LIFE ON THE STATION
Three times a year all the cattle on the run are mustered, and passed
through the drafting-yards, that the young calves may be branded, and
the older ones weaned.
The cattle belonging to each camp are brought in separately, drafted
and turned out again to make room for the next lot, as the yards will
only hold about a thousand head comfortably at a time. Mustering
is pretty hard work, for, when once you start, you have to stick
at it from daylight to dark, Sundays very often included, until it
is finished. A general muster at Mount Spencer used to take us a
month, and a fortnight after to “clean up.” One or two hands from the
neighbouring stations used generally to come up and help, and look
after their own cattle, a good number of which were pretty certain to
pass through the yards.
Drafting cattle in the yards is very good fun, especially if they are
at all rowdy, but it is work that requires a good deal of nerve to
start with, and long practice before a man becomes a good hand at it.
The yards are very strong enclosures of posts and rails, the posts
from a foot to sixteen inches thick, set in eight feet apart, and the
rails not less than four inches thick and ten inches wide, the top rail
being about six feet from the ground. For the purpose of drafting the
various classes of cattle, the yards are subdivided according to the
accompanying plan. The whole mob are first of all run into one of the
big “receiving yards,” an enclosure about seventy yards long and forty
yards broad. The gate leading into “the lane” is then thrown open,
and five or six men, each armed with a sapling about six feet long,
and a couple of inches thick, go into the receiving yard, and jam the
cattle up into the corner against the gate of “the lane,” until seventy
or eighty have gone through, when the gate is shut. This is called
“yarding up,” and is about the most dangerous part of the work; for if
a beast charges a man in the middle of a big yard, he has a very poor
chance of getting out of its way. An old hand knows in a moment, from
the look of a beast that charges him, whether it is safe for him to
stand his ground and turn it with a blow on the nose from his stick,
or whether he ought to clear out for the rails. But the instant the
cattle begin to move in the yard, the dust becomes something awful. It
rises in dense clouds, sometimes entirely hiding the cattle from view,
getting into one’s eyes, nose, and mouth, and mixing with the sweat
into a thick black paste, which makes white men and niggers all pretty
much the same colour for the time being. I have often seen the dust so
bad that we have had to knock off for half an hour to let it settle,
as it was perfectly impossible to see to work the cattle. Under cover
of the dust it is often hard to see a beast charging, until it is too
late to attempt to get out of the way, and then the best thing to do is
to lie flat down in front of it, and in nine cases out of ten it will
jump over you and pass on, unless it is a cow, when most likely it will
stop, turn round, and horn you as you lie on the ground. When a beast
comes tearing out of the mob in an awful hurry, its head down, its tail
in the air, and its eye rolling, it is quite safe to stand still. It
will pass you with a frightful snort, that gives a new chum rather a
queer sensation under the ribs, but hardly makes an old hand smile. But
when it comes out rather slowly, with its head in the air, its brisket
shaking, and its eye fixed straight upon you, it is time to clear out.
The animal means business, and, be it a cow or a bullock, you might as
well hope to stop the charge of an express train. It will hunt you for
your life, and if you are not up the rails before it can catch you, it
will have its horns into you as sure as fate.
[Illustration: THE BRANDING BAIL.]
A man running for his life, pursued by an infuriated animal with horns
two feet long and as sharp as needles, does not at first sight seem
to be a particularly mirthful spectacle. Familiarity, however, breeds
contempt, and a charge in the yard is always greeted with shouts of
laughter from the lookers-on, especially if the man who is hunted has
a narrow escape. Provided he is not actually hurt, the nearer he is to
being horned the funnier everyone thinks it, including the individual
himself, who is always ready to join in the laugh the instant that he
has got up the rails out of harm’s way. Occasionally the best and most
experienced hands get caught, and very few men have worked for any
length of time amongst Bush cattle without getting a horn into them
once or twice. The wound from a beast’s horn is always a nasty one, and
very bad to heal, and I have known several cases where it has ended
fatally.
