Pals: Young Australians in Sport and Adventure

by Carol Norton

  *CHAPTER XVI*

  *THE DINGO RAID*

  "What's up, old horse? Your ears you prick, And your eager eyeballs glisten. 'Tis the wild dog's note, in the tea-tree thick, By the river to which you listen.

  * * * * *

  Let the dingo rest, 'tis all for the best; In this world there's room enough For him and you and me and the rest, And the country is awful rough." ADAM LINDSAY GORDON.

  "Here's a fine how-d'ye-do!" exclaimed Mr. M'Intyre wrathfully, as hestrode into the house, one hot morning shortly after the events recordedin the previous chapter. "Why sic rubbish were ever created passesunderstanding!"

  The irate squatter, contrary to his usual habit, clattered through thehall and out on to the front verandah, slamming the door most vigorouslyas he made his exit.

  "Whatever's stung dad this morning, Jess?" remarked Maggie to hersister, as their excited parent made his noisy intrusion.

  "Something bad, you may be sure, to cause dad to parade in that fashion.I expect the blacks have been performing. They madden father at timesby their 'want o' intellect,' as he calls it."

  "I'll--I'll cut the livers out o' them, the sneakin' hounds! Rot 'em,I'll pizen every faither's son o' the dirty vermin!"

  "Oh, father!" cried Jessie, "you surely are not going to poison the poorthings?"

  "Pizen 'em, that am I! Pizen's ower guid for them, thieving brutes thatthey are! 'Puir things,' as you ca' the wretches," continued hesarcastically, "I'll hae the life o' the hale o' them, if it tak's a'the pizen in Tareela!" barked the exasperated man.

  "Then you're no father of mine!" blazed out Jessie. "What have the poorboys done that you should threaten such dreadful----"

  "W-h-a-t!"

  "Why, poor Willy and Jacky: what have they done that you should----"

  "What on earth is the lassie haverin' aboot?" roared Mr. M'Intyre toMaggie.

  "The blacks, father. Didn't you say that you were going to poison them?But I don't believe it for a----"

  "The blacks! Wha's talkin' o' blacks? It's the reds, the blesseddingoes, wha've been playin' havoc wi' the calves. The blacks? Macertie!" continued he, as the humour of the situation seized him,forcing a smile. Turning to his daughter, he exclaimed, "Ye're a finebairn, I maun say, to be accusin' yer ain faither o' _black_ murder!"

  "Forgive me, dad!" cried the impulsive girl, as she threw her arms roundhis neck; "I never thought of the dingoes. I--I--I made sure the blackboys had been up to tricks, and never dreamed----"

  "There, there, that's enough, my lassie! It's a case of'misunderconstumbling,' as Denny Kineavy would say. But it's enough tomake ane feel wild and gingery. Eleeven fine yearlin's killed! It'sthe wantonness mair than the actual loss that vexes me: though thelatter is bad enough, for some o' the best, of course, are sacrificeedto their slaughterin' instincts."

  That evening, in conference with his chief stockman, Mr. M'Intyre laidhis plans for the extermination of the pack of dingoes which had justgiven an exhibition of their destructive powers. In this particularinstance the brutes had driven a number of yearling calves, weaners,into a blind gully. Having boxed them up in this _cul de sac_, therapacious dogs found them an easy prey.

  The Australian wild dog is a combination of several very excellentqualities--from the canine standpoint, that is. He possesses moresagacity than any other wild thing of the bush. Keen of sight, quick atscent, subtle of wit, noiseless in tread and bark, tenacious to rootedpurpose, he pursues and stalks his quarry, whether bird or beast, withall the odds in his favour.

  There he stands, this indigenous dog, with a great, broad forehead, hiseyes narrowing in sinister expression; well set in body, showing bigsinews and a good muscular development; strong jaws, with teeth likeivory needles; white in paw and tail-tip, bright yellow everywhere else,save the chocolate-coloured streak running along the spine from neck totail. There he stands: but that is a figure of speech, for a morerestless animal than this same dog does not exist.

