25 July 1935

WHERE THE WILD DOGS HAD THEIR LAIR 

Native's Reluctance To Disclose Tribal Secret

Wild dogs may not be as numerous nowadays as they were 20 or 30 years ago, but they can still be as destructive amongst a flock of sheep as ever. 

In an outback district a few years ago, the station-owners were greatly worried by the savage attacks on their flocks by wild dogs. Mobs of sheep were continually being found with odd members torn to pieces, and invariably the damage was done in some remote part of the station, giving rise to the conclusion that dogs were at work. First one owner, then another, reported killings, and soon the daily topic was the wild dogs and their slaughter. 

No one knew much about them, in spite of their activity, for it seemed that Joe, a black from Bill K.'s station, was the only person to have ever set eyes on the killers. It was presumed that at least a pair were about, on account of the extensive damage done. 

Finally, Bill called up his neighbors on the telephone, and discussed the situation with them at some length. The outcome of the conference was the offer of a ten pound reward for every wild dog killed within the district. 

All the trappers, both white and black, for many miles around, were attracted by the offer, and the stations were soon literally teaming with them. But from the day the trappers invaded the district, the killings ceased. 

One morning, however, Polly, a lubra from a tribe that roamed the surrounding districts, turned up at Bill K.'s homestead, dragging a dead dog by the tail. The animal had only recently been trapped, and its massive jaws and lengthy toe nails gave one the impression that it would have been capable of doing a lot of damage. 

Polly grinned over her prize and jabbered away at a furious rate to Bill. She wanted the reward. It was hers; she had found the killer. Bill K. gave her the money, but when he asked her just where she had found the dog, she gave a jumbled reply. Her directions were difficult to follow, but it appeared that she had made her find in the hinterland of the district in some very poor country. Rather a long way out, thought Bill, but still it was well within bounds. 

The reward was still open to anyone who brought along a dead dog, but the trappers were unfortunate. They all reported negative results, and confessed themselves baffled. The dogs, if more than one existed, were rather a cunning pack, as no killings were reported from the day the trapping commenced. Gradually the trappers drifted out of the district and Bill K and his neighbors breathed once more in peace. 

Polly's dog was pronounced a super killer. All the blame was laid upon him, and the bosses considered the ten pounds well spent. Hardly were the last of the trappers out of the country, however, when a fresh lot of killing commenced. One flock after another was attacked, and the district was in a wild commotion within a few days. The trappers were all brought back again, but once more the dogs ceased their raiding as soon as the trappers set about their tasks. 

Within a few days a native carrying a dead dog appeared at West's station and demanded the reward. He claimed to have trapped the dog at a waterhole, and its broken leg bore this out. When asked by West at which waterhole, he gave rather vague directions, and when pressed for details became rather confused. West therefore refused to pay the reward unless he was guided to the waterhole at which the dog was alleged to have been caught. He was inclined to suspect that this particular dog had not been caught within the district, but had been hurriedly brought in from further outback. 

The black became sulky and shouldering his prize, headed for Bill's home. Bill, however, had been telephoned to by West and asked not to pay the reward to the black except on the same terms. Consequently he was ready. The native was no stranger to him. As a matter of fact he was the husband of Polly, and occasionally called at Bill's store to receive a few rations which the station provided.

On this visit the native found Bill a rather inquisitive person, but refused to guide him when requested to do so to the waterhole at which the dog was supposed to have been trapped. The native hung about the station for a time, but ultimately, realising that Bill's terms were definite, departed, leaving the dead dog behind him. 

West again rang Bill on the tele phone and asked him to have the native trailed by a trapper named Sid, who was camping nearby. Sid promptly collected a few rations and on foot trailed the native. However, when darkness fell, Sid had not only lost the trail, but had also lost himself. He arrived back at the homestead next morning to report his failure. 

Bill then rang West, who rode over to see Sid and brought along with him a black boy whom he employed as rouseabout. Together the two bosses, the trapper, and black who was going to do the tracking, rode out to where Sid had lost the trail. The black quickly picked it up and set off at a fair pace. The trail led into one of Bill's dry back sections. Riding ahead of the others, the black boy led them into gradually rising country. 

Finally the going became too steep and rough for horseback, and they dismounted and followed on foot. Over rocks and logs they stumbled, and at last they were brought to a halt. The black boy pointed to the ground, and there, sure enough, were the holes that had been driven into the ground to hold the traps. A close examination revealed the claw marks of a dog on the stones and ground nearby. This, then, was where the native had set his traps and duly returned to pull them up. 

Why had he set traps in such an unlikely place? The station black supplied the answer. Unnoticed by the white men, but quite evident to his eyes, were other signs, such as a few birds nearby and additional animal tracks. The only thing that could have led them to this unlikely and inhospitable area was water. Under a small rock ledge almost out of sight he pointed out a faint sparkle of water. As one man they scrambled to reach it, and, when sampled, it was found to be of excellent quality. Was there a supply behind it? 

The dirt and rocks in front of the little spring were removed, and with his hat Bill baled out the little water it contained. While they waited for the spring to refill, West supplied the probable solution to the reluctance of the wild black to reveal to them the whereabouts of the water. In all probability it was a tribal secret handed down for many generations, and this spring was, to them, the only available water for many miles, as most of the stations had had to sink deep bores for their stock supplies. 

The supply from this small spring proved disappointing, and as there was never much useful feed in the vicinity, Bill decided to leave the place undisturbed. He, however, duly located the tribe and rewarded them. 

They also revealed to him that the hills in which the spring was situated were a veritable home for wild dogs. Moreover, it commanded a clear view of the open country for many miles around. The dogs were thus able to see the trappers scouring the country, and, with their usual cunning, had lain low. Bill gave the tribe all the flour, tobacco, &c, they could consume, while for a few weeks they hunted and trapped the area clean for him. — 'Bushire.' 

