In the Musgrave Ranges Part 14

Next morning, although it was summer and the sun rose very early, the men had breakfast by the light of a hurricane-lantern, and the mustering plant was all ready to start out before dawn. There were Mick, the two white boys, six n.i.g.g.e.rs, eight packed horses and the rest spares, making thirty in all. The white boys were naturally interested in the horses they were to ride. Sax had a grey mare named Fair Steel to ride in the mornings, and Ginger, a gelding, for the afternoons.

Vaughan's two were both geldings: Boxer, a brown, and Don Juan, a tall black. All four horses were well-bred and thoroughly suitable for the month's hard work which lay ahead of them.

The plant made straight for the Musgraves. It was a brilliantly clear day, and when the sun rose the range of mountains ahead of them seemed to be only a day's ride away. But at the end of the second day, when the packs were pulled off near a water-hole, the Musgraves did not look to be any nearer. Mick and the white boys rode in the lead all day, and the plant, driven by the black-boys, followed behind; this is the method of travel all over Central and North Australia.

On the morning of the third day they started to muster. All around the water-hole were the recent tracks of hundreds of cattle, and the day's work consisted of riding out on these tracks till the limit was reached beyond which no cattle had gone from that particular water. Then the stockmen rode in, gathering cattle as they came. The party split up into three in order to muster the district thoroughly, and before sunset a mob of over four hundred cattle was bellowing round the water-hole. The nearest stock-yard was two days away, so the cattle had to be watched that night. Sax and Vaughan had done some night watching on the way from Oodnadatta to Sidcotinga, when wild blacks had been about, but a few tired, broken-in horses were very easy to watch in comparison with a mob of nearly half a thousand wild desert cattle.

The usual precautions were taken. The men made their camp on the slope of a little clay-pan out of sight of the water-hole, so that their movements in the night would not startle the cattle. All fires were put out before dark, and no man was allowed to shake his camp-sheet or make any sudden noise. Watches were arranged so that two stockmen were riding round the cattle all night long.

The moon was full enough to vaguely light the scene, which was very typical of Central Australia and could not possibly be met with in any other part of the world. Mick and Vaughan took first watch and Sax and Poona took the second. When Sax came off watch, and was riding up the little hill, looking forward to rolling himself up in his blankets, the sound of singing made him turn and look back. It was a wonderful sight which met his gaze, and those who have once seen a similar one are never really satisfied in any other place. The water looked flat like a mirror, and one or two cattle stood knee-deep in the edges of it.

All around, just a vague black ma.s.s from which a warm mist of breath and hot bodies was rising, were the cattle, mostly lying down and contentedly chewing the cud, while a few wandered slowly about looking for one another and quietly murmuring. One of the black-boys, whose turn at watching had just come, was already riding round with one leg c.o.c.ked lazily over the pommel of the saddle, and chanting a coroboree dirge, both to let the cattle know that he was about and because he was happy.

The other boy was waiting for Sax's horse. Sax dismounted and noticed that the man standing near him was Eagle. The native grinned as he climbed awkwardly on the horse, for he was not used to riding, and, as he moved off, he pointed with his mutilated hand in the direction of the Musgrave Ranges and uttered the words: "Bor--s Stoo--bar."

Sax sat down for a moment. These words reminded him that indeed this was his home, the land of his father, the place where perhaps he had been actually born. The magic of the desert night bewitched him; the half-moon, the few stars in the pale sky, the sense of limitless s.p.a.ce across the sand, the water-hole and the camped cattle, the quavering voice of the chanting n.i.g.g.e.r which was now joined by another voice, wilder and more exultant--these things and the consciousness that his father was somewhere near, guarded by these mysterious desert forces and desert men--thrilled him, and when he stood up again and walked over to his swag, he knew in a way that he had never known before that the blood of the North was in his veins, and that he was the descendant of a race of heroes--the Australian bushmen.

The cattle were quiet all night. Mick was an old stockman and had given strict orders to his boys not to hurry the cattle, so that they arrived at the water-hole almost in the same mood as they would have done if they had come for a drink of their own accord. They were on their own country also, and there was not a strange stick or stone or tree to frighten them. Cattle very seldom rush at night when they are on their own feeding-grounds, and though Mick took no chances, and double-watched them all night, he did not expect anything unpleasant to happen. "It's better to be sure than sorry," he told the boys at breakfast.

Immediately the meal was over they started to "handle the cattle".

