Warrigal's Way

by Warrigal Anderson

  Hugh stood and threw the dregs of tea out of his pannikin into the fire, then dowsed the fire with what was left in the billy, to the hoots and chiacking from the boys. We loaded the horses, called up the dogs, and got under way again. Mike and I had made ourselves a pretty comfortable seat with the swags and were leaning on the rail of the crate watching the country flow past.

  “What do you think of this country?” Mike asked.

  “You fair dinks?” I asked him.

  “Yeah, come on, what do you think?”

  “Gum trees and red dirt, what else would I think. It’s junk, just like anywhere else.” I looked at him and he was laughing his head off.

  “You know, mate?” he said. “There’s more money per square mile out here than all of Brisbane and Sydney combined.”

  “Get out, I can’t believe that. You’re pullin’ my leg. Look at it, just red dirt and gums.”

  “Yeah, but it’s what’s under that red dirt—iron ore, bauxite, gold, and dozens of minerals we never heard of. Then there’s timber. You know, they got a tree out here that’s worth that much money the government has special people licensed to get it. It’s got scented wood people all around the world go mad for, and the tree has an oil they get too, and make scent and stuff out of it. Yep, it’s a bit more than red dirt and gums.”

  “Well, I don’t know. You’re probably right, but I still see gums and dirt.”

  Mike looked at his watch and said we’d be in Greenvale in another half an hour, where we’d stop, give the horses and dogs a feed and a stretch, and have a feed at the pub ourselves. “A big steak with all the trimmings will go down a real treat just at the moment.”

  I had to agree. The cocky’s joy had worn off and I was feelin’ a bit hollow-gutted.

  We sat in silence for a good time and just watched the scrub go past. The dogs started to get restless, and because they did, the horses started.

  “Ah, there it is,” said Mike.

  “What?” I asked.

  “The two-mile board for the pub,” said Mike.

  What seemed like hours later, the engine noise got lower as Ted changed gear, and the truck started to slow down. We had pulled into a clearing about a hundred yards from the pub. Mike and I jumped off and Mike kept Rocky on his rope and tied to a tree while the others went for a run, stretching and tumbling over themselves, having great fun.

  Rocky looked at us and whinged his head off. “No,” Mike told him. “If you weren’t such an evil-tempered bugger you could go for a run, but you can’t be trusted. Christ, you know he nearly got us hung in Hughenden last time we were there. We were camped at the railway yards, and I let him off for a run. He was away for a while, then he turned up with this chook in his gob. Bloody thing was still alive, cackling and yodelling—and no wonder, that bugger had pierced it with his teeth. We had about a hundred cranky townies all wanting to kill him. Geez, I tell you that cost Hugh a pretty quid. He had to pay for the chook and shout a million or two beers up the pub to calm the screaming hordes. That was a real dilly that one, eh brother?” We could see what was coming next, so we all shouted with him, “I’d shoot the bugger if he wasn’t so good!” We all roared laughing, to the amazement of the couple of locals who were watching us from the pub veranda.

  We quickly dropped the back ramp and unloaded the horses, fed and watered them, put their headstalls on, and tied them on a long rope so they could pick about while we went over to the pub for a feed.

  We got steak and two eggs, some bread and a cup of tea. Hugh decided we might as well stay the night, so while the boys went and had a beer, I saddled up Shorty, took the head rope of the first two horses and led them up the road for a walk. I took them about a mile out, then back, then took the next two, then finally the third pair. I left Hugh’s stallion as he was a bit touchy around other people. I unsaddled Shorty and gave him a quick brush, and then decided to give them all a brush with the curry comb as they all loved it. It took about an hour, and it was just dropping twilight as I finished. I tied up all the dogs and made sure they had water, getting a bite on my hand from Rocky for my trouble. I was getting a bit worried that the boys hadn’t turned up, so I decided to go over to the pub to see what was up.

  “G’day mate. I was just coming to get you,” said Hugh. “We’re gunna stay at the pub tonight rather than pull the swags off the truck. Come and wash up for tea. We can square the camp away after.”

  I told him I had already done it, and told him what I had done.

  “You done well, mate. The only thing we’ll have to do after tea is put Flynn in the crate. He can’t be trusted on a rope.”