  Australian cattle-dogs have a world reputation, and the very best arethey which by crossing inherit a strain of dingo nature. That whichmakes the dingo so hated by stock owners--who pursue himrelentlessly--is the killing lust which possesses him. Were he tosimply kill for food, and be satisfied with a victim that would furnishenough for present needs, settlers would be far more tolerant of him.The plain truth about him is that his predatory instinct is so strong asto practically intoxicate him. The sight of a flock of sheep or a bunchof calves makes him "see red," and then he simply runs amok. Onesnap--he does not bite in the ordinary sense--of his steel-like jaws isenough. The mouthful of flesh and muscle is torn out in an instant, andthe victim invariably dies of shock. One dingo in a sheepfold will killfifty sheep in a few minutes.

  These dogs are more troublesome in bad than in good seasons. When thecattle get low in condition and weak, they become a comparatively easyprey, then the cunning of the dingoes becomes manifest. They willselect their victim and drive it towards a water-hole or swamp. In drytimes these are mere puddles and exceedingly boggy. The object of thecanine drovers is to reduce the bullock to helplessness by bogging it.The drive will sometimes take hours, and no experienced drover could dothe work more cleverly. Finally, when their quarry is down in the mireand practically helpless, he is tackled and bitten to death. In goodseasons, when the cattle are strong, Mr. Dingo, save for an occasionalforay on the calves, has to content himself with his naturaldiet--kangaroos, 'possums, and emus.

  Fortunately, there was at the station at this time an eccentric bushmanwho combined the work of horse-breaking and dingo-trapping. NoseyGeorge was reputed to have a sense of smell equal to that of the dingoitself. Certainly, his slouching gait made it often appear as if he were"nosing" the tracks of the game. But in truth he owed his prowess as atrapper to a pair of eyes that knew no dimness. At first sight ofNosey, one saw nothing but his nose. But when you noticed his eyes youforgot the nose, and lived in the presence of a pair of eyes thatsparkled like diamonds, or as searchlights that permitted nothing toescape their scrutiny.

  Nosey's feats of tracking were really marvellous. On one occasion hegot on to the trail of a dingo bitch which had raided his hen-roost, andfollowed it for twelve miles, mostly through scrubby and rocky countrythat was criss-crossed with innumerable tracks of bush vermin. For allthat, this human sleuth-hound tracked Mrs. Dingo to a cave in themountains where she had five pups, and returned with six scalps.

  The dingo trapper rode out early the next morning in company with Harrythe stockman and the boys to the scene of the slaughter, there to devisemeans, for which he had received _carte blanche_ from Mr. M'Intyre, forthe capture of the raiders.

  The weaners' paddock was about three miles from the house, and had anarea of five thousand acres. Most of the enclosure consisted of plain,but a corner of it contained a belt of scrub; and it was in this corner,where the weaners camped for warmth in the night-time, that the driveand slaughter had been made. The beasts, most of them, lay huddled,showing evidence of mangling; others had struggled out of the gully intothe scrub. After gazing awhile at the slain, Tom Hawkins broke thesilence--

  "I say, Nosey, ain't this a go? Poor brutes!"

  "Here, you kid," cried the trapper, turning sharply on Tom, "who gaveyou leave to call me names? Like yer blessed cheek! How'd yer like meter call yer monkey-face? If yer had a decent nose, I'd tweak it feryer."

  Nosey, who was very sensitive on this question of nickname, and had hadmany a fight over the same, made such a menacing move towards Tom thatthe lad shrank back in fear.

  "That'll do, George," said Sandy. "Leave the boy alone. He didn't meananything. It's what everybody calls you."

  "I'm not goin' to let brats of boys miscall me, anyhow. Don't know whythe boss sent you blokes, for all the good y'are!" growled the grumpy,cross-grained, but not really bad-hearted old man. "Youse b
etter bekeepin' quiet, anyways, till me an' Harry has a look round."

  "Let him be," whispered Harry. "If you get his dander up he's as likelyas not to chuck the whole blame thing. He always jibs at that name;carn't stand it from kids nohow."

  Nosey, or to be respectful, George, now proceeded to examine thesurroundings of the carcasses. Bending forward until his protuberantnose almost touched the earth, the trapper moved his eyes swiftly, nowconcentrating on twig or grass-blades, now wildly roving andall-comprehensive. The rest of the party were following at his heels,when he turned round and fiercely waved them back.