That was Mick's way of expressing it, and, indeed, at one part of the proceedings the cattle were actually "handled". But before they reached that stage many things had to be done. Each man was mounted on the best horse possible, and the party rode down the hill to the water-hole, spreading out like a fan, and slowly working the cattle away from the water till they were on an open plain about a quarter of a mile away.

Now came one of the most difficult things that a stockman ever has to do. It is called "cutting out". Man and horse have to be of the very best to perform this feat properly or else the whole operation results in confusion. Mick was mustering the north of Sidcotinga run in order to brand all cleanskins, and there were probably not more than a hundred unbranded cattle in that mob of nearly half a thousand. Most of these were calves which were still running with their mothers, though there was a sprinkling of larger stock which had been missed the year before. The first job was to separate the cows and calves and other cleanskins from the main herd, thus dividing it into two mobs.

The mounted stockmen put the cattle together tightly and held them.

Mick was riding a bright chestnut gelding with high wither and an intelligent head, whose name was Hermes and who was reputed to be a famous camp-horse.[1] Signalling to his boys to be ready, Mick rode straight into the mob of cattle. Almost at once he saw an unbranded steer and pointed his whip towards it. The horse did the rest. With wonderful skill, Hermes worked alongside the steer, shouldered it to the outside of the mob, and cut it out from the other cattle.

Immediately two other stockmen came in behind it and drove it a few hundred yards away, where it was kept by three mounted boys who had been detailed for the purpose. It is far easier to keep a hundred cattle in one place than it is to do the same to a single beast, but Mick and Hermes were now cutting out cleanskins one after another without any pause, thus increasing the second mob very quickly. It is a splendid sight to see cattle being cut out by a good man on a good horse. The man needs to have a quick eye and never to hesitate once, for he is right in the midst of several hundred wild cattle who are afraid of him, and are ready to wreak their vengeance on him at the first opportunity. He must be a faultless rider, for a camphorse can turn right round at full gallop in its own length, and woe to the man who loses his seat at that time. He is amongst the feet and horns of desert cattle. Mick never made a mistake. He took the matter as quietly as it could possibly be done, and gradually worked the clean-skins out and made up the other mob.

When a thing is done well it looks easy to a spectator, and the white boys thought that this work of cutting out, which they had heard so much talk about, was a very simple matter indeed. Mick saw them edging nearer and nearer, and knew that they were very keen to try their hands, so he shouted out: "Have a shot at working on the face of the camp.[2] Be steady, though," he warned them. "It's not as easy as it looks."

They soon found out that the drover was right. Their horses knew far more about the matter than they did, but the men on their backs were clumsy, and started to pull them this way and that, till the horses got worried, and didn't know what to do. Mick brought a young steer out to the edge of the mob where the boys were standing, and shouted: "Here you are. Come in behind me."

Their horses started to do the right thing, which is to come in between the steer and the mob, but Sax rode straight at the beast, drove it towards Vaughan, who tried to turn his horse suddenly and only made matters worse, for the steer galloped back into the mob. Mick swore and cut it out again, and drove it several yards out from the other cattle and gave it a parting cut with his stock-whip. Sax and Vaughan galloped after it. It dodged and tried to get back, but, more by luck than good management, the boys kept it out in the open. At last they got it on the run towards the second mob and were feeling very pleased with their success, when it suddenly turned.

Sax was in the lead. His horse was an old stock-horse, and as soon as the beast turned, it turned too, quickly, and in its own length. But the boy on the horse's back did not turn! Sax had been going for all he was worth, standing up in the stirrups and leaning forward excitedly, when, all of a sudden, the horse under him jerked round on its fore feet. Sax went straight on over the animal's head and came to the ground all in a heap, while the horse galloped on for a few yards and then stopped and looked round at its fallen rider. Vaughan did not fare quite so badly. His horse did not turn at full gallop. It propped and then turned. When it propped, it flung Vaughan forward.

He clutched the horse's neck to save himself from coming off, and when the horse turned he hung on still tighter.

The steer got away easily and was making back to the mob when Uncle and Fiddle-head came to the rescue. Everybody laughed at the two white boys, but they took the fun in good part and learnt their first important lesson in handling cattle: it's never so easy that it doesn't need care.

[1] A camp-horse is a horse which has been especially trained for cutting out cattle on a cattle-camp.

[2] Working on the face of the camp means taking cattle which have been cut out from the man who is doing this particular job, and driving them away to the second mob.

