CHAPTER IX

The Court was not very full. The 'fellow-workers' to whom Stoate so

often referred had made up their minds about him. Open warfare, rioting,

plunder, even arson or bloodshed, in a moderate degree they would have

condoned. But to be _caught in the act_ of setting fire to a Run, and

detected with a stolen cheque in your pocket—that cheque, too, belonging

to a shearer—these were offences of mingled meanness and malignity which

no Union Caucus could palliate. 'He's a disgrace to the Order; the

Associated Workers disown him. The Judge'll straighten him, and it's

hoped he'll give him a good "stretch" while he's about it.'

This was the prejudicial sentence. And having made up their minds that

their over-cunning ex-delegate by dishonourable imprudence had played

into the hands of the enemy, few of the Unionists took the trouble to

attend, for the melancholy pleasure of hearing sentence passed on their

late comrade and 'officer.'

So, the evidence being overwhelming, the jury found Mr. Stoate guilty,

and the Judge, having drawn attention to the recklessness and revengeful

feeling shown by the prisoner—not halting at the probable consequences

of a crime against society, by which human life might have been

endangered, if not sacrificed—sentenced him to five years' imprisonment

with hard labour. He was immediately afterwards arraigned on the charge

of 'stealing from the person,' and the sergeant's evidence, as well as

that of Hardwick, was shortly taken. Being again found guilty, he was

sentenced to two years' imprisonment—which, however, the Judge decreed

to be concurrent, trusting that the longer term of incarceration might

suffice for reformation. In conclusion, he again congratulated William

Hardwick on the recovery of his money and his character, both of which

he had so nearly lost through association with men who had banded

themselves together to defy the law of the land, and to attempt illegal

coercion of workmen who differed from their opinions.

Such associations often led to consequences not foreseen at the time.

Many a man had cause to blame them for loss of liberty, if not life. He

trusted that this lesson would be received in the way of warning, and

that he and all honest working-men who had witnessed the proceedings in

this Court would go home resolved to do their duty in their own station

of life, not following blindly the lead of agitators, however glib of

speech, who might prove as unprincipled and dangerous guides as the

prisoner who had just received sentence.

No time was lost, it may be imagined, by Bill and Jenny in 'clearing,'

as they expressed it, for Chidowla. The coach for Tumut held a very

cheerful load when he and she, in company with Dick Donahue, who had

covered himself with glory, and had a satisfactory outing as well, took

their seats. Bill wished to cash his newly-found cheque, but

Jenny—practical as usual—persuaded him to give it to her for

transmission to Mr. Calthorpe.

'I brought down a pound or two that I'd got stowed away, and there'll be

just enough to take us back without breaking the cheque. Mr. Calthorpe's

stood by us, and we must do our level best to get square again, and show

the bank as he knows the right people to back. I'll go bail we'll do it

inside a year, if we don't have any more delegate and Union business,

eh, Bill?'

'No fear!' replied Bill with emphasis. 'I'm another man now, though I

won't get the feel of them handcuffs off me for a month o' Sundays. I'm

goin' to be a free labour cove, to the last day of my life. And Janus

Stoate's where he wanted to put me, d—n him! I hope he feels

comfortable. But I'll never give the clever chaps as lives on us fools

of shearers a chance to work such a sell again. Dick, old man, you stood

to me like a trump. We must see if we can't go in for a partnership,

when we're turned round a bit. What do you say, Jenny?'

'I say yes,' said Jenny, 'with all my heart. Biddy's milkin' those cows

of ours now, or I don't know what I'd 'a done. I believe if we put both

our selections into a dairy farm we could make money hand over fist. But

we must have more cows; this cheque of Bill's—and Jenny slapped her

pocket triumphantly—now we've got it, will buy near a dozen, and we'll

soon make a show.'

Dick Donahue, for the first time in his life, found hardly anything to

say. He gripped both their hands, but brought out little more than

'Thank ye, thank you both! You've given me a new lease of life, and

I'll—I'll keep my side up—now I've something ahead of me, or my name's

not Dick Donahue. Thank God, it's a grand season, and that gives us a

clear start, anyhow.'

When they arrived at Tumut—some time after dark, but all well and

happy—they found Biddy awaiting them with the spring cart, which she had

driven over. There were a few stumps on the road, but Bill's eyes were

good, so that they got home safely and with a superior appetite for the

supper which Biddy had set out for them. This they discussed with their

friends, who had much to hear and tell; after which the Donahues drove

away and left them to the enjoyment of their home, which looked like a

palace to Bill, after his misfortunes and adventures.

They were both up, however, before sunrise next morning, and at the

milking-yard, where they found everything just as it should be. In the

dairy, moreover, there was a keg of butter three-parts full, which Biddy

had made during their absence. Bill was thinking of going into Talmorah

after breakfast, when a boy galloped up with a letter from Mr.

Calthorpe, requesting him not to come in till Saturday (the day after

next), as a few friends and fellow-townsmen wished to meet him at two

o'clock at the Teamster's Arms to show their regret at his undeserved

persecution, and to present him with an Address, expressive of the same.

'Bother it all,' said Bill, 'I wish they'd let a fellow alone. I suppose

I shall have to make a speech.'

'Oh, you _must_ go,' said Jenny. 'Mr. Calthorpe wants you, and we

mustn't be ungrateful after all he's done for us. Besides, didn't you

make one at Tandara, when the shed had cut out, after "long Jim

Stanford" euchred the Head Centre at Wagga? My word, you were coming on

then; next thing you'd 'a stood for Parliament, or been elected

delegate, any way.'

'See here, Jenny,' replied Bill. 'I suppose I'll have to say something

when they give me this Address, as they call it; but after that's over,

if any one but you says a word about our "feller-workers" or "criminal

capital," or any bally Union rot of that kind, I'll knock him over, as

sure as my name is Bill Hardwick.'

* * * * *

Bill and Jenny went into Talmorah a little before twelve o'clock on

Saturday morning, the former to meet his friends, and the latter to pay

in the celebrated cheque to their account, and have a few words with the

banker; also, to make quite sure that Bill didn't have more than a

whisky or two on the auspicious occasion. When the meeting was assembled

in the big room at the Teamster's Arms, they were astonished at the

number of townspeople that turned up. Some, too, of the neighbouring

squatters appeared, whom they only knew by name, and that Bill had never

worked for. The clergyman, the priest, the opposition banker, the

storekeepers, great and small, were there—in fact, everybody.

Saturday afternoon in country places is a recognised holiday, except for

shop assistants; and as they have on other days of the week much leisure

time on their hands, they do not object. It is a change, an excitement,

and as such to be made the most of.

A long table had been laid on trestles in the 'hall' of the principal

hotel, a room which had been used indifferently in the earlier days of

Talmorah, when it was a struggling hamlet, for holding Divine service,

police courts, and 'socials,' which included dancing, singing,

recitations, and other expedients subversive of monotony.

Couples had been married there by the monthly arriving minister;

prisoners sentenced to terms of imprisonment, even hanged, after

depositions duly taken there and the verdict of a coroner's jury.

Political meetings had been held, and on the election of a member for

the district it had been used for a polling booth, so that it was well

and favourably known to the inhabitants of the town and district, and no

one had any difficulty in finding it. It was now more crowded than on

any occasion recalled by the oldest inhabitant.

Mr. Thornhill, the principal landowner in the district, holding the

position by reason of his wealth, power, and popularity, which is

generally yielded to the squire in the old country, was unanimously

elected chairman, and opened the proceedings.

'Ladies and gentlemen,' he commenced—'for I am pleased to see so many of

the former present, as also my good friends and neighbours in the

district, who have worked with me in peace and harmony for so many

years—(murmur of applause)—we are met together this day to do an act of

simple justice, as well as of neighbourly kindness, by welcoming back to

his home and friends a man whom we have all known personally or by

report as an honest, straightforward, industrious settler. A man of

small means, but a son of the soil, and the head of a family.

(Interjection—"No; Jenny's the boss.") (Laughter.) My friend who

corrected me, doubtless with the best intentions, is aware, as I am,

that a good wife is the very sheet-anchor of success in

life—(cheers)—and that probably, if our friend Hardwick had taken her

counsel rather than that of agitators and false friends, he would not

have suffered the pecuniary loss, anxiety, and—er—inconvenience which we

so deeply regret this day. (Great cheering.) However, that is past and

gone; we have now a pleasurable aspect of the case to dwell upon. We

congratulate our friend, Mr. William Hardwick, and his good and true

wife, upon their return to their home and their neighbours, by whom they

are so deservedly respected. (Immense cheering.) In this connection it

should not be overlooked that the high character, the result of years of

honest industry, neighbourly kindness, and upright dealing, was of

signal advantage in the time of need. By it they had gained staunch

friends, who stood by them in the day of adversity. Mr. Calthorpe, the

manager of the Bank of Barataria, had done his best for them, and they

knew what a power for good a gentleman in that position could be in a

country place. (Loud cheering.) Their neighbour, Mr. Donahue, had

mustered important witnesses for the defence in a manner which only a

good bushman, as well as a good friend, could have accomplished, while

Mrs. Donahue had personally managed the farm and the dairy in Mrs.

Hardwick's absence. (Repeated bursts of cheering.) Other friends and

neighbours, among whom he was proud to number himself, had helped in the

matter of expense, which, as everybody knew who had anything to do with

law and lawyers, was unavoidable. (Cheers and laughter.) Though here he

must admit that his friend Mr. Biddulph's professional services were

invaluable, and if ever he or any of his hearers got into a tight

place—well, he would say no more. (Great cheering and laughter.) He

would now read the Address. Mr. William Hardwick, please to stand

forward.'

Here Bill advanced, looking far from confident. However, as he

confronted the chairman, he held up his head and manfully faced the

inevitable, while the following Address was read:—

'To Mr. William Hardwick of Chidowla Creek.

'DEAR SIR—We, the undersigned residents of Talmorah, desire to

congratulate you and Mrs. Hardwick upon your return to your home and

this neighbourhood, during your long residence in which you have been

deservedly respected for industrious, straightforward conduct. We have

sympathised with you sincerely, while regretting deeply the unmerited

persecution by which you have suffered. We feel proud to think that

residents of this district were chiefly instrumental in establishing

your innocence, their evidence having caused his Honour, Judge

Warrington, to discharge you "without a stain upon your character." We

beg to tender you this address, signed by the principal inhabitants of

this town and district, and to beg your acceptance of the purse of

sovereigns which I now hand to you.'

Bill's self-possession failed him under this ordeal, and he nearly

dropped the purse, which contained fifty sovereigns. Jenny had put her

head down between her hands. This seemed to suggest to Bill that

somebody was wanted to represent the family. So turning, so as to have a

view of the assembled neighbours, as well as the Chairman, he managed to

get out with:

'Mr. Chairman, ladies and gentlemen,—I'm no hand at a speech, as perhaps

most of you know. I did make a try in the woolshed at Tandara just

before the Shearers' War bust upon us. I don't deny as I might have come

on a bit, with practice; might have been promoted as high as to be a

Union Delegate—(laughter)—but bein' among the prisoners of war, when the

naval battle of the Darling River took place, I was "blocked in my

career," as the sayin' is. I found myself in gaol pretty soon after,

when it was explained to me, for the first (and, I hope, the last) time,

what steel bracelets were like. The next place where I had to talk was

in the dock, when I made a speech with only two words in it. They was

"Not Guilty." (Cheers.) I'm in for a longer one now, and then I'll shut

up for good, and never want to hear another sham-shearer talk rot, or

hear the gag about Unionism again, as long as I live. _I_ don't join

another one, no fear! (Cheers.) And now, I just want you to believe, all

my old friends as have turned up to stand by us in this handsome way,

and Mr. Thornhill, the Chairman (and if all squatters were like him

there'd never have been a strike, or the thought of one), I hope you'll

believe that Jenny and I feel your kindness to the very bottom of our

hearts, and that we shall remember it to our dying day.' Here the

cheering burst forth; stopped and began again, until one would have

thought it never would have ended.

By this time, however, tables had been covered with an array of bottles

of wine and beer, and certain viands in the shape of sandwiches,

tongues, hams, rounds of beef, biscuits, and cakes of various hue and

shape—all things necessary for a cold but generous collation. The corks

being drawn, the sound wine and beer of the country was set flowing,

when Bill's health and Jenny's were drunk with great heartiness and

fervour.

The Chairman then proposed—'His friend Mr. Calthorpe, in fact, the

friend of all present, as the gentleman who, by equipping Richard

Donahue and sending him to find and notice witnesses for the defence,

had done yeoman's service for the worthy pair they had met to honour

that day.'