  "All right, Nos--George!" sang out Joe. "I see; you want to keep thetracks clear. We'll stay here till you've finished."

  Drawing on one side, the group watched the proceedings with greatinterest. The ground was hard and stony; quite unimpressionable andbarren of sign to the pals' untutored sight, yet to this man of thewoods, who was ignorant of the alphabet, the rough earth surface wasall-revealing, and made known to him in unmistakable characters thestory of the attack.

  Having at length concluded his investigations, the trapper straightenedhis back and moved to where the others stood. Producing his knife and aplug of tobacco, he began to shred a pipeful, making no remark to theexpectant onlookers.

  "Reckon we'll have to drag it out o' the old un," said Harry to Joe in alow tone. Then raising his voice, the stockman began to question theman.

  "Had a good look round, George?"

  Nod.

  "Ain't missed anything worth seeing, I bet?"

  Head-shake.

  "Whatyer make of it?"

  "Razorback pack," replied the old man of frugal speech, as he cleanedout his pipe.

  "Razorback pack? You surely don't mean it! Why, that is a matter oftwelve mile or so!"

  "Suppose it is; what of that?"

  "Oh, I say!" exclaimed Harry dubiously, yet not wishful to offend theold man's susceptibilities. "Of course you know best, George. How manyof 'em do you consider they'd be?"

  "Five dorgs an' two bitches."

  "Good gracious, Nosey!" cried Tom the unlucky, the next moment beating arapid retreat as the dog-trapper made a vicious dart at his caudalappendage, finally coming to grief over a fallen log which lay in theline of retreat. The pursuing foe, even, had to stop and join in thelaugh raised at the ludicrous figure which Tom cut as he lay, head down,heels up.

  "Beg pardon, George!" he cried breathlessly the next moment, as herecovered his original position. "It slipped out, old fellow. I--Ididn't mean it."

  "Come, now, George, that's handsome. You must accept the apology,"interjected Joe.

  The trapper nodded assent, and the incident passed.

  "How _do_ you know what pack it is, George? Blest if I can understandhow you find out all these things! First you tell us the sex an' thenwhere they come from."

  "Tell it by their paws."

  "By their paws! How on earth can you tell they've come all the way fromRazorback by their paw marks? Mightn't it be the turkey scrub lot?"

  "It carn't be, an' isn't, 'cause I knows the pack."

  "How's that?"

  "Got two of the vermin in the traps six months ago over at themountains, an' a cove wot got away left two toe nails of his nearhind-foot in the trap."

  "Too fly for poison, eh?"

  "'Twould be a waste of good strychnine over the rubbage," replied thetrapper, waxing more communicative. "They know a bait better than aChristun. 'Sides, I tried them over at Razorback. Got plenty o' cats,gohanners, an' crows; an', be gosh! laid out one of my own cattlepuppies, but ne'er a dingo."

  "The traps'll fetch 'em, won't they, George?"

  George returned no answer, but "smoled" a cryptic smile. Mounting theirsteeds, the party turned in the direction of home. Mr. M'Intyrereceived the trapper's report without interruption, and then consultedas to the best way to work their destruction.

  "Hunting them is out of the question," said the squatter in reply to aremark of his son that it would be grand sport hunting them. "We'd onlyruin the horses in that country and miss most o' the dingoes. Na! thetraps are the best an' safest. If ony ane can catch 'em in thatfashion, George is the mon. I leave the hale matter in his hands. Hekens best what to do to circumvent the brutes; so go your own way towork, George. What aboot traps? Have ye enough?"

  "Got seven or eight, dunno for sure. Ought to have a dozen."

  "Varra weel; ane o' the laddies will ride to Tareela and get itherfower."

  Accordingly, Joe and Tom mounted their horses and rode into the storefor the additional traps.

  A dog-trap, it should be explained, is simply an enlarged springrat-trap, with extra strong jaws and saw-like teeth. These instrumentsof capture weigh about ten pounds, and are planted in likely spots. Thenative dog is an exceedingly suspicious animal. His reasoning facultyis large. A mere glance at his head will convince one as to hiscapacity, and those who have had to do with him count him as theslimmest of the slim. Hence, only by outmatching him in cunning may hisadversary succeed. In this Nosey George was an adept, and Mr. M'Intyredid not overstate the facts when he declared no one to be capable ofmatching the dog-trapper in the art of setting lures.

