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 lasso, 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
lassoes 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 lasso-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 lasso-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 lasso 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 lasso 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 lasso 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 nobody 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 lasso 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 lasso on his left arm and made after it.
Everybody expected him to fling the lasso, 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 lasso 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 lassoed 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 lasso, 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 flustered
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 smut!" he shouted, when Eagle
handed him a couple of brands which were not hot enough. "You useless
smut! 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 passed,
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.