The “lane” leads into a small square enclosure called “the pound,” from
which gates open into five different yards. Behind each gate a man
stands, ready to open it when a beast intended for his special yard
comes into the pound. Two men work the cattle in the lane, running
them into the pound according to their respective classes, calling out
“stranger,” “weaner,” or “calf,” as the case may be. The proper gate
is open ready for it, before it gets into the pound, and a man stands
ready to hurry it through, so that no time is lost.
In drafting cattle, everything of course depends upon the men working
in the lane, and there are very few prettier sights than to see a
good hand amongst cattle that are inclined to be rowdy. The least
nervousness or flurry on the part of the man communicates itself in a
marvellous way to the cattle, and makes them perfectly unmanageable;
while, on the other hand, a man who keeps quite cool and collected has
an extraordinary influence over the animals which he is working.
One of our stockmen, Billy Burgess, was reckoned to be about the best
hand in the yards in the north of Queensland, and, certainly, the
whole time I was in the country, I never saw anyone who could hold a
candle to him. No one ever saw him in a hurry, but he would draft more
cattle in an hour than most men would in two. While other men were
shouting, and swearing, and running for their lives, he would stand
perfectly still, watching the cattle with an amused smile on his face,
and seeming to know by instinct exactly how far he could trust them. To
an outsider, the power he possessed over cattle seemed little short of
mesmerism; but in reality it was only the result of years of experience
and work amongst them, combined with an excellent temper and iron
nerves.
In or out of the yards he knew every beast on the run by sight, and was
never at a loss for a moment when he was drafting. A furious charge
from an animal that would send most men flying up the rails, seldom
elicited more than a gentle remonstrance of, “Steady, old man! where
are you coming to now?” from Billy, and perhaps a tap on the nose from
his stick if its horns went rather nearer to him than he considered
good manners. But if a beast meant mischief, no one knew it sooner, and
he took care to put himself out of harm’s way. If the animal was more
than usually vicious he would wait his opportunity, and give it a blow
just behind the horns with infinite precision, which would bring it
blundering on to its knees, and, without killing it, leave it sick and
stupid for the rest of the day.
It does not require at all a heavy blow to stun a beast, if laid on
in the right place, just on the “pith” of the neck, behind the horns.
I have seen a full-grown bullock drop in its tracks, as dead as a
herring, from a blow with a stick no thicker than a man’s finger.
The rowdiest cattle, as a rule, are bullocks, and the quietest of all,
in or out of the yards, are bulls; but a cow, if she is rowdy, is the
worst of all. It is a curious thing, however, that the quietest of
bullocks will become absolutely infuriated, and charge anything and
everything he can see, if he is shut up alone in a yard for a little
while. A bullock bred and raised in the Bush, though he may be as fat
as a pig, is a very different animal to the sleepy creatures that one
meets on their way to an English market, driven by a couple of small
boys and a dog. He is as quick on his legs as a rabbit, and for a few
furlongs it takes a good horse to get away from him, and, moreover, as
a rule, he can jump like a deer.
One day my brother was drafting in “the lane,” and I was working “the
pound.” I had just turned a beast back into the lane, and was going
back through the gate, when my brother sang out, “Stranger! clear
out, or he’ll have you!” Looking round, I saw a great hard-skinned
white bullock belonging to the next station, with horns about a yard
long, just behind me. He was charging up the lane full gallop, and
as I sprang through the gateway and turned aside, he made a sweep at
me which just grazed my ribs, but, fortunately, did no damage beyond
tearing my shirt. Without the least hesitation, the brute went
straight at the opposite fence of the pound, six feet high, and got
over without a fall, though he hit the top rail hard with every leg he
had. The performance was the more astonishing as he had not a very long
run, and what there was of it up the lane was slightly uphill. We ran
him round again, and into the lane, as he had jumped into the wrong
yard. The next time he came up we all let him alone to see what he
would do. He came full tilt up the lane as usual, looking for someone
to kill, and when he got into the pound, he turned sharp to the right,
pulled himself together, and going straight for the gate at the far
end of the pound, five feet six high, he cleared it without a mistake.