  The pals readily obtained leave to accompany the trapper next morning towatch the proceedings, on the understanding that they were in no way tointerfere with him. Each lad had a pair of traps slung across hishorse's withers, and George carried the balance on the neck and croup ofhis steed. They made their way to the weaners' paddock, and after abrief inspection of the carrion the trapper declared that there had beenno return of the dogs.

  "I didn't expect them larst night," remarked George. "They're like theblacks, can eat enough at one meal to do 'em fur days. A gorge isChrismus to 'em."

  "What do you intend doing with the dead beasts, George?"

  "Leave 'em be, o' course. They'll help me more than anythin' else.Dogs'll come again to get another feed or two; an' as boss's took theweaners away to a safe paddock, they'll go fur these dead uns likewinkie--likes 'em a bit high, in fact. Supposin' we burn thesewretches, the vermin'll keep about their own haunts. They're out oftheir beat when they come over here, while they knows every stick an'stone of their run. Consequently, it gives me a better charnse with 'emon unfamiliar ground."

  So saying, the cunning hunter proceeded to carry out his plan. Thedingo has a well-defined method of carving his veal, so to speak. Thehide of the animal is not uniformly thick. The softest and tenderestpart is that underneath and between the thighs. The ravager, therefore,attacks this tenderest and most susceptible part. He tears a big holethrough the skin and into the flesh in a short time, and literally eatshis way into the body; until, when he and his fellow-feasters havefinally finished, and cleaned paws and jaws with that self-providedserviette the tongue, nothing of the animal remains but the skin andbones--always providing that no foe appears to stay proceedings againstthe gourmands. This finish, of course, entails several feasts when thecourse happens to be a bullock, or, as in the present case, toothsomeveal.

  The trapper proceeded to lay a trap facing the torn portion of eachcarcass--that, of course, being the place of attack on each occasion ofthe canines' visits. After a careful consideration of the groundsurrounding each beast, he dug a hole in the earth and then placed atrap in it. He next produced some sheets of the inner bark of the titree, which is as flexible as paper and softer. A sheet of this is laidover the gaping jaws of the trap, which is, of course, properly set.The "jaws" are now level with the ground. Over this fine earth issprinkled until all appearance of the trap is hidden. The superfluoussoil is now removed with care, and the surroundings are made to look asnatural as possible. This in itself is a work of art; for the slightestappearance of disturbance or make-up alarms the wary dingo, andnullifies the trapper's design.

  There is one thing, however, that Nosey George had not reckoned uponwhen starting his operations--the number of carcasses to be treated. Itwill be remembered that eleven a
nimals were slaughtered in the dingoraid. This would mean the use of eleven traps, were every animal to beused as a lure. But it is contrary to the design of the trapper to useup all his traps in the vicinity of the beasts. Some are to be setalong the line of approach. A number of carcasses, therefore, must beremoved. With the help of the boys, five of the beasts are draggedabout two hundred yards away, put in a heap, covered with dry wood, andthen burned.

  This left the trapper with several traps to use in other directions.Having laid six traps in the vicinity of the calves, he proceeded tofollow up the tracks of the dogs. The first gin was laid in a soft patchof ground directly in their footmarks. This he continued at intervals,until the last one was placed at a spot about two miles distant.

  "How many dingoes do you think you'll nab, George?" exclaimed Tom, asthe party rode homewards in the late afternoon.

  "Tell you when I visit the traps termorrer, boy."

  "I say three," judged the judicious Joe.

  "I say one," opined the cautious Sandy.

  "I say the whole bloomin' lot," loudly proclaimed the sanguine Tom.

  "I say, wait," drily remarked the wise trapper.

  The trapper's prophecy was justified; for, on a visit to the traps inthe early morning by the expectant and impatient boys, in the company ofNosey George, to the surprise and disgust of these same youngsters, nota trap was sprung.

  The trapper, who while examining the ground had maintained a sphinx-likeattitude, broke silence at length under a fusillade of questions.

  "Yees want ter know, does youse, why it is no dog's copp'd? Simpleenough. Dogs didn't come."