The bearer of the chief’s message had also carried out all extra mail
for us, and, opening it, we found the usual questions of the South folk.
“Whatever do you do with your time?” they all asked. “The monotony would
kill me,” some declared. “Every day must seem the same,” said others:
every one agreeing that life out-bush was stagnation, and all marvelling
that we did not die of ennui.
“Whatever do you do with your time?” The day Neaves’s mate left was
devoted to housekeeping duties—“spring-cleaning,” the Maluka called it,
while Dan drew vivid word-pictures of dogs cleaning their own chains.
The day after that was filled in with preparations for a walk-about, and
the next again found us camped at Bitter Springs. Monotony! when of the
thirty days that followed these three every day was alike only in being
different from any other, excepting in their almost unvarying menu: beef
and damper and tea for a first course, and tea and damper and jam for a
second. They also resembled each other, and all other days out-bush, in
the necessity of dressing in a camp mosquito net. “Stagnation!” they
called it, when no day was long enough for its work, and almost every
night found us camped a day’s journey from our breakfast camp.
It was August, well on in the Dry, and on a cattle station in the Never-
Never “things hum” in August. All the surface waters are drying up by
then, and the outside cattle—those scattered away beyond the borders—are
obliged to come in to the permanent waters, and must be gathered in and
branded before the showers scatter them again.
We were altogether at the Springs: Dan, the Dandy, the Quiet Stockman,
ourselves, every horse-“boy” that could be mustered, a numerous staff of
camp “boys” for the Dandy’s work, and an almost complete complement of
dogs, Little Tiddle’ums only being absent, detained at the homestead
this time with the cares of a nursery. A goodly company all told as we
sat among the camp fires, with our horses clanking through the timber in
their hobbles: forty horses and more, pack teams and relays for the
whole company and riding hacks, in addition to both stock and camp
horses for active mustering; for it requires over two hundred horses to
get through successfully a year’s work on a “little place like the
Elsey.”
Every one of the company had his special work to attend to; but every
one’s work was concerned with cattle, and cattle only. The musterers
were to work every area of country again and again, and the Dandy’s work
began in the building of the much-needed yard to the north-west.
We breakfasted at the Springs all together, had dinner miles apart, and
all met again at the Stirling for supper. Dan and ourselves dined also
at the Stirling on damper and “push” and vile-smelling blue-black tea.
The damper had been carried in company with some beef and tea, in Dan’s
saddle-pouch; the tea was made with the thick, muddy, almost putrid
water of the fast-drying water hole, and the “push” was provided by
force of circumstances, the pack teams being miles away with the plates,
knives, and forks.
Out-bush we take the good with the bad as we find it; so we sat among
towering white-ant hills, drinking as little of the tea as possible and
enjoying the damper and “push” with hungry relish.
Around the Stirling are acres of red-coloured, queer-shaped uncanny
white ant hills, and camped among these we sat, each served with a slice
of damper that carried a smaller slice of beef upon it, providing the
“push” by cutting off small pieces of the beef with a pen-knife, and
“pushing” them along the damper to the edge of the slice, to be bitten
off from there in hearty mouthfuls.
No butter, of course. In Darwin, eight months before we had tasted our
last butter on ship-board, for tinned butter, out-bush, in the tropics,
is as palatable as castor oil. The tea had been made in the Maluka’s
quart-pot, our cups having been carried dangling from our saddles, in
the approved manner of the bush-folk.
We breakfasted at the Springs, surrounded by the soft forest beauty; ate
our dinner in the midst of grotesque ant-hill scenery, and spent the
afternoon looking for a lost water-hole.
The Dandy was to build his yard at this hole when it was found, but the
difficulty was to find it. The Sanguine Scot had “dropped on it once,”
by chance, but lost his bearing later on. All we knew was that it was
there to be found somewhere in that corner of the run—a deep permanent
hole, “back in the scrub somewhere,” according to the directions of the
Sanguine Scot.