When Bragging Proved Unfortunate

When I was managing Stuart's Creek station, a young man called on me and handed me a letter from a well-known Adelaide businessman, who requested me to give the bearer a job, describing him as a man well-connected in America, who had worked on some big cattle ranches there. 

I gave him a job as a stockman, and he began to describe some of the outlaw horses which he had ridden in America. Thinking that it was a pity to waste such talent as he appeared to possess, I offered him a job breaking-in some colts. 

'I'd do it like a shot, boss,' he replied, 'but I can't ride bronchs in these saddles you have here. If you had an American cowboy saddle, now, I guess I'd show you somethin'!' 

'Your luck's in,' I replied. 'We have one in the store here.' He did not appear quite as pleased as he should have when he heard this. I got the saddle out and asked for a demonstration. He could ride fairly well, I must admit, but after that he kept quiet about the feats of hard riding he had put up in America. 

A little later we began mustering to the Coward Springs yards, which gave 'Yank,' as we had christened him, a chance to show his much-vaunted skill with a lassoo. He could use it a little, but once more he ceased to boast. 

Some of my men went to the Coward Springs Hotel for a drink one evening, and after the second round prepared to leave the bar. Yank enquired the reason for their sudden departure, but, before any of them could reply, Magnus Cheyne, the proprietor of the hotel, said to him, 'You'll get no more drink tonight, because this is an hotel, not a boozing shanty. I have a rule which I never break— no more than two drinks in one day to any man who is in charge of stock. You've got a mob of horses in the yards. Get back to your camp with the rest.' 

Yank tried to argue the point, but Cheyne was a man who weighed 17 stone, and was as strong as the proverbial ox. Consequently, the American vacated the bar very hurriedly when Cheyne made for him, rolling up his sleeves as he came from behind the counter. 

I might say that every squatter and station manager in the Far North had the highest admiration for Cheyne, on account of his rule concerning drink and men in charge of live stock. We knew that none of our drovers or stockmen would be able to get drunk when they took live stock to Coward Springs. 

That night Cheyne heard a noise outside the hotel, and when he went out to investigate he discovered Yank rolling a stolen cask of beer towards the stockyards. Cheyne tried to catch him, but Yank dodged him in the darkness. 

Next morning Yank rolled his swag at daylight, told his mates that he was fed-up with the job, and cleared out before they heard of his escapade of the night before. After he had gone one of my men, Archie Giles by name, discovered that his new rifle was missing. 

A few days later Yank walked into a tailor's shop in Adelaide, informed the proprietor that he had been working for me, ordered a lot of clothes, and handed over a big cheque, asking for the change in cash. As the tailor knew me well he cashed the cheque. But when the cheque was presented it came back marked 'No account,' for Yank had made the mistake of forging a cheque not on my private account, but on a form of the bank where the Willowie Pastoral Company, which owned Stuart's Creek station, kept its wages account. 

Detective Frazer was put in charge of the case, and he soon ran down an unwitting accomplice of the forger's, but he failed to locate Yank. I had to come to Adelaide in connection with the matter, and when I was leaving to go home Frazer asked me to keep a good look-out for Yank on the way. 'I've an idea he's gone back to the bush,' he explained. 'If you see him, get the nearest constable to grab him.' 

Boasting brought about Yank's capture. The train arrived at Farina in the night; outside the carriage I heard a man bragging about some exploit or other. It was too dark outside for me to see the man clearly, but that bragging voice was unmistakable. I crossed to the other side of the carriage, saw the Farina constable on the platform, and beckoned to him. 'On the other side of the train you'll find the man wanted for forging that cheque on my account,' I told the trooper when he came up. The trooper walked quietly around to the other side, of the carriage; there was a scuffle and a yelp, and he appeared with Yank in tow. 

I heard that Yank went back to his homeland later, and I am fairly sure that he did not boast of one thing which he had seen in his travels in Australia— the inside of the Yatala stockade— William Oliffe. 

A Chicken-Killing Pony 

A suburban paddock was recently rented by a postman, the owner reserving the right to run his poultry in it. 

Every evening a pony was turned into the paddock and taken out early next morning, it was a very intelligent animal, and would follow the postman like a dog. 

Soon after the pony started using the paddock the owner of the field began to suffer losses among his fowls. Seldom a day passed without a death, and once as many as four chickens lay scattered in different parts of the field. At the end of ten days the casualty list had risen to 14. No one could ascertain the cause of death, for the chickens were not partially eaten or injured; the loss of a few feathers being the only outward mark of violence. 

Very early one Sunday, a man who was passing the paddock saw the pony charge suddenly into the fowls, scattering them in all directions. Singling one out, he chased it round and round. He then kicked it, and taking it between his teeth shook it as a terrier shakes a rat. Thus the mystery was solved. 

It is well known that horses do not relish grass on which fowls have been running, but it is surely rare to have such a practical demonstration of that dislike.— J.R.

Is Thirteen Unlucky

A few weeks ago a country bread carter came out of a customer's gate to find that his horse and cart were missing. He followed the trail of the cart, a wheel of which had been chained, and rounded a corner in time to see the vehicle overturn and smash against an iron gatepost. 

Mentally noting that the date was the 13th, he looked inside the cart to find 13 loaves left. On counting the remaining customers, he discovered that 12 more had to be served. 

When he returned to the bakery he learnt that his employer was at the insurance office renewing his policies on all carts used in the business. When the employer was told of the accident he asked when it occurred, and was told 5.2 p.m. He heaved a sigh of relief; the policy commenced at 5 p.m. — 'A.B.'