OUTWITTING A TIGER SNAKE

Combat In Nullarbor Caves Brought Grey Hairs

On reading lately about the exploration of caves on the vast Nullarbor Plain, 'Madamukla' was reminded of a very unpleasant experience, he once had while exploring a labyrinth of caves situated a few miles to the west of a station homestead on the fringe of the Nullarbor, on which he was shearing a number of years ago. 

One Saturday afternoon, instead of our usual shooting expedition, a couple of mates and I decided to explore the caves, which we had heard about from the manager of the station. We set out in the old buck-board, equipped with ropes, a lantern and our rifles, in case we ran across any game; and, before long, we arrived at our destination. 

The entrance to the cave was a dark hole, about four feet in diameter, in the centre of a saucer-like depression, and when we looked down the hole, we began to have some doubts about our abilities as cave explorers. The hole went down for about six feet, with rough, jagged sides, and then widened out into a huge cavern, the walls of which we were unable to see, but we could distinguish the bottom, which was covered with rough boulders, about 20 feet below us. 

'Well,' said Bill, 'it's a pretty decent sort of cave, and, now I've seen it, I guess we'd better start back again.' 

'Aren't you doing down?' I asked. 

'Not on your life,' he replied; 'besides, that rope's no good to me. I can't climb.' 

'Well, I'm going to give it a go,' I said. 'What about you, Bert?' 

'I'm not too good on the climbing,' replied Bert; 'but, if you're game, I'm with you.' 

Into The Cave 

We tied our rope on an iron spike we had driven into a cleft in the rocky outcrop, and I prepared to descend. I soon clambered down the first six feet or so, but, after I had left that behind, I had a nasty few minutes, swinging about, until I quickly slid down the rope to the bottom. I sang out to Bert, and he was very soon standing beside me on the bottom of the cave. He had the lantern tied on to his belt, and I noticed with surprise that he also had his rifle slung across his shoulder. 

'What's the idea of the gun, Bert?' 'I thought I'd bring it along, ' he replied; 'you never know what we might come across.' 

We looked round, after we had lighted our lantern, and I began to think that Bert was wise, after all. The boulders lying in the bottom were embedded in sand. Immediately under the hole in the roof through which we had entered were the bones of dingoes, kangaroos, and sheep, but more startling than that were the sinuous tracks we could see criss-crossing the sandy spaces between the boulders. 

'Looks as if there are a few snakes about,' said Bert, 'we'd better watch our step.' 'Come on then, let's get going,' I said, 'there's a small opening low down on that wall over there.' We made our way across the cave very cautiously, and when we came to the opening we found that if we wanted to explore further we would have to crawl along this narrow passage in Indian file, I took the lantern, and with Bert at my heels we started off. 

After crawling for about fifteen yards we entered a cave, which was very much larger than the first, and the light of our lantern was reflected by beautiful glistening stalactites and stalagmites. On one side of this cave we discovered another opening, but we decided that we had seen enough and prepared to return to the rope. As before, I led the way into the tunnel, and when about half-way alone I suddenly heard a sound which brought out a cold sweat on my face, and a nasty prickly sensation up my spine. 

A Low 'Hiss' 

It was just a low 'hiss,' but I knew what it meant. I had been pushing the lantern along in front of me, and by its light I saw, coiled just around a projecting ledge in the rough walls of the tunnel, one of the biggest tiger snakes I had ever seen. His ugly head and flattened neck were no more than two feet away from my face. I think the light must have dazzled him. for he turned his raised head to and fro, but I could see by his flattened neck that he was both angry and frightened.

I lay still, scarcely daring to breathe, and I knew that Bert had realised that something was wrong, because I could feel him gently forcing his way up alongside me. The next minute seemed like hours as I lay there waiting for that snake to strike, and I guess that many of the grey hairs I have now came just in those few minutes. I could feel Bert gently moving, and knew that he too could see the snake by peeping between my arm and body. Fascinated, I saw the snake draw back his head, and just at that moment I was deafened by the report of Bert's .44. In that confined space it sounded like a 16-inch gun right alongside my ear; but Bert's aim had been true, and the snake was thrashing about in front of the lantern minus a head. 

It did not take us long to crawl the rest of the way, and, when we were once more standing on the top of the caves with Bill. I tried to express my gratitude to Bert. 'Well, I reckon that's the best bit of sharp-shootin' I ever pulled off,' was all that he would say in reply. Our bushmen are men of action, rather than words. — 'Mudamulka.' 

Why Jockey Did Not Help Bookmaker 

Years ago, before the appointment of stipendiary stewards, racing in South Australia was not conducted so efficiently as it is today. 

Jockeys used to make big money by 'pulling' their mounts. These unscrupulous horsemen were, of course, well known to the average bookmaker. 

At a northern meeting, at which I was present, a bookmaker attempted to bribe a certain horseman, but his failure to do so nearly caused a riot. It was the bookmaker's first meeting, and he held only about £20. In the principal race of the day an Adelaide horse was heavily backed. Before the start of the race he gave his clerk £10 to 'lay off' on the city horse with another bookie. But he refused the money. 