Of course the black boys could have found it; but it is the habit of
black boys to be quite ignorant of the whereabouts of all lost or
unknown waters, for when a black fellow is “wanted” he is looked for at
water, and in his wisdom keeps any “water” he can a secret from the
white folk, an unknown “water” making a safe hiding-place when it suits
a black fellow to obliterate himself for a while.
Eventually we found our hole, after long wanderings and futile
excursions up gullies and by-ways, riding always in single file, with
the men in front to break down a track through scrub and grass, and the
missus behind on old Roper.
“Like a cow’s tail,” Dan said, mentally reviewing the order of the
procession, as, after dismounting, we walked round our find—a wide-
spreading sheet of deep, clay—coloured water, snugly hidden behind
scrubby banks.
As we clambered on, two bushmen all in white, a dog or two, and a woman
in a holland riding-dress, the Maluka pointed out the inaptness of the
simile.
“A cow’s tail,” he said, “is wanting in expression and takes no interest
in its owner’s hopes and fears,” and suggested a dog’s tail as a more
happy comparison. “Has she not wagged along behind her owner all
afternoon?” he asked, “drooping in sympathy whenever his hopes came to
nothing; stiffening expectantly at other times, and is even now
vibrating with pleasure in this his hour of triumph.”
Bush-folk being old fashioned, no one raised any objection to the term
“owner,” as Dan chuckled over the amendment.
After thinking the matter well out, Dan decided he was “what you might
call a tail-less tyke.” “We’ve had to manage without any wagging,
haven’t we, Brown, old chap?” he said, unconscious of the note in his
voice that told of lonely years and vague longings.
As Brown acknowledged this reference to himself, by stirring the circle
of hairs that expressed his sentiments to the world, Dan further proved
the expansiveness of the Maluka’s simile.
“You might have noticed,” he went on, “that when a dog does own a tail
he generally manages to keep it out of the fight somehow.” (In marriage
as Dan had known it, strong men had stood between their women and the
sharp cuffs and blows of life; “keeping her out of the fight somehow.”)
Then the procession preparing to re-form, as the Maluka, catching Roper,
mounted me again, Dan completely rounded off the simile. “Dogs seem able
to wrestle through somehow without a tail,” he said, “but I reckon a
tail ’ud have a bit of a job getting along without a dog.” As usual,
Dan’s whimsical fancy had burrowed deep into the heart of a great truth;
for, in spite of what “tails” may say, how few there are of us who have
any desire to “get along without the dog.”
We left the water-hole about five o’clock, and riding into the Stirling
camp at sundown, found the Dandy there, busy at the fire, with a dozen
or so of large silver fish spread out on green leaves beside him.
“Good enough!” Dan cried at the first sight of them, and the Dandy
explained that the boys had caught “shoals of ’em” at his dinner-camp at
the Fish Hole, assuring us that the water there was “stiff with ’em.”
But the Dandy had been busy elsewhere. “Good enough!” Dan had said at
the sight of the fish, and pointing to a billy full of clear, sweet
water that was just thinking of boiling, the Maluka echoed the sentiment
if not the words.
“Dug a soakage along the creek a bit and got it,” the Dandy explained;
and as we blessed him for his thoughtfulness, he lifted up a clean cloth
and displayed a pile of crisp Johnny cakes. “Real slap up ones,” he
assured us, breaking open one of the crisp, spongy rolls. It was always
a treat to be in camp with the Dandy: everything about the man was so
crisp and clean and wholesome.
As we settled down to supper, the Fizzer came shouting through the ant-
hills, and, soon after, the Quiet Stockman rode into camp. Our Fizzer
was always the Fizzer. “Managed to escape without help?” he shouted in
welcome as he came to the camp fire, alluding to his promise “to do a
rescue”; and then he surveyed our supper. “Struck it lucky, as usual,”
he declared, helping himself to a couple of fish from the fire and
breaking open one of the crisp Johnny cakes. “Can’t beat grilled fish
and hot rolls by much, to say nothin’ of tea.” The Fizzer was one of
those happy, natural people who always find the supply exactly suited to
the demand.
