1 March 1934

DEAD MAN'S CORNER 

True Story Of The Seventies

This is a record of a droving trip in the seventies, when the north was wild, and conditions hard. It is told by a man who lived for many years in what was then the outback of South Australia, and whose name is almost a household word among northern people.

Sixty years ago there were no fences 'nor-west' of Port Augusta, and the so-called roads were only dray tracks twisting in and out about the trees and bushes and along the tablelands. All sheep yards were made of brush (trees and bushes). 

The usual cooking utensils were a billy (as a teapot), a camp oven, 'tin pannikins,' a butcher's knife, a knife and fork or two, and a spoon. Baking powder was unknown. The weekly rations for a man were ten pounds of flour, two of dirty brown sugar, a quarter pound of 'post and rail tea,' some salt and a quarter of mutton. Anything else had to be paid for. 

The damper (no bread then) was a mixture of flour, water and a little salt, baked in the oven, or the hot coals. To make and cook one properly was an art possessed by very few. A badly cooked one was called 'a sod' and the unfortunate eater, very often felt a dead weight at the pit of his stomach, which in most instances caused a great feeling of depression. 

It was in those days that I started on the droving trip I am about to record. My party consisted of 'Mick' (his job was to look after our three horses and do the cooking and assist generally), and 'Bowls' (an English man, as shepherd and drover). 'Bowls' had just come from Jim Fitts's Western Hotel, where for a fortnight he had been spending his cheque and having a glorious spree. He was still suffering a recovery. 

Our outfit consisted of a riding horse for Mick and one for myself, and a pack horse which, when travelling, was led by Mick, and carried all our gear, including a large tin 'canteen' (water bags were unknown), which contained our water supply. Our destination was 70 miles distant, and our track was mostly through dense scrub. It was 50 miles to our nearest watering place for the sheep we were droving. There were 1,500 weaners and 200 old sheep. 

For the benefit of those who do not know what weaners are, let me explain that they are grown lambs, just taken from their mothers, and the most contrary little devils that ever walked. The old sheep acted as leaders to them. Our greatest worry was that we had no dog to assist us. Any sheep man knows what that means especially with weaners. 

But everything has an ending. Just before sundown we made a brush yard in some thick mulga, and put the sheep in. So finished our first day's journey. In a very short time our quart pots were on the fire, and our tea was soon made. We had some cooked meat, but no bread, so Mick made some Johnny Cakes (made of flour and water) and cooked them on the coals. Our frugal meal was soon over, and then, spreading our rugs on mother earth, we rolled into them for a good night's rest— or so we thought. But things do not always turn out as one expects. 

We had scarcely got to sleep when the hideous howls of dingoes seemed to come from everywhere. We realised that the dingoes were in amongst our sheep, and, before we could reach the yard the weaners had broken through the brush fence and gone helter-skelter into the thick scrub. Fortunately it was moonlight, and I was able to get my horse. In about two hours' time we had most of the sheep back in the yard. 

Next morning was blazing hot, and we had thirty miles to do through sandy, scrubby country before we would reach the next water for the sheep, and they were already showing signs of thirst. The nearest habitation was 'Whittata,' where I knew there was a camp oven. So I told 'Mick' to go on and make a damper (we only had 16 lb. of flour with us). He enquired, 'What size?' I told him to use all the flour, and that would carry us to our journey's end. 

'Bowls' and I started with the sheep, but our progress was very slow, for the weaners would go any way but the right one. We had only gone a short distance when heavy clouds obscured the sun, and soon a flash of lightning and a loud clap of thunder warned us that a storm was approaching. A cloud broke some distance ahead of us. The old sheep smelt it, and commenced to race toward it 'Ba! Ba! Ba-ing' as they galloped along, the weaners following them. 

So we reached 'Whittata' by 10 o'clock, instead of one o'clock or two o'clock, as we had expected. I left 'Bowls' with the sheep and went over to 'Mick,' who had only just got his damper into the camp oven. We had a meal with the station people, and then I told 'Mick' we must make a start. He said the damper was not baked enough. I decided it was, and so it was put in the pack-bag and off we started. 

We soon overtook 'Bowls' with the sheep, and left the packhorse with him. 'Mick' and I moved along with the sheep, while 'Bowls' was having his mid-day meal. He overtook us later on, and said he had had a 'glorious feed' of the damper, but it was a bit of a 'sod.' 

Late that evening we put the sheep in an old yard in the midst of some huge sandhills. When we sat down for our evening meal, and the damper was produced. I found that only about an inch on the outside was baked, and inside it was a sodden mass of dough. This was what 'Bowls' had eaten for his dinner. We had to cut slices off it and toast it over the coals before we could eat it. But 'Bowls' seemed to enjoy it, and ate a hearty meal, although he complained of feeling the effects of his late spree. He had finished his last bottle of whisky that day. We had not been in our blankets very long before we were awakened by his groanings. He was having a bad time. 

