31 December 1936

BATTLE OF WITS IN THE BUSH

Station Manager Proves Too Shrewd For Cunning Drover

Some years ago I was overseer on a station in western Queensland, which was managed by one of the shrewdest and most practical men I have ever met. He proved to be more than a match for a cunning drover. 

Word came that a big mob of sheep bought by the station would camp near the boundary fence that night, so the manager told me to get my swag rolled and go with him. Instead of taking delivery at the station shed, the boss had decided to count the sheep through at the boundary next morning and have the station hands shepherd them for a few days before letting them go bush. The station plant was to be at the boundary at sunrise next morning.

On arriving at the drover's camp, the manager, after a keen look over the sheep which had just been put into the brake for the night, asked if there were many short. The drover, after a slight hesitation, said that at the last count he was seven short only. 

"We'll see in the morning,'' said my boss. "I'll take delivery at the boundary instead of at the shed." Aside to me, as we walked to the camp, the boss said, "I'm a bad judge if this fellow isn't a couple of thousand Short." 

Dense scrub existed on either side of the boundary fence, and after waiting an hour after sunrise for the station hands to turn up, the manager asked the drover to let three of his men hold the counted-through sheep until his men arrived. The drover seemed quite pleased to oblige, and soon we were in action. I counted through with the drover, whilst the manager did the tallying. For some reason the station hands were late, and nearly half of the 15,000 sheep had been counted through when the manager called a halt. 

Without saying a word, he hurried away along the fence through the thick prickly pear and scrub, and soon I heard a livid oath. Thinking that he might have fallen or been bitten by a snake, I hurried along to see what was wrong. I was just in time to see him blocking some of the counted-through sheep from coming back through a gap in the fence. 

All was revealed in a minute. The drover, knowing himself to be many sheep short, had taken advantage of the absence of the station hands. With the dense prickly pear and scrub to assist him, he had instructed one or more of his men to break down portion of the fence, and when the opportunity offered to drive some of the counted through sheep back into the paddock, where the uncounted portion of the mob was. 

While the manager and I were repairing the fence and discussing matters the station hands were seen approaching through the scrub. Later we were to find that an accident to the horse tailer had caused the two hours' delay. 

Without mentioning to the drover the discovery of his would-be shrewd move, the manager said that he would have all the counted-through sheep brought back. 'Lost my tally stick,' he explained. 'We'll count them again.' 

Finally, with the last sheep through, the numbers were about 2,600 short, and then the manager exploded, giving the drover a rather hectic five minutes. In the meantime I had been asking questions of one of the drover's men and learnt that the sheep had not been counted for upwards of ten days. 

Further, I learnt that, if anywhere, the sheep would have been dropped on a cattle station about 40 miles away, as the man was certain that all the sheep were there when last counted. 

The drover tried to argue that the manager's tallying was wrong, but when the latter suggested another count the drover gave way and admitted that he must have lost the sheep in some dense scrub whilst passing through the cattle station his man had mentioned. 

Conjecture was useless, the sheep were missing and had to be found, so the manager compromised, "Go back, and if you deliver half of the numbers missing,' he said to the drover, I'll pay for the full number and forget the trick you tried to put over." Meekly, the drover agreed to do his best, and a week later he turned up at the station with slightly over 2,500 of the missing sheep.— 'Mulga Bill.'

Real Life Stories Of South Australia (1936, December 31). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 13.  http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92350045 

"Greasy Ike"

Living in the bush elevates some men who have to 'batch'; they be come tidy, orderly, and dislike any thing approaching slovenliness in the way of clothes or mode of living. Others sink into a slough of personal untidiness, and develop an aversion to washing. 'Greasy Ike' was one of the latter type. 

He lived in a hut on the bank of a creek, and did casual work about the district. He was one of the filthiest men I ever saw. It seems almost incredible that a human being could sink so low as he had in the matter of personal uncleanliness, yet he was a good workman, generous to a fault, and by no means lacking in brains, though he could neither read nor write. 

The spot where his hut stood was known as 'Yelco Green,' for couch grass grew wild there, and soakage water kept the grass green in the driest summer.

One evening Ike came home and found the tracks of a horse leading to the door. When he looked at the door he found that a few lines had been written on it with a piece of chalk. Ike swore as he gazed at the writing. 'Hang it all,' he growled. 'Someone wants me to do a job. They've forgotten that I can't read and have left a message for me.' 

Having eaten his evening meal, Ike sat staring at the door wondering what he had better do. Finally he had a brain wave. Half a mile down the creek was a bush sawmill: he would take the door off its hinges, carry it to the sawmill camp, and get someone to read the message for him. 

It was a simple enough matter to remove the door, but then his troubles began. With the door on his back he set off through the darkness, tripping over roots and stumbling into rabbit burrows. 

At last, with sweat streaming down his grimy cheeks, he staggered into the sawmill camp, propped the door up, and threw some boughs on the fire. As the flames brightened he pointed to the writing on the door and asked someone to read it. 

One of the sawmill hands walked over, peered at the writing, then burst into a howl of laughter. Other men gathered around to see what the joke was, and within a minute every man save Ike was roaring. 

Poor Ike begged in vain for someone to tell him what the joke was; every time he spoke the crowd would burst into another roar. Finally one man gasped, 'How far did you carry it, Ike?' 'All the way from me camp, of course. But what does it say?' 

