rode. He saved his gray mare for night work, keeping her saddled and tied close to wherever he slept. He trusted her beneath him when complete darkness robbed even his good night vision. Besides, he knew how the old girl hated breathing dust.

  Maybe he was city-soft. Frankly, he missed not sleeping in a bed at all. Working on Pinjarra, he’d roll out his swag for days at a time under a tree or under the stars. Weeks at a time, though, it got to be a bit much. It could be worse, he knew. A lot of drovers didn’t even provide a tarp to sleep under.

  With no watch or calendar, he lost track of days—enjoying every bit of it. It was a luxury he would not be able to indulge in for long. He let day slip into day as July flowed by and melted unnoticed into August.

  Night. This one began like the others with one delightful exception: Cut’emup would keep watch until Alf relieved him; Marty got to sleep the night through for once. He tied the mare close by and folded his blanket double on top before he rolled into it; the clear air was extra crisp tonight.

  At dusk a flock of white cockatoos had settled into the thicket near camp. Now they gabbled and griped to each other, rustling and shifting in the trees, ruffling the silence of the winter night.

  Suddenly the air was filled with yelling, screams and thunder. Marty sat bolt upright and was scrambling for his horse even before he was fully awake. Clive and Mr. Conlin swore as they groped for their boots. Marty didn’t bother with boots; he vaulted onto the mare barefooted. He heard the rush, though he could not see it. The mob had bolted, startled by some unknown thing of the night. They were angling southeast, pouring uncontainably among the sparse trees, crashing through thickets, running senselessly. Marty turned the mare southeast in hot pursuit.

  The third-quarter moon was just now climbing. It provided a bit more light than did the stars. The dust cloud loomed ahead, a silver haze in the darkness. Caught up in the thrill of the chase, the mare extended her neck and stretched out into her jubilant gallop. She was so exciting to ride when she plunged her heart and soul into a hard run like this! Marty was abreast the stragglers already. Vague cow forms ran beside him, and then fell behind. The haze grew thicker.

  The theory was simple: ride alongside the herd, try to reach the leaders, and with your whip and the sheer weight of your lunging horse turn them aside; turn them, turn them until the mob milled in a tightening circle and settled to a halt. Marty had never tried to ring a mob before.

  He could make out now, however dimly, the general mass of the herd, a churning ocean of horns and backs and dust. Their brute power pulled a tree down ahead, toppling it into the silver dust. He should be on the wing of the mob, out along the edge; instead, he was in its midst far too deeply. He did not like to think what would happen to him should his horse stumble in the darkness. He must turn his mare aside, get out of this extreme danger. And he remembered that other rush of years ago when he rode amid plunging cattle just like this…

  He broke into a cold sweat as he saw in his mind’s eye…Turk Moran spiraling away, his eyeglasses flying off his nose as he was struck down by the bullet from Marty’s gun…Turk Moran’s own gun roaring harmlessly as cattle thundered past…and the churning dust….

  The gray mare squealed and disappeared from under him. Marty sailed into the air like an eagle at top speed, then slammed into bushes and hard ground. He was sure to be trampled now; the rampaging cattle right behind him would stomp him into the dust and never even feel him underfoot. He tried to curl up, to protect his head, but he couldn’t move. Cloven hooves dug into the dirt inches away; the dust boiled so thick he couldn’t breathe.

  Except for loud and confused lowing, the noise faded. The hoofbeats moved on. Some of the dust lifted, but it was still difficult to breathe. His right side was clamped in a painful vise; his right shoulder hurt even more. He had bunged himself up once before, but he’d really messed himself up this time. It took many minutes to fight his way to his feet and start looking for the mare.

  There she was, not ten feet away. And here was the reason Marty had not been trampled. He had been shielded by, quite literally, a wall of cows. Squirming, kicking, mooing, all legs and horns, they were still trying to disentangle themselves from each other in the darkness. A cow would roll and fight loose of the crazy pile and limp away. Then another would somehow lurch to her feet. A few squirmed helplessly, pinned beneath dead beasts.

  Bathed in slippery sweat, the mare lay on her side. She would raise her head, fighting, struggling, then fall back again. Marty’s left hand and arm were busy holding his right arm tightly against his body, for any movement shot wracking pain clear through him. He had no hand to spare, and he couldn’t see well enough to assess the horse’s problem.

  So he sat down by her mane and laid his body flat across her neck, pinning her head down. Her body heat and her smell and her slimy, resinous sweat penetrated his shirt. He felt her neck muscles bunch and pulse. And he waited.

  Hours later—years later, it seemed—a muffled voice called out in the darkness. Marty cried out. Silence. The voice called again, nearer. Marty shouted “Here! Over here!” again and again. From the south came the sound of a horse on the trampled ground, and from the east another. Clive on horseback loomed above him and dismounted. He let go a string of words Marty hadn’t heard since he drove bullocks for August Miles.