In the course of an effective speech in return for the toast of his

health, which was enthusiastically honoured, Mr. Calthorpe stated that

the directors of the bank which he had the honour to serve always

supported their officers in any extra-commercial action—as he might call

it—in favour of honourable constituents, such as William Hardwick and

his wife. He might take this opportunity to inform them that a

partnership was in train, and would probably be arranged under the style

of 'Hardwick and Donahue,' as these worthy yeomen had decided to join

their selections, indeed to take up additional, conditional leases and

devote themselves to dairy-farming on a large scale. They hoped to

secure a share of the profits of butter-making which were attracting so

much attention in their district of Talmorah, for which the soil,

climate, and pasture were so eminently adapted. He might inform them

that he had applications in the names of each of the partners, for nine

hundred and sixty acres of conditional leasehold. This, with the

original selections, would form an area of two thousand five hundred and

sixty acres. They would agree with him, a tidy grazing-farm on which to

commence the dairying business! Furthermore, he would take this

opportunity of stating that there was every prospect of a butter-factory

being established in Talmorah within twelve months. He trusted that the

new firm's enterprise would inaugurate, in that method, one of the most

profitable labour-employing industries, by which our graziers, big and

little, have ever benefited themselves and advanced the interests of the

town and district at large.' (Tremendous cheering.)

When the applause had subsided, the prospective partners lost no time in

getting off, Jenny being aware that all conversation after such

proceedings was liable to conclude with the 'What'll you have?'

query—one of the wiles of the 'insidious foe.' Bill confessed to two or

three 'long-sleevers,' the day being warm and the lager beer cool; but

Dick Donahue, who had 'sworn off' before the priest for two years,

before he went down the Darling, had touched nothing stronger than tea.

Upon reaching their homes, the whole four resumed their working clothes

and busied themselves about the farms until sundown. 'We'll sleep better

to-night, anyhow,' said Jenny as, after putting the children to bed, she

sat by Bill while he had his after-supper smoke in the verandah. 'But we

must be up at daylight; it will give us all we know to get the cows

milked and breakfast over and clean things on, for church in the

township. For we'll go _there_, Bill, as we've good right to do, after

all that's come and gone—won't we?'

'Right you are, Jenny; seems as if we'd been took care of, somehow.'

So the old mare missed _her_ Sunday holiday, and had to trot into

Talmorah between the shafts of the light American waggon—the capital

all-round vehicle, that in the bush answers so many different purposes;

and the Donahues went to their chapel, where, no doubt, Father Flanagan

congratulated them on their improved prospects, while admonishing Dick

to be more regular in his 'duty' for the future.

From this time forward the fortunes of the firm of Hardwick and Donahue

steadily improved and prospered. The wives and husbands were eminently

suited for co-operative farm management.

Biddy could milk a third more cows in the morning than any other woman

in the district, and had won more than one prize for butter at the

Agricultural and Pastoral Show. Jenny was not far behind her in these

industries, but in the curing of bacon and hams had rather the best of

it, by the popular vote. Dick was the smarter man of the two, having,

moreover, a gift of persuasive eloquence, which served the firm well in

buying and selling stock; this department having been allotted to him.

He was thus able to get the change and adventure which his soul loved,

and as he stuck manfully to his pledge, he wasted no time, as formerly,

in his attendance upon shows and auction sales.

He began to be looked up to as a solid, thriving grazier, and with hope

before him, and increased comfort in his home and family, pressed

forward with energy to the goal of success which he saw awaiting him.

His children were well fed, well clothed, and well schooled, holding up

their heads with the best of the other yeoman families.

Bill worked away with his old steadiness and perseverance, not envying

the change and occasional recreation which Mr. R. Donahue came in for.

'He had had enough of that sort of thing to last him for the rest of his

life. His home, with Jenny and the children [now an increasing flock],

was good enough for him,' he was heard to say.

There was also a run of good seasons, which in Australia is summed up

and may be exhaustively described in one word _Rain_, with a large R by

all means. The grass was good; so were the crops; so were the prices of

butter, cheese, and milk.

The factory at Talmorah was a substantial, well-equipped, scientific

institution, the monthly cash payments from which caused the hearts of

the storekeeper and the tradesmen of that rising township to sing for

joy. The only persons who discussed the change from 'the good old times'

with scant approval were the publicans, who observed that the farmers

sent the monthly cheque for milk to their account at the Banks of

Barataria or New Holland, and their orders by post to the tradespeople,

instead of 'going into town like men and stopping at the hotel for a

day,' whenever they sold a ton of potatoes or a load of wheat.

From such modest commencements many of the most prosperous families in

New South Wales and Victoria have made their start in life. Such

families not infrequently hold the title-deeds of thousands of acres of

freehold land. Contented to live economically and to re-invest their

annual profits, they acquire large landed estates. As magistrates and

employers of labour their position year by year becomes one of greater

provincial importance and legislative influence. In physique, energy,

and intelligence their sons are an honour to their respective colonies,

and a valued addition to the loyal subjects of the British Empire—that

Empire, in whose cause they are, even as I write, sending the flower of

their youthful manhood to a far-off battlefield, holding it their

proudest privilege to fight shoulder to shoulder with the 'Soldiers of

the Queen.'

MORGAN THE BUSHRANGER

AND OTHER STORIES

MORGAN THE BUSHRANGER

For several years the announcement 'I'm Morgan,' uttered in the drawling

monotone which characterises one section of Australian-born natives,

sufficed to ensure panic among ordinary travellers, and if it did not

cause 'the stoutest heart to quail' in the words of the old romancers,

was seldom heard without accelerated cardiac action. For the hearer then

became aware, if he had not earlier realised the fact, that he was in

the power of a merciless enemy of his kind—blood-stained, malignant,

capricious withal, desperate too, with the knowledge that the avenger of

blood was ever on his trail, that if taken alive the gallows was his

doom, beyond doubt or argument. A convicted felon, who had served his

sentence, he bore himself as one who had suffered wrongs and injustice

from society, which he repaid with usury. Patient and wary as the Red

Indian, he was ruthless in his hour of triumph as the 'wolf Apache' or

the cannibal Navajo exulting with a foe, helpless at the stake.

An attempt has lately been made to rehabilitate the memory of this

arch-criminal, so long the scourge and terror of the great pastoral

districts lying between the Upper Murray and the Murrumbidgee rivers. We

are not disposed to deny that there were individuals not wholly

abandoned among the misguided outlaws who ravaged New South Wales in the

'sixties.' There was usually some rude generosity in their dealings with

victims. They encountered in fair fight, and bore no ill-will to the

police, who were paid to entrap and exterminate them. They were lenient

to the poorer travellers, and exhibited a kind of Robin Hood gallantry

on occasion. Among them were men who would have done honour to their

native land under happier auspices. For, with few exceptions, they were

sons of the soil. But Daniel Morgan differed from Gardiner, Hall, and

Gilbert, from the Clarkes and the Peisleys, from O'Malley and Vane, from

Bourke and Dunn. He differed as the wolf differs from the hound, the

carrion vulture from the eagle. His cunning on all occasions equalled

his malignity, his brutal cruelty, his lust for wanton bloodshed. Rarely

was it, after one of his carefully-planned surprises, when he swooped

down upon a defenceless station, that he abstained from injury to person

or property.

He was skilful and persevering in discovering his 'enemies,' as he

called them,—a not too difficult task,—for he had abettors and

sympathisers, scoundrels who harboured and spied for him, as well as

those who, fearing the vengeance of an unscrupulous ruffian, dared not

refuse food or assistance. Those whom he suspected of giving information

to the police or providing them with horses when on his trail he never

forgave, often wreaking cruel vengeance on them when the opportunity

came. He would reconnoitre from the hill or thicket for days beforehand.

When the men of the household were absent or otherwise employed, he

would suddenly appear upon the scene, to revel in the terror he created;

certain to destroy valuable property, if indeed he did not imbrue his

hands in blood before he quitted the spot.

It was, for the most part, his habit to 'work' as a solitary robber; he

rarely had a companion, although in the encounter with Mr. Baylis, the

Police Magistrate of Wagga Wagga, when that gentleman showed a noble

example by bravely attacking him in his lair, it is supposed that his

then companion was badly wounded. Mr. Baylis was shot through the body,

but that man was never seen alive again. The popular impression was that

Morgan killed him, so that he might not impede his flight or give

information. The tale may not be true, but it shows the quality of his

reputation.

It seems wonderful that Morgan should have been so long permitted to run

the gauntlet of the police of two colonies. It may be doubted whether,

in the present efficient state of the New South Wales force, any

notorious outlaw would enjoy so protracted a 'reign,' as the provincial

phrase goes. He had great odds in his favour. A consummate horseman like

most of his class, a practical bushman and stock-rider, with a command

of scouts who knew every inch of the country, and could thread at

midnight every range and thicket between Marackat and the Billabong,

Piney Range and Narandera, it was no ordinary task to capture the wild

rider, who was met one day on the Upper Murray and the next morning

among the pine forests of Walbundree. Horses, of course, cost him

nothing. He had the pick of a score of studs, the surest information as

to pace and endurance. In a horse-breeding district every animal showing

more than ordinary speed or stoutness is known and watched by the

'duffing' fraternity, fellows who would cheerfully take to the road but

for fear of Jack Ketch. It may be imagined how easily the hackney

question is settled for a bushranger of name and fame, and what

advantages he has over ordinary police troopers in eluding pursuit.

I was living on the Murrumbidgee during a portion of his career, in the

years 1864 to 1869. He was seen several times within twenty miles of my

station, and I have had more than one description from temporary

captives, of his appearance and demeanour. There is not an instance on

record of his having been taken by surprise, or viewed before he had

been employed in reconnoitring his antagonist.

Some of his adventures were not wholly without an element of

humour—although the victim well knew that the turn of a straw might

change the intent, from robbery to murder. The late Mr. Alexander Burt,

manager of Tubbo and Yarrabee, was riding on the plains, at a distance

of ten or twelve miles from the head station, when a horseman emerged

from a belt of pines. He wore a poncho, but differed in no respect from

ordinary travellers. Without suspicion he rode towards the stranger. As

he approached and, bushman-like, scrutinised horse and man, he observed

the JP brand, and recognised the animal as one stolen from the station.

A tall, powerful Scot, Mr. Burt ranged alongside of the individual in

the poncho and reached over to collar him. At that moment a revolver

appeared from under the poncho, and a drawling voice uttered the words

'Keep back!'

It was unsafe to try a rush, and the snake-like eye of the robber told

clearly that the least motion would be the signal for pulling the

trigger.

'What's yer name?' queried the stranger.

'My name is Burt.'

'Then Burt—you get off—that—horse.'

Being unarmed, he had no option but to dismount.

'Give—me—the—bridle. So—you—tried—to—take—my—horse—did—yer?

I've—a—dashed—good—mind—to—shoot—yer. Now—yer—can—walk—home.

I'd—advise—yer—to—make—a—straight—track.'

And with this parting injunction he rode slowly away, leading Mr. Burt's

horse, while that gentleman, cursing his hard fate, had to tramp a dozen

miles before relating the foregoing adventure.

At another time he surprised the Yarrabee Station, 'bailing' Mr. Waugh

the overseer, Mr. Apps, and others of the employés of Mr. John Peter,

but beyond placing the JP brand in the fire, and swearing he would put

it on one of them, as a suitable memento, he did nothing dreadful.

At Mr. Cochran's of Widgiewa, as also at Mr. M'Laurin's of Yarra Yarra,

preparations were openly made for his reception; yet, though he made

various threats of vengeance, he never appeared at either place.

At Round Hill Station, near Germanton, he enacted one of his murderous

pranks. Suddenly appearing in the shed at shearing time, he terrorised

the assembled men, fired on, wounded and threatened the life of the

manager. After calling for spirits and compelling all to drink with him,

he turned to ride away, when, incensed by a careless remark, he wheeled

his horse and fired his revolver at the crowd. A bullet took effect in

the ankle of a young gentleman gaining shearing experience, breaking the

bone, and producing intense agony. Appearing to regret the occurrence,

Morgan suggested to another man to go for the doctor. Having started,

Morgan followed at a gallop, and overtaking him, said with an oath,

'You're not going for the doctor—you're going for the police.' With that

he shot the unfortunate young man through the body, who fell from his

horse mortally wounded.

About the same time he was seen by Police Sergeant M'Ginnerty riding

near the Wagga Wagga road. Having no suspicion, he galloped alongside,

merely to see who he was. Without a moment's hesitation Morgan fired

_through his poncho_. The bullet was but too sure—it may be noted that

he rarely missed his aim—and the ill-fated officer fell to the ground in

the death agony. He coolly propped up the dying man in a sitting

posture, and there left him.