  “Flynn. That’s a funny name for a horse,” I said to Hugh.

  He laughed, “Nah, I called him after the biggest stallion of all, Errol Flynn.”

  He walked to the washroom with me, his hand on my shoulder, and left me at the door. “Come down the passage and to the last door on your right when you’re ready, right?” I had a wash and followed my nose, and found the boys sitting down at the table just rescuing a giant plate of steak, eggs, fried tomatoes and onions, as the waitress was about to dive on Mike in a self-destruct mode.

  “Christ, we should throw you on the back of the truck with poor bloody Flynn. You’re worse than that bloody horse. It’s disgusting,” said Ted. “What if the boss’s wife caught your act.”

  Hugh laughed. “Ted, that is the boss’s wife. He’s down in Brisbane.”

  Mike was just sitting back with a grin on his face. “Anyway,” he said to Ted, “I can’t help it if they go for my good looks and boyish charm, and lust after my body.” He laughed and took a drink of his beer.

  “Get out, you liar, you used to go with her before she was married. You gonna come a big cropper one day, like run into a husband with a big knife or a bloody big gun,” said Ted.

  “You’re just jealous,” laughed Mike, getting up. “See you later, or in the morning.”

  “Be early, we leave at dawn,” said Hugh.

  Mike just waved as he went out the door. The boys went into the bar and I went and sat on the veranda where I could hear the radio. The show “Take it from here” was on, and I liked it as it was prety funny. At about a quarter to nine Hugh came out and took me around and showed me where to sleep.

  “That’s Mike’s bed. He might not come in, but don’t worry. You know Mike, he’ll just sleep somewhere else.” It took me quite a few years to twig what Mike got up to. I don’t know whether he came to bed or not as I went out like a light as soon as my head hit the pillow, and didn’t move until Hugh shook me awake in the dark.

  “Are you right, mate? Cup of tea and a feed in the lounge, then we’re off.”

  “What about loading?” I asked.

  “All done. You put them to bed, so Ted and I got them up. They’re all fed and watered and aboard.”

  So we had breakfast and got under way, Mike staggered out as we were firing up the truck. Bleary-eyed he climbed aboard, made a nest and went to sleep straight off. I sat up front and watched the dawn come up. I vowed that if I had kids, a sunrise in the bush is one thing I’d show them.

  With the daylight came the heat and so off came the jacket and jersey, and in just shirt sleeves and the wind blowing through, I was quite comfortable. About an hour later we were at the turn-off to Einasleigh, and the old argument began—should we take the better road up through Conjuboy to the turn-off to Mt Surprise and down the beef road, or the short road through Einasleigh?

  “Bugger it, turn left,” said Mike.

  “That’s the way we’re bringin’ the cattle. If the road’s too rough we can take it easy. You don’t know what the beef road’s like anyway. We could go up there and find out it hasn’t been graded for generations. Bloke I was talking to in the pub reckoned it was rank. He’d just come down it. Nah, bugger it, turn left.”

  So we turned left and drove through The Lynd, and eventually we staggered into sight of Einasleigh, eyes rolling, bodies twitching, holding our hands under our
jawbones to protect our knees. Don’t get me wrong, the road couldn’t have been that bad. The people in town reckon we’ve got the worst bit to go yet!

  We unloaded the horses and let the dogs off for a run, and went to the pub for an outback pie, as Mike calls it, an inch-thick rump steak. “Two eggs if you’re dining casual, and vegies if it’s formal,” Ted said with a straight face. And he should know, because he’s a cook, and a good one too.

  The meal was tops, just what we needed. “This’ll keep your ribs apart, young feller,” Ted told me.

  “Yeah, that’s if this next bit don’t shake it down to my ankles.” My ribs were playing “Gundagai” on that last bit, my jaw keeping time bouncing off my knees every time I took my hand away from it. We voted Ted “Australian of the Year” for driving on the wrong side of the road.

  “At least the bumps were smoother, eh Mike?”

  Mike looked up and smiled. “I tell you mate, it’s got one benefit. If you let your legs hang down it’ll shake you about two inches a mile taller.” We all had a big laugh at that.

