When the Dust Settles

by Cook, R

  There are always some accidents on cattle stations that can’t be avoided despite all the precautions you take. I often found myself at the centre of the action. In the season of 2001, some familiar faces had returned to the stock camp, including Talby, and we were moving through the branding very quickly. Never wanting to leave the calves separate from their mothers for too long, we would easily process 500 before a late lunch. As the calves moved up the race and emerged through a small gate, one by one they were dumped on their side in a calf cradle. Once the calf is down, the bloke doing the catching would take care of the dehorning and earmarks while another person working the race would stretch out the back legs for branding and castration if necessary. With good teamwork, a calf can be lying in the cradle for as little as ten seconds before being released. Usually Dad would wield the brand and I would be cutting the male calves. To save time, as I leant over the rear of the animal, I would spread my legs to allow Dad to brand at the same time.

  ‘Brando!’ he would yell to let me know not to move while he’s using the hot iron.

  On this particular day at the Eight Mile yards, I was wearing a heavy-duty miner’s twill shirt, which was untucked at the front and a little frayed. As Dad branded, I was shocked to see my shirt begin to smoke and catch on fire. I stood up and swatted it out.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Dad. ‘If I light you up I’ll pat you out, don’t you worry about that.’

  So I agreed to his emergency response strategy and got back to work. The very next male calf that arrived was a hairy Shorthorn. Any cattleman knows the hair on a Shorthorn or Hereford can catch fire around the brand, particularly in winter. It never worried the calf, just singeing the tips of the hair, and was easily patted out. So sure enough, this Shorthorn calf started to smoke and flames burnt up to my frayed shirt and started to singe the hair on my belly as I leant over.

  ‘Fuck, I’m on fire,’ I yelled in surprise.

  Reeling backwards, I used both hands to grab the shoulders of my shirt, jerking it hard over my head. At the same time Dad came running in to put me out as he said he would, and copped an accidental but solid punch straight to his face. My fist busted his mouth, knocked his glasses off and cut the bridge of his nose in the process. He looked like he just stepped out of a pub brawl.

  ‘You know what, fuck ya,’ he said gruffly. ‘Next time I’ll let you burn. Run another calf up.’

  With a bit of bark missing off Dad’s snout, we got back to work and, besides the broken glasses, it didn’t slow him down much. I still didn’t realise what had actually happened until months later Dad was telling the story of when I punched him in the head. He was always cautious about coming to my aid in the future, but was always there if I needed him.

  Later in the season I again found myself in the same peculiar situation, leaning over the calf cradle castrating. I had noticed the Brahman-cross calves had a lot more fight in them than the Shorthorn calves that we were used to, but they weren’t causing many problems – until now. The person who chased the calf up the race was generally responsible for closing the gate at the end of the race to prevent the next calf running out, before then grabbing the leg of the one in the cradle. I knew the spring-loaded pin in the gate was playing up but I was keeping an eye on it and had flung it shut myself this time around. Unbeknown to me, the pin went past the hole and was not locked. So while I was halfway through cutting the testicles out of this calf, a sappy one came bolting through, head-butting the gate, which swung open at speed. The pin smacked me square in the top of my head. There was nothing to slow down the force, the gate hit me hard and knocked me clean out on my back. While the boys tried to scruff the escaped calf, I spent the next few seconds on the ground having a fit, waving the scalpel around in my hand. Luckily, Dad pinned down my arm with his foot and removed the blade before I did further damage. A short time later, I woke up and there was a big gash in the top of my head. My hat lay on the ground beside me, but amazingly there was barely a dent in it. However, the blood dripping onto my face told the story, and Dad gave me a hanky to stem the flow. I couldn’t really feel anything and there was no headache at all.

  ‘Come on, we’ll go and sit down for a bit,’ said Dad encouraging me into the shade.

  ‘Nah, fuck it, run another one up,’ I declared, taking my lead from him earlier in the year.

  I pulled my hat back on my head firmly to hold down the hanky and back to work we went. From that point on we knew shutting the little race gate was very important, or else it could get ugly, as I had found out.

