Warrigal's Way (5 page)

Mike started out at a trot, which my horse immediately copied, and my rear end, that was sore anyway, started sending messages to my brain, like trot, hurt, trot, hurt. I clenched my teeth until Mike broke into a canter. That
relieved my rear end, but I got cramp in the calf of my left leg. I was beginning to despair of ever being able to do this. To the others the horse was just another set of legs, and they were so casual about it. I asked Mike about it over a cuppa at the canteen.

“It's a thing you don't really think about—like eating, or going to bed. It's second nature,” Mike said, as a cup of tea was plonked down on the table to my right.

I looked up to see another giant dressed in ringers gear with a stockwhip curled over his shoulder, and right alongside him was another bloke, younger and smaller, and blond with a freckled face. I thought the old bloke was this feller's dad, because he gave the orders and had grey hair, they sat down and took tins of tobacco out and started rolling smokes.

“G'day Arthur, Sid,” said Mike.

“How ya goin' Mike? Who's your new stockman?” Arthur asked. Sid just looked interested.

“Boys, meet the Warrigal. Ed, this old feller is Arthur Rush, head stockman, and the other smilin' yobbo is Sid Andrews, his offsider. They work for the meatworks, the cushiest job in Queensland.”

“Get out,” said Sid. “You had your name down for years, but me and Artie don't feel like dying yet. That's the only way you gunna get this job.” He roared laughing.

“What are you blokes doin' over here this time of day? Ted must be away. Sick of your own cooking, eh?” laughed Arthur.

“You got it in one,” said Mike.

I looked them over carefully, other than the boys, these were the first stockmen I had met. And they were nice blokes.

They finished their tea and stood up. “You comin' down the yard after this?”

“Yeah. I might as well give the young bloke a tour of the
works while we're here—show him the end product,” Mike said.

“We'll be down the yards at the dippin' tank,” said Sid. “See you later.”

They had me stumped. If you were going to bring cattle in here to kill for meat, why would you want stockmen? Surely you'd want butchers. At the thought of that word, I started to notice the smell. I had been too interested before to notice it, but it sort of crept up on you—sweet with a rotten hint, a flavour of cooked meat, and the earthy smell of cow dung binding it all together. “The smell of money,” Mike said.

We walked about and he showed me where they cooked all the scraps and bones. “They get tallow, meat meal, and blood and bone,” Mike told me. “But you're gunna have to work those out for yourself. I've got no idea what they use them for.”

I'm watching a bloke with a big knife cutting the tongue out of the face of a cow. He looks bored and I feel a bit sick. I looked behind me just in time to see a bloke pull a big heap of runny guts and slimy stuff out of a cut he had made in the belly of a beast and drop them on a table at his feet. There was another bloke busy cutting a beast from neck to tail with a dirty big saw, and another couple of fellers with knives and a machine ripping their skin off.

That was my lot. Fresh air and the pie that was sitting like a block of lead in my stomach came up and nearly knocked the back wall out of the urinal. But it made me feel better.

“You okay?” Mike asked.

“Yeah. Thanks mate. All that gore and slime, and the bloody stare of all those empty eyes. Man, I couldn't handle that. To think I was lining up for a job. Christ, I was dumb.”

Mike put his hand on my shoulder. “You'll be right, mate. Just a matter of getting used to it. That's where rump steak comes from.” He grinned. I thought, no wonder people eat vegies.

“Come on, let's get out horses and go and watch the dipping,” Mike said.

“Is there any blood and guts?” I asked.

“Nah, just cows going for a swim.”

Cows swimming. I had to see that. So we picked up our horses and rode down to a round yard full of cattle, dismounting outside the rails. We put our horses in a small yard with a trough, and Mike took their bridles off and hung them on the gate.

“Let them pick a bit,” he said, and we walked over to where Artie was standing with a stick prodding those cattle who were a bit too shy to jump into a long concrete trough filled with green-coloured water. It was about eight feet deep, Mike told me. Sid was standing on a walkway above the trough, with a long pole with a bit on the end that fitted over the cow, and he pushed them right under with it. I asked Mike what he was doing and why he had to duck all the beasts.