When it is considered that he killed two police officers, besides

civilians, Chinamen, and others, and that he shot a police magistrate

through the body (inflicting a wound nearly fatal, the consequences of

which were suffered for years after), it will be admitted that he was

one of the most formidable outlaws that ever roamed the Australian

wilds.

He is said to have encountered a pastoral tenant, of large possession,

whom he thus accosted—

'I—hear—you've—been—pounding—the—Piney—boys'—horses—haven't—you?'

The witness was understood to deny, or, at any rate, shade off the

unpopular act.

'Piney Range,' near Walbundree, was understood to be at one time the

robber's headquarters. Here he was harboured in secret, and more

comfortably lodged than was guessed at by the public or the police. The

'boys' were a horse-and cattle-stealing band of rascals—now fortunately

dispersed—who generally made themselves useful by misleading the police,

as well as by giving him notice of hostile movements. Towards

subsidising them the spoils of honest men were partially devoted.

But this did by no means satisfy the 'terrible cross-examiner.'

'You look here now! If yer don't drop it,

the—very—next—time—I—come—over—I'll—shoot—yer.

For—the—matter—of—that—I—don't—know—whether—I—_won't—shoot—yer—now_.'

And as the dull eyes fastened with deadly gaze upon the captive's

face—he looking meanwhile at the mouth of the levelled weapon, held in

the blood-stained hand of one who at any time would rather kill a man

than not—be sure Mr. Blank's feelings were far from enviable.

To one of his victims he is reported to have said—

'I—hear—you're—a—dashed—good—step-dancer. Now—let's—have—a—sample—

and—do—yer—bloomin'—best—or—yer—won't—never—shake—a—leg—no—more.'

Fancy performing on the light fantastic before such a critic!

A cheerful squatter (who told me the tale) was riding through his

paddocks one fine afternoon, in company with his family and a couple of

young friends of the 'colonial experience' persuasion. They were

driving—he riding a handsome blood filly. In advance of the buggy, he

was quietly pacing through the woodland—probably thinking how well the

filly was coming on in her walking, or that fat stock had touched their

highest quotation—when he was aware of a man sitting motionless on his

horse, under a tree.

The tree was slightly off his line, and as he approached it the strange

horseman quietly rode towards him. He noted that he was haggard, and

dark-complexioned, with an immense bushy beard. His long, black hair

hung on his shoulders. His eyes, intensely black, were small and beady;

his air sullen and forbidding. He rode closely up to the pastoralist

without word or sign. Their knees had nearly touched when he drew a

revolver and pointed it at his breast, so quickly that there was hardly

time to realise the situation.

'Which—way—are—yer—goin'?'

'Only across the paddock,' was the answer.

'You—come—back—with—me—to—that—buggy.'

By making a slight detour, they came in front of the vehicle, the

occupants of which were perfectly unsuspicious of the strange company

into which the head of the house had fallen.

Then he suddenly accosted them, levelling the revolver, commanding them

to stand, and directing the young gentleman who was driving to jump to

the ground. He was famed for his activity, it is said, but the spring

made on that occasion, at the bidding of Morgan, beat all former

records. The other young gentleman, though of limited colonial

experience, was not 'devoid of sense,' as he dropped two five-pound

notes from his pocket into a tussock of grass, whence they were

afterwards recovered.

After relieving all of their watches and loose cash, the bushranger

asked the proprietor whether he had seen any police lately.

'Yes, two had passed.'

'And—you—fed—'em, I expect? I'm half—a—mind—to blow—the

bloomin'—wind—through—yer.'

'What am I to do?' queried the perplexed landholder. 'I should feed you

if you came by. I can't deny them what I give to every one that passes.'

'D'ye—know—who—I—am?'

'I never met you before, but I can pretty well guess. I've never done

you any harm that I know of.'

'It's—a—dashed—good—thing—yer—haven't. What's—that—comin'—along the

road?'

'The mail coach.'

'How—d'ye—know—that?'

'Well, it comes by every day about this time, and of course I know it.'

'Well—I'm—just—goin'—to—stick—it—up. Don't—yer—tell—no—one—

yer—saw—me—to-day—or—it'll—be—a—blamed—sight—worse—for—yer.'

And with this precept and admonition the robber departed, to the

infinite relief of all concerned. In a few minutes they heard the pistol

shot with which he 'brought-to' the mail-coach.

'Blest if I seen a speck of him till he fired the revolver just over my

head,' said the driver afterwards. 'I was that startled I wonder I

didn't fall off the box.'

No harm was done on that occasion, save to Her Majesty's mails, and the

correspondence of the lieges. My informant gathered up the strewed

parcels and torn sheets into a large sack next morning, and forwarded

them to the nearest post-office.

In Morgan's whole career there is not recorded one instance of even the

spurious generosity which, if it did not redeem, relieved the darkness

of other criminal careers. He had apparently not even the craving for

companionship, which makes it a necessity with the ordinary brigand to

have a 'mate' towards whom, at any rate, he is popularly supposed to

exhibit that fidelity which he has forsworn towards his kind. Rarely is

it known that Morgan pursued his depredations in concert with any one.

He may have had confederates, harbourers he must have had, but not

comrades.

He was never known to show mercy or kindness towards women. When they

were present at any of his raids, he seems either to have refrained from

noticing them or to have derided their fears. There is no record of his

having suffered their entreaties to prevail, or to have ceased from

violence and outrage at their bidding.

Subtle, savage, and solitary as those beasts of prey which have learned

to prefer human flesh, and once having tasted to renounce all other,

Morgan lurked amid the wilds, which he had made his home, ever ready for

ruffianism or bloodshed—a fiend incarnate—permitted to carry terror and

outrage into peaceful homes, until his appointed hour of doom. This was

the manner of it.

MORGAN'S DEATH, TOLD BY THE MANAGER.

Peechelbah Station, on the Murray, was a big scattered place, a regular

small town. There was the owner's house—a comfortable bungalow, with a

verandah all round. He and his family had just come up from town. My

cottage was half a mile away. I was the Manager, and could ride or drive

from daylight to midnight, or indeed fight, on a pinch, with any man on

that side of the country. I was to have gone up to the 'big house' to

have spent the evening. But it came on to rain, so I did not go, which

was just as well, as matters turned out.

I was writing in my dining-room about nine o'clock when a servant girl

from the house came rushing in. 'What's the matter, Mary?' I said, as

soon as I saw her face. 'Morgan's stuck up the place,' she half

whispered, 'and he's in the house now. He won't let any one leave the

room; swore he'd shoot them if they did. But I thought I'd creep out and

let you know.'

'You're a good lass,' I said, 'and have done a good night's work, if you

never did another. Now, you get back and don't let on you've been away

from your cups and saucers. How does he shape?'

'Oh, pretty quiet. Says he won't harm nobody. They're all sitting on the

sofa, and he's got his pistols on the table before him.' And back she

went.

Here was a pretty kettle of fish! Many things had to be done, so I

pulled myself together, and set about to study the proper place for the

battle. It was no use trying to rush the house. There were a lot of

hands at work on the place and in the men's huts. But in those days you

couldn't be sure of half of them. I had a few confidential chaps about,

and I intended to trust entirely to them and myself. I was a good man in

those days, as I said before.

But here was Morgan in possession—one of the most desperate,

bloodthirsty bushrangers that had ever 'turned out' in New South Wales

or Victoria. Nothing was surer than, if we made an attempt to besiege

the house, he would at once shoot Mr. M'Pherson, and his partner Mr.

Telford, who happened to be there with him.

So I had to be politic or all would go wrong.

I first thought of the money. For a wonder I had four hundred pounds, in

notes, in my desk. I had got them from the bank to buy land, which was

to be sold that week. I didn't often do anything so foolish, you may

believe, as to keep forty ten-pound notes in a desk.

The next thing, of course, was to 'plant' it. I made it into a parcel,

and taking it over to the creek, hid it under the overhanging root of a

tree, in a place that Mr. Morgan, unless he was a thought-reader, like

the man we had staying here the other night, would not be likely to

find.

This done, I sent my body-servant down to the men's hut, to tell them

all to come up to my place—that I wanted to give them a glass of grog.

Grog, of course, is never allowed to be kept on a station by any one but

the proprietor or manager. But I used to give them a treat now and then,

so they didn't think it unusual.

I mustered them in my big room and saw they were all there. Every man

had his glass of whisky, as I had promised. Then I said: 'Men! There's a

d—d fellow here to-night that you've often heard of—perhaps seen. His

name's _Morgan_! He's stuck up the big house, with Mr. and Mrs.

M'Pherson and the family. Now, listen to me. The police will be up

directly. I intend to surround the house. But I don't want any of you

fellows to run into danger, d'ye see? It's my order—mind that—that you

all stop in here, till you have the word to come out. Antonio!' I

said—he had been with me for ten years and was a determined fellow; a

sailor from the Spanish main, half-Spanish, half-English, and afraid of

nothing in the world—'Antonio, you stand near the door. My orders are

that _no one_ leaves this room to-night till I tell him. The first man

that tries to do so, shoot him, and ask no questions.'

'By ——! I will,' says Antonio, showing his white teeth and a navy

revolver.

The men looked queer at this; but they knew Antonio, and they knew me.

They had had a glass of grog, besides, and I promised them another by

and by. This pacified them; so they brought out some cards and set to at

euchre and all-fours. They were safe. I had made up my mind what to do.

I never intended Morgan to leave the place alive. I had sent off for the

police, and among the men I could trust was a smart fellow named

Quinlan, a dead shot and a steady, determined man. He had several times

said what a shame it was that a fellow like Morgan should go about

terrorising the whole country, and what fools and cowards people were to

suffer it. He had his own gun and ammunition, and, when I told him, said

he wanted nothing better than to have a slap at him.

We weren't so well off for firearms as we might have been, for I had hid

a lot of loaded guns in an empty hut, ready to get hold of in case of

sudden need. Confound it, if some of the boys hadn't taken them out the

day before to go duck-shooting with. However, we rummaged up enough to

arm the picked men, and kept watch.

It was a long, long night, but we were so excited and anxious that no

one felt weary, much less inclined to sleep. Mr. Telford was in the

house with Mr. M'Pherson, and he chaffed Morgan (they told me

afterwards) about having his revolvers out in the presence of ladies.

However, he couldn't get him to put them away. He was always most

suspicious. Never gave a man a chance to close with him. He was

well-behaved and civil enough in the house, and, I believe, only wished

one of the young ladies to play him a tune or two on the piano. He drank

spirits sparingly, and always used to call for an unopened bottle. He

was afraid of being poisoned or drugged. Some of his _friends_ wouldn't

have minded much about that even, as there was a thousand pounds reward

for his capture, alive or dead. I have good reason for thinking,

however, that one or two of the 'knockabouts' would have given him 'the

office,' if we hadn't got them all under hatches, as it were.

Daylight came at last. I've had many a night watching cattle in cold and

wet, but none that I was so anxious to end as that. Of course I knew our

man wouldn't stop till sunrise. He was too careful, and never took any

risks that he could help.

And at last, by George! out he came, and walked down towards the yard

where his horse was. I had pretty well considered the line he was likely

to take, and was lying down, the men on each side of me, as it happened.

But, cunning to the last, he made M'Pherson and Telford come out with

him, one on each side, not above a yard away from him. As he passed by

us we couldn't have fired without a good chance of shooting one of the

other two. So we let him pass—pretty close too. However, when he'd

passed Quinlan, the track turned at an angle, which brought him

broadside on; it wasn't to say a very long shot, nor yet a very close

one. It was a risk, too, for of course if he had been missed, the first

thing he'd have done would have been to have shot M'Pherson and Telford

before any one could have stopped him. But Quinlan had a fair show as he

thought, and let drive, without bothering about too many things at once.

That shot settled the business for good and all. His bullet struck

Morgan between the shoulders and passed out near his chin. He fell,

mortally wounded. In an instant he was rushed and his revolvers taken

from him. He lay helpless; the spine had been touched, and he was

writhing in his death agony, as better men had done before from his

pistol.

The first thing he said was, 'You might have sent a fellow a challenge.'

One of the men called out, 'When did you ever do it, you murdering dog?'

He never spoke after that, and lived less than two hours.

The police didn't come up in time to do anything; no doubt they would

have been ready to help in preventing his escape. But I was only too

glad the thing had ended as it did. The news soon got abroad that this

man—who had kept the border stations of two colonies in fear and

trembling, so to speak, for years—was lying dead at Peechelbah. Before

night there were best part of two hundred people on the place. I can't

say exactly how much whisky they drank, but the station supply ran out

before dark, and it was no foolish one either. 'All's well that ends

well,' they say. We've had nobody since who's been such a 'terror' to

settlers and travellers. But I don't want to go through such a time

again as the night of Morgan's death.