Next morning he was off early with the sheep, and reached the waterhole in Pernatty Creek, on one side of which was a steep, perpendicular bank. As I quietly came up I saw him sitting on the bank, gazing at the water below and talking to himself, cursing the damper and declaring that he would drown himself. He had not heard me approach him, and I let out a yell, which so startled him that he fell into the waterhole. Struggling out, he commenced to curse me, and I told him I would not let him have any more of 'Mick's damper.' He replied he did not want any of the stuff. But when the midday meal was on he again took a hearty helping. 

That night we were camped on the open country, and we had to take it in turns to watch the sheep. We had no timepiece, so had to guess the time. I took first watch to about 11 p.m.; then Mick took the next one, which should have terminated at 3 a.m. (but I think it ended about 1 a.m.). Then Bowie was to watch until daylight. 

I was awake before dawn, but could see no signs of 'Bowls' or the sheep. I roused Mick, and were soon on the tracks of the sheep, which were making east. Having secured my horse, I quickly caught up to them and brought them back. But I had seen nothing of 'Bowls.' Eventually I found him under a thick bush snoring like a pig. I told him in bushman fashion to roll up his swag and clear out, and he would get his wages when he got to the home station. I thought that would be the last I should see of him. 

But I was mistaken. On my return to the home station, two days later, I was surprised to hear that he had not turned up. The week previously a station dray, drawn by three skeletons of horses, had been left on the track, the horses having knocked up. On this dray was a five gallon jar of rum for the station manager. 'Bowls,' walking down with his swag on his back, and very thirsty, came to the deserted dray and broached the jar. He drank so much that he got delirium tremens. 

The police were informed, and a trooper arrived. I accompanied him to the dray. 'Bowls' was not there, but we soon got on his track through the thick scrub. We found his clothes, which he had discarded, and camped on his tracks that night. Next morning we again followed the tracks, which wound in all directions. It was nearly sundown when I called the trooper's attention to a number of crows flying around; and we made for them. 

As we approached we could see some perched in the trees, and others, on the ground under a big Myall tree. There we found the body of poor 'Bowls.' In his death struggles he had made a big hole in the soft soil. He was stark naked, with his eyes picked out, and his body torn by the cursed crows. We buried him there and cut his initials and the date in the bark of the tree. 

Today that country is all fenced, and the corner of one paddock, not far from his grave, is known as 'Dead Man's Corner.' The East-West railway line is only a few hundred yards west of the spot. — ''Unohoo,' Medindie.

Cow In A Parlor

One fine day mother was driving the children and grandma in the car, along a good road, through one of the most beautiful country towns in South Australia. The scenery resembled the southern counties of England, with the difference of the gum trees. Grandma, having lived in Kent, was delighted. 

Presently something very comical met their eyes, and everybody roared laughing. The window of a small weatherboard house was open wide, and looking out of the window was the head of a cow. She was contentedly chewing the cud and enjoying the scenery, too! It may have been the curtains she was chewing, for none were visible. The owner of the cottage must have been surprised to find her cow paying her a call in the sitting room! It was rather a disappointment, when returning an hour later, to find Mrs. Cow had returned to grass.— Mary Howard. 

Chased By An Ostrich 

I was driving a pair of dark chestnut ponies from Narrung to Meningie, on Lake Albert. From time to time I came upon mother ostriches sitting quietly on their nests, very near the track. I could almost have flung an arm around their necks had I been so disposed. I also passed male birds which took but little notice of us. 

Yet ostriches in this locality were feared, and were reported to have attacked men on horse- back. The males were enormous, with fine bunches of feathers, while a kick from a leg would have put one past thinking. 

I safely negotiated the ostrich country that day, as far as the 'domestic duty' birds were concerned. But my turn was to come.

Passing along a limestone ridge, where trees and stones required my attention, I caught sight of a moving object on a hillside some hundreds of yards away. This turned out to be a lady bird of vicious inclinations and evil reputation, of which I had heard. On sighting my trap she gave a shrill cry, spread her plumage peacock fashion, and charged at incredible speed. By this time Joan and Jean were thoroughly alarmed. I had no companion and no whip, and clean forgot the rifle on the seat behind. Anyway, I could not have fired it. The bird advanced broadside on, while I wondered what was to be done. Flight was impossible. When she was within a few yards I seized a rug and flapped it in the old hen's 'face.' This scared her off, and the ponies, redoubling their speed, we managed to escape. — A. A. Barber, Chaffey. 

Bullock And A Cure 

In the seventies a mob of station cattle were being driven to the Adelaide market. As they were skirting a northern township a bullock got away, jumped some ditches and a fence, careered down the street, through an open gate, and poked its head into the open door of a cottage. It was greeted with appalling screams. 

It bounced away again quickly, and after some time was returned to the mob. In the cottage lived a woman who had been thrown out of a dray twelve years before, and her back and hips were so injured that she had not been able to walk since, but reclined on pillows and did sewing and other handiwork. She was too poor and too far away to get expert advice. 

The sudden entrance of the bullock made her scream, throw up her hands and bound across the room. After that she could walk and felt quite well. She did housework for many long years.— S.M.J., Maylands.