“Cattle, dogs and sheep all get a thing called lice, and ticks, like this,” he said, and he bent down and picked up a horrible looking thing—grey with legs sticking out of a balloon body, that Mike says is full of blood sucked out of the host animal.

He flicked the filthy thing into the green dip water. “That dip kills all sorts of things like that, and they have to push them under so there's no place for the nasties to go. Come on, we'll give them a hand.”

We walked around the back of the mob, and waving our hats and yelling we gave the dogs a hand. It was a hell of a hullabaloo. Dogs barking, us yelling, and Arthur and Sid with shakers—tin lids with a hole drilled in the middle and threaded on a piece of wire bent to suit the hand and rattled while yelling. It sounded like a banshee picnic! We helped put that mob through. I don't know how long it took, but I sure enjoyed it.

“Well, come on, old mate. We better head home and see
if anyone's back yet.” We put our bridles on and set off. I could still smell the greasy stink, but it didn't make me queasy now, and I was even getting hungry.

Mike told me that Arthur and Sid took charge of any cattle that came into the works and were responsible for their welfare right up until they got up the ramp onto the killfloor. “They do what they were doing today, dipping, or they might have to hold a mob that's wormy, and drench them, then keep a close eye on them until they're right. They feed out, raise orphan calves, and do everything a cocky running a farm does. It's a big job.”

We rode the rest of the way in easy silence and turned into our driveway. “Hey! Hugh's back,” said Mike. “We'll know what we're doin' now.”

“What do you mean?” I asked him.

“Work my laddie, work. He's been negotiating a contract price with Angliss, so now we might finally go to work.”

“Do you know where we're off to?” I asked Mike.

“Yep, out the Gilbert River. Ted tells me we got four hundred mixed Angus, Brafords and Herefords, all steers, to go to CQME in Rocky.”

“How long will that take us?” I asked Mike.

“About five months, depending on how fast Hugh wants to push them, or how soon the meatworks wants them, what condition, how much feed's about. You'll like it on the road. It's relaxin', free and time don't seem to mean much. When everything's going right you wouldn't be anywhere else.”

I unsaddled Shorty and rubbed him down, filled his feed bin and topped up his water, and limped after Mike up to the kitchen. We sat on the back steps and took off our boots. I gave a big sigh of relief and luxuriously stretched my feet. They were sore and tired from being so tightly confined all day. They were the first boots I ever owned and I was so proud of them I could put up with a bit of pain, but oh the relief to free my feet.

“Your dogs howling, mate?” Mike asked, seeing the look on my face.

“Yeah, you're not wrong, they're smarting alright.”

“Look, I'll give you the mail. See that bucket? Go fill it with water, drop your boots in it, soak them overnight, put them on wet in the morning, and they'll stretch to a good fit.” He gave me a smile. “I guarantee it.” (Willing for anything I tried it and it worked a treat.)

We went inside to find Ted getting tea ready and Hugh poring over all sorts of papers.

“How did you go?” asked Mike.

“It's all on, brother. We can get ready to leave day after tomorrow at daylight. We'll use tomorrow to go over everything and fine tune our gear. Ted's got everything in place.”

“Yeah, this is going to be a ripper trip, mate. Country's lookin' good, plenty of feed and water everywhere, billabongs and turkey nests chock-a-block.” Ted smiled. Billabongs I knew about, but what the hell was a turkey's nest? I asked Mike after tea.

“A turkey nest? It's a name for a dam—you know, a man-made waterhole for stock. It gets its name because of the shape. Once the dozers have finished pushing the dam, it looks like a turkey's nest. Clear now?” He smiled and pulled out his tobacco and rolled a smoke.

I was working on my saddle, soaping it to get the leather nice and supple. Ted told me it would be easier on the rear end. “Softer the leather, softer the ride,” he reckons.

At the breakfast table next morning Hugh said, “Anything you want from town you better go get it. You know the form, Mike.” Then he added, “You stay behind after breakfast, Warrigal. I got some papers for you to sign.”

I had a small panic attack at those words. I couldn't read at that stage much less write or sign my name. But Hugh was great. He explained that the paper was an agreement between him and me, that he agreed to teach me to be a drover, and I agreed to learn. Then if the Department
turned up, at least he'd have something to argue with. So he signed my name and I put my thumb on the ink pad and rolled a thumb print alongside the signature. Hugh said that was legal.