  We loaded up again. Hugh said the mob wouldn’t be road-ready till the day after next. “So we all go through to Forsayth and have a day off. All except you, Warrigal. Sorry, mate, you’re the youngest, so your job is to feed and water the horses and dogs, and exercise the horses a bit. You should be able to ride Shorty and lead a couple at a time. Don’t try riding my stallion though. He’ll kill you. And watch out when you’re handling Mike’s Skewball. Old flat face, he’ll bite or kick as quick as a wink. Don’t let Bob and Rocky off at the same time or they’ll fight like demons. And watch Rocky. He’s been on the rope so he’s likely to be feelin’ mean. Don’t give him a chance. If he growls, bat him around the ears with your hat. Right, you got all that? Repeat it back to me.”

  So I did. I didn’t mind. If you weren’t old enough to drink, there wasn’t much to do.

  The blokes at the pub weren’t wrong about the road. We were down to about fifteen miles an hour, creeping across the bumps, tossing and pitching. It was awful. Even driving on the other side of the road didn’t work, because everyone else had had a go at that. I don’t know how far it was. Mike reckoned about three-quarters of an hour on a decent road, but there was no telling, travelling like this. The bumps were so bad I had to hold his tobacco tin while he rolled a smoke.

  “Geez, I hope we don’t do a spring or break a bloody axle. Be really rotten country to be caught in,” said Mike. I could do nothing else but agree, shaken as I was and my eyes red-rimmed with dust.

  Seeing the pub board two miles out of Forsayth gave us a tremendous lift, a feeling not unlike Jim Cook must have had when he decided to plant the flag and pinch the country off the Aboriginals. Man, the sight of that microscopic main street! We all thought we had found the Holy Grail. Mike and I had the back ramp down and started unloading as soon as the truck stopped. The dogs sort of staggered offlike drunk sailors trying to get their shore feet. I’ll swear I saw one of them kiss the ground. Hugh headed straight for the pub while we were squaring away our camp, and came back with a couple of bottles of ice-cold lemonade and a big paper bag full of corn beef sangers. I don’t know why, but that was one of the best feeds I ever had. We just flopped around and let the tension flow out of us. Glad to be alive.

  “Thank Christ we’ll be comin’ back over that by horse,” Hugh said.

  “Speak for yourself,” said Ted. “I get the privilege of doing it twice.”

  “Well, look at it this way,” Mike said to him, with an evil grin on his face. “Next time around, you’ll know where all the shopper bumps are!” We all burst out laughing at the look on Ted’s face. The remark just seemed so incredibly funny.

  The flies were getting pretty active, determined to walk across my right eyeball. I had about ten attacking my face, and I got the Queensland salute into action, waving like a heartbroken lover. We all made a dash for the pub—me for the veranda and the boys for the bar, helped along by a big cloud of flies. Hugh came out about five minutes later, just as the flies were about to swear me in as an honorary landing field. He had a pump with a bowl attached. “Close your eyes,” he said, “and hold your breath when I say to. I did as he asked and I got a blast of wet sticky gunk.

  “Errgh, what the hell is that?” I bellowed at Hugh.

  “Get out, you horrible little bugger, it’s Mortein fly spray. It’ll probably knock you over—it says its for bugs, cockroaches and crawly things.”

  “Cripes, I can guarantee the stink. I hope it works.”

  “Well, most of your visitors have shot through, so it must work. Give us a yell if you want any more. You want another drink? Lemonade? Sars?”

  “Sars, thanks Hugh.”

  He put his hand through the window and yelled, “Mike, grab a bottle of sars for the Warrigal. I’ll see you later, lad, give you a yell for lunch.”

  With that he disappeared back into the pub as a hand came through the window with a bottle of sars in it. “Here, mate. Want anythin’ else, just stick your head in the winder and yell,” Mike told me.

  I sat with a couple of old blokes who scorched my ears with a history lesson about the town, from the first bloke to stumble in and build a humpy to the present day, I got offside with them when I asked what happened to the people who were here first?” Who? The bloody blacks? We shifted them out of town twenty years ago. We didn’t want to live with a mob of thievin’ blacks,” one of them said.

  I told them I thought they were a couple of real genuine stinkers, and if they were younger and I were older, I would punch them in the mouth. They burred up and went and told Hugh. He scruffed me and told me I had to apologise. I told him I would rather spit in their eye than apologise to a pair of rats like that. So I copped my first hiding.