  As was becoming the tradition at home, the boys would head to Top Springs for the occasional weekend away during the year. Sometimes we would call Elaine prior to leaving and find out what was happening at the pub. She even began calling the station to alert us to some strip show she had organised for a Friday night or other event of interest. Strippers at such a remote pub were a very rare sight, although I don’t think we ever made it. After the first visit we didn’t have to pay for accommodation or food and we only paid cost price for cigarettes, Coke and rum by the bottle. Elaine made no money out of us, but we kept the travellers there, having a good time. We sometimes walked out to the highway intersection to wave down passers-by to stop for a drink in the pub. At one stage Elaine had to drive to Katherine to pick up a load of beer, leaving just the boys to man the cash register in the bar. We didn’t want to be handling any money, so we instead tallied up our drinks in a very honest manner and balanced it at the end of the day. Kev, the gardener and bouncer, told us it was also Elaine’s birthday and possibly one of the reasons she wanted to get away for the day. So we went into the kitchen and tried to make her a cake, but between us there was very little in the way of cooking skills. We made numerous attempts with flour and cocoa but each time the cake came out of the oven looking like a black rock.

  ‘Well boys, stuff this,’ I said. ‘One thing I can cook is a mean damper, so we’ll make that and put a candle in it instead.’

  So sure enough, mixing a bit of water and flour proved fruitful and out of the oven came beautifully soft damper bread. Unfortunately, Elaine came home late, well after we had all gone to bed, so we couldn’t present her with the damper, which had been accidentally left out in the cool breeze. The next morning I nearly needed to use a cordless drill just to put a hole in the exterior for a candle; it was as hard as a brick. Nevertheless, we took the damper to Elaine singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and she broke down in tears. She wasn’t expecting such a surprise from a few dusty ringers. It was nice to know we had made a small effort for a lady who had been so kind to us. Later, when we were back at our favourite table in the bar, it became apparent that the Suplejack boys were a sight for sore eyes.

  ‘Gone are the days when stockmen can come into a watering hole, drink all day and go home happy,’ Elaine told us. ‘They always need to start shit.’

  We were getting a little worried until she went on. ‘You blokes should be very proud of yourselves, giving Suplejack a good name by doing what you’re doing,’ she said.

  Each station had its own reputation, according to Elaine, and it largely depended on the staff behaviour when they were in the pub. Although I was known for a bar fight or two myself, I had stayed well out of trouble at Top Springs. We even tried to prevent fights and help Kev to sort out problem drinkers if needed. In some ways we were the peacemakers, although Elaine didn’t need much help – what with a cricket bat and a faithful red heeler behind the bar. If required, she would kick the swinging door open and let the dog out to chew on whoever was in the wrong. Most rowdy travellers would find out the hard way about her aggressive companion who lay ready to gnaw on their leg.

  On one of our most memorable trips to Top Springs, Talby, Brad and young friend Dusty Weeden made up the station stock camp.

  ‘You know what, with all these young fellas here,’ commented Elaine one afternoon. ‘I bet you’d look good in a dress.’

  ‘OK Elaine, we’ll dress up as women in your clothes,’
I replied thoughtfully. ‘But while we’re dressed as women in the bar, we get free grog.’

  ‘I’ll take that bet,’ said Elaine confidently.

  A done deal. But Elaine hadn’t let on that the station crew from up the road, which included boys renowned for fighting, was also coming to the hotel that night. Out of the wardrobe came beautiful, old-fashioned dresses, along with flowered hair bands and high heels. All four of us put on a dress and even makeup and lipstick. I didn’t look crash hot, but some of the other boys looked all right. I’d been in the desert a long time and they looked like decent women to me. We had a good hour or so in the bar laughing and mucking about before we heard about the wild boys who were on their way. It shouldn’t have surprised us, but we took off the high heels and put our boots back on, just in case things got out of hand. The free drinks kept coming as long as the dresses stayed on. It wasn’t a privilege that we were going to throw away. Soon the crew came barging through the door, as excited as we were to get on the piss. The usual bragging and big-noting came with them about catching scrub bulls, flying choppers and being ringers from the Top End. We were a little worried sitting at the bar in our dresses and eye shadow, and we certainly didn’t want to turn around. One big, burly bloke sidled up to the bar stool next to me.