But if our Fizzer was just our Fizzer, the Quiet Stockman was changing
every day. He was still the Quiet Stockman, and always would be,
speaking only when he had something to say, but he was learning that he
had much to say that was worth saying, or, rather, much that others
found worth listening to; and that knowledge was squaring his shoulders
and bringing a new ring into his voice.
Around the camp fires we touched on any subject that suggested itself,
but at the Stirling that night, four of us being Scotch, we found
Scotland and Scotchmen an inexhaustible topic, and before we turned in
were all of Jack’s opinion, that “you can’t beat the Scots.” Even the
Dandy and the Fizzer were converted; and Jack having realised that there
are such things as Scotchwomen—Scotch-hearted women—a new bond was
established between us.
No one had much sleep that night, and before dawn there was no doubt
left in our mind about the outside cattle coming in. It seemed as though
every beast on the run must have come in to the Stirling that night for
a drink. Every water-hole out-bush is as the axis of a great circle,
cattle pads narrowing into it like the spokes of a wheel, from every
point of the compass, and along these pads around the Stirling mob after
mob of cattle came in in single file, treading carelessly, until each
old bull leader, scenting the camp, gave its low, deep, drawn-out
warning call that told of danger at hand. After that rang out, only an
occasional snapping twig betrayed the presence of the cattle as they
crept cautiously in for the drink that must be procured at all hazards.
But after the drink the only point to be considered was safety, and in a
crashing stampede they rushed out into the timber. Till long after
midnight they were at it, and as Brown and I were convinced that every
mob was coming straight over our net, we spent an uneasy night. To make
matters worse, just as the camp was settling down to a deep sleep after
the cattle had finally subsided, Dan’s camp reveille rang out.
It was barely three o’clock, and the Fizzer raised an indignant protest
of: “Moonrise, you bally ass.”
“Not it,” Dan persisted, unfortunately bent on argument; “not at this
quarter of the moon, and besides it was moonlight all evening,” and,
that being a strong peg to hang his argument on, investigating heads
appeared from various nets. “Seem to think I don’t know dawn when I see
it,” Dan added, full of scorn for the camp’s want of observation; but
before we had time to wither before his scorn, Jack turned the tables
for us with his usual quiet finality. “That’s the west you’re looking
at,” he said. “The moon’s just set”; and the curtain of Dan’s net
dropped instantly.
“Told you he was a bally ass,” the Fizzer shouted in his delight, and
promising Dan something later on, he lay down to rest.
Dan, however, was hopelessly roused. “Never did that before,” gurgled
out of his net, just as we were dropping off once more; but a withering
request from the Dandy to “gather experience somewhere else,” silenced
him till dawn, when he had the wisdom to rise without further reveille.
After breakfast we all separated again: the Dandy to his yard-building
at the Yellow Hole, and the rest of us, with the cattle boys, in various
directions, to see where the cattle were, each party with its team of
horses, and carrying in its packs a bluey, an oilskin, a mosquito net, a
plate, knife, and fork apiece, as well as a “change of duds” and a bite
of tucker for all: the bite of tucker to be replenished with a killer
when necessary, the change of duds to be washed by the boys also when
necessary, and the plate to serve for all courses, the fastidious
turning it over for the damper and jam course.
The Maluka spent one day with Dan beyond the “frontgate”—his tail
wagging along behind as a matter of course—another day passed boundary-
riding, inspecting water-holes, and doubling back to the Dandy’s camp to
see his plans; then, picking up the Quiet Stockman, we struck out across
country, riding four abreast through the open forest-lands, and were
camped at sundown, in the thick of the cattle, miles from the Dandy’s
camp, and thirty miles due north from the homestead. “Whatever do you do
with your time?” asked the South folk.
