10 September 1936

HOIST WITH THEIR OWN PETARD

Deep Laid Scheme That Went Astray

Twenty years ago match races be tween horses were a regular feature of sport in western Queensland, with side wagers often for big amounts. There were always station owners and managers willing to back something of their breeding against anything, that might be brought along, and the owner of a top-notch galloper often won big money.

Men from 'inside' made a practice of travelling the West with horses that would not be disgraced in good company about city racecourses, but not always did the touring owners prove successful against western-bred horses. As the outcome of a race meeting, held in a western town, a match was made for £100 a side between a station manager and the owner of a horse that hailed from somewhere 'inside'. The two horses had fought out the finish of the handicap, and, through meeting with interference, the horse owned by the station manager had been beaten by the visiting horse. One argument had brought on another, and finally a match was made, the conditions being a mile race, each horse to carry 10 stone, and, should either horse fail to face the starter at the time set for the match, that is, at 10 o'clock the following Saturday morning, bets and stakes would be paid over. It had been agreed that there would be no postponement.

During the days prior to the match, a great deal of betting took place, and, although the station manager's friends bet heavily on his horse, little notice was taken by the eager manner in which two newly-arrived strangers accepted all wagers. As the two seemed friends of the owner of the strange horse, it was taken for granted they were betting for him, as he rarely came into the town from where he was training his horse, a couple of miles out.

Just after dusk on the Friday night before the match, I was talking to a friend outside the hotel where I was staying. Our conversation was suddenly interrupted by a youth, who, in breathless tones, asked if we knew where Mr. Hash was. Mr. Hash was the station manager and owner of the horse engaged in the match. The boy said that it was imperative that he saw Mr. Hash immediately; so, sensing that something was wrong, I lost no time in taking the boy to him. In brief, the lad had overheard the two strangers talking, and said that they, having bet heavily against the station manager's horse, intended to give it something that would not only prevent it from winning, but would more than likely stop it from facing the starter on the morrow. The manager gave the lad a sovereign, and extracted a promise from him that he would say nothing of what he had heard.

In the morning rumors were current that the station horse was not only off his feed, but was decidedly off color. When approached on the matter, the manager said that the heat of the box had caused his horse to cut up a little, and he had had it taken down to the creek. To his intimate friends the manager said that his horse was never better, and he advised them to back it for all the money they could secure. And there was plenty to secure. The two strangers seemed to have an unlimited supply of money, and they eagerly snapped up all the bets offer.

In due course the match took place, and, with the manager himself up, the station horse won by half-a-dozen lengths. If looks could have killed, the manager and his horse would have died on the spot, as with scowling faces the two strangers saw the manager riding back to dismount. It was at the settling later that the manager fired his broadside, and made the two strangers wish the hotel bar would collapse and put them out of their misery. With bad grace the pair had accepted defeat, even accusing the owner with whom they were working of having pulled his horse. Had there been a rough element present the two strangers would have had a bad time, but winning their money and exposing them was quite sufficient for the manager and his friends.

The manager had hoodwinked the pair quite simply, for shortly after the youth had brought news of the intended doping, another horse similar in color to the station galloper had been substituted for it in the hotel stable. The manager's horse was taken down to the creek and watched carefully during the night, whilst the unfortunate substituted animal took its place in the box and partook of the doped feed. How effective the dope would have been can be guessed from the fact that the unfortunate horse partaking of it was in a sorry plight for a couple of days. Had the manager's horse eaten the doped feed it would certainly not have been able to face the starter, and the two strangers would have made a big clean up. Instead, however, the manager's party had a great win, whilst the two strangers could not leave the town quickly enough.— 'Old Timer.'

Alone In The Camp

In 1886 I was a member of a survey party, led by the late David Lindsay; we crossed the continent from south to north to survey the boundaries of the cattle stations on the Barkly Tableland, in the Northern Territory.

When we made a camp near Alroy Downs, our leader said, 'The first item on the programme will be a flying trip out towards the telegraph line. We'll take all the camels, but any stores we don't require will be left here, and someone will have to stay to guard them. Who volunteers for the job?' None of the men spoke, so I offered to do it. I was the baby of the party, being only 18, and as soon as I thought the matter over, I realised what I had let myself in for. But it was too late to back out, and when the party rode away next morning I stayed behind.

My heart felt like a lump of lead as I watched the long line of camels vanish over the skyline. We had made our camp on the banks of a fine waterhole; to the south-west lay semi-desert country, covered with thin scrub and with no known water holes. Yet that unknown country was not lifeless, for far out towards the blue-misted horizon rim rose the smoke columns of native fires. The fortnight which I spent alone in that isolated camp was the longest of my life. Near the camp was a big blood wood tree, and in the topmost branches I made a look out, where I would sit for hours every day, tracing the movements of the natives by watching the changing positions of their smoke columns. I began to feel very uneasy when I noticed that those smokes were coming appreciably nearer every day, as if the natives were aware that I was alone at the camp, and were closing in on me.

One day I was watching a couple of emus stalking along; when they were about a quarter of a mile from me they turned to look at something behind them, then raced away. I could only conclude that natives who were spying on the camp had scared them, and thereafter I never moved without my rifle, I wore quite a pad by doing sentry-go with my rifle around the tarpaulin-covered heap of stores, and I became so nervy that the sudden passing of a bird or the thud of a stick dropping from a tree would make me wheel around with my rifle ready and my heart pounding.