  Mr. Conlin rode up beside the tangle of cows. The richness of his vocabulary more than matched his drover’s. He studied the mess a minute. “Lad, it’s God alone saved you. Built a wall around you.”

  Why didn’t He build a wall around sweet Enid? What on earth made Marty think of her now? Simple. He had seen God so clearly in Enid that he just na
turally associated the two, that’s why.

  They rolled two dead cows aside to free the two still alive. The pile was all untangled now, with only two losses.

  “Eh, here’s what happened, Mr. Conlin.” Clive stood erect. “The mob took down this boundary fence. The fence came flying back on itself here and tangled Marty’s horse’s legs, see? Also tangled a couple cows. They went down. The other beasts couldn’t swerve and they stumbled onto the top of ’em. Not half a pile-up. Musta been one bonzer smash, eh?”

  “What spooked them; do we know?” Marty listened to the click and snap of wire cutters. Mr. Conlin was freeing his mare’s legs.

  “Yair. That flock of cockatoos in the gum tree. Something started them bunging on quite an act, squawking and chattering around. That’s ’bout all we can figger. Let her up, lad. Let’s see what she can do.”

  Marty twisted around and pulled himself off the mare’s neck. “Good mare.” He sat in the cool night dirt. “Only got two foals out of her, both fillies, and neither looks like her.”

  The mare paused a moment, lurched, and then flung herself up on her belly. Another pause and she lunged awkwardly to her feet. Instantly she crashed to the ground, her legs folding uselessly beneath her.

  “Here, lad, now let’s see how you’re doing. Clive, put him up aboard there and take him back to the bait layer.” Mr. Conlin shoved Marty rather too roughly over to Clive. They boosted him onto Clive’s horse and Clive swung up behind. The burly drover wrapped an arm around Marty not just to hold him on but to hold him. They hadn’t ridden a hundred yards when the gun blasted behind them.

  His mare…his faithful old gray mare…that gun…Turk Moran…Enid. A confusion of thoughts, sorrows most recent and far past, all swarmed in his brain, forming a pile just as tangled and dense as that mix-up of cattle that had saved him. But if God chose thus to save him, why not simply keep his mare on her feet in the first place? If God had power to do one, He must have power to do the other.

  It was sunup and Marty lay half-dozing in his swag when a thought struck him: If God had power to do as He willed, and this happened, then God must have a message in mind. It wasn’t too hard to figure out what it might be. After all, He had sent two messengers—Enid and Luke. And their message? Jesus. Always Jesus.

  Then Marty thought better of it. Nonsense. Things like this happen, that’s all. It could have been worse. It certainly could have been better. Still the notion persisted in Marty’s thoughts and would not be pushed aside.

  Marty got off light, the drover claimed. A horse, a couple broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder were a small price to pay for one’s life being saved miraculously. That philosophical thought did nothing to ease the pain of either the ribs or the loss of that fine old mare. With the cook’s help Mr. Conlin popped Marty’s shoulder back in. He nodded sagely when Marty mentioned his previous problem with it. “Eh, yair. Had a cousin once with a trick shoulder just like that.”

  For a week Marty rode in the plant as cook’s helper until he could use his stiff arm. Then he was back in the saddle, droving. But there was a difference. Now and then he was assigned to riding wing, in rotation with the others. He received his turn on point, too—the very front with no dust and no stragglers. He had arrived: a full mate in this solidarity of proud and independent men.

  As they drew closer to Pinjarra, Marty watched with growing admiration as Mr. Conlin put native intelligence and years of experience to the task of bringing the Frobel mob safely home to paddock. Marty was impressed with the man’s skill and ingenuity. Every day Mr. Conlin used more brains than some city businessmen even own.

  Let some city drongo find water for thirteen hundred cattle when the gilgais were all dried up. Or feed. Mr. Conlin would look across a distance identical to the distances they had just covered, then announce, “There’s grass over that way.” And there always was. Each day posed unique problems. Each stage brought them closer home.

  Home. He should think more about finding a good woman to share it with. Then his mind would shift to Enid, and the pain stabbed deep all over again. Nine years ago. As splendid a girl as Enid was, that’s a ridiculously long time to mourn a lost love. And Pearl. What was Pearl doing now? Surely married. And that thought shot a pang of jealousy through him. Silly galah, Frobel. That was years ago.

  Pearl. True, Pearl had been cranky at times. She put on airs. But she was also a good friend. Marty felt comfortable with her, comfortable and easy. She loved cities and city ways. Did enjoying her company mean Marty was a city lad at heart? Here in the middle of nowhere, droving a mob under broiling sun, he couldn’t believe that. This land was a part of him.