After this performance we concluded to leave him alone until we had
finished drafting.
In some yards it is the fashion to leave a big post, or the stump of
a tree about four feet high, in the middle of the big yard, so as to
afford a shelter for anyone who is charged and has no time to get to
the rails at the side. We had nothing of the kind at Mount Spencer;
but I remember a most ludicrous scene at Gracemere, a station near
Rockhampton, where there was one of these harbours of refuge in the
middle of the yard. Seven or eight men were yarding up a mob of cattle,
when suddenly an old cow came out and charged in a most business-like
manner. Five men all ran for their lives for the post. The first who
got there, of course, was all right; but there was only room for one,
so the next man had to hang on to the belt of the man in front, and so
on, till the whole five were extended in a row. The cow charged, and,
of course, no one could tell which side of the post she would pass, so
it was not until she was within a few feet that the human tail swung
round out of her way, a yell of terror escaping from the last two men,
as the brute’s horns passed within an inch of them. Quick as lightning
the cow turned and charged again, and again the end of the tail had a
narrow escape. Four times the cow charged, four times the tail swept
round, their howls of anguish mingling with shouts of laughter from the
men on the rails who were looking on. Anything more ridiculous than the
whole scene cannot possibly be imagined. The last man at the end was
very fat, and very nervous, and had no business in a yard at all. He
was evidently getting weak with terror and exhaustion, so a diversion
was made by those on the rails, and, the cow having been induced to
charge someone else, the men in the middle of the yard were enabled to
leave their post and make for the rails.
When the cattle are run through the yards in a general muster, all
the calves that are old enough to wean are picked out. They are then
“tailed,” as it is called, for several weeks; that is to say, they are
let out in a mob in the daytime to feed, and carefully watched by one
or two hands, to see that none get away, and that no strange cattle
mix with them, and shut up in a small paddock every night. Of course,
the object of everyone in working a cattle-station is to get all the
cattle as quiet as possible, and nothing has such an excellent effect
in quieting a whole herd as tailing the weaners when they are young.
But of all occupations that fall to the Bushman’s lot, it is probably
the most irksome.
Shepherding sheep is bad enough, and the asylums are three parts full
of idiot shepherds, whose reason has succumbed to the dreariness of
their lives; but for a short time it is infinitely preferable to
tailing a mob of weaners. A man who is looking after sheep can, at
all events, enjoy long intervals of perfect repose, during which,
if he likes, he can lie on his back and read a book. But a mob of
weaners will never give him an instant’s peace. Without being at all
interesting, their habits are extremely irritating. They never know
exactly where they want to go, or what they want to do, but the one
thing they will not do is to keep still and feed sensibly. Out of a
thousand weaners you may possibly induce nine hundred and ninety-nine
to lie down round a water-hole for an hour in the middle of the day.
But the remaining one is certain to keep on the move the whole time,
walking off into the Bush, first one way and then another, so that you
never have a spell. If you get off your horse for a drink, the whole
mob will probably pretend they never saw a man on foot before in their
lives, and make a wild stampede. Fortunately, it is an occupation that
does not last long; for a continuance of it at the best of times would
drive the most sane man out of his mind, and in wet, cold weather it
is simply deadly. However, it is very necessary and very useful work,
though everyone shirks it who can, and a “new chum,” if one can be
found, is invariably selected for the duty.
A great many young men who go out to the colony with the view of
following stock-growing as a profession, make a grave error in not
making themselves fully acquainted with all the details connected
with the working of a station. Of course, before starting on their
own account to work a station, they go into the Bush to gain colonial
experience, during which process they are known in the colony as
“Jackaroos.” Especially on a cattle-station, the Jackaroo very soon
discovers that a great deal of the work is very pleasant. He goes into
the yard every morning and catches his horse, rides round the run with
the stockman, camps out when required, and lends a hand to draft and
brand at the general muster, and generally has a very good time. The
consequence is, at the end of a couple of years he knows very little
more about the management of a cattle-station than he did when he
started, and probably labours under the additional disadvantage of
imagining that he knows a great deal.