HOW I BECAME A BUTCHER

I was wending my way to Melbourne with a draft of fat cattle in the

spring of 1851, when the public-house talk took the unwonted flavour of

gold. Gold had 'broken out,' as it was expressed, at a creek a few miles

from Buninyong. Gold in lumps! Gold in bushels! All the world was there,

except those who were on the road or packing up. A couple of hundred

head of fat cattle were not, perhaps, the exact sort of impedimenta to

go exploring with on a goldfield, but it was hard to stem the tidal

wave, now rolling in unbroken line towards Ballarat. Men agreed that

this was the strange new name of the strange new treasure-hold. I

incontinently pined for Ballarat. I sold one-half of my drove by the

way, purchased a few articles suitable for certain contingencies, and

joined the procession; for it was a procession, a caravan, almost a

crusade.

The weather had been wet. The roads were deep. Heavy showers, fierce

gales, driving sleet made the spring days gloomy, and multiplied delays

and disasters. None of these obstacles stayed the ardent pilgrims, whose

faith in their golden goal was daily confirmed, stimulated ever by wild

reports of luck. The variety of the wayfarers who thronged that highway,

broad as the path to destruction, was striking. Sun-tanned bushmen,

inured to toil, practised in emergencies, alternated with groups of

townspeople, whose fresh complexions and awkward dealings with their new

experience stamped them as recruits. Passengers, who had left shipboard

but a week since, armed to the teeth, expectant of evil. Mercantile

Jack, whose rolling gait and careless energy displayed his calling as

clearly as if the name of his ship had been tattooed on his forehead.

Other persons whose erect appearance and regular step hinted at

pipe-clay. Carts with horses, ponies, mules, donkeys, even men and

women, in their shafts. Bullock drays, heavily laden, in which the long

teams at fullest stretch of strength were fairly cursed through the

slough, to which the army column ahead and around had reduced the road.

Bells! bells! bells! everywhere and of every note and inflexion,

dog-trucks, wheel-barrows, horsemen, footmen, lent their aid to the

extraordinary _mélange_ of sights and sounds, mobilised _en route_ for

Ballarat.

Slowly, 'with painful patience,' as became experienced drovers, we

skirted or traversed the pilgrim host. We drove far into the night,

until we reached a sequestered camp. A few days of uneventful travelling

brought us to the Buninyong Inn. This modest hostelry, amply sufficient

for the ordinary traffic of the road, was now filled and overflowed by

the roaring flood of wayfarers. The hostess, in daily receipt of profits

which a month had not formerly accumulated, was civil but indifferent.

'I _might_ get supper,' she dared say, 'but could not guarantee that

meal. Her servants were worked off their legs. She wished indeed that

there was another inn; she was tired to death of having to provide for

such a mob.'

When I heard a licensed victualler giving vent to this unnatural wish,

as I could not but regard it, I recognised the case as desperate, and

capitulated. I managed to procure a meal in due time, and mingled with

the crowd in hope of gaining the information of which I stood in need.

My assistants were a white man and a black boy. The former was a small,

wiry Englishman, formerly connected with a training stable. He called

himself Ben Brace, after a famous steeplechaser which he had trained or

strapped. Hard-bitten, hard-reared, mostly on straw and ashplant, as

goes the nature of English stable-lads, to Ben early hours or late, foul

weather or fair, fasting or feasting were much alike. Of course he

drank, but he had enough of the results of the old stable discipline

left to restrain himself until after the race was run. I had therefore

no feeling of apprehension about his fidelity.

For the time was an exciting one, and had not been without its effects

upon all hired labour, though things had not developed in that respect

as fully as when a year's success had made gold as common as shells on

the seashore. Then, indeed, by no rate of wages could you ensure the

effective discharge of the indispensable duties of the road. When every

passing traveller who spoke to your stock-riders, or requested a light

for a pipe, had nuggets of gold in his pocket, 'or knowed a party as

bottomed last week to the tune of £1200 a man,' it was small wonder

that, valuable as their services were conceded to be, they should

themselves deem them to be invaluable. Independent, insolent, and

ridiculously sensitive as drovers became, it became an undertaking

perilous and uncertain in the extreme to drive stock to market.

I have seen the only man (beside the proprietor) in charge of three

hundred head of fat cattle confronting that sorely-tried squatter, with

vinous gravity and sarcastic defiance, as thus—'You s'pose I'm a-goin'

to stay out and watch these —— cattle while you're a-sittin' in the

public-house eatin' your arrowroot? No. I ain't the cattle dorg. I'm a

man! as good as ever you was, and you can go and drive your bloomin'

cattle yerself.'

This fellow was in receipt of one pound per diem; his allegations were

totally unfounded, as his master had done nearly all the work, and would

have done the remainder had the instincts of a large drove of wild

cattle permitted. I saw my friend's grey eyes glitter dangerously for a

moment as he looked the provoking ruffian full in the face, and advanced

a step; then the helplessness of his position smote him, and he made a

degradingly civil answer.

I was fortunate in not being likely to be reduced to such destitution.

Besides Ben, the black boy Charley Bamber was at exactly the right age

to be useful. Of him I felt secure. He was a small imp whom I had once

brought away from his tribe in a distant part of the country and essayed

to educate and civilise. The education had progressed as far as

tolerable reading and writing, a perfect mastery of that 'vulgar tongue'

so extensively heard in the waste places of the earth, joined with a

ready acquaintance with the Bible and the Church Catechism. He would

have taken honours in any Sunday School in Britain. The civilisation, I

am bound to admit, was imperfect and problematical.

But the son of the forest was quick of eye, a sure tracker, and the

possessor of a kind of mariner's compass instinct which enabled him to

find his way through any country, known or unknown, with ease and

precision. He was a first-rate hand with all manner of cattle and

horses, when freed from that unexorcised demon, his temper. It was

simply fiendish. Bread and butter, shoes and stockings, the language of

England and the language of kindness, had left that inheritance

untouched. In his paroxysms he would throw himself upon the earth and

saw away at his throat with his knife. This instrument being generally

blunt, he never succeeded in severing the carotid artery. But he often

looked with glaring eyes and distorted features, as if he would have

liked in this manner to have settled the vexed question of his creation.

Strange as it may appear, the incongruity of his knowledge with his

tendencies was to him a matter of wrathful regret. Being reproached one

day for bad conduct by the lady to whose untiring lessons he owed his

knowledge, he exclaimed, 'I wish you'd never taught me at all. Once, I

didn't know I was wicked; now I do, and I'm miserable.' The pony which

he always rode, a clever, self-willed scamp like himself, once took him

under the branches of a low-growing tree, scratching his face in the

process. Lifting the tomahawk which he generally carried, he drove it

into the withers of the poor animal. On reaching home he confessed

frankly enough, as was his custom, and appeared grieved and penitent. He

was sorry enough afterwards, for the fistula which supervened

necessitated a tedious washing every morning with soap and water for

twelve months. This attention fell to his lot with strict retributive

justice, and before a cure was effected he had ample leisure to deplore

his rashness. With all his faults he could be most useful when he liked.

He was so clever that I could not help feeling a deep interest in him,

and during the expedition which I describe he was unusually

well-behaved.

Having put the cattle into a secure yard, and seen my retainers

comfortably fed and housed, I betook myself to the coffee-room. This

apartment was crowded with persons just about to visit, or on their

return from visiting, the Wonder of the Age. The conversation was

general and unreserved. I was amused at the usual conflict of opinion

with regard to the duration, demerits, and destiny of the Australian

goldfields.

The elderly and conservative colonists took a depressing view of this

new-born irruption of bullion. 'It tended to the confusion of social

ranks, to the termination of existing relations between shepherds and

squatters, to democracy, demoralisation, and decay. Had other nations,

the Spaniards notably, not found the possession of gold-mines in their

American colonies a curse rather than a blessing? Would not the standard

value of gold coin be reduced? Would not landed property be depreciated,

agriculture perish, labour become a tradition, and this fair land be

left a prey to ruffianly gold-seekers and unprincipled adventurers? The

opposition, composed of the younger men, the 'party of progress,' with a

few democrats _enragés_, scoffed at the words of wary commerce or timid

capital. 'This was an Anglo-Saxon community. Capacity for

self-government had ever been the proud heritage of the race. We had

that sober reasoning power, energy, and innate reverence for law which

enabled us to successfully administer republics, goldfields, and other

complications fatal to weaker families of men. With such a people

abundance of gold was not more undesirable than abundance of wheat. Glut

of gold! Well, there were many ways of disposing of it. Civilisation

developed the need for coin nearly as fast as it was supplied. A

sovereign would be a sovereign most likely for our time. Land! The land

of course would be sold, cut up into farms for industrious yeomen, and

high time too.'

The destiny of our infant nation was not finally settled when I slipped

out. I had mastered two facts, however, which were to me at that time

more immediately interesting than the rise of nations and the fall of

gold. These were the increasing yields at Ballarat, and that, as yet,

the diggers were living wholly on mutton, of which they were excessively

tired.

Long before daylight we were feeding our horses and taking a meal, so

precautionary in its nature that (more especially in Charley's case) the

question of dinner might safely be entrusted to the future. With just

light enough to distinguish the white-stemmed gums which stood ghostly

in the chill dawn, we left the sleeping herd of prospectors and

politicians and prepared for a day of doubt and adventure.

Silent and cold, we stumbled and jogged along, something after the

fashion of Lord Scamperdale going to meet the hounds in the next county,

for an hour or two. Then the sun began to cheer the sodden landscape,

the birds chirped, the cattle put their heads down, life's mercury rose.

We had reached the historic Yuille's Creek, upon the bank of which the

great gold city now stands. Then it was like any other 'wash-up creek'—a

mimic river in winter, a chain of muddy water-holes in summer. As I

looked at the eager waters, yellow with the clay in solution, as if the

great metal had lent the wave its own hue, I felt like Sinbad

approaching the valley of diamonds, and almost expected to break my

shins against lumps of gold and silver. I determined to advance and

reconnoitre; so, leaving Ben and Charley to feed and cherish the cattle

until my return, I put spurs to old Hope, and headed up the water at a

more cheerful pace than we had known since daylight. I turned the spur

of a ridge which came low upon the meadows of the streamlet. I heard a

confused murmuring sound, the subdued 'voice of a vast congregation,'

combined with a noise as of a multitude of steam mills. I rounded the

cape, and, pulling up my horse, stared in wonder and excitement upon the

strange scene which burst in suddenness upon me.

On a small meadow, and upon the slopes which rose gently from it, were

massed nearly twenty thousand men. They were, with few exceptions,

working more earnestly, more absorbingly, more silently than any body of

labourers I had ever seen. They were delving, carrying heavy loads,

filling and emptying buckets, washing the ore in thousands of cradles,

which occupied every yard and foot of the creek, in which men stood

waist-deep. Long streets and alleys of tents and shanties constituted a

kind of township, where flaunting flags of all colours denoted stores

and shops, and St. George's banner, hanging proudly unfurled, told that

the majesty of the law, order, and the government was administered by

Commissioners and supported by policemen.

I rode among the toilers, amid whom I soon found friends and

acquaintances. On every side was evidence of the magical richness of the

deposit. Nuggets were handed about with a careless confidence which

denoted the easy circumstances of the owners. The famous 'Jeweller's

Point' was just yielding its 'untold gold,' and one sanguine individual

did not overstate the case when he assured me they were 'turning it up

like potatoes.' I ascertained that, with the exception of an occasional

quarter from an adjoining station, the grand army was ignorant of the

taste of beef, that mutton was beginning to be accounted monotonous

fare, and that he who reintroduced the diggers to steaks and sirloins

would be hailed as a benefactor and paid like a governor-general.

Having ascertained that this society, in which no trade was

unrepresented, contained several butchers, I presented myself to these

distributors, my natural enemies. I found that the abnormal conditions

among which we moved had by no means lessened our antagonism. We did

battle as of old. They decried the quality of my cattle, and affected to

ignore the popular necessity for beef. Thinking that I was compelled to

accept their ruling, they declined to buy except at a low price. I

retired full of wrath and resolve.

Had I come these many leagues to be a prey to shallow greed and cunning?

Not so, by St. Hubert! Sooner than take so miserable a price for my

weary days and watchful nights, I would turn butcher myself. Ha! happy

thought! Why not? There was no moral declension in becoming a butcher,

at least temporarily; all one's morale here was _bouleversé_. 'Tis done.

'I will turn the flank of these knaves. Henceforth I also am a butcher.

Chops and steaks! No! steaks only! Families supplied. Ha! ha!'