The other man pointed with a stick and slowly read out— 'Greasy Ike, of Yelco Green, The dirtiest bloke that ever was seen.' Ike stood for a full minute, stricken dumb. Then he gave a wild howl, seized an axe, and reduced the door to kindling wood. Flinging down the axe, he walked off into the darkness, followed by more roars of laughter. It was typical of the man, however, that he did not make another door for his hut.— 'Bogaduck.' 

Where Did Leichardt Die? 

Possibly where and when Leichhardt died will ever remain a mystery, but the Afghan, Ali Blooch, who travelled overland from Victoria to Queensland with Donald McIntyre, the explorer, in the sixties, was insistent in his claims that he had discovered where Leich \hardt and his party had perished. 

McIntyre set out from Victoria with the intention of endeavoring to trace Leichhardt, but eventually settling down on a station in north-west Queensland, he extracted a promise from Ali Brooch that the latter would carry on the search. 

For months the Afghan would remain away from Dalgonelly, the station acquired by Mclntyre, and none expected him to ever return when his absence had been unduly protracted. It was fully expected that Ali Blooch would fall a victim to the Myall blacks, then a power in the country where the Afghan searched for the Leichhardt marked trees. All with whom Ali Blooch came in contact, with the exception of McIntyre, regarded him as being 'queer,' and he was referred to generally as the 'Mad Indian.' For this reason none heeded his claim of having come across the last camp of Leichhardt and his party. 

From the best of authority, I received full details of Ali Blooch's last trip. Having been away for nearly three years the Afghan was given up as lost, and great was the surprise when finally a ragged individual once again returned to Daldonelly.  The story told by the 'Mad Indian' was not heeded, but out of curiosity a stockman on Dalgonelly took down details of what he had to say. 

Briefly, Ali Blooch recorded having came across what was the last Leichhardt marked tree, a lone piece of vegetation on a sun scorched plain. Close at hand were the remains of Leichhardt's party. Satisfied that he had accomplished what had been his life's ambition, Ali Blooch travelled overland to Adelaide and reported what he had discovered to a Government official. His statement may have been recorded and pigeon-holed, more probably still, little or no notice was taken of it. Satisfied that he had done his duty, Ali Blooch returned to Dalgonelly and offered to lead a party to where he claimed he had made his find. Nothing eventuated however, and when a few months later Ali Blooch died he carried to his grave the knowledge of the spot he had claimed to have found.

In later years the stockman who had taken notes of Ali Blooch's story, was firmly convinced that where the Afghan had said he had made his discovery, was on part of Brunette Downs station in the Northern Territory. If Ali Blooch's story was correct, and he would have had no reason to romance, it seems a pity that officialism did not take steps to prove the truth or otherwise of what the 'Mad Indian' had claimed. It seems certain now that the mystery of Leichhardt will for ever remain un solved.— 'Old Timer.' 

Dingo Joe's Ghost 

Dingo Joe lived in a small shack near the head of the creek, according to the old-timers, who remembered him, and his occupation of trapping was responsible for his nickname. He used to do a fair amount of bait-setting for dogs, and handled poison like most people handle flour.

One morning the dealer called on Dingo Joe and found the shack empty. Joe's poison bottle was missing, and his dog was dead. What became of Joe remained a mystery for years. 

More than a year elapsed, and then a terror-stricken stockman rode up to the next homestead and announced that he had seen Joe's ghost. It was sitting beside his little outdoor stone fireplace, boiling his billy. This story was not confirmed, and the experience was attributed to nerves. 

But when two solid, respectable farmers happened to be weather-bound over night in Joe's place, and swore that they had been driven away by the sound of his spirit-voice, the tale began to gain some credence. 

In the course of the next few years, lots of eminently trustworthy people reported that they had either seen Joe's ghost, had heard it, or had run away from it. Joe became a legend!  Twice he made an appearance at a spiritualistic séance and gave some sound tips on local matters connected with dogs and diseases in cattle. 

About five or six years ago a couple of young fellows happened to be passing the remains of the haunted hut, when they sighted Joe boiling his billy in the same fashion that they had often had described to them. Being a shade irreverent, they decided to get in first, and hailed him with, 'Hello, Joe! How are they treating you?' 

'Pretty fair,' answered the spirit in a far from reedy voice. 'What about coming over for a drop of tea?' Losing some of their first enthusiasm for contact with denizens of the other world, the youngsters took a good deal of persuading before they got out their pannikins, and they were very relieved to find that the tea seemed to be substantial enough. This set one of the lads thinking. 

'Do you make tea like this every night, Joe?' he asked. 'Do you always come here to drink it?' 'No,' said Joe. 'As a matter of fact, this is the first time that I've set eyes on the place for close on two score years. I used to live here once, but my old dog took a bait, and I never could stand the look of the place afterwards. I was up in Queensland a few weeks ago, and suddenly felt homesick for the old shack. How are all the neighbors?'— 'Clunimac.'

Nerves Plays Strange Tricks 

It happened at the time of the Tantanoola Tiger scare, when everyone was on tenterhooks. George was camping out by himself. He had done a hard day's work and was tired. He had his supper, tied one side of the tent flap back to let air in, and tumbled into bed. But sleep would not come. He could not help thinking of the tiger. He kept nervously looking through the aperture in the tent, and straining his ears for sounds. Suddenly he sat up in bed and stared. A face peered in at him and drew back. Again it appeared and vanished. This was too much for George. He seized his gun from under the bed, raised it to his shoulder, and blew a hole in the frying pan, that was being gently moved by the wind, as it hung from the ridge-pole outside.— 'Moovon,' Millicent.