  Still, it was curious the way he and city-bred Pearl got along so well—a mateship, in the best sense of the word.

  The land flowed in familiar patterns now. Nearly home. How should he break the news of his identity to this old drover? How about: Sir, you know how God owns all the cattle on a thousand hills? Well, I own the thousand cattle on this hill. No. Mr. Conlin wasn’t a religious man. He probably wouldn’t get it.

  Or, I’ve been meaning to mention this earlier, but my name isn’t really James. It’s Frobel. Direct, but disappointing somehow.

  How about: My pop says he’s sending another thousand head down from Elizabeth Downs. Can you take on another job? Yair, that’s the ticket.

  They were less than three miles from Pinjarra now and headed straight for it. Half a day—then home. The excitement built inside his chest and made his breastbone tickle. He saddled the scraggly bay because it hadn’t been used for several days and took his place riding point this morning. The plant rolled away over the rise and out of sight.

  Soon.

  Marty looked up to see a lone horseman at a dead run, appearing from where the plant had disappeared. As he approached, the plant came back over the rise, its four harness horses rocketing along at a disorganized canter. Mr. Conlin muttered something bullocky and galloped ahead to meet the rider.

  Marty recognized the battered hat and the black face beneath it, but most of all he recognized the vivid blue shirt. He rode ahead, too. He pulled alongside Mr. Conlin and the rider. “Gimpy Jack! What’re you doing out here?”

  “Marty!” The whites of Jack’s eyes glowed. “We got trouble, Marty. For a month now, raiders been plaguing your place. Stealing things, killing chooks, being a nuisance. Before ’twas by night but they’re here now—in broad daylight.”

  “That’s mad! Ridiculous! Why would anyone want to—”

  “They’re shooting guns and trying to fire the buildings.”

  “Right now? Pop know about this?”

  “Didn’t tell him. He got troubles of his own.”

  The boss drover studied Marty a moment and burst into a raucous laugh. “Kinda suspected. Frobel, hey? Now what’s this about trouble?”

  “It’s not your problem. Don’t risk yourself or your drovers.”

  Mr. Conlin’s eyes narrowed in the baggy face. “I’ll take on whatever problems I choose to and no young squirt’s gunner tell me what fights I can or can’t take up. Now I promised delivery on this mob and it’s gunner happen. Right to your front paddock. I know how to pull a trigger if need be.”

  “Mr. Conlin, you don’t—”

  “My professional pride’s at stake. Besides, I admire you, young feller. You took orders well, and you pulled your weight. You’re a dinkum cobber and willing to work. And cheerful. All that’s hard to find, ’specially among the squattocracy. We’re gunner help you.”

  Marty twisted in the saddle. The mob was nearly upon them now, slogging along in its casual way. He looked at Mr. Conlin.

  The mob! Here was power beyond comprehension, power Marty himself had experienced firsthand a few short weeks ago. Of course! And no trigger to pull.

  He nodded toward the mob. “Let’s rush ’em.”

  A smile as wide as a saltpan spread across the pudgy face. Cheeks and jowls shifted all over. “That oughta scrub the yards clean, hey?”


  It didn’t take but a minute to set the mob off; a few shotgun blasts at the rear did it. Five thousand two hundred cloven feet charged recklessly forward up the dry slope, plunging the land ahead into danger, mindlessly escaping no danger at all. They filled the crest of the rise with dust and churning confusion.

  Marty tried to stay on the wing, to keep them pointed true toward the house. He knew the drovers were where they ought to be, struggling to keep this uncontrollable mob moving right, but he could see nothing but dust and horns and razorbacks.

  There was the house—his house—in plain sight now. It sat among its outbuildings in lovely isolation in the midst of its broad, sweeping valley. It loomed closer. There were riders, half a dozen of them, and two men on foot carrying torches. Even at this distance you could see the moment the men on foot realized the danger. As the riders paused in Marty’s very dooryard, their horses dancing, the men afoot dropped their torches and scrambled madly for their mounts. The riders bolted even as the first of the mob hit the hospital-paddock fence and took it down.

  Marty wanted to get close enough to see faces, to identify the scoundrels, but they were too far ahead and leaving in too much of a hurry.

  Dust obscured the station now and rose in a churning cloud halfway to heaven. Unable to turn aside for the crush of cattle, three bullocks slammed into Luke’s abandoned stringybark hut on the south side. The shed leaned, folded, and disappeared under rushing feet. Cows took out the verandah rail on the north side of the main house. The whole south side verandah collapsed.

  A part of Marty sorely wanted to pursue those riders, to try to overtake them, but a wiser part of him warned him otherwise. Too dangerous. Abreast the main house, he veered his horse south as the last of the mob swept by. He rode a wide circle and came in behind the cattle through the choking cloud, up to the front door.