Warrigal's Way (7 page)

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 made 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.

Mike told me about the worst pain he'd ever had in his life. He'd been silly enough to let Ted get close enough to operate. He had a toothache, a real head-throbber, and the side of his face looked like a red balloon, all swollen up. He had lost a filling and exposed a nerve, and he was nearly mad with the pain. So Ted the doc decided the tooth had to go. He gave Mike the bundy flagon but the pain was too bad to get drunk. When he had drunk about half a glass of it, Ted told him to open his mouth, and the next thing these cold dirty pliers had latched onto the tooth. Mike said the pain, even before Ted started pulling, felt like a whole football team had lined up and kicked the tooth all at once. Mike tried to get away, but Ted had him on a chair with his knee in his chest and Hugh holding him down by the shoulders. Ted pulled, twisted, yanked, the pliers slipped and in his enthusiasm he latched onto the side of Mike's tongue with the pliters. “Now that was agony,” said Mike. “I bloody near fainted, and I bit the old bugger's hand. He yodelled and bellowed and reckoned I done it deliberate, but I was nearly mad with the pain. He finally got it out, with one big heave.”

“It didn't make one bit of difference,” said Mike. “The
pain was agony for about the next two weeks. That's when I could start eating weetbix and bread and milk. It took me another two weeks to eat properly, and six months to get the weight back on. Hugh hid all the guns in camp, in case I couldn't control myself, and I won't let that awful old bugger anywhere near me with his doctor act.”

I looked at him. “Are you fair dinkum?” He must have sussed the amazement in my voice.

“You ask Hugh if you don't believe me,” he said.

I could only shake my head in wonder.

We turned left off the beef road and juddered down a rude dirt track. “AAbboouutt another hour,” Mike said, his voice shaking like the truck.

We finally hauled to a stop in the middle of nowhere at a set of yards. We unloaded the riding gear, then the horses. Mike showed me how to roll a blanket in my oilskin. He reckoned there was no harm in putting a handful of tea and sugar in either—tuck it in your quartpot, just in case. We checked the saddles, bridles, saddle bags, reins, halters, hobbles. We had done all this just before leaving, but this was “just in case”.

“Righto you blokes, saddle up,” Hugh told Mike and me. “Ed, you take Shorty, you should be mates by now. See you at the government paddock tonight, Ted.”

“Yeah, righto,” said Ted, and he took off in a cloud of dust.

8

The mob were Herefords. Mike told me they're the best, not much trouble. Hugh gave me the lead ropes for the remounts, and told me we would turn them loose tomorrow and they would follow the mob.

“Cripes, you're lucky he didn't want to bell them,” said Mike. “That bloody bell dongin' in your ear all day sends you mental.”

Pushing the horses down the road in front of me, I let them graze until Mike turned the mob out. I thought about what Hugh had told us. He was going to push them along a bit today, get them used to being in a mob, see what they're like tomorrow and maybe graze them along a bit. These cattle would be handled with care, prime three-to five-year-old steers, the absolute top money beef. “All A grade prime, bring the biggest money on any market,” said Mike. “I bet these will be heading for the good old US of A to fill the Yankee belly. It's bloody criminal really—hundred quid steak being grouped up to make bloody hamburgers for pimply faced Yanks. And we can't even buy a steak of that quality.” He looked at me. “What do you think of that?”

Well, I had never had a hamburger in my life, and didn't quite know what they were, and as for the meat, well steak
was steak. But I took the easy way out and just looked at Mike and said, “Yeah, that's crook alright.” I felt a bit ashamed of myself for being too cowardly to admit I didn't know what the hell he was on about.

He opened the gate and they came out in a red stream, two of Hugh's coacher Brahmin cows leading the mob. He had another five of them scattered through the mob. It settled the mob down quicker and kept them together. In later years I would have bags of knowledge telling me no one used coachers on the road, or took bulls or steers or seven-year-old prime ox. All I can say is you don't learn everything babysitting breeders—a unit we never touched. All our cattle were bound for the meatworks.

The tail dribbled out onto the road and I rode in behind them, whistling Pat to bark. Mick was on one wing, with Bob patrolling from head to tail on his side, and Rocky was doing the same thing on his side, giving the occasional bark and nip where necessary to keep them all honest. I could watch the kelpies work from where I was. The mob hadn't strung out that much as we were pushing a bit. I didn't know the dogs well enough yet to tell them at a glance. Flirt and Fly were doing their thing, quartering the mob from me to about half-way up, just keeping things under control. Jessie, Hugh's eye dog, was at the front mob with Skipper, her pup, slowing the mob sometimes, then pulling it out. I wondered if Hugh was controlling her or she was working herself.