CHAPTER XVII

The Branded Warragul

By noon the cattle were in two mobs, clean-skins and branded. Leaving the clean-skins in charge of three boys, with instructions to keep them from straying, Mick and the other stockmen drove the branded cattle right away and let them go, and then rode back to camp for dinner. A fire was lit, the nine quart-pots put in the blaze, the damper and bag of meat brought out, and soon everybody was munching the hard tucker with a relish which can be gained only by a vigorous life in the open air. As soon as three of the black-boys had finished, they were sent out to relieve the ones who were watching the cattle, and at the end of the hour's middle-day "camp", everybody was ready for the branding.

There were one or two trees on the plain, and a suitable one was chosen with a strong bough about five feet from the ground. A pile of wood was collected and a fire lit and the brands made red-hot. Green-hide ropes were uncoiled to get the kinks out and coiled again ready for instant use, and every horseman saw to the tightness of his saddle-girth. Mick stood near the tree waiting to brand and cut, and with him were Fiddle-head and Jack Johnson for the front and back leg ropes, and Eagle to keep the brands hot and hand them when required.

Poona and Uncle were each armed with a long pliant bull-hide la.s.so, and the two white boys and Calcoo rode round the cattle, keeping them well bunched up.

Mick looked round to see that every man was in his place, gave his knife an extra rub or two on his boot, and then shouted: "Right-o!"

Poona and Uncle rode forward at once to different ends of the mob.

Each of them singled out a cleanskin, and almost at the same time two la.s.soes whirled through the air. The thin bull-hides uncoiled and uncoiled as they sped over the heads of the cattle, and the loops kept wide open and fell around the necks of the chosen victims. Both horses propped immediately, and the la.s.so-men sat back to take the strain. It came, but the horses knew their work and lay back, almost sitting on their tails, till the bucking, bellowing animals on the end of the ropes ceased their first efforts to escape. Then, bit by bit, as carefully as an angler plays a game fish, the beasts were drawn out of the mob, while Sax, Vaughan, and Calcoo kept the others from breaking away.

There is always keen rivalry between la.s.so-men as to who pulls his beast up to the fire first. Poona won this time, for the young bull on the end of Uncle's rope lay down and had to be dragged by main force, just as if it had been a bag of flour. When Poona reached the fire, Mick jerked the la.s.so over the outstanding bough in order to keep the clean-skin from running round. Meanwhile Fiddle-head and Jack Johnson were on the alert with their ropes, and in a few seconds they had flung them on and had drawn the loops tight, and pulled the animal down and held it. Mick at once loosened the la.s.so and Poona went back to the mob to rope another. "Brand-o!" was called, Eagle handed up a T.D.3 and a number brand, the head-stockman pressed these on to the near-side shoulder of the prostrate beast, and with a shout of "Let her go!" the leg ropes were taken off, and the dazed animal staggered to its feet and rejoined its companions. By this time Uncle had pulled his animal up near the tree, and as soon as it was branded, Poona had caught his second. And so the work went on without interruption, everybody working as hard as he could.

After about an hour Uncle threw his la.s.so and missed. The beast he was after was a three-year-old red bull with wide horns which he kept on tossing angrily. The animal saw the green-hide coming and ducked its head, and the whirling rope fell and flicked it in the eye. It was not Uncle's fault that he had missed, but it was a failure all the same, and n.o.body likes to come off second best when it is a case of such keen rivalry. He looked round and saw that his ill-luck had been observed by all his companions, for there was a lull in the work just at that time, and all hands were watching. The black-boy was on his mettle to redeem his reputation, and his blood was up to perform a feat which he had learnt on a northern cattle-station, but which had never been seen on Sidcotinga. The la.s.so had flicked the bull in the eye. With a roar of pain, it lifted its great horns and shook them and rushed out of the mob. Sax wheeled to turn it back, but Uncle signed to him to leave it alone. When the wild red bull was clear of the mob, the black stockman coiled the la.s.so on his left arm and made after it.

Everybody expected him to fling the la.s.so, but instead of doing that, he galloped up on the near-side of the animal and kept level with its rump for a yard or two. It was on the tip of Mick's tongue to shout out and tell the boy not to "play the fool", when Uncle leaned over with his hand spread out wide. Suddenly he grabbed the galloping bull's tail near the root and gave it a dexterous twist. Over went the animal. It crashed to the ground and threw up a cloud of dust. Uncle flung himself instantly off his horse and held the fallen beast for a moment, while he slipped the noose of the la.s.so over its head. Then he remounted and lay back to take the strain. It was all done so quickly that the red bull was on its feet again and was tugging at the rope before anybody realized what the stockman had done. He could have easily la.s.soed the escaping beast in the ordinary way, but his blood was up and he did this wonderful feat just to show his companions that though he had missed once with the la.s.so, he could do things with cattle which they had never thought of.

