Shrewd Drover Went Bush

Pathetic Story For Young Station Manager

'A.M.' tells of one of the tricks of the outback; how a drover could go bush just off a stock route, and not know he was off it. At least, that was what Dan Barry did, and he got away with it.

A mid-summer's sun beat down on pastures that had been literally flogged to death by travelling stock. Hardly a straw existed long enough to clean a nicotine-clogged pipe. To find enough to fill even one of a thousand hungry bullocks was a problem too great for Dan Barry to solve.

Disgusted with that tactics adopted by the owners of his mob, "blowing out their chests," as old Dan said, "in some pub down in the city," the road hardened old drover, finding that cursing would not bring a reply to several telegrams he'd sent, "urgent and at me own expense," decided he'd have to carry on. But how?

Leaving the cattle on the dinner camp, Barry rode ahead along the dusty road, finding as he knew he would, nothing but arid plains bordering the route. A ten miles ride brought the drover to the boundary fence of Saltbush Plains, a station he knew better than most; and knew only too well the testy nature of old Joe Carter, the manager of Saltbush for forty years.

"Just as I reckoned," growled Barry, as he surveyed the route from the boundary gate, "yer'd think old Car ter'd had the stock route raked. There ain't a skerrick of feed. Damned if I know!" A cloud of dust interrupted Barry's worried thoughts, and as he observed the dust drawing nearer, he reflected it might be the mailman, hoping against hope there'd be a telegram from "them fools of owners," ordering him back to agistment country. But no such luck; the mailman, for such it was, brought not the hoped for message from the owners.

"Old Carter at home?" asked Barry, as the mailman prepared to move on his way. "What, down for the Cup, is he? Wish I had half his luck. Right-o, hurrah." As the mailman drove off in a cloud of dust old Barry muttered slowly, "An' he won't be back for three weeks." A very different humored Barry rode back towards his cattle.

Certain Death, or ...

Sunken eyes and gaunt frames told of the hardships the cattle had under gone. The wonder was they'd travelled so far without numbers falling by the wayside. Horses had been left along the route— some had died. It seemed as though the drovers would soon be on foot. Only for injuring his reputation, Barry would have turned the cattle bush at the last water-hole he'd passed. Such a thought had come to him, but, annoyed at the behavior of the owners that he was, the old cattle man could not tolerate leaving the cattle to their fate, a certain death. But now, since meeting the mailman, the whole aspect had changed, and, on arriving back with the cattle, Barry did not seem to deplore their ragged condition.

It was a changed boss drover who gave fresh orders. "Travel 'em due west and' when yer hit the nettin' fence follow it to the left," Barry said to his second-in-charge, after giving meagre reasons for the change of route. "I'll get the plant movin' an' when I pick a camp I'll come back. Tell yer the strong of things later."

Accustomed to their boss's peculiarities, the cook and horse-tailer bustled with the racking up, the former growling because he'd "Just set a batch of bread." "Chuck it ter hell then" roared Barry, "less yer can carry it in the pack-bags. If yer can't do that, dish us up some johnny-cakes fer breakfast. Ther boss must have a bit of a say sometime. We're movin' and' that's all there is to it, so liven up."

"Ain't I told yer a dozen times he's off his nut," growled the cook to his mate, but not loud enough for their boss to hear. "A man oughter pull out." A roar from Barry "to get a move on" stopped any further mutterings.

Week's Nourishment

A week on the "best feed I seen fer years" worked wonders with the cattle. Off camp at daylight and allowed to graze at will, the tired and foot-sore bullocks were now looking like cattle should. With distended bellies they walked slowly into water, and then with grunts of satisfaction settled down in the shade for a couple of hours of cud-chewing. A new lease of life had come to the horses, and as old Barry rode in and out of the camping cattle he decided another few days could be spent with out much risk.

"Whew!" he whistled. "If only old man Carter knew!" The sun was dropping slowly and the bullocks were being gently turned back towards their camp for the night, when a hail from one of his men caused Barry to look in the direction pointed out. "Gone a million," mused Harry, as he called to his second in charge. "Looks as if we're gone, Mick, but you blokes don't know where we are. I'll get in an' prime Bill and Barney before this bloke hits the camp. Put the others wise that I'm only a new chum drover. I'll tell this bird the most pathetic story he ever heard if he'll only listen ter reason. Just dodge 'em along slowly. I'll get."

A quiet unperturbed Barry rode slowly towards his camp. Jerking his sweat-lathered horse savagely to a stop, a highly annoyed young fellow greeted Barry with a curse. "Are you in charge of these cattle? What the hell are you doing here? Do you know who I am? You'll pay for this? What's your name?" The newcomer bolted off so many questions Barry could not keep track of them all.