I had to do something to keep my mind occupied, so I rigged up a fishing line and spent hours fishing at the waterhole. I ate some of the fish, of course; but I would toss the rest back again; I must have caught every fish in that hole at least five times. Some of the little ones, who bit most readily, must have become quite used to being caught and tossed back again. I wrote a full account of my experiences to date in my diary; I wrote long letters home, to be posted at the first opportunity.

But the time passed with dreadful slowness; and, no matter what I was doing, there was the ever-present urge to look over my shoulder every minute of my waking hours. It is surprising how swiftly a civilised being can revert to the primitive and start adopting that eternal vigilance by which wild creatures protect their lives; within a few days I was acting just like an aborigine. Not a leaf moved around the camp without my noticing it.

Then the dingoes found me. All night long they would prowl around the camp, sniffing and howling; when I shouted, threw sticks or fired at them, they would vanish, only to come back a few minutes later. There were times when a pair of eyes, shining green in the firelight, met my gaze wherever I turned, but, no matter how carefully I aimed, I could never manage to hit one of the howling, prowling brutes. By day I never saw them; they only came under cover of the darkness. I stopped shooting at them when I discovered that I had fired 25 of our precious cartridges without scoring a hit.

At last I heard a shout and saw a trotting camel approaching the camp; it was David Lindsay, who had ridden ahead of the rest of the party to make sure that I was all right. My age-long fortnight of isolation was over at last. I never admitted how scared I had been; as a result, the old bushmen in the party gave me a lot of undeserved praise. But I never volunteered to stay behind and guard the stores again. — G.S.L.

Tricked The Sergeant

I had been making my way through the district with sheep, taking every opportunity to cast a line by the way. But fish were not to be thought of in such a closely-settled area, except mullet, which seldom respond to the hook without elaborate burleying, which we had no time to try.

We finally passed through a small township and camped for the night a mile or so beyond it. I went back into the town for a few odds and ends, and ran into the local sergeant of police. It was an unexpected pleasure, as we had known each other years before, when he had been stationed in another district.

Eventually the conversation got round to my unsuccessful efforts at fishing. 'If you are really keen on a feed of fish, why not come home to tea with me?' he suggested. 'We have some very tasty mullet.' I accepted with alacrity, enjoying a delicious spread.

After we had finished, I asked my host where the catch had been made. He named a spot we had passed two days before. 'Why, I worked that for three hours without a bite,' I exclaimed. 'Did you burley the brutes?' 'In a fashion,' answered the sergeant, with a wry grin. 'I'll tell you about it.'

'We have had a lot of complaints recently from the settlers about the navvies from the railway construction job sneaking down with a plug of dynamite and settling a hole for years to come. Acting on a tip from a man at Taylor's Bend, I went out in civvies this afternoon by car, and passed you on the road, although I didn't know it was you. I parked the car under a clump of trees, and mooned down by the river bank until I came across a bird with a nice pile of mullet and no sign of a line.

'Hello! ' I said to him. 'How are they biting?' 'You're new to the game?' he fired back. I agreed. 'Well, grab hold of this,' he instructed me, and passed across a plug of fracteur, which I naturally dived on as evidence. Then he fished a detonator and a short length of fuse out of his sugar-bag, and fastened them into the plug. Next came a match with the speed of lightning, and a wild bellow in my ear, 'Into the water with it, or you'll be blow to blazes!' 'What could I do?'

'When the fish floated up, the cunning scoundrel turned round with a grin and said, 'Pity to leave them there, eh?' 'Again, what could I do? And they were very tasty, as you know. 'How did he spot me? Well, that had me puzzled until I reached home and changed back into uniform. Then I noticed my boots. In the bustle of getting away, I had left my service boots on, instead of putting on a pair of shoes.' I thanked my friend and departed. On the way I called in at the railway construction camp and made a deal with one of the workmen. For the rest of that trio we revelled in fish every meal — 'Warrigal.'

Saved By A Cloud Burst

It is rather a strange occurrence that a sudden cloudburst and flood of water could save the life of a man who was almost drowned. But such was one early settler's experience in the Murray mallee lands. His nearest neighbor was five or six miles away and he was the only person on his holding.

One hot day in January, while great thunderstorm clouds piled up in the sky, he lost his balance and fell into a deep underground tank while drawing water for his horses. Being a good swimmer he had no difficulty in keeping his head above water, but as the tank was only three parts full it was impossible for him to get out.

The man became rather alarmed as there was no one within five or six miles, and it might be days before any one called to see him. The more he thought of his position the more hope less it seemed. How long he kept afloat he did not know, but gradually the light died away and night came on. Terrified, he began to shout for help, keeping up the calls until he was hoarse, but no assistance came. It was growing darker; then came a blinding flash of lightning which was almost immediately followed by a loud crash of thunder, and the first drops of the thunder shower began to fall.

Filled with new hope, the almost exhausted man pulled together his strength. If only it would rain heavily. It was only six feet to the top of the tank. He watched the dark clouds in the sky with anxiety, expecting almost any moment to see the clouds pass off and the stars shining through. But he was mis taken. With the next clap of thunder the rain came down in torrents, and in a few minutes the water was pouring into the tank. He came nearer and nearer to the top of the tank, and then before he realised it, he was being carried away by the water. He caught hold of a tree as he drifted past it and regained his feet. Although the water was running swiftly it was only knee deep. He waded out and hastened to his hut, where he collapsed exhausted. So a tragedy was narrowly averted by a sudden cloud burst,— 'OUTBACKER.'

Real Life Stories of South Australia (1936, September 10). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 54. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92463266