They then decided to bribe the rider. The horseman was famous for riding 'dead-'uns,' but on this occasion he refused the ten notes. 'Nothing doing!' was the reply. The Adelaide horse took the lead and remained there all the way. 

When the dividend was announced the crowd closed in round the unlucky adventurer and demanded payment. He told them 'that it would be impossible to pay them all that day. Some would have to wait until the bank opened in the morning.' 

This did not satisfy the excited mob. All indications were for a riot, but the bookmaker was prepared. He with drew a revolver from his hip pocket and ordered the crowd to 'Stand back!' He then fired a shot over their heads. 

This had the effect of intimidating some of the crowd, but a burly bush man made a grab at the pistol, and it exploded again. At this stage a trooper came on the scene, and he, undoubtedly, saved the man's life. The speculator was taken to the watchhouse where he was followed by his unsatisfied clients. This was his first and last appearance in the capacity of a bookmaker. 

In the following morning's paper it was announced that as a result of the Adelaide horse's victory Miss —— had drawn the winning double. She was the fiancee of the winning jockey. — A.D.

Lover's Death And Bushman's Madness 

Two hundred yards from a West Coast farm, a friend and I noticed a small hut, and, on making enquiries, we were informed that an old man resided there, and that he was somewhat mad. 

One night, prompted by sympathy and curiosity, we made our way to the hut and were let inside by a bewhiskered old man. The barriers of formality and convention were soon removed, and we three were chatting sociably. The man, who seemed to be leading a hermit's existence, did not betray to us by word or action that he was in the least insane. After a matter of fact conversation, he appeared suddenly to take us into his confidence, and he related a tragic story. 

'About 45 years ago I was a strapping young fellow, full of life and laughter, building up the high ambitions of youth and enjoying life to the full,' he told us. 'Naturally, I fell in love. I became acquainted with a lovely young woman whom I admired, and loved her with all my heart. She was all I cared for in the world. 

'We were gloriously happy, planning a great future. Unfortunately, she was delicate. One awful day she fell ill. I watched sadly, but hopefully, by her bedside, as she lay ill. I was writhing in mental agony. It seemed cruel to me that she should have to suffer. Soon the truth dawned on me with sickening force — she was dying. 

I tried not to face the fact, but nothing on earth could prevent the dreaded realisation of my worst fears, for my dear sweetheart died. I remember clearly her last hours. When she died I was horrified, and cried like a child. I went through all sorts of mental torture. 

'I remember very little from then. I was a human ghost. A simple funeral, attended by a few friends and relatives. I was in a dream as I saw her buried. I tried to control my emotions. I stared as I saw the coffin lowered into the grave. Then suddenly a deep emotion surged over me, and I went mad. I plunged into the hole after the body of my darling. I remembered no more until I awoke, thinking at first I was in the land of the dead. 

'The memory of everything, haunted me. I cursed and fumed because I had been rescued from the grave. I couldn't restrain myself. Gradually I settled down, but unable to bear living at the scene of my bitter misery, I wandered off, and ever since a changed man, with little love or respect for life, I have been a lonely wanderer.' 

During the whole of this narrative my comrade and I listened silently and awe-struck. It was a simple story that spoke volumes. We left at its conclusion, wondering whether it were not the mere fantasy of an insane man. Yet the story was so feasible and, straight-forwardly told. — 'Tenderfoot.' 

Station Owner Met Musterers' Demands 

I once saw a threatened strike on a cattle station terminate before it had even time to bloom, and in a manner that fairly took by surprise the men who were about to hold mustering up. 

An award for station hands did not exist at the time, and shortly after the arrival of the owner of the station, mutterings amongst the musterers came to a head, with the result that a representative was sent to interview the owner and demand an extra ten shillings a week during the muster. 

I was at the station with my plant to take away the first mob of bullocks, and, although I did not side with the musterers and considered their demands rather uncalled for, I was hoping that a compromise would be effected so that I could get away as quickly as possible. 

At the time musterers were receiving 30/ a week, and as watching of cattle would have to be carried out each night for a couple of months, their work was certainly worth more than they were receiving. But, to threaten to go on strike if their demands were not acceded to seemed bad policy. 

'We Want Two Quid' 

The men's spokesman was a big blustering sort of fellow, and while I was standing talking to the owner at the fire, he came up and delivered his ultimatum. 

'Look here, Boss,' he said in rather an uncouth manner, 'we want two quid a week during the bullock muster or we're goin' to strike.' The owner merely said 'H'm!' and seemed to be thinking seriously. Silence for a few seconds and then the men's representative spoke again, 'Well, what's it to be?' he grunted. And then to my surprise, and more so the surprise of the musterer, came the owner's reply. 

'I'll tell you what I'll do, Jim,' he said. 'You men promise to see the muster through and go away with station plants if I can't get drovers enough, and I'll give you a pound a week more during the muster.' The big fellow could not quite understand it for a few seconds, but as soon as he got over the shock he could not accept quickly enough. 

'Right, boss, that's a bet,' he said, as he hurried away to break the glad tidings to his mates. 

'I intended to pay the men extra during the muster,' the owner said to me as the big musterer walked away, 'but there was no need for the men to hold a gun at my head like that.' 

The pastoralist in question only died just recently ; he was one of the finest men for whom I ever drove. — 'Drover.'