"I'm right glad you happened along, young fellow," said Barry, after telling the cook to make a drink of tea. "I think I must have got off the track a bit. A young fellow I met the day before yesterday directed me ter come this way; but I don't see no road leadin' away from here. This is me first mob er cattle an' — er, course if I'm in ther wrong, an' off ther stock route I'm willin' ter pay fer damages. But don't make 'em too big, Mister Carter. That's yer name, ain't it?" The listening cook and horse tailer had turned away to hide their mirth, but old Barry's face was a study as he heard the other interject—

"No. Mr. Carter's my uncle. My name is Mr. Fletcher, but I'm managing this station during uncle's absence. Is that the truth about not knowing where you are?"

"S'help me, Mister Fletcher, it's the truth. We're just about out er tucker, an' all me men were leaving 'less I find a way out."

Barry's Yarn

As the other hesitated, Barry took up the running again. "Look, mister, I'll tell yer the truth. I've got a missus an' half a dozen youngsters ter feed an' things bein' slack in my line, tank sinking, I took these cattle pretty cheap. But I can tell yer if I get outer this all right, there'll be no more cattle drovin' for me. I ain't got ther experience."

"H'm! H'm!" ejaculated Mr. Fletcher, adopting a more friendly attitude. "It's just as well for you that uncle is away; he's very antagonistic about drovers getting off the stock route, especially those flash sorts we get along this way. I can see you're only a new chum cattleman by the way you've let your bullocks spread. I'll overlook it considering your circumstances, but, do you know, this is a special paddock we were holding in reserve? I'll have to tell uncle, of course, but I'll see there is no summons issued. Take my advice, however, and give up droving; it's not a game for you. You can camp here tonight, but be ready to move off at daylight. I'll be here bright and early to pilot you across to the stock route."

"You're a toff, Mister Fletcher," and Barry had to turn to hide a grin. "Have a drink er tea before you go; it's ther best I can offer." "No thanks, Barry, I'll be going. I have a long ride home, but don't for get, bright and early in the morning. Good-day."

Mirth, no longer restrained, burst forth from three men as they watched Mister Fletcher gallop away.

Carter's First Question

"Who was in charge of those bullocks I passed along the road?" was the first question old Joe Carter asked of his nephew on his arrival home. "The cattle looked full; they seemed to have got a bit of grass somewhere. One of the men waved, but he was too far off for me to recognise. Who was the drover?"

"Oh, a real new chum, uncle," came the answer, and in a few sentences Carter's nephew— and manager in his absence— told of what had happened, concluding by saying, "Just fancy a man in charge of cattle going bush on the stock route!"

"Dan Barry, was it, eh?" drawled old man Carter. "Just a new chum drover, huh!" The manager of Saltbush Plains for over forty years, coughed to stifle the feelings within. "Look here, young fellow, take my tip and keep that story to yourself about a drover named Dan Barry going bush on Saltbush Plains. Thirty years ago, long before you were thought of, that new chum drover Barry, as you call him, was head stockman here for me, and he's forgotten more about this country than you'll ever know."

"But, uncle ... " stammered the very abashed nephew, as old man Carter turned and walked away. Through the open doorway came the old fellow's hearty laughter, broken by the words that floated in, during a few seconds respite from his unrestrained mirth. "That's one to you, Danny Barry, but I'd have done the same myself." - A.M.

Chinaman Who Could Take A Hint

In my youth, I worked as a stock man on a big cattle station on the Warrego River, in Western Queensland. Some fifteen hands were employed, and, to supply the place with fresh vegetables, a Chinese named Jimmy Ah Yot was employed as gardener. His garden lay across the stream from the station homestead, in a bend of the river. To make him self comfortable Jimmy had built himself a nice little hut, partly underground and with thatch and sides of reeds.

One day a travelling Chinese came along and Jimmy, after yarning for a time with his fellow countryman, came up to announce that the visitor was a musician of note. "Him play and sing for me after sun go down," said Jimmy. "Tonight you hear welly nicee piecee singa song, by Cli'."

We had already seen that the traveller was carrying something with a long handle: we had thought it was either a gun or a frying pan, but we now learned that it was a samsien, or Chinese banjo, fitted with a drum across which a piece of thin parchment was stretched.

Most of us forgot about the promised concert, but that evening, lust as we had finished tea, a most appalling row broke out across the river. We looked at each other in astonishment, then hurried outside. From Jimmy's hut came a loud cater-wauling, accompanied by the twanging of the samsien. It sounded just like a couple of cats fighting among some tins. This, it appeared, was the 'Welly nicee piecee sing-a-song' which we had been promised. Any one who has a good wireless set will know what the noise was like: similar 'songs' and accompaniments can be picked up from Eastern broadcasting stations on nights when reception is good.