I returned to the cattle, which I found much refreshed by the creek

side. We drove them to the bank of the great Wendouree Lake, then a

shallow, reedy marsh, made a brush yard, established ourselves in the

lee of a huge fallen gum, and passed cheerfully enough our first night

at Ballarat.

Next morning I commenced the campaign of competition with decision. I

gave Charley a lecture of considerable length upon his general

deportment, and the particular duties which had now devolved upon him.

He was to look after or 'tail' the cattle daily by the side of the lake;

to abstain from opossum hunts and other snares of the evil one; to look

out that wicked men, of whom this place was choke-full, did not steal

the cattle; to rest his pony, Jackdaw, whenever he could safely; and

always to bring his cattle home at sundown. If he did all these things,

and was generally a good boy, I would give him a cow, from the profit of

whose progeny he would very likely become a rich man, when we got back

to Squattlesea Mere. He promised to abandon all his sins on the spot. As

the cattle stood patiently expectant by the rails, I sent a bullet into

the 'curl' of the forehead of a big rough bullock. The rest of the drove

moved out with small excitement, and the first act was over.

We flayed and quartered our bullock 'upon the hide,' a 'gallows' being a

luxury to which, like uncivilised nations, we had not attained.

I chose a location for a shop in a central position among the tented

streets, being chiefly attracted thereto by a large stump, which was

a—ahem—butcher's block ready made, divided our animal into more

available portions, and with modest confidence awaited 'a share of the

public patronage.'

At first trade was slack—the sun became powerful—the flies arrived in

myriads—a slight reactionary despondency set in—when lo! a customer, a

bronzed and bearded digger. I think I see his jolly face now. 'Hullo,

mate! got some beef? Blowed if I didn't think all the cattle was dead!

We're that tired of mutton—well, I ain't got much time to stand yarnin'.

Give us a bit now, though. Thirty pound—that'll do. Here's a sov'ring.

Good-bye.'

Myself.—'Tell the other fellows, will you?'

'All right. Won't want much tellin',' shouted my friend, far on his way.

My soul was comforted. It was the turn of the tide. Another and another

came who lusted for the muscle-forming food. Towards evening the news

was general that there was 'beef in Ballarat.' The tide flowed and rose

until the last ounce of the brindled bullock had vanished, and I was

left the owner of a bag of coin weighty and imposing as the purse of a

Cadi.

'My word, sir, we'll have to kill two to-morrow,' quoth Ben, 'if this

goes on; and however shall we manage to cut 'em up and sell too?'

'Well, we'll see,' said I confidently; 'something will turn up.'

As we returned to our depôt by Wendouree, we met by the wayside a

middle-aged man sitting on a log in a despondent mood. He was the only

man I had yet seen at Ballarat who was not full of hope and energy. I

was curious enough to disturb his reverie.

'What's the matter?' said I. 'Have you lost your horse, or your wife, or

has the bottom of your claim tumbled out, that you look so down on your

luck?'

'Well, master, it ain't quite so bad as all that, but it isn't so easy

to get on here without money or work, and I was just a-thinkin' about

going back to Geelong.'

'I should have thought every one could have got work here, by the look

of things.'

'Well, a many do, but I am not much with pick and shovel. I'm gettin'

old now, and I can't a-bear cookin'. Now, I was as comfortable as could

be in Geelong, a-workin' steady at my trade. I was just a-thinkin' what

a fool I was to come away, surelye!'

'What is your trade?'

'Well, master, I'm a butcher!'

There _must_ be good angels. One doubts sometimes. But how otherwise

could this man, an unimaginative Englishman, lately arrived, not easy of

adaptation to strange surroundings, have been conveyed to this precise

spot, _planté là_, that I might stumble against him in my need? I could

have clasped him in my arms.

But I said, with assumed indifference, 'Well, I want a man for a week or

two to do slaughtering. You can have five shillings a day, and come home

with us now, if you like.'

'Thank ye, master, that I'll do, and main thankful I be.'

When we reached the fallen tree, which, like a South Sea cocoa-palm,

supplied nearly all our wants (being fuel, fireplace, house, furniture,

and one side of our stock-yard), the cattle were in, the camp kettle was

boiling, and Charley, standing proudly by the fire, received my

congratulations. Our professional comforted himself internally. We

regarded the past with satisfaction and the future with hope, and were

soon restoring our taxed energies with unbroken slumber.

Next day we slew two kine, ably assisted by our new man, who, however,

looked rather blank at the absence of so many trade accessories. Our

bough-constructed 'shop' on the flat became a place of fashionable

resort, and the conversion of cows into coin became easy and methodical.

Having real work to do, I donned suitable garments, and as I stood forth

in blue serge and jack-boots, wielding my blood-stained axe or gory

knife, few of the busy diggers doubted my having been bred to the craft.

One or two jokes sprang from this slight misapprehension.

'Ah! if you was at 'ome now, and 'ad yer big cleaver, yer'd knock it off

smarter, wouldn't yer now?' This was a criticism upon my repeated

attempts to sever an obstinate bone with a gapped American axe.

On the first day of my butcherhood I had bethought me of the cuisine of

my old friend the Commissioner, which I essayed to improve by the gift

of a sirloin. Placing the exotic in a gunny-bag, I rode up to the camp,

and said to the blue-coated warder, 'Take this joint of beef to Mr.

Sturt with my compliments.' I had no sooner completed the sentence than

I saw an expression upon the face of the man-at-arms which reminded me

of my condition in life. Gazing at me with supercilious surprise, he

called languidly to a brother gendarme, 'Jones, take this here to the

Commissioner with the _butcher's_ compliments!' For one moment I looked

'cells and contempt of court' at the obtuse myrmidon who failed to

recognize the disguised magistrate; but the humour of the incident

presenting itself, I burst into a fit of laughter which further

mystified him, and departed.

I was now settled in business. I diverted a large share of the trade

previously monopolised by my rivals, who now bitterly regretted not

having disposed of me by purchase. Every night I went up to the

Government camp with my bag of coin, which I delivered over for safe

keeping. As many friends were located there, with them I generally spent

my evenings, which were of a joyous and sociable character. The

conditions were favourable. Most of us were young; we were all making

money tolerably fast, with the agreeable probability, for some time to

come, of making it even faster.

The exodus from Melbourne was exhaustive. There, daily to be seen in red

shirt and thick but very neat boots, stood the handsome doctor of 'our

street' by the cradle, for which he had abandoned patients and practice.

Next to him, with constant care lowering the ever-recurring

shaft-bucket, was a rising barrister. Hotel servants, tradespeople,

farmers, market-gardeners, civilians, cab-drivers, barbers, even the

tragic and the comic muse, had enrolled themselves among the players at

this theatre, where the popular drama of 'Golden Hazard' was having a

run till further notice. The ranks of the 50th Regiment were thinned by

desertions in spite of the utmost vigilance; while the ships in the bay

were likely to be reduced to the condition of the world's fleet in

Campbell's _Last Man_.

Pitiable the while was the position of the squatters, especially of

those who held sheep. On a cattle station the proprietor or manager,

with the assistance of a boy or two, can do much. It is not so with

sheep. Particularly was it not so in those pre-fencing days. In vain the

sheep-owner doubles his men's wages and removes apparent discontent. He

tries to think that matters will go on pretty well till shearing. One

night comes a traveller, a wretch with a bag of gold. Next morning a

shepherd is missing, and so on.

We gave a little _festa_ one evening in honour of a friend who had sold

his share in the claim and wisely gone back to follow his profession in

town. The conversation had a philosophical turn, and it was debated

whether or no the country would come well out of the ordeal to which,

particularly on account of its uneducated classes, it was being

subjected. Some one expressed an opinion adverse to the result upon

national morality and progress.

'I hold a directly opposite conviction,' said Jack Freshland. 'So do all

the men who, like me, have seen order produced from chaos in California.

"Scum of the universe" was a complimentary description of her

population. "Hell upon earth" was a weak metaphor explanatory of her

social state. Look at her now—self-regenerate, orderly, honestly

progressive in every phase of industry. I don't say that you run no

chance of being shot; accidents will happen when fellows' belts and coat

pockets are full of loaded revolvers, whisky being cheap. But you run

far less chance of being robbed than in London or Paris. When I came

away you might leave your valuables scattered about your tent for days.

No one dared to touch them. I don't know whether we shall come to

ear-marking pilferers and hanging horse-stealers, but this is an

Anglo-Saxon population, and in some way, I will stake my existence,

order will be preserved.'

'Talking of horse-stealers, I found Fred Charbett's "Grey Surrey" the

other day,' said Moore O'Donnell, 'in rather queer company.'

'That's the horse he won the Ladies' Bag at the Port Western Races

with,' I cried out eagerly, 'a tremendous mile horse, but no stayer. Had

he a large D brand?'

'He had then; and a large S—if that stands for sore back—that ye could

see a mile off.'

'He is a flat-ribbed horse,' I explained, 'and any one with a bad saddle

might give him a back in a day that a week couldn't cure. How glad old

Fred will be to see him again! Who is the ruffian that has him now?'

'One Moore O'Donnell. Maybe ye wouldn't mind putting your interrogation

in another form, Mr. Boldrewood, if it's agreeable to ye?'

'A thousand pardons, really—but I didn't understand that you had taken

possession of him.'

We all laughed at this, and Jack Freshland said, 'Come, Moore, you old

humbug, tell us how you stole the poor fellow's horse. It's all very

well for Boldrewood to back you up with his alphabetical evidence. I

don't believe half of it. You'll be up before the beak if you don't

mind.'

'Give me the laste drop of that whisky,' said O'Donnell, stretching his

long legs, 'and I'll tell you all how I compounded a felony, for there

is the laste flavour of _that_ about the transaction. I was mooning

about looking for old "Paleface," when, after a great walk, I came upon

the villain in company with a strange grey, also in hobbles. You know

what a hot brute mine is: the stranger was about the same. Neither would

dream of allowing me to catch him. So, after a long chase, I arrived at

home, exhausted and demoralised, with just sufficient strength left to

put them into the bullock yard. I refreshed myself from the whisky-jar,

and after lunch and a smoke, feeling better, I strolled out to look at

the grey. I thought we had been introduced. Of course, there he was, the

great Surrey, no less. The last time we met, I had seen a sheet pulled

off with pride by a neat groom, just before Fred took him down to the

races. Here he was, dog-poor, rough-coated, and with a back fit to make

one sick; D on the shoulder, 2B under the mane. Identification complete.

"Such is life," thought I. "Just as one's in fine hard condition, with

all the world before you, and lots of money and friends, you get stolen,

or come to grief, grass-feeding, and an incurable sore back!"'

'Rather a mixed metaphor, if I may be allowed a friendly criticism,'

said a dark-haired, quiet youngster named Weston, who had been reading

for the bar 'before the gold,' as people distinguished the former and

the latter days. 'I don't quite follow who lost the money, or did you or

the horse suffer from the sore back?'

'Go to blazes with your special pleading,' shouted O'Donnell. 'Can't a

man make the smallest moral reflection among ye, a lot of profligate

divils, but he must be fixed to logical exactness, as if he was up for

his "little go"? Ye've no poetry in ye, Weston, divil a bit. It's a

fatal defect at the bar. Take my advice in time, or I wash my hands of

your future prospects. And now hear me out, or I'll stop, and the secret

will be buried with me.'

'Go on, Moore; you won't be the last of your line, will you?'

'How do you know, sir? None of your Saxon sneers. The O'Donnell! Ha! ye

villain, I'm up to you this time. Next day, as big a ruffian as ever ye

seen came up to the tent and asked me "what I meant by stealin' a poor

man's 'oss." "See here now," says I, "the stealing's all the other way,

it strikes me. He belongs to a friend of mine, who would never have sold

him. He may have strayed and got into pound, and you may have bought him

out, or you may—pardon me—have stolen him yourself."

'"I bought him off Jem Baggs, as got him out of Burnbank Pound," replied

he doggedly.

'"That may be true. I think not, myself. This is what I am going to do.

The horse is in my possession, and there he will remain. You can either

take him, if you are man enough (and I pointed this remark with the butt

of my revolver), or you can summon me before the Bench, or take this £5

note for your claim. Which will you do?" He held out his dirty paw for

the fiver with a grin, as he said, "All right, you can 'ave 'im for the

fiver. He ain't much in a cart, anyhow."'

'Hurrah!' sung out half-a-dozen voices together. 'How glad old Fred will

be to see him again. What did you do with him? Hasn't Bill Sikes

re-stolen him yet?'

'I sent him back by a stock-rider next day. He is safe at "The Gums" by

this time. I'm dry, though. You wouldn't think it, now! Pass the

whisky.'

'I say,' said Maxwell, 'there's a feller which is a poet in this

company. Wasn't that a ballad, Aubrey, that you pulled out of your

pocket just now, among all those tailors' bills, or licences, or

whatever they were? Let's have it.'