Dan was in high spirits: cattle were coming in everywhere, and another
beautiful permanent “water” had been discovered in unsuspected ambush.
To know all the waters of a run is important; for they take the part of
fences, keeping the cattle in certain localities; and as cattle must
stay within a day’s journey or so of water, an unknown water is apt to
upset a man’s calculations.
As the honour of finding the hole was all Dan’s, it was named DS. in his
honour, and we had waited beside it while he cut his initials deep into
the trunk of a tree, deploring the rustiness of his education as he
carved. The upright stroke of the D was simplicity itself, but after
that complications arose.
“It’s always got me dodged which way to turn the darned thing,” Dan
said, scratching faint lines both ways, and standing off to decide the
question. We advised turning to the right, and the D was satisfactorily
completed, but S proved the “dead finish,” and had to be wrestled with
separately.
“Can’t see why they don’t name a chap with something that’s easily
wrote,” Dan said, as we rode forward, with our united team of horses and
boys swinging along behind us, and M and T and O were quoted as
examples. “Reading’s always had me dodged,” he explained. “Left school
before I had time to get it down and wrestle with it.”
“There’s nothing like reading and writing,” the Quiet Stockman broke in,
with an earnestness that was almost startling; and as he sat that
evening in the firelight poring over the “Cardinal’s Snuff-box,” I
watched him with a new interest.
Jack’s reading was very puzzling. He always had the same book—that
“Cardinal’s Snuff-box”—and pored over it with a strange persistence,
that could not have been inspired by the book. There was no expression
on his face of lively interest or pleasure, just an intent, dogged
persistence; the strong, firm chin set as though he were colt-breaking.
Gradually, as I watched him that night, the truth dawned on me: the man
was trying to teach himself to read. The “Cardinal’s Snuff-box”! and the
only clue to the mystery, a fair knowledge of the alphabet learned away
in a childish past. In truth, it takes a deal to “beat the Scots,” or,
what is even better, to make them feel that they are beaten.
As I watched, full of admiration, for the proud, strong character of the
man, he looked up suddenly, and, in a flash, knew that I knew. Flushing
hotly, he rose, and “thought he would turn in”; and Dan, who had been
discussing education most of the evening, decided to “bottle off a bit
of sleep too for next day’s use,” and opened up his swag.
“There’s one thing about not being too good at the reading trick,” he
said, surveying his permanent property: “a chap doesn’t need to carry
books round with him to put in the spare time.”
“Exactly,” the Maluka laughed. He was Iying on his back, with an open
book face downwards on his chest, looking up at the stars. He always had
a book with him, but, book-lover as he was, it rarely got farther than
his chest when we were in camp. Life out-bush is more absorbing than
books.
“Of course reading’s handy enough for them as don’t lay much stock on
education,” Dan owned, stringing his net between his mosquito-pegs,
then, struck with a new idea, he “wondered why the missus never carries
books round. Any one ’ud think she wasn’t much at the reading trick
herself,” he said. “Never see you at it, missus, when I’m round.”
“Lay too much stock on education,” I answered, and, chuckling, Dan
retired into his net, little guessing that when he was “round,” his own
self, his quaint outlook on life, and the underlying truth of his
inexhaustible, whimsical philosophy, were infinitely more interesting
than the best book ever written.
But the Quiet Stockman seemed perplexed at the answer. “I thought
reading ’ud learn you most things,” he said, hesitating beside his own
net; and before we could speak, the corner of Dan’s net was lifted and
his head reappeared. “I’ve learned a deal of things in my time,” he
chuckled, “but READING never taught me none of ’em.” Then his head once
more disappeared, and we tried to explain matters to the Quiet Stockman.
The time was not yet ready for the offer of a helping hand.
At four in the morning we were roused by a new camp reveille of Star-
light. “Nothing like getting off early when mustering’s the game,” Dan
announced. By sun-up the musterers were away, and by sundown we were
coming in to Bitter Springs, driving a splendid mob of cattle before us.