Eagle's first experience of cattle-branding was the recent day in the Sidcotinga yards when he had saved Sax from the horns of the infuriated bull, and the present work was so entirely new to him that he was very clumsy. Mick did not take this into consideration. Cattle were being dragged up to the tree one after another, and the brands had to be hot when he called out for them. That was the only thing Mick cared about just then. It is not at all an easy job to keep six pairs of brands red-hot in a fire of very fiercely burning wood on a blazing day in the desert with a north wind blowing. Everybody tries to avoid being made brand-man, for it is hard hot work with no praise and plenty of blame.

Poor Eagle made one or two mistakes, was sworn at, and became fl.u.s.tered and made more and worse mistakes, till Mick began to lose patience.

The boy was really doing his best, and he had even taken off his much-prized trousers and shirt in order not to be hindered by them.

But somehow he didn't get on at all well; the brands were either not hot enough, or he hadn't succeeded in keeping the handles cool, or he was short of wood, or an extra strong gust of wind had blown his fire nearly all away.

At last Mick got angry. "You useless s.m.u.t!" he shouted, when Eagle handed him a couple of brands which were not hot enough. "You useless s.m.u.t! I thought you said you'd worked on Eridunda. What work did you do there? Kitchen jin?"[1]

Eagle did not understand what Mick said, but he saw that the white man was angry, so he hurried back to the fire and took out two other brands, hoping that these would please the drover. They were absolutely red-hot. Mick caught hold of them, but dropped them with a yell. Eagle had forgotten to pile sand over the handles to keep them cool, and had allowed the heat to run up the whole length of the shaft.

Mick dropped the brands and vented his rage on the luckless Eagle. The native was a big powerful man, but Mick took him by surprise. With a sudden twist the white man sent him sprawling on the ground, and, before he had a chance to get up again, was holding the black down with a wrestling grip he had learnt when he was a lad. He grabbed his hat with his free hand and reached for the red-hot branding-iron. He pressed the fiery T.D.3 into the flank of the naked black-fellow. The man yelled and squirmed with pain, but his captor held him tight. It was a cruel thing to do, but Mick's Irish temper had got the better of him, and he held the brand on the flesh till it had burnt a mark which would never come off.

Then he released his grip and stood up. Instantly the tortured black sprang to his feet and reached for a stick. But before his hand could close on it a shot rang out, and Eagle jumped back as if he had been mortally wounded. The man was unharmed, however, for Mick had only fired into the air as a warning, but he now covered the native with his automatic pistol. The warragul knew enough about white men to understand that sudden death could spit out of that little barrel which Mick held in his hand, and if there had been any doubt in his mind as to what he ought to do, it was dispelled by the shouts of warning of the other blacks.

Looking at Mick with fierce hatred, he backed slowly step by step till he was about fifty yards away, when he turned and ran for his life.

Mick fired a parting shot after him, but it was not necessary. The branded black-fellow did not stop till he was out of sight over the first sand-hill.

The work of branding was quietly resumed after this interruption, but the spirit of laughter and good-natured rivalry had gone. The blacks were nervous and the white boys were frankly scared at the unexpected turn of events, and even Mick himself, after a few minutes had pa.s.sed, was sorry for what he had done. But he worked every man in the plant to the full limit of his powers, never once easing the strain, for any sign of relenting would have been misunderstood by the natives, who think that a white man's kindness is the same as weakness, for they respect one thing and one thing only, and that is power. In this they are not unlike white men.

[1] It is a great insult to a native to suggest that he is a woman or that he does woman's work.

CHAPTER XVIII

Revenge

Just before sunset, after a long and tiring day's work, the last of the clean-skins was branded, and staggered to its feet and made off to rejoin the other cattle. Mick wiped his knife on his trousers and then used it to cut up a fill of tobacco. Sax had taken over the management of the brands after the adventure with Eagle, and was very glad to pull the irons out of the fire and let them cool in the sand. In fact, everybody was pleased to "knock off", both because they were thoroughly tired, and more especially because Mick's cruelty to the warragul had caused an unpleasant feeling to take the place of the former spirit of hearty good fellowship.