This was addressed to a fair-haired youngster who was arguing with great

interest and eagerness the relative fattening merits of shorthorns and

Herefords.

'Well, it's something in the scribbling line. If you want it, you must

read it though; I'll be hanged if I will. Writing it has been quite

bother enough.'

'Well,' said Maxwell, 'it's not every fellow who can read, or spell

either, for the matter of that. I'll read it myself, sir; perhaps you

may find the effect heightened. Now listen, you fellows; a little

sentiment won't do none of us any harm. What's it called? H—m!

A VISION OF GOLD

'I see a lone stream rolling down

Through valleys green, by ridges brown,

Of hills that bear no name;

The dawn's full blush in crimson flakes

Is traced on palest blue, as breaks

The morn in orient flame.

'I see—whence comes that eager gaze?

Why rein the steed in wild amaze?

The water's hue is gold;

Golden its wavelets foam and glide

Through tenderest green—to ocean-tide

The fairy streamlet rolled.

'Forward, Hope, forward! truest steed,

Of tireless hoof and desert speed,

Up the weird water bound,

Till echoing far and sounding deep,

I hear old Ocean's hoarse voice sweep

O'er this enchanted ground.

'The sea! Wild fancy! Many a mile

Of changeful Nature's frown and smile,

Ere stand we on the shore;

And yet that murmur, hoarse and deep,

None save the ocean surges keep—

It is the cradles' roar!

'Onward! I pass the grassy hill

Around whose base the waters still

Shimmer in golden foam,

Oh! wanderer of the voiceless wild,

Of this far southern land the child,

How changed thy quiet home!

'For, close as bees in countless hive,

Like emmet-hosts that tireless strive,

Swarmed, toiled, a vast strange crowd;

Haggard each face's features seem,

Bright, fever-bright, each eye's wild gleam;

Nor cry, nor accent loud.

'But each man delved, or rocked, or bore

As if salvation with the ore

Of the mine-monarch lay;

Gold strung each arm to giant might,

Gold flashed before the aching sight,

Gold turned the night to day.

'Where Eblis reigns o'er boundless gloom,

And in his halls of endless doom

Lost souls for ever roam,

They wander (says the Eastern tale),

Nor ever startles moan or wail

Despair's eternal home.

'Less silent scarce than that pale host,

They toiled as if each moment lost

Were the red life-drop spilt;

While heavy, rough, and darkly bright,

In every shape rolled to the light

Man's hope, and pride, and guilt.

'All ranks, all ages, every land

Had sent her conscripts forth to stand

In the gold-seekers' rank;

The bushman, bronzed, with sinewy limb,

The pale-faced son of trade, e'en him

Who knew the fetters' clank.

* * * * *

''Tis night; her jewelled mantle fills

The busy valley, the dun hills,

'Tis a battle-host's repose;

A thousand watch-fires redly gleam,

Where ceaseless fusillades would seem

To warn approaching foes.

'The night is older. On the sward

Stretched, I behold the heavens broad

When, a Shape rises dim;

Then clearer, fuller, I descry

By the swart brow, the star-bright eye,

The gnome king's presence grim.

'He stands upon a time-worn block;

His dark form shrouds the snowy rock,

As cypress marble tomb;

Nor fierce, yet wild and sad his mien,

His cloud-black tresses wave and stream,

His deep tones break the gloom.

'"Son of a tribe accurst, of those

Whose greed has broken our repose

Of the long ages dead;

Think not for naught our ancient race

Quit olden haunts, the sacred place

Of toils for ever fled.

'"List while I tell of days to come,

When men shall wish the hammers dumb

That ring so ceaseless now—

That every arm were palsy-tied,

Nor ever wet on grey hillside

Was the gold-seeker's brow.

'"I see the old world's human tide

Set southward on the Ocean wide,

I see a wood of masts;

While crime and want, disease and death,

By rolling wave and storm-wind's breath

Are on these fair shores cast.

'"I see the murderer's barrel gleam,

I hear the victim's hopeless scream

Ring through these sylvan wastes:

While each base son of elder lands,

Each witless dastard, in vast bands,

To the gold city hastes.

'"Disease shall claim her ready toll,

Flushed vice and brutal crime the dole

Of life shall ne'er deny;

Disease and death shall walk your streets,

While staggering idiocy greets

The horror-stricken eye!

'"All men shall roll in the gold mire,

The height, the depth, of man's desire,

Till come the famine years;

Then all the land shall curse the day

When first they rifled the dull clay,

With deep remorseful tears.

'"Fell want shall wake to fearful life

The fettered demons; civil strife

Rears high a gory hand;

I see a blood-splashed barricade,

While dimly lights the twilight glade

The soldier's flashing brand.

'"But thou, son of the forest free!

Thou art not, wert not foe to me,

Frank tamer of the wild!

Thou hast not sought the sunless home

Where darkly delves the toiling gnome,

The mid-earth's swarthy child.

'"Then be thou ever, as of yore,

A dweller in the woods and o'er

Fresh plains thy herds shall roam;

Join not the vain and reckless crowd,

Who swell the city's pageant proud,

But prize thy forest home."

'He said; and with an eldritch scream

The gnome king vanished, and my dream—

Day's waking hour returned.

Yet still the wild tones echoed clear,

Half chimed with truth in reason's ear,

And my heart inly burned!'

'Well done, Maxwell, old fellow; didn't think you could read so well! I

haven't been asleep above two or three times. I enjoyed it awfully.

Particular down on us. Your underground friend, though, prophesies war,

famine, and mixed immigration! Cheerful cuss!'

'Mr. Aubrey, will ye oblige me by coming before the curtain. It's proud

I am to know ye. I have seen worse, sir, let me tell ye, in the pages of

the _Dublin University Magazine_, where the name of Moore O'Donnell is

not entirely unknown. I would like to repate to ye a short ode of my own

on——'

'Rush oh! at Cockfighter's Flat,' burst in a new

man—Markham—impetuously. 'That's all the talk now, my boys! They say the

gold's thicker than the wash, shallow sinking, and lots of water.

Jackson just told me; he's off there to-morrow to buy gold and go to

Melbourne with it. I'm away, then. Any of you chaps join me?'

'I don't mind taking a look,' said Maxwell. 'I've half a mind to turn

gold-buyer myself. It's a paying game.'

'It's an awfully risky one,' said Freshland. 'A man takes his life in

his hand once he's known to carry gold. I know a fellow who started from

here for Melbourne a fortnight since, and has never turned up.'

'Perhaps he's bolted,' suggested a cynic.

'Perhaps so,' answered Freshland carelessly; 'but if so, his wife, from

her looks, they tell me, is not in the secret. I'm afraid it's the old

story,' continued he, gazing mournfully into space. 'I know well how

it's done. I can see it all as I sit here. A fellow goes stepping along

the road through the Black Forest, whistling cheerfully and thinking of

the ounces he has in his belt, or of what has gone down by the escort,

of a piano for his wife, of the children who will have grown so, of the

pleasant Christmas they will spend together, when, just where the creek

crosses the road, One-eyed Dick and Derwent Bill step suddenly out.'

'"Morning, mates," says he, "fine weather after the rain."

'"Thundering fine," growls the one-eyed ruffian. "This yere's a fine day

for _us_, anyhow. Done well at the Point, young chap?" As they talk they

attempt grim jocularity, but their eyes, cold, sinister, watchful,

betray their intent as they close upon him.

'"For the love of God, for my wife and children's sake, spare my life!"

gasps the poor fellow; "you shall have every shilling I have in the

world."

'"We ain't a-going to hurt ye. Just come off the road a bit, will yer?"

says the crafty brute. Pah! I can't bear to think of it. Next summer

some bullock-driver finds a skeleton lashed to a tree, in the thickest

part of the scrub.'

'I say, Freshland,' I pleaded, 'don't. I've got a couple of miles to

walk in the dark to-night. I think I'd rather hear that kind of story by

daylight. But I must be off now. We tradesmen, you know! Good-bye.'

I walked back through scattered tents and darksome trees, moaning in the

midnight, as the breeze swept through them. I was unable to banish

Freshland's horrible tale from my mind, and was decidedly relieved when

the yard of our encampment loomed into view. The cattle were lying down,

Ben was smoking his pipe on guard, all was safe. Murderers and burglars

were exercising their talents elsewhere. I was soon in a land where the

mystery of permitted evil troubled me not.

My career at Ballarat was, however, drawing to a close. While we were

transacting our _al fresco_ breakfast, a 'real butcher' made his

appearance with proposals for the purchase of my remaining cattle, and

the collateral advantages of stock-in-trade, plant, and goodwill. 'Why

had I not come to him in the first instance?' he asked with

good-humoured surprise. Some accident had prevented me hearing of him.

Mr. Garth laughed, and said he was in a small way compared to the

others, with whom I had disagreed. I may say here, that it would be hard

to pass through the populous, wealthy, energetic city of Ballarat now,

without hearing much about Mr. Garth, owner of farms, mills, hotels,

mining companies, what not.

I was pleased with his frank, liberal way of dealing, and augured

favourably of his future career. He was the ideal purchaser, at any

rate. He adopted, without a word of dissent, my prices, terms, and

conditions.

With the conclusion of breakfast the whole affair was arranged. The

cattle-edifices, tools of trade, and journeyman butcher were delivered

as per agreement; Charley was sent for the horses, Ben was ordered to

pack, the route was given, and in an hour we had turned our backs upon

Ballarat.

I sent Ben and Charley back to the station, presenting the former with a

coveted brown filly, and the latter with a white cow, as good-conduct

badges. They reached home safely, after a journey of a couple of hundred

miles, a 'big drink' indulged in by Master Ben on the road

notwithstanding.

For myself, I went to Melbourne, having business in that deserted

village. I had much difficulty in getting my hair cut, by the only

surviving barber. The site of my shanty and block now trembles under the

traffic of a busy street. The 'lost camp' at Wendouree Lake is valuable

suburban property. Steamers run there. Why did I not buy it? If I had

taken that, and one or two other trifling long shots, I might have been

living in London like Maxwell, or in Paris like Freshland, if a stray

Prussian bullet has not interfered with his matchless digestion.

However, why regret these or any seeming errors of the past? They are

but a few more added to the roll of opportunities, gone with our

heedless youth, and with the hours of that 'distant Paradise,' lost for

evermore.

MOONLIGHTING ON THE MACQUARIE

There are different kinds of work connected with the management of

cattle-stations in the far bush of New South Wales. Some of them strike

the stranger as being curious. At any rate, most people have not heard

of them before, or if they have, don't know much. Something depends upon

_finding_ the cattle which you are required to manage. Didn't Mrs. Glass

say, before yarning about hare soup, 'First catch your hare'? Right she

was! If you'll come with me to the Wilgah brakes, 'Hell's Cages,' and

'Devil's Snuff-boxes' of the Lower Macquarie, you will see the pull of

the 'first catch' arrangement. Don't suppose for a moment that ours is a

neglected herd. If you were to see the stud animals—chiefly Devons and

Herefords, for we found that the 'active reds' could pace out many a

mile from the frontage in a dry season, and be back at their

watering-place while a soft shorthorn would be thinking about it, and,

of course, losing flesh. As I was saying, if you saw our 'Whitefaces'

and 'Devon Dumplings,' you wouldn't think that. But those M'Warrigals,

that we bought the place from long ago, were careless beggars; thought

more of their neighbours' calves—some people say—than minding their own

business and doing their proper station work. Now the back of the run is

scrubby in parts, and the cattle there are 'outlaws' that increase and

multiply. They get joined by other refugees and breakaways—brutes with

no principle whatever. We seldom see them, as they have got a nasty

habit of feeding at night, like tigers and lions and other wild animals.

When we do see them—by day—they break away, scatter, and charge. All the

horses and dogs in the country wouldn't get them.

What are we to do? There are some famous bullocks among them—rather

coarse, perhaps, but rolling fat—ugly with fat, as the stock-riders say.

And as cattle are a first-class price just now, and the feed grand all

the way to market, there's no use talking; we must have a shy at them.

It won't do for me, a native-born Australian, and manager of my father's

best cattle-station, to be beaten by anything that ever wore a hide.

Have 'em we must. The new paddock is just finished. We are going to

muster the other side of the run—the quiet side—the day after to-morrow,

and if we can make a good haul out of these 'scrub danglers' we shall

have together as fine a lot of fat cattle as ever left the Macquarie.