At first we thought it a great joke and we roared with laughter, but with in half an hour we were tired of it, and by nine o'clock we had had enough. Jimmy, however, had produced some home-brewed rice wine in honor of his guest, and both of them had been applying themselves freely to the bottle. The noise was bad enough when both the Chinese had been sober, but when they became drunk it defied description.

The boat was on the far side of the stream, so there was no way to reach the hut — short of swimming or a long walk to the nearest ford, the river being in flood. Time and time again one of us walked outside and roared 'Shut up that blanky row!' but only derisive cackles of laughter replied. And still the banjo went 'Ting, tang, ting a-tang.' and still the two Chinese made the night hideous with their shrill, monotonous 'N'yah, ee-yah-ah-ya.'

Davis, the head stockman, was writing some letters that night and seemed to be paying no heed to the noise across the river; at any rate, all he said was "Don't worry— they won't keep it up all night. Let them have their little bit of fun: when I'm ready for bed I'll tell them to call it a day." He was optimistic, however, for when he went outside and shouted he received nothing but drunken laughter in reply. "Well, I asked them politely to shut up," he remarked, coming into the dining room, "And they only laughed at me, so I'll try a gentle hint."

In one corner of the room was a heavy old 8-bore duck gun, placed there in order to shoot any hawks which attacked the station poultry flock. Davis picked it up, opened the breech to make sure that it was loaded, then walked outside again. Those of us who had not gone to bed followed him to see what would happen. The head stockman walked down to the river bank; across the stream we could see Jimmy's little hut, with the lamp-light shining through the chinks in the reeds which formed the sides.

"Jimmy," shouted Davis, "I'm warning you for the last time. Shut up that blanky row or I'll deal with you." "Hee-hee, Missa Davis," cackled the gardener. "Boat, him over this si' — welly cold night for swim — hee-hee-hee. Suppose you chasee your self, eh? Hee-hee-hee!' Then the singing and twanging broke out afresh.

With a muttered curse, Davis raised the heavy gun and aimed at the light. A second later there came a belch of flame, and the crashing report sent the echoes rolling for miles. The handful of shot smashed through the flimsy sides of the hut and the lamp vanished with a tinkle of breaking glass. As the echoes died away in the distance, a terrified screeching came from the hut.

"Tooda muck-a-gee pung! Mucka hi-lo! Mobin-kite-hi! Whaffor? Whaffor?" they yelled. Then silence —blessed silence— followed. The two Chinese had been in no danger of being hit by the shot, the hut being partly underground, meant that they were protected by the earth bank.

Numerous travelling Chinese came along and stayed a day or two with Jimmy thereafter, but never again did we hear another 'welly nicee piecee sing-a-song' from the gardener's hut. Jimmy Ah Yot could take a hint. — 'Ullabulla.'

Two Rabbiters Caught In A Thunderstorm

About eleven years ago one of the northern sheep stations engaged two rabbiters to exterminate all rabbits on a small 50-acre paddock, the rabbits having completely honeycombed it with their burrows. In the midst of their operations a severe thunderstorm came up and they had to seek shelter. Knowing of nothing but the old shack which they had passed en route they decided to shelter in it.

When they arrived they entered it cautiously, finding the door open. One whom we will call Charlie looked at his watch and found to his surprise that it was past 5 o'clock. Being wet to the skin they decided to stay, so they lit a fire after some difficulty and lay down to sleep after having shut the door. When they had begun to doze off, the door suddenly opened. Springing to their feet they could discern nobody in the glimmer of the fire, so Charlie grumbling at Harry for not closing it properly, took a piece of rotten string from his pocket and tied it securely. He lay down again, but Harry sat on the floor with his rifle in his hands, being very nervous.

They waited and after they both had dozed off again the door opened with a snap and swung back. They were now thoroughly disturbed and remained awake until morning, leaving the door open. At dawn they ventured outside and then to the astonishment of both of them, they saw how they had been fooled. The hinges of the door were passed through a tree which had been ringbarked but still had a number of scraggy limbs. The gale had bent the trunk, lifting the catch out of the latch. — 'S.'

Jack Is Still 'In The Rocks'

Out from Adavale in south-western Queensland is the remnants of one of Cobb and Co.'s mail changes, known as 'Jack in the Rocks.' It received its name in a fitting if rather an inhuman way.

Jack Spriggs, the groom looking after the mail horses, became suddenly ill and died before he could be taken to hospital. At that time a carpenter did not exist in Adavale, so, being unable to procure a coffin in time, the body of the groom was wrapped up in some canvas and placed in a large crevice and covered over with boulders and earth. When, pointed out to passengers on the mail car that now runs instead of the old time coach, few believe the story, but nevertheless it is quite true, and the ashes of Cobb and Co.'s old groom still lie amongst the rocks. — 'Up North.'