  I went over to the truck, saddled up Shorty and called Pat to heel. We got on well, Pat and I. Both outcasts, I thought, gingerly getting on Shorty. I tied my canteen to a saddle ring with a piggin string, even though I was just going down the road, there’s not much water in the bush, and unless you know where to look, you’re dead, no second chances, just alive and dead. You don’t take the Australian bush lightly.

  I must have gone about half a mile or so out of town before I had to get down and walk a bit. My rear end was a bit too sore to ride. I was still real dark on that pair of old clowns, and was heaping every curse and disease I could imagine on their heads. I was walking along leading Shorty, and mumbling dire threats under my breath, when a voice behind me said, “Hey, that’s a neat dog. Is he yours?”

  I turned around and there was a skinny black kid standing at the edge of the bush, about eleven or twelve I reckon, with a big mop of curly hair, a torn cotton shirt and football shorts and bare feet. “Is that your horse too?” the kid added.

  “G’day. Where did you spring from?” I asked. “Yeah, he’s my horse, and the dog’s Pat. He’s a good bloke.”

  “My name’s Penny,” the kid said. “We live through there.” He pointed into the bush, and I could just make out a few roofs. “Do you want to come and have a look?”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t mind, but I’ll have to take the horse and dog back to camp, and make sure the others have got water and feed. Then I can come. Do you want to give me a hand?”

  Penny jumped at the chance, and between the two of us the watering and feeding got done in record time.

  The houses at the camp were sorta funny, made from all sorts of stuff but mainly tin. We went to Penny’s and his mum gave us a mug of tea and a bit of bread. We went outside when we finished and I met his sister Iris and the kids from the camp—Billy, Toby, Boy, Lance, Annie, and Doreene, who were all around my age. Billy suggested we go for a swim. You didn’t have to ask anyone twice. He led the way to the local billabong, and if you were shy you jumped in, in full marching gear. If not, you just dropped your gear and jumped in. The water was terrific, and we happily splashed around till just on dusk, when we all went our different ways. I had had a terrific day, and had m
ade some good friends.

  By the time the sun came up next morning we had made about fifteen miles, steak and two eggs rattling around inside us. That was breakfast. You knew it was breaky because it was steak and eggs not steak and vegies, and the eggs were sorta boiled in fat, like only the pubs and the army can cook them. They gave you the feeling they were stripping the lining from your intestines, and the grease is making you feel queasy. So you bang on the roof of the truck. “Ted! Ted! Stop! I gotta go in the bush!” The truck hauls to a wheel-dragging stop, and a blurr heads for the scrub. Coming back ten minutes later, you’re not sure whether to hold your burning rear end, or clutch your tummy and moan.

  “You don’t look well, mate. Tablespoon of castor oil will fix you up,” says Doctor Ted.

  My teeth draw back along with my fingernails toward the protection of the spine area. Man, that bloody castor oil! That or Fryers balsam will make the dead walk away carrying their own coffins. It’s the only medicine he carries with him, except for a flagon of Bundy Rum, and I can really see him letting me loose around that. I tell you, mate, even the animals head for the bush over Ted’s doctoring.

  I felt even worse then, the taste of that castor oil in my mouth and sitting in my belly like liquid lead. Every time I belched, up it came, making me gag all over again.

  “You right, mate?” Mike asked.

  “I will be, as soon as I get over Ted’s doctorin’.”

  My ear was sore and throbbing a bit, so I asked Mike to have a look at it.

  “You got a dose of tropical ear, probably from the swimming. Looks like you got to back up to Doctor Ted again.”

  I was thinking that wouldn’t be so bad, as the pain was starting to convince me that Ted couldn’t be worse. Wrong! His cure was hot castor oil poured into my lughole and plugged up with a bit of rag: “Olive oil’s best, but we got none, so that’ll do.”

  His bush doctoring on the whole was pretty good. He used onions for antiseptic, or tomatoes, and they worked a treat, grated potato for gravel rash, honey for poisoned cuts, and a small potato in your pocket for the rheumatics. He had a pretty good knowledge of bush medicine too. He got the old Aboriginal women to show him things whenever he got the chance.