And how are we going to do it? There are half-a-dozen as good hands on

this Milgai Run, including the black boys Johnny Smoker and Gundai, as

ever rode stock-horse or followed a beast. And yet, if we rode after

this lot for a month we shouldn't get more than a couple of dozen, tear

our clothes to rags, stake our horses, and get knocked off in the Wilgah

scrubs—after all get next to no cattle—that's what I look at. Still,

there is a way—and only one way—that we may fetch 'em by, and perhaps in

one night. I'm going to tell you about it. We must _moonlight_ 'em.

It is a strange thing—and I've no doubt it was found out by some

rascally 'duffer,' some cattle-stealing brute that went poking about

after his neighbours' calves (but the amount of cleverness _they_ show

when it's 'on the cross,' no man would believe, unless he knew it from

experience)—it's a strange thing that wild cattle are twice, ten times,

as easy to drive by night as they are by day. Whether they are

afraid—like children—whether they can't see so well, or what it is, I

don't know. But every old stock-rider will tell you that all cattle,

particularly wild ones, are much easier to handle by night than by day.

Another reason is, they go out a long way into the open plains to feed

at night. Whereas by day they lie in their scrubs like rabbits near a

hole, and directly they hear a whip, or a voice, or a stick crack

almost, they're off like a lot of deer. Not that I ever saw any; but one

thinks about the red deer listening and then popping into fern-brakes

and heather-glens. Perhaps I shall see _them_ some day, who knows, if

cattle keep up?

Well, we had to wait for a day or two, till the moon rose, about ten

o'clock. When the moon rises soon after dusk, they keep about the edge

of the timber, and are ready to dash back directly they see or hear any

one. But when it's dark for some hours before the moon rises, they'll go

out far into the plains and feed as steadily as milkers.

Well, we sent word to our neighbours and mustered up about twenty men.

We went into the timber at sundown, near a point where we thought they

wouldn't come out, and hobbled our horses. We had brought something to

eat with us, and made a billy of tea; and after we lit our pipes, it was

jolly enough. My stock-rider, Joe Barker, was one of the smartest riders

and best hands with cattle on the river, but, as is sometimes the case

with good men and good horses, he had a queer temper. I wanted him to

bring his old favourite, Yass Paddy, as good and sure a stock-horse as

ever heard a whip. But no, he must bring a new mount that he'd run out

of the wild mob!—a good one to go and to look at, but the biggest tiger

I ever saw saddled. Joe was put out about something, and I didn't like

to cross him. A stock-rider is a bad servant to quarrel with, unless all

your run is fenced, or very open. Besides, with his riding, a donkey

would have been 'there or thereabouts.'

So we sat and talked, and smoked, and looked about for an hour or two.

At last the time came. We pouched our pipes, saddled up, and headed for

the plains, making a point for a few trees a good way out, near where

the lot we were after often fed. We didn't talk much, but rode far from

one another, so as to have a better chance of seeing them. At last

Gundai rode up alongside me, and pointed ahead. I looked and saw

something dark, which seemed to change line. There were no Indians, no

wolves, no buffaloes, in our part of the world. It might have been

horses, of course, but we were soon near enough to see tails—not

horses'—and a big mob too. Cattle, by Jove! and the heaviest lot we have

seen together since the general muster, many years since, just after we

bought the station. 'All right, boys! we're in for a good thing.' They

were, of course, scattered, feeding about, looking as quiet as store

cattle. The regular thing to do was, of course, known to most of us. A

couple of the smartest riders must start to 'wheel' them, one on each

side. Charley Dickson and the black boy, Gundai, were told off. You

couldn't lick Charley, and Gundai was the most reckless young devil to

ride that ever broke down a stock-horse. But just at this pinch we want

'em to be pretty quick. Never mind about horses' legs, we look to them

afterwards. Off they go like mad Arabs. You can see the dust and dry

grass sent up by Gundai's horse's hoofs, like a small steam-engine. We

hear the rolling gallop of the heavy bullocks, as the big mob of cattle

all raise their heads and make off in a long trailing string—like a lot

of buffaloes—directly they hear the first horse. We ride steadily up in

line, so as to intercept them in the rush they will be sure to make back

towards the scrub. In the meanwhile Charley and Gundai have raced to the

two ends of the string, and are ringing and wheeling, and doubling them

up together, till the mob is regularly bothered.

Then we go at them, still in well-kept line, and at whichever point a

beast tries to 'break' he finds a horseman ready to 'block' him. There

is no shouting, whip-cracking, or flash work generally. The great thing

is to ride like ten men and be always ready to head or stop a breaking

beast, which can be done at night by only showing yourself. No row or

nonsense; it only makes the cattle worse. Always be in your own place,

and do your work without crossing any one else's line; that's the only

way with cattle. Of course we don't mind their running a little wide as

long as they are heading out into the plains, and not back towards their

scrub forts and hiding-places. So we let them trot a bit, keeping one

man ahead to stop them if they get too fast, as they might get winded,

and then charge and have to be left on the plains. We keep steadily

behind them, while they are streaming out well towards the middle of the

plain, and in a direction that by a little judicious 'edging' will land

them at the Milgai stock-yard.

Of course there are well-known incorrigibles that have escaped many a

muster, and will be sure to try it on now. 'There goes the grey-faced

bullock. Look out! Look out!' shouts a stock-rider, as an enormous red

bullock, with a speckled Hereford face, turns deliberately round, and,

breaking through the line of horsemen, makes straight for 'Hell's Cage.'

I am riding Wallaroo, the best stock-horse on the river—at least that is

my belief and opinion. I race at him, and we go neck and neck together

for a hundred yards, at a pace that would win the Hack Stakes at a

country meeting. Wallaroo's shoulder is jammed against the bullock, his

head just behind the brute's great horns. At the batt Greyface is going,

of course, he is occasionally on the balance. As I rush the game little

horse against him, again and again, I can feel his huge bulk tremble and

shake. I am too near for him to horn me, unless he had time to stop and

turn, which, of course, I take care that he has not. After a while he

edges round a bit, then a little more, then he sees the cattle and makes

straight for them as they are moving past in the original direction in

front of him. I slacken pace for an instant, and as I do so, drop the

twelve foot stockwhip on to him with a right and left, which sends him

right up among the tail cattle. He breaks no more for a while, and we

are getting on pretty well. We know our direction now. Some of the

cattle have got rather blown, and their tongues are out. We round them

up, and let them stand for a bit to recover breath.

Off we go again. Can't stay here all night. They can run for miles in

the scrub, and why not now? Much more steady this time. Begin to give it

up. 'Hullo, what's that?' 'The brindled leader has doubled on us this

time.' This was another regular outlaw. He was called 'Leader' because

he was never far from the two or three foremost cattle wherever he was.

Many a camp had he been on. Many a man had had a turn at him. But the

inside of a yard he hadn't seen for years. He generally waited till the

mob had gone some distance; when he did turn there was no stopping him.

Joe Barker to-day must have a try at him. Away he went. His horse had

not been behaving quite the fair thing, and Master Joe was in a great

rage accordingly. Away he went, as I said, driving his spurs into the

horse, and nearly jumping on to the brindled bullock's back, when he

caught him up. He flogged for a bit without trying to turn him, and no

man in these parts could use a whip with Joe Barker; he always had it in

great order, oiled and lissom, with first-rate hide fall, and the exact

thing in crackers. As the whip rose and fell, every cut marking itself

in blood on the brindle's quarters, we all knew that he hadn't had such

a scarifying for years, if he ever had. This was only to let him taste

what the whip, in Joe's hands, was like. He knew, bless you, that it was

no good to try and turn 'Leader' at first. After he'd smarted him

enough, he went broadside on, and let him have it about the near side of

his face. He could sit on his horse at a hard gallop and flay a beast

alive. After a bit the brindle began to feel it hot. He turned and made

a dangerous rush at Joe. It wasn't so easy to get away as you'd think,

because the horse was partly sulky, and had it taken out of him a good

deal. We had stopped the cattle, and were looking at the fun. He did get

away, however, and flogged that bullock over the face and eyes until he

was more than half blinded. Then he turned again and made for the scrub.

At him, broadside on, went Joe, still flogging to the inch—forward,

backward, every way, all on the near side, till the brindle could stand

it no longer. He sidled and sidled away; lastly, he turned right round,

and, as soon as he saw the cattle again, made for them like a milker's

calf, Joe following up and warming him all the way in.

The fight wasn't over though, for Joe had been punishing his horse for

being awkward, and the horse's sides and the bullock's back must have

been all of one colour if we could have seen. I mentioned that Joe

Barker had the devil's own temper; it carried him too far this time. The

horse was a sour, peculiar animal, partly nervous, partly determined, as

all the worst buck-jumpers, and what people call vicious horses, are.

There are very few really vicious horses. Half of it is ignorance or

stupidity on the part of the horse or his rider—generally the last,

sometimes both. In this case I think there _was_ vice. At the last few

strides, as Mr. Leader, regularly blown and bullied, was dashing into

the tail cattle, with the intention of working up to the front as usual,

Joe gave his horse two or three tremendous drives with the spurs,

standing up and letting him have them right. He then brought the double

of the whip down over his head, swearing at him for the sulkiest brute

he had ever crossed. It wasn't proper treatment for any horse, but he

was beside himself with rage; and I made up my mind to speak to him in

the morning about it after we had the cattle all safe. The horse took

the law into his own hands, or feet, or fingers, or whatever they are.

The geological fellows tell you once upon a time horses had three toes,

and all but the middle one became unfashionable, and finally hooked it.

I know country where a three-toed horse would come in very handy. But

Joe's horse showed now he hadn't mistaken his character. He gave a snort

as if he had just seen a man for the first time, propped dead, and in a

couple of seconds was bucking away, as you may swear he did the very

first time he was crossed. I thought it served Joe right, and nobody was

uneasy, as he could sit anything with a horse's skin on. But this one

kept bucking sideways, front ways, every way, rearing and kicking, and

what I never saw any horse but a wild one do, biting and snapping like a

dog at Joe's foot every time he turned his head round. Joe, of course,

kicked him in the mouth when he got a chance, and the horse was just

done when he caught his jaw accidentally in the stirrup-iron—his under

jaw. Here he was fixed. He swung round and round with his head all on

one side till he got giddy, and fell with a crash before any one could

get to him. It was a hard bare place, as luck would have it. Joe was

underneath him. We lifted him with his thigh smashed, and a couple of

ribs broken. Here was a pretty thing—ten miles from home, and our best

man with his leg in two. However, there was no help for it. We let go

his horse, put the saddle under his head for a pillow (and, except that

this one was rather hot, it isn't such a bad one), left a black boy with

him till we could send a cart from the station, and started on.

After this none of the cattle gave any trouble till we were quite within

sight of the yards. There was a large receiving paddock outside of these

again, into which I intended to put the mob for the night, as I fancied

we could get them into the drafting yards better by daylight. But

anything of the nature of post and rails is very terrifying to the

uneducated 'Mickies' and 'clear-skins.' They are always likely to bolt

directly they see a fence. The bullocks might follow them, and if much

confusion arose and there was a little timber there, we might lose the

lot. So our troubles were not over yet.

But for the wild young bulls and the unbranded heifers born and bred in

the thick covert of the 'Cage' and the 'Snuff-box,' both belonging to

the infernal regions, I had a different kind of help. As the mob now

moved slowly on, the old cows roaring, the calves chiming in, the

bullocks occasionally giving a deep low bellow, making, like all cattle

off their bounds, noise enough for four times the number, I knew that

assistance was not far off. So it turned out, for about two miles from

home we were met by two black dogs, walking slowly to meet us. A brace

of very powerful and determined, not to say ferocious-looking animals

they were. Half bulldog, half greyhound, they took about equally after

both sides of the house. They were moderately fast and immoderately

fierce, most difficult to keep back from bloodshed. They had required an

immense amount of training, which in their case meant unmerciful

licking, before they could be brought to obey orders. In their own line

they couldn't be beat. They were too slow to follow horses all day, but,

as they were fond of cattle work, they always came out a mile or two to

meet us, when they heard the whips and the well-known sounds. Danger and

Death, as I had christened the brothers, were known all up and down the

Macquarie.

Now I felt quite safe for the first time since we had started, and as we

closed up a little round the cattle, I looked anxiously for a 'break.'

It was not long in coming. A three-year-old bull and a splendid red

heifer charged back, and broke in regular fancy scrub style. Danger

luckily took the heifer; she was clearing out like a flying doe. Danger

was a good deal the quickest on his feet. Death was as sure as his

namesake. He had his customer by the muzzle before he had gone any

distance, and a loud roar, half of rage, half of pain, told us he was

brought to bay. It was not a bad fight. The bull raised him from the

ground more than once, and dashed him down with such force as would have

satisfied any ordinary dog. But his mother's blood was strong in him,

and, after an unavailing resistance, the dog having shifted his hold,

and taken to the ear in preference, Micky was half dragged, half driven

into the mob, among which, for security, he immediately rushed.