  ‘Where are you from, love?’ he asked, lightly touching my arm.

  As I turned around to look at him he nearly fell off his chair in surprise.

  ‘Down the road, mate,’ I replied slowly.

  ‘Well, what the fuck are you dressed like that for?’ he asked angrily.

  ‘Oh, we’ve got a bet going,’ I said.

  ‘What kind of a crazy bet involves you being a woman?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s between us, mate. You just leave us alone and we’ll be all right,’ I said.

  After the boys had had a skin-full of grog, they became very rowdy. Some were pretending to bullfight the bar stools, until they broke the seat off one. That was enough for us fine-dressed women to say something.

  ‘Now we’re not going to do it in Elaine’s bar,’ I told them. ‘But if you want to go, then come outside.’

  The rowdy bunch thought twice before going toe to toe with us, which was lucky because it could have become terribly ugly for us, wearing fake boobs and pretty dresses. The night continued without a glitch, with everyone enjoying themselves, particularly us with free rum.

  One of the last times I was at the pub, before Elaine sold and left, I met local cattleman Michael Underwood from Riveren Station, north of Suplejack. The name Underwood is synonymous with the northern cattle industry, Michael’s grandfather Pat Underwood having pioneered Inverway Station many years earlier. I knew of Mick, as he’s known, but had never met him until he passed through Top Springs that day. He was a big bloke, I noticed, as he approached me in the bar.

  ‘You’d have to be a Cook,’ he said, pointing at me.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said, not really knowing what was coming next.

  ‘I’m Mick Underwood,’ he said holding out his hand. ‘I went to college with your cousin Tim Cook.’

  After a brief chat, he insisted on buying us a beer, before jumping in his car and leaving.

  ‘You know, Rob,’ said Elaine from behind the bar. ‘I’ve known Mick for most of his life and I’ve never seen him buy another person a beer here at the pub who wasn’t a mate of his.’

  I could only assume that this was a good thing. The Underwood family have always been good friends of our family since we arrived in the Territory, and they remain so.

  Sadly, Elaine Beswick passed away a few years ago and we never had the chance to have one last rum together. Elaine was a tremendously kind and considerate lady with a beautiful sense of humour, someone I will never forget.

  9

  STICKS AND STONES

  I knew I had done some serious damage to my body, but as I pulled my jeans down, I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. High up in the left side of my groin was a giant blood blister the size of a water balloon! The longer I sat propped against the wheel of the horse truck, the more pain I started to feel as the adrenaline wore off. I looked over towards the chutes where the bright lights shone, where the crowd cheered for the riders and where the smell of sweat and manure filled the air. It was November 2002, at the Four Seasons rodeo at Armidale in northern New South Wales, and the fourth season in one day was just kicking in, a freezing chill. Fittingly, the horse that had thrown me and caused so much pain was called Frosty. He was a big grey gelding, blind in one eye and a nine-time Bucking Horse of the Year. At that point in my career, I had ridden or tried to ride none tougher than Frosty. I had plenty of advice coming my way but my first crucial mistake was made in the chute in preparation for the bareback ride. As my mate helped me with the latigo, the buckle on the rigging was caught on the top of the rail while the buckle on the girth was caught on the bottom of the rail. This meant that as he pulled the strap tight, although it felt tight, it really wasn’t.

  The big horse was leaning on his nearside into the railings because of his blindness, so I had to jump-start him out the gate as it opened, just hoping to land somewhere in the right spot. I had jump-started many bullock rides that ended with me at the pay window, but the difference in power between a bull and a horse is out of this world. I dipped my head to the gate opener and away we went, with the first four seconds of the ride going all my way. He had me a little stretched out and I was letting my spurs work me back into a good position. In typical rodeo lingo I was laying back ‘howling at the moon’ while ‘taking a dig at the devil’. Bareback riding is known as a kamikaze sport because you basically close your eyes for the duration. There’s no point looking around as you can’t see anything anyway.

