5 December 1935

A TRUSTWORTHY ABORGINAL STOCKMAN

More Reliable Than Four White Men

I had lifted 1,500 bullocks from a cattle station in western Queensland for delivery at Musselbrook in New South Wales, at a time when drought conditions prevailed, in the country through which the first four or five weeks would have to be spent. So bad were the conditions that four men who had been with me on and off for years decided not to take on the trip, and I was forced to engage men of whom I knew nothing. With the exception of the cook and two blackboys, I therefore started off with men who had little or no experience of cattle droving.

The cattle from that particular station had a bad reputation for 'rushing,' and I knew how carefully the mob would have to be handled until I got over the drought-stricken country at least. As a matter of fact, so touchy were the bullocks at the day of lifting, that the station manager insisted, rather than suggested, that I should take four of the station blacks until I had passed beyond the station's boundary. I would willingly have taken a whole tribe if available.

We treble watched the mob at night tor a week, during which time all that happened were several 'ring-ups;' but apart from these inconveniences two or three times nightly, no concerted rushes took place. I well remember the morning the station blacks left on their return home. Their boss, a half caste, said, 'You got 'em now, Boss, but look out if they do go fair dinkum; they come home quick.'

Feed was becoming scarcer, and to make matters a little more difficult, I was about to face three long stages without water. It meant doing what all experienced cattlemen detest doing, namely, putting the cattle 'on their feet' and making them travel. The first dry stage of 32 miles was got over without mishap, and with a little roughage existing about the water I spelled them for a day, already feeling that the 'rushing' reputation of the cattle had been slightly exaggerated.

The new men were getting into their stride, so much so that in stead of doing a half-night watch myself, I had gained enough confidence in them to get back to the orthodox watch of the ''boss'— the one before day light.

On the second day's journey across the second waterless stage of 40 miles, it seemed as though rain was likely. To make sure that the cattle would have a more or less dry camp should the promised rain eventuate, I chose a spot on some high sandy ground, close to where a pine scrub existed, with dense patches of prickly pear growing here and there in the scrub. A light drizzle began to fall just as the bullocks were going on to the camp; the appearance of the overcast sky giving every indication that heavier rain would probably set in during the night. Although I was not exactly ill at ease, I must admit that I did not feel too pleased with the outlook; the bullocks, probably on account of the drizzle, gave the impression that the camp was not to their liking.

I decided to do the first watch with the horse-tailer (one of the blackboys), hoping that by the end of a couple of hours the mob would have settled down. The light drizzle soon changed into steady soaking rain, and the loud squelch, squelch from hundreds of feet moving around in the muddy ground furnished plenty of evidence that the cattle were restless. The almost impenetrable darkness added to my feelings of uneasiness, and I decided that I would carry on until midnight. Noticing from my watch that it needed only ten minutes to the time when the blackboy's relief should be awakened, I rode round to meet the boy. 'When you get round to the side near the camp,' I said to Jubilee, 'go in and call Mick; I'll stay on here till midnight.'

I could not have gone 20 yards after those few seconds' talk with Jubilee, when the cattle broke. To attempt to describe a rush on paper is futile; only those who have had such an experience can realise my hopeless position, when on a night as dark as a vault, and with the ground a quagmire, 1,500 terror-stricken bullocks rushed headlong into flight. I do not remember much about those first few fleeting minutes, as the night horse, one of the best I ever hope to own, made one bound into action. Intuition had told the horse the way the mob was heading; unable to see, I gave the animal a free rein, being fully appreciative of his ability to get the lead of the mob. How far the horse and I went I do not know, but in the few racing seconds of what might be termed conscious feelings, I congratulated myself that the path of the rushing mob led away from the pine scrub.

As there were two spare night horses tethered at the camp, I expected that two of the other men, as well as Jubilee, would be following up somewhere behind me. Then, almost simultaneously with the crashing of timber as the cattle tore through the scrub, my horse fell, stunning me temporarily. When I came to and mounted again, all was silent.

There was nothing left for it but to ride into camp; hoping against hope that the others might have rounded up the mob. I might just as well have tried to find the South Pole as find the camp I rode about in the dark for a couple of hours, periodically cooeeing, until I decided that the only sensible thing to do was to camp until daylight gave me my bearings. After a miserable night, the first grey tinge in the east set me moving, and ultimately, when I arrived at the camp, I had the mortification of finding all hands except Jubilee asleep, and the two spare night horses still tethered to the tree. Cursing gave be little satisfaction; the men admit ted that they were too frightened to mount the two spare horses and go out.

Of Jubilee they knew nothing; so after the other blackboy had run up the horses, the whole camp set out to see what could be found of the missing Jubilee and 1,500 head of cattle. Incredible though it may seem— and personally I would not believe that such a feat was possible if it were told me —less than two miles from the camp (we all followed the tracks left by the mob), we rode through a patch of scrub to find the faithful Jubilee trying to drive along single-handed every one, as account later revealed, of those 1,502 bullocks. And yet one often hears It said that an aborigine is not worth his tucker! Truth will out!

During the day the cook told me what had happened. As soon as the men had roused the camp inmates, all of them, except Mick, the other aborigine, whom the earthquake had failed to awake, had broken all records in tree climbing. According to the cook, they had shinned up out of possible harm's way before they were thoroughly awake. After all, maybe it was excusable; possibly I would have done the same had I been one of them.— ''Valley."

Arrested In His Own Shop

A short while ago a suburban store keeper had a rather startling experience on the premises of his own shop. He usually locked up for the night about 11.30 p.m., but on this occasion it was nearly midnight before he had closed the doors and turned out all the lights. He was about to retire to his rooms at the rear of the shop when he remembered something he wanted to do that night in the little storeroom attached to the shop. Not troubling to switch on the lights, he left a little side door open, and in the dim light, with the aid of a pocket torch, he was moving around when a voice rasped out behind him:— 'Put 'em up!'

By the confident tone of the command, he judged that the owner of the voice held a gun. He was right. With his hands above his head and a sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach, and mentally saying good-bye to the day's takings, which he had taken from the cash register and put into his pocket, he slowly turned round at a second command, and stared above a levelled revolver into the face of a traffic police man. And in the dim light he could see that there was another one close be behind the first.

So relieved was he that he began to laugh almost hysterically, and even at the stern command to 'cut it out and explain himself,' he found it difficult to stop. At last he managed to enquire what was the idea of holding a man up on his own premises. It took him some time, however, to convince the police of his identity, but eventually explanations ensued in the course of which the traffic police said that they were patrolling the district. The flickering light of a torch at the back of the darkened shop, and thinking that it might be a burglar, they had decided to investigate. They departed good humoredly, after a refreshing drink from the store keeper's soda fountain.— M.E.M.

Real Life Stories Of South Australia (1935, December 5). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 63. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92329490

Only A Friend

It is seldom that anyone thinks of laughing at a funeral, but an incident happened in a country town not long ago that caused a smile. The regular minister was sick, so a preacher from a near-by town was asked to conduct the funeral service. He consented, but arrived at the last moment, a total stranger to the town. When he started to speak he launched into an eloquent eulogy of the deceased, as was his custom, and he was just beginning to pay a glowing tribute to the departed one, when it suddenly dawned upon him that he did not know whether the person he was burying was a man or a woman. Stooping down, he whispered into the ear of an old man beside him, 'Was the deceased a brother or a sister?' The old man was a trifle deaf, and the minister had to repeat the question. 'No, no,' replied the man. 'Only a friend. That's all.'— J.R.

Only A Friend (1935, December 5). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 63. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92329493