[Illustration: A BUSHMAN’S CAMP.]
The efficiency of the manager of a cattle-station depends largely upon
his being a good judge of other men’s work; and it is impossible for
him to be this, unless he has actually performed the work himself. It
is not enough to sit on a rail and watch another man breaking in a
horse or a milking-cow. However good a hand he may be, you will learn
much more by helping him than by watching him. One of the largest items
of expenditure on every station is always fencing, and the manager
should be thoroughly able to form an estimate of how much it ought to
cost. It is nearly always done by contract, and, of course, the price
at which a contractor will put up fencing varies enormously according
to the nature of the country. An old hand riding through the forest
with a tomahawk, and cutting a chip out of a tree here and there to
try if it will work freely, can tell to a nicety at what price it
will pay him to split posts and rails and any other class of timber
that may be required. But this experience is only gained by practical
work, by felling trees and splitting them up with a maul and wedges
oneself. The manager of a station ought always to be a thorough judge
of timber-getting in all its branches, for it is a part of his yearly
expenditure where experience and judgment will enable him to save
largely. It is pretty hard work to pull a cross-cut saw and swing a
heavy maul all day, with a vertical sun and the thermometer up to 110°
in the shade, and it requires a good constitution to stand it. But if
a man is thoroughly sound, the harder he works in Australia the better
health he will have, and it is odd if he does not look back to the time
when he was splitting rails for ten hours a day as one of the happiest
in his life. It is not a very intellectual employment, certainly.
Still, it must be an unfortunate nature to which perfect health does
not bring the keenest pleasure, in a climate like that of Australia.
It is pleasant to set out to work in the morning, after eight hours of
such sleep as none but men who work hard ever enjoy. The sun is just
rising, and there is not a breath of wind, but the air feels as cool
and fresh as iced champagne. The tools have been “planted” under a
sheet of bark by the big tree which you felled overnight; so you have
nothing to carry but a pipe, and as the blue smoke curls round your
lips, mingled with the fragrant scent of the gum-trees and blood-wood
flowers, you decide that certainly the first pipe after breakfast is
the most thoroughly enjoyable of any. By the time that you have got
to your work you are wet through up to the knees, and it is just cold
enough to make you very glad to roll up your sleeves and start in with
a will to work yourself dry. This does not take long, and as the sun
rises and makes himself felt, it does not take long to work yourself
damp again. If you are wise you will not drink much in the morning,
for if you once start you will be thirsty all day. With a cheery mate,
and an occasional spell of five minutes for a smoke, the morning does
not seem very long, and the sun fair overhead, combined with certain
internal sensations, warns you that it is time to knock off and boil
the “billy” for dinner. Every meal in the Bush is, if possible,
accompanied by a brew of tea; and, though it may seem strange, when you
have worked yourself up to boiling point under a grilling sun, there
is nothing in the world so refreshing as a pannikin of very hot tea,
not too strong, with not too much sugar and without any milk. Refreshed
with a square meal of salt beef and damper, which is of all forms of
bread the sweetest and most easily digested if it is properly made, you
start in again, with a firm determination to raise a good “tally” by
the end of the day. As the sun gets low, a hundred sound rails, nine
feet long, bear witness that your day’s work has been an honest one.
A pleasant feeling of languor, which cannot be called fatigue, makes
you very glad to get home, and a wash in the creek brings a sensation
of perfect strength and soundness into every fibre and muscle of your
body, unknown to those who have not worked hard in the healthiest
climate in the world. Supper ended, you pitch a fresh log on the
fire to make a blaze, and, stretching your limbs full length on a
’possum-rug, prepare to devour the last number of the _Australasian_, a
paper which, for general interest and information, was never surpassed.
A fresh pipe lighted with a fire-stick, just as the stars are coming
out, makes you forget the sweetness of the morning air; and for the
hundredth time you tell yourself that tobacco never tastes so nice as
in the cool of the evening, after a real sound day’s work splitting
rails.