The Maluka and I had had nothing to do with the actual gathering in of
the mob, for the missus had not “shaped” too well at her first muster
and preferred travelling with the pack teams when active mustering was
in hand. Ignominious perhaps, but safe, and safety counts for something
in this world; anyway, for the poor craven souls. Riding is one thing;
but crashing through timber and undergrowth, dodging overhanging
branches, leaping fallen logs, and stumbling and plunging over crab-
holed and rat-burrowed areas, to say nothing of charging bulls turning
up at unexpected corners, is quite another story.
“Not cut out for the job,” was Dan’s verdict, and the Maluka covered my
retreat by saying that he had more than enough to do without taking part
in the rounding up of cattle. Had mustering been one of a manager’s
duties, I’m afraid the house would have “come in handy” to pack the dog
away in with its chain.
As the yard of the Springs came into view, we were making plans for the
morrow, and admiring the fine mattress swinging before us on the tails
of the cattle; but there were cattle buyers at the Springs who upset all
our plans, and left no time for the bang-tailing of the mob in hand.
The buyers were Chinese drovers, authorised by their Chinese masters to
buy a mob of bullocks. “Want big mob,” they said. “Cash! Got money
here,” producing a signed cheque ready for filling in.
A Chinese buyer always pays “cash” for a mob—by cheque—generally taking
care to withdraw all cash from the bank before the cheque can be
presented, and, as a result, a dishonoured cheque is returned to the
station, reaching the seller some six or eight weeks after the sale. Six
or eight weeks more then pass in demanding explanations, and six or
eight more obtaining them, and after that just as many more as Chinese
slimness can arrange for before a settlement is finally made. “Cash,”
the drover repeated insinuatingly at the Maluka’s unfathomable “Yes?”
Then, certain that he was inspired, added, “Spot Cash!”
But already the Maluka had decided on a plan of campaign and, echoing
the drover’s “Spot Cash,” began negotiations for a sale; and within ten
minutes the drovers retired to their camp, bound to take the mob when
delivered, and inwardly marvelling at the Maluka’s simple trust.
Dan was appalled at it; but, always deferential where the Maluka’s
business insight was concerned, only “hoped he knew that them chaps
needed a bit of watching.”
“Their cash does,” the Maluka corrected, to Dan’s huge delight; and,
leaving the musterers to go on with their branding work, culling each
mob of its prime bullocks as they mustered, he set about finding some
one to “watch the cash,” and four days later rode into the Katherine
Settlement, with Brown and the missus, as usual, at his heels.
We had spent one week out-bush, visiting the four points of the compass,
half a day at the homestead packing a fresh swag; three days riding into
the Katherine, having found incidental entertainment on the road, and on
the fourth day were entering into an argument by wire with Chinese
slimness. “The monotony would kill me,” declared the townsfolk.
On the road in we had met the Village Settlement homeward bound—the
bonnie baby still riding on its mother’s knee, and smiling out of the
depths of its sunbonnet; but every one else was longing for the bush.
Darwin had proved all unsatisfying bustle and fluster, and the trackless
sea, a wonder that inspired strange sickness when travelled over.
For four days the Maluka argued with Chinese slimness before he felt
satisfied that his cash was in safe keeping while the Wag and others did
as they wished with our spare time. Then, four days later, again Cheon
and Tiddle’ums were hailing us in welcome at the homestead.
But their joy was short-lived, for as soon as the homestead affairs had
been seen to, and a fresh swag packed, we started out-bush again to look
for Dan and his bullocks, and, coming on their tracks at our first night
camp, by following them up next morning we rode into the Dandy’s camp at
the Yellow Hole well after midday, to find ourselves surrounded by the
stir and bustle of a cattle camp.
“Whatever do you do with your time?” ask the townsfolk, sure that life
out-bush is stagnation, but forgetting that life is life wherever it may
be lived.