Meanwhile the red heifer, rather 'on the leg' and not too fat, forced

the pace, so that I really thought she was going to run away from old

Danger. But he lay alongside of her shoulder doing his best, and every

now and then making a spring at her head. At last he nailed her, and as

he stopped and threw all his weight against her, with his terrible grip

on her nostrils, her head went right under, and she fell over on her

back with such force that she lay stunned. I thought she had broken her

neck. When she got up she staggered, stared piteously all round, and

finally trotted after the cattle like an old milker. We had only one

more break, just as they were going through the paddock rails. Then we

had a wing—fine thing a wing, saves men and horses, too—and the whole

lot were in and the rails up before they knew where they were going.

Next day we put them in the strong yard, without much trouble, and after

drafting the cows, calves, strangers, and rubbish, we had over a hundred

of as good fat cattle as ever left our district. We picked out a few of

the out-and-outers, including the grey-faced bullock and Leader, and

'blinded' them, after which they travelled splendidly, fed well, and

gave us no trouble on the road down. Isn't it cruel? Not particularly.

We don't put their eyes out. We run them into the 'bot.' The bot is a

'trevis' or pen, high, strong, and so near the size of a beast that they

can't turn round after they've been inveigled into it. Then we can do

what we like with them. They may roar and knock their horns about, or

kick if they're horses—they can't hurt you. For 'blinding' we cut a

broad flap of greenhide, and hang it over the face of any bullock that

has bad manners. It is secured above and below. It works wonders. He

can't see in front of him, only out of the corners of his eyes.

Sometimes he runs against trees and things. This makes him take greater

care of himself. He mostly follows the other cattle then, and in a week

feeds like an old milker. We were nearly selling Greyface and Leader for

a pair of working bullocks before we got down.

Poor Joe was a long time before he got round. He was never the same man

again. We dropped in for a first-rate market in town, and so were

handsomely paid for a night's 'moonlighting on the Macquarie.'

AN AUSTRALIAN ROUGHRIDING CONTEST

In June 1891, at Wodonga, on the Murray River, in the colony of

Victoria—on the opposite bank to Albury, a town of New South Wales—was

arranged an exhibition for testing the horsemanship of all comers, which

I venture to assert had but few parallels.

Prizes were to be allotted, by the award of three judges of acknowledged

experience, amounting in all to about £20. Much interested in matters

equine, 'nihil equitatum alienum me puto,' I traversed the three miles

which separate the border towns in a cab of the period, and arrived in

time for the excitement.

The manner of the entertainment was after this wise. An area of several

acres of level greensward was enclosed within a fence, perhaps eight or

ten feet high, formed of sawn battens, on which was stretched the coarse

sacking known to drapers as 'osnaberg.' This answered the double purpose

of keeping the non-paying public out and the performing horses in.

I had heard of the way in which the selected horses were saddled and

mounted; I was therefore partly prepared. But, tolerably versed in the

lore of the wilderness, I had never before seen such primitive

equitation.

About thirty unbroken horses were moving uneasily within a high,

well-constructed stock-yard—the regulation 'four rails' and a

'cap'—amounting to a solid unyielding fence, over seven feet in height.

That the steeds were really unbroken, 'by spur and snaffle undefiled,'

might be gathered from their long manes, tails sweeping the ground, and

general air of terror or defiance. As each animal was wanted, it was

driven or cajoled by means of a quiet horse into a close yard ending in

a 'crush' or lane so narrow that turning round was impossible. A strong,

high gate in front was well fastened. Before the captive could decide

upon a retrograde movement, long, strong saplings were thrust between

his quarters and the posts of the crush. He was therefore trapped,

unable to advance or retire. If he threatened to lie down, a sapling

underneath prevented that refuge of sullenness.

Mostly the imprisoned animal preserved an expression of stupid amazement

or harmless terror, occasionally of fierce wrath or reckless despair.

Then he kicked, plunged, reared—in every way known to the wild steed of

the desert expressed his untameable defiance of man, occasionally even

neighing loudly and fiercely. 'Twas all in vain. The prison was too

high, too strong, too narrow, too everything; nothing but submission

remained—'not even suicide,' as Mr. Stevenson declares concerning

matrimony, 'nothing but to be good.'

This, of course, with variations, as happens perchance in the married

state irreverently referred to.

Before the colt has done thinking what unprincipled wretches these bush

bipeds are, a 'blind' (ingeniously improvised from a gentleman's

waistcoat) is placed over his eyes, a snaffle bridle is put on, a bit is

forced into his mouth; at the same time two active young men are

thrusting a crupper under his reluctant tail, have put a saddle on his

back, and are buckling leather girths and surcingle (this latter run

through slits in the lower portion of the saddle flaps) as if they meant

to cut him in two.

This preparatory process being completed in marvellous short time, the

manager calls out 'First horse, Mr. St. Aure,' and a well-proportioned

young man from the Upper Murray ascends the fence, standing with either

leg on the rails, immediately over the angry, terrified animal.

What would you or I take, O grey-besprinkled reader, to undertake the

mount Mr. St. Aure surveys with calmest confidence? (We are not so young

as we were, let us say in confidence.)

Deftly he drops into the saddle, his legs just grazing the sides of the

crush. 'Open the gate!' roars the manager. 'Look out, you boys!' and,

with a mad rush, out flies the colt through the open gate like a shell

from a howitzer.

For ten yards he races at full speed, then 'propping' as if galvanised,

shoots upwards with the true deer's leap, all four feet in the air at

once (from which the vice takes its name), to come down with his head

between his forelegs and his nose (this I narrowly watched) touching the

girths.

The horseman has swayed back with instinctive ease, and is quite

prepared for a succession of lightning bounds, sideways, upwards,

downwards, backwards, as he appears to turn in the air occasionally and

to come down with his head in the place where his tail was when he rose.

For an instant he stops: perhaps the long-necked spurs are sent in, to

accentuate the next performance. The crowd meanwhile of 600 or 700

people, mostly young or in the prime of life, follow, cheering and

clapping with every fresh attempt on the part of the frenzied steed to

dispose of his matchless rider. Five minutes of this exercise commences

to exhaust and steady the wildest colt. It is a variation of

'monkeying,' a device of the bush-breaker, who ties a bag on to the

saddle of a timid colt, and he, frightened out of his life, as _by a

monkey_ perched there, tires himself out, permitting the breaker to

mount and ride away with but little resistance.

Sometimes indeed the colt turns in his tracks, and being unmanageable as

to guiding in his paroxysms, charges the crowd, whom he scatters with

great screaming and laughing as they fall over each other or climb the

stock-yard fence. But shortly, with lowered head and trembling frame, he

allows himself to be ridden to the gate of egress. There he is halted,

and the rider, taking hold of his left ear with his bridle-hand, swings

lightly to the ground, closely alongside of the shoulder. Did he not so

alight, the agile mustang was capable of a lightning wheel and a

dangerous kick. Indeed, one rider, dismounting carelessly, discovered

this to his cost after riding a most unconscionable performer.

A middle-aged, wiry, old-time-looking stock-rider from Gippsland next

came flying out on a frantic steed _without a bridle_, from choice. For

some time it seemed a drawn battle between horse and man, but towards

the end of the fight the horse managed to 'get from under.'

One horse slipped on the short greensward and came over backwards, his

rider permitting himself to slide off. The next animal was described as

an 'outlaw,' a bush term for a horse which has been backed but never

successfully ridden. She, a powerful half-bred, fully sustained it by a

persevering exhibition of every kind of contortion calculated to

dissolve partnership. At one time it looked as if the betting was in

favour of the man, but the mare had evidently resolved on a last appeal.

Setting to with redoubled fury, she smashed the crupper, tore out one of

the girth straps, and then performed the rare, well-nigh incredible feat

of sending the saddle over her head _without breaking the surcingle_.

This is the second time, during a longish acquaintance with every kind

of horse accomplishment, that I have witnessed this performance. It is

not always believed, but can be vouched for by the writer and about five

or six hundred people on the ground. I _felt_ the girth, and saw that

the buckle was still unslacked.

The rider, Mortimer, came over the mare's head, sitting square with the

saddle between his legs, and received an ovation in consequence.

The last colt had been driven into the crush 'fiercely snorting, but in

vain, and struggling with erected mane,' and enlarged 'in the full foam

of wrath and dread,' when another form of excitement was announced. A

dangerous-looking four-year-old bullock was now yarded in the outer

enclosure, light of flesh but exceeding fierce, which he proceeded to

demonstrate by clearing the place of all spectators in the shortest time

on record.

Climbing hurriedly to the 'cap' of the stock-yard fence, they looked on

in secure elevation, while the _toreadors_ cunningly edged him into the

crush, and there confined him like the colts. Here he began to paw the

ground and bellow in ungovernable rage. At this stage the manager thus

delivered himself: 'It's Mr. Smith's turn, by the list, to ride this

bullock, but he says he don't care. Is there any gentleman here as'll

ride him?'

With Mr. Smith's natural disinclination for the mount the crowd

apparently sympathised. The bullock meanwhile was pawing the earth and

roaring in a hollow and blood-curdling manner, as who should say, 'Let

me at him; only let me have one turn with hoof and horn.' To the

unprejudiced observer the mount seemed one that no gentleman would court

or even accept.

However, the Gippslander, removing his pipe from his mouth, calmly

remarked, 'I'll ride him,' whereupon the crowd burst out with a cheer,

evidently looking upon the offer as one of exceptional merit.

There was no bridle or saddle in this case. A rope was fastened around

the animal's body, and with this slender accoutrement only, the

stock-rider deposited himself upon the ridge of the red bullock's back.

Then the gate was opened, and out he came in all his glory.

No one that has merely observed the clumsy gambols of the meadow-fed ox

can have an idea of the speed and agility of the bush-bred steer, reared

amid mountain ranges and accustomed to spurts up hill and down, with a

smart stock-horse rattling by the side of the drove, always making

excellent time, and not infrequently distancing their pursuers amid the

forests and morasses of their native runs.

This one had a shoulder like a blood horse, great propelling power, and

stood well off the ground, with muscular arms and hocks to match.

He reared, bucked, and plunged almost with the virulence and variety of

the colts, and when, after a prolonged and persevering contest, he

gradually managed to shift his rider on to his _croupe_, and thence by a

complicated and original twist of his quarters dislodged him, it was

felt by the spectators that he had worthily sustained the honour of the

stock-riding fraternity. Cheers resounded from all sides, as the crowd

returning to a centre surrounded the fallen but not disgraced combatant.

I think the boys were privately disappointed that the bullock did not

turn to gore his antagonist, but he was too much excited for such an

attack. He made a bee-line for the fence, which, all-ignorant of its

flimsy nature, he did not attempt to jump or overthrow, contenting

himself with running by the side of it until he came to the corner,

where a gate was cunningly left open for his departure. After a

respectable 'cap' had been collected for the veteran, who was more than

twice the age of the other competitors, the prizes were distributed, and

the entertainment concluded.

As an Australian I may be slightly prejudiced, but I must confess to

holding the opinion that our bush-riders in certain departments are

unrivalled. The South American 'gaucho' and the 'cow-boy' of the Western

States are, doubtless, wonderful horsemen, but they ride under

conditions more favourable than those of our bushmen. The saddle of the

Americans is the old-fashioned Spanish one—heavy, cumbrous, and, besides

the high pommel and cantle, provided with a horn-like fixture in front,

to which the lasso is attached generally, but which serves as a

belaying-pin and a secure holdfast for the rider in case of need. The

tremendous severity of the heavy curb-bit must also tend to moderate the

gambades of all but the most vicious or untamed animals. Besides all

this, the horses ridden by them are mere ponies compared to the big,

powerful Australian colts, and as such easier to control.

But let the stranger, when minded to try his horsemanship, find himself

upon a 'touchy' three-year-old, and how insecure does his position

appear! He is a good way off the ground, which said ground is mostly

extremely hard. The colt is nearly sixteen hands high, and feels strong

enough in the loins, if fully agitated, to throw him into a gum-tree.

The single-reined snaffle, to which he trusts his life, is of the

plainest, cheapest description of leather and iron. The saddle is the

ordinary English saddle, fuller in the flap and pads, but otherwise

giving the impression of being hard, slippery, and affording but little

hope of recovery when once the seat is shaken.

When, with nothing but this simple accoutrement, or perhaps a rolled

bag, strapped in front of the pommel, our bushmen ride, as I have

described, it must be conceded that no horsemen could be less indebted

to adventitious aid.

In the peculiar, strictly Australian department, known as 'scrub

riding,' no one not 'to the manner born' can be said to hold a candle to

them.