The first couple of hours were exciting—cattle bawling, dogs barking, whips cracking, me and Pat yelling and barking, pushing the mob over dry creeks. The dust started after we got out of the sand, and the flies came with the dust. There was a permanent smell of fresh cow shit—it sort of crept up on you along with three million flies. Now and then a strong gust of wind would let you know that another world, full of fresh sweet air, existed beyond the mob somewhere. My eyes got red and full of dust, they were watering, the flies were attacking and they got sore from
wiping them. Then I got cramp in the calf of my left leg, which was agony. So I stood in the stirrups until I got cramp in my thigh. I sat and rode long-legged, and my rear end started to hurt. By the time I got to the paddock I had had it—my legs were numb, my backside on fire.

We turned the mob in the gate of the holding paddock, and I fell off Shorty and tried to stand. I felt as if a giant hand had grabbed my legs and squeezed. Man, the pain! I hopped around getting the saddle and bridle off Shorty and turning the remounts loose with their ropes dragging. Mike said he would hobble them later. I walked stiff-legged into camp.

“Over here, mate,” Ted called. He stripped me down to my underpants and poured boiling oil all over me. Well, it felt like boiling oil. I let out a roar, but I was too jiggered to do much more.

“Hold still, you bloody twerp. This is Rawleigh's liniment. I got to rub it in or you'll be sore for a month. Come on, we gotta get the knots and kinks out or you're going to think you'll never walk again.”

He was right. In ten minutes flat I was sitting by the fire feeling half-way human, just tired and sore. When Hugh brought me a cup of tea, handing me the pannikin and saying, “You done real well today, mate,” I wouldn't have swapped places with the prime minister.

Next morning I rolled out of the swag feeling like a stretched bundle of bones.

“Go for a walk and get me some wood, will you mate,” said Ted.

I felt heaps better after walking out the kinks and eating breakfast, although I still felt a bit sore. Mike told me today would be a bit slower, so if I wanted to I could get off and walk a bit But I was to keep a good eye on the mob and stick close to my horse. The mob had started to sort itself out into leaders and laggards. We kept four remounts with us at all times, Ted loading and leapfrogging the others,
seeing we were using a set route and the resting paddocks were just a comfortable day's push. Mike says it will be a cake walk until we get down past Clermont. “Between there and Capella we'll have to shorten up the mob. The traffic will get thicker. We turn off at Capella and take the stock route across to Marlborough, then straight down the back road to the holding paddocks at Gracemere. The meatworks will take them into their yards as they want them.” Mike told me this over a mug of tea before we turned in.

Next day everything was going well, except that Hugh had belled one of the remounts we had with us for emergencies, and the endless clanging of that bloody Condamine bell was driving me out of my mind. I caught the one-eyed mare that was making all the noise and wrapped a torn short-tail around the clapper and oh, the bliss of silence. Well, the world without the bell anyway.

Things were quite pleasant. You had time to look around you, at the roos running from the mob, the galahs playing in the trees, the colours of a mob of rosellas on the wing, dingoes at a distance. I would ride for a bit, then walk for a while, and as the days went past I got fitter and tougher, and each day I rode longer and longer until I became completely at home on a horse. Even me and Shorty had become mates. I had another seven horses in my remount string, and I was getting to know them all.

It took us six weeks to get back to Forsayth, and I felt pretty slick as I waved to Penny and the gang, who were all yahooing and waving. We pushed the mob down to the billabong I swam at, I think.

“They won't go far from here,” Hugh said. “Good water and a bit of green feed. No way they'll shift.

Ted had a temporary yard up for the horses, and we fed, watered and brushed them and turned them out, and then fed the dogs. Ted said he had tea organised so we wandered over to the pub. I thought it was strange that the kids didn't come over to talk to me—they just disappeared.

“Go and have a bogey lad, then come down to the dining room.

So I went and had a wash. I was as hungry as a bear. I'll give a steak a good chomping, I thought. As I opened the door and walked into the dining room, “Happy birthdays” came from all directions. The boys were standing at a table that had a really big birthday cake on it, with candles. Penny and the mob were all at another table, with soft drinks and jelly trifle and things. I didn't know what to say. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before. I had to cut the cake while everyone sang “Happy birthday” again, all the boys shook my hand, and all the girls gave me a kiss. I wasn't sure whether I liked that or not. Anyway, the boys gave me my first stockwhip as a present. That told me I was one of them, and I got what no one else could give me—I was a working drover for Hugh. That did wonders for my self-esteem. Mike told me they were going to give me a party before we left, but didn't really have enough time, so they decided to surprise me here. Ted had been cooking and making jelly all day.

We had a grand time and Hugh gave me the night off. So I went with Penny, Iris, Billy, Toby, Lance, Annie and Doreene over to Penny's place and they milked me dry with questions about the work. I got back to camp at about eight-thirty and went straight to bed.

Mike called me about four when the sun was just starting to think about coming over the horizon. We had breakfast, fed the dogs, gave the horses a sparse feed of oats and chaff, and then saddled up. I took the remounts and went to the tail of the mob. The dogs started moving them off the water, and with a heap of mooing and a hundred lifted tails we were off. Man, you didn't get too close to the back of the mob in the mornings. It looked like a cloud of green rain for about ten minutes, and stunk!