I went with Mike and Ted after that, and we had a furious burst of checking gear, and by half past ten we were finished. Hugh gave us all a sub on our pay—we got two quid each—and we went into town in Hugh's car. He said he'd see us at the Crown later, so we piled into his ‘52 Chev, with Ted driving, and me sitting in the middle in all my new gear, my hat in my lap.

The boys let me off just before the bridge by the Shamrock Hotel, and told me they would at the Crown and to come over there when I'd done my shopping. I headed up the main street with the money burning a hole in my pocket.

A great big double cone ice-cream was the first thing, then a bar of chocolate. I saw a shop selling cakes, little dainty ones that reminded me of Nana Rose, and I felt a bit sad and homesick when I thought of her, but I didn't know how to find her, or Uncle Manny or Uncle Fred.

I brought myself back to the present, and walked up the street looking in the shop windows. In the saddler's I saw this bag. It was a fair size—about a foot by a foot and six inches wide—with a long strap. It would carry books or a lunch, a coat, or whatever other junk I wanted, and was cheaper than a saddle bag. You could carry it over your shoulder or strap it to the saddle.

“How much?” I asked the bloke.

“Twelve and six,” he told me.

“Aww, I dunno. Don't look worth that much. I'll give you eight and six,” I said.

“Aww, I might come down to ten bob, but I'll be robbing meself,” the shop bloke reckoned, with a smile on his face and gleaming eyes.

“I can go to nine and six, but then I've had it,” I told the man.

“Done,” he said, taking my money and giving me the bag.

I was happy and totally amazed. Mike had been teaching me how to bargain like this as we went about our work. I thought it was some sort of a game.

“It is,” Mike told me, “but you'll find shopkeepers like to bargain too, makes things more interesting.” And here, it bloody works. Wait till I tell Mike.

“See you again, young feller.”

“Yes, thanks very much,” I said with a grin and a wave as I went out the door, bag slung over my shoulder.

I brought a couple of big handkerchiefs, and another couple of pairs of socks, had a banana milkshake and then went to meet the boys. I stood a while at my favourite spot on the bridge, and took the blue boat with the white top for a sail, in my mind, pickin' bananas off trees in bunches, coconuts for a change, loaves of bread off the bread tree—I was getting right into this—tins of tropical fruit salad off the fruit salad tree. I had Danny for my first mate and our crew was all the princesses we had rescued, dozens of them—we didn't muck around.

“Hey dreamer! Hey!” I came out of my daydream with Hugh shaking my shoulder. “Come on, tie up your boat and come ashore,” he said in my ear. “Are you going or coming to see the boys?” he asked me. “Hey, that's a great bag.” I felt good straightaway. A bit of praise from the boss never hurts.

“Yeah, it cost me nine bob. I bargained with this man just like Mike taught me. He wanted twelve and six for it.”

“And you bargained him down to nine bob, eh? That was well done. Proud of you, mate.”

I walked with him down to the pub, three feet off the ground with pride.

“We're gunna have a few beers. What are you gunna do?” Hugh asked me as I put my gear in the car.

“I'm gunna do some fishing. You wanta pick me up at the wharf when you're ready to go?”

He said he would and went into the pub, as I headed for the corner shop for a line and hooks, sinker and bait. I went back to the car and got my bag and Hugh's folding knife that he kept in the car, and wandered off down to the wharf, picking up two pies and a bottle of soda squash on the way.

The fishing was great. The tide was coming in and the bream were committing suicide. I had about twelve on a gill line and a couple of cod, all a good pound and a half.

When the boys pulled up and tooted, and I showed them my catch, Ted was full of praise. “That's great, mate. Last night in town and we can have a big feed of fish before we go. Be a while before we see fish again, so we might as well have a good lash at it.”

The others agreed. I noticed that whenever the boys went on the grog Hugh drove the car or truck, and at all other times Ted drove. I asked Mike why and he told me that Hugh didn't like anyone drunk at the steering wheel. “He drinks lemon squash in the pub,” said Mike. “If he's drivin' he takes it all serious. His best mate, Woolfy, was killed in a car accident, drunk drivin', hit a truck. He's been like this ever since. We don't mind. It's safer this way.”