  I was pretty happy with the way this ride was going. But suddenly it felt like Frosty had quit on me because I wasn’t feeling his initial speed and power. With most of my weight on my riding arm, I decided to have a glance over my shoulder and was shocked to see the ground only a few inches from my head. Initially, I figured the horse had reared up and was falling on top of me, so instinctively I moved my left leg outwards to prepare to roll out of the horse’s way. The loosened girth had allowed the rigging to slide down the nearside of the bronc – I had been spurring him with my left boot in his chest while my right boot had been catching him up on the neck. So when I put my left leg out to the ground, the horse bucked forward, bending my leg behind me with my right leg still stuck in the mane, forcing me to do the full splits and tearing my groin – hence the blood blister. But the ride wasn’t finished yet, as my hand was still tightly wedged in the rigging and it was not coming out easily, so the horse kept bucking around the arena jumping and stomping on me as it went. Luckily, Frosty threw himself down on his side, allowing the pick-up men and even the bullfighters (who usually only help protect bull riders from being hurt by bulls) to hold him down while the girth was cut free, leaving me with my hand still wedged in the rigging. Adrenaline pumping, I was OK to stand and walk out of the arena, being careful not to limp in front of the crowd. My father had taught me years earlier that no matter how bad things get inside the arena, if you can’t walk out, you better hope you are dead and on a stretcher. So knowing Dad would kick my arse if I limped, I quickly got out of there before the pain set in. My travelling mate, Ryan Frame, helped me over to a parked truck where I took a seat at the back of the arena. It soon became obvious to us that I had done more than just rip my jeans. Unfortunately, my night wasn’t over. I still had one more ride ahead of me on a bull that had always eluded me.

  I had finally hit my twenties and for the next couple of years I began spending more time away from the station and more time chasing the dream that is rodeo. In Queensland I continued to base myself at Miles and Dulacca, driving thousands of kilometres some weekends to attend different rodeo events. Sometimes I even managed to squeeze three rodeos into one weekend. I was supporting myself by running my own timber-cutting business; starting at 4 a.m. and finishing
at 1 p.m., I’d easily make $300 to $400 a day. It also meant I could spend time with my other love, Sarah, who had finished her enrolled nursing studies and was beginning registered nursing. We eventually began living together in a small railway house in Dulacca, along with Ryan Frame, who was working for Sarah’s father doing a traineeship on their property. After getting to know Ryan, one Wednesday afternoon he told me he was off to ‘a practice’.

  ‘Oh yeah, what instrument do you play?’ I asked, thinking he was part of a music band.

  ‘Nah mate, a bull-riding practice day. Dad’s a contractor so we’ve got bulls at home,’ he said. ‘Do you want to come with me?’

  Ryan’s father was Campbell Frame, a well-known bucking bull contractor, supplying stock to the various rodeos. Although I was still only riding broncs, it sounded like fun so I jumped in for the forty-kilometre trip to Chinchilla. I should have thought that decision through a little more because as soon as we pulled up, the other cowboys, whom I didn’t know, were hanging shit on me about being at a practice event and not riding. Aside from the continued harassment, it was a good evening spent at the Campbell’s property under the lights at the arena watching the boys ride as many bulls as they wanted. It gave the riders, the bulls and even the bullfighters a chance to practise without the pressure of time or a crowd watching. But as good a night as it was there was no way I was going back the next week to take the pressure they put me under. I still had no desire to ride, mostly because I was scared of bulls. It’s funny, though, how time passing can change the way you think. After three weeks, I suddenly decided that actually I did want to try riding a bull again. I had still only ridden the bull at Talwood, and while I’d won the event, deep down I considered it to be a fluke. Perhaps I didn’t like being called weak, or perhaps I just needed to prove to myself that the first ride wasn’t a fluke, but whatever the reason I decided to head along to the next practice day and get on a bull. Although it was a relaxed atmosphere, the nerves were kicking in as Campbell ran a big Brahman bull, with impressive horns, up the race.