The days went by in an endless whirl of flies, dust and bawling cattle. One night after we had bedded the mob,
Hugh told us that since we were about an hour from Capella, we might paddock the mob tomorrow and nip down to Emerald. It would be a good break and we could do some shopping, he said.

So next day I was in go-to-town gear, scrubbed and polished and looking real slick. Ted, who was staying home, gave me the behind-the-ears and fingernail test, and Hugh was yelling at us to hurry up. We finally got in the truck, waved to Ted, and headed for town. Hugh went to the bank and drew five quid each for him and Mike and a pound for me. Mike grabbed his and headed for the pub and Hugh and I wandered around town looking in the shops. I paid one and ninepence for a haircut, short back and sides. I had to put paper in my hat to stop it falling down over my ears. After the haircut we went to this big store that sold everything, and I decided to buy a new lumber-jacket for the cold nights, and got a couple of pairs of work socks for Ted. I paid the man and walked around looking for Hugh. I found him over in the sports and camping section.

“Hey Warrigal! Come and have a look at this,” Hugh called to me. “What do you think?”

He held up this half blanket thing that was padded like a wind-cheater. It sort of tapered—wide at the top and skinny at the bottom, and was made out of nylon stuff. It looked like a full-length coat with no sleeves.

“What do you reckon?” he asked again, as I got closer.

“What is it?” I asked.

“This is one of those sleeping bags.”

Well, that had me tricked a bag to sleep in—what next? Modern alright.

“Why do you want to sleep in a bag?” I asked him. “It looks a bit sus to me. How does it work? You don't know yourself yet, do you? Get out, you're havin' a lend of me,” I scoffed.

“Nah mate. I'm not pullin' your leg. You really do sleep in them. Look, it's like a big sock, you just step in and pull
it on.” He demonstrated. “See, supposed to be warmer than a swag, and you just roll it up when you're finished, and stick it in this bag. Neat eh.” He grinned.

“Nah mate. I'll stick to my swag. I tell you it looks a bit sus to me.”

“Garn, you're just old-fashioned. I tell you, mate, this is the modern way to go. Give you a month and you'll all want one.” He paid the salesman, and filled my ear as we walked back to the truck.

A couple of weeks later, he nearly had me sold on the idea of this sleeping bag. It was so easy. He was out of it and had it rolled up and on the back of the truck while we were still folding our blankets, and did he gave us borax, crowing like a starving rooster.

“Geez, it's rough on the lugs when the boss is right,” moaned Ted to me.

“I dunno. I'm still not convinced,” I said to the boys as we drank our tea.

“The way he skites about it, you'd think the bugger had discovered how to make the truck run on home brew,” said Mike, disgusted.

“I reckon he's just lucky. You imagine bein' in that thing with a half a million bull ants.” I grinned. “You wouldn't slide out of that banana skin in a hurry, not without getting a fair amount of bites anyway.”

We all had a big belly laugh at the thought of that.

After another week of getting our ears scrubbed by the advantages of the green banana swag, I was first up one morning and was shivering around in the starlight getting wood for Ted's breakfast fire when I heard this pathetic whispery voice calling. I couldn't work it out at first.

“Warrigal! You horrible deaf little bugger, over here!” said this papery thin voice.

I looked over at Hugh, and even in the starlight his sun tan had gone a dirty grey putty colour.

“Get Ted. Get Mike. Quick. Quick.” He said all this in a strained whisper.

“Why?” I asked, in all innocence.

“Because I got a forty foot bloody brown snake in here with me, curled up on my chest, and as soon as I get out of here I'm gunna ram it right up your arse! Get the bloody boys!”

Whoa, I realised he was not kidding, so I headed for the boys like my rear end was on fire. I woke both of them and told them exactly what Hugh had told me. They got dressed, then ambled over and sat one each side of him and rolled a smoke. They lit up, then started discussing what to do, with Hugh muttering at them something terrible. They completely ignored him.

Ted looked up at me. “Fetch the skinning knives, young Warrigal. We gunna have to do a Caesarean on the banana. You agree, Mike?”

He's loving it, I thought. I could see the smug grin on his face.

“Only thing for it, mate,” Mike agreed, also with a huge grin.

So I went and got the knives, which brought a burst of foul language from Hugh. The knives were as sharp as razor blades and made short work of the stitches. Hugh just lay there looking glum, saying over and over, “You're enjoying this, you bunch of bastards.”

“Open to any other suggestions,” Ted told him.

Finally, they had it done. They peeled the top back extremely carefully, revealing a huge brown snake resting quite comfortably on Hugh's chest. We backed off the mandatory six to eight miles, just in case it got aggro. As a matter of fact, we got ourselves a mug of tea. The boys rolled a couple of smokes each, we climbed up on the crate, drank our tea, and observed. I don't think the mongrel wanted to shoot through—it was too comfortable in Hugh's swag. But at last its head came up, and it stretched then slid off
into the grass. That's when we all let our breath out and took a big gulp of air, especially Hugh, who gingerly got up and stretched his cramped legs.