resumed my seat on the five gallon water tin by this time and was ready to go on with my tale.
“…After a while the screaming eased off a bit,” I continued, “and the third voice cut out as well. Old Chlorodine though… Well he was keeping up a stream of abuse that would’ve blistered the bark off a bloodwood tree.
“Next thing the two ringers arrived back at the camp, one of ‘em leaning on the other and walking half one-legged. There’s a rip in the arse of his pants, see, so we unroll his swag and he pulls ‘em down, then he lies bum-up on it so his mate can have a look.
“Well we all did. And wasn’t one of his arse-cheeks sporting a crook old bullet burn – fair in the middle it was, ay, and straight up and down. Bloody deep, too.
“Course we were all in shock at first, like at how close it must have come to being a real tragedy, but after we’d stopped the bleeding and put a couple of plasters over it the funnier side of it started coming to the fore. It took a while for our laughter to die down, too, and when it finally did we decided to see how old Chlorodine was getting on. He was still yelling and swearing down the flat but there was no more gunfire – probably got himself into some sort of trouble we reckoned – broke his leg or something.
“Well we got that right; old mate Chlorodine was in a crook old mess. He’d been running flat-out toward the min-min light and put a foot smack in the middle of one of the boss’ dingo traps, and with the stake holding tight it brung him down in an instant.
“That wasn’t the end of it though. The trap was set where the rusty old fence used to go through and he landed in some of its left over barbed wire. That’s why he was going crazy, see; he thought all the devils from hell had got him. There was no danger of any more shooting but; the rifle had gone another three or four yards and was well out of reach.
“Anyway, after quietening him down a bit and getting him untangled from the wire we took him back to camp – blood all over the place but nothing really serious – except that when we tried to sort him out he fought us off then ripped into his rum bottle. Course pretty soon the stupid bugger’s snoring his drunken head off, ay, so we left him to it and set about trying to work out what had happened.
“The way we saw it was like this: As the old bugger went arse-up in the dingo trap he’d let go the rifle, see, and when it hit the dirt it went off. Course the bullet could have gone any bloody where, including straight through either of the two ringers – a fact I’m sure they both appreciated as Weetbix lay there moaning. And we kept reminding them about it, too, laughing and talking it over as we lay back in our swags. I mean it didn’t take much brainpower to work out that our big-time stockman wasn’t going to be riding tall in the saddle any time soon.
“Now it seems Weetbix had set up their “min-min light” business so that he was closer to us than his mate, squatting with his back to us to hide the torch as he shone it onto the balloon – while the other one waved it around. And more than likely they’ve heard old Chlorodine pounding towards them in the dark but had taken no notice.
“He then went down, the three-oh hit the ground and the bullet discharged on a gradually rising trajectory – from right behind where Weetbix was squatting. It branded Weetbix’s arse then passed between his legs and popped the balloon as it went off to Wyndham or wherever.
“Course it could just as easily have killed one of the dopey buggers, or even given Weetbix’s valuables a nip-and-tuck on the way through, which would really have given him something to scream about.
“Anyway, next morning the boss turns up to see how everything is going. And bloody hell! Didn’t the old prick go bloody bal-listic on hearing what had happened! In fact he looked pretty close to having a heart attack and I reckon the other ringers were hoping he would. The head stockman managed to settle him down eventually though, but it took him a while. Course as soon as he was half coherent again he sacked the three of ‘em, then in the same breath made me the Camp Cook.
“‘Me?!!’ I yelped. ‘I never cooked nothing in me life before!’
“‘Don’t worry,’ says he. ‘If you just wash your hands in the morning you’ll be half a bloody mile in front. Now bloody git to it.’
“And I got to be pretty good, too, after a while – so much so that even the dingoes wouldn’t eat me dumplings. Anyway, after that he loads the three of ‘em and their gear onto the back of his Land Rover and takes them off to the Dajarra pub, with Weetbix having to stand all the way – like for the whole four hours.
“Course it didn’t take long for word of his adventures to get around, and this gave cause to a great deal of laughter in the bar whenever the big-time stockman ventured out of his room. Then one morning a couple of days later Weetbix was gone … probably rung somebody up from somewhere to come and get him or something.
“I’m buggered as to where he went after that, though. I’ve been around western Queensland a long time, too, but I’ve not heard hide nor hair of the little bugger since.”
We watched the fire in silence for a time as it crackled and flared, then after a while I reached for my makings. But I’d forgotten that my tobacco tin was empty so I had to unroll my swag for the spare one under my pillow. When I sat down on the four gallon water tin again I rolled a smoke and then lit it with a stick from the fire.
A little while later old Blue heaved himself to his feet and had a good stretch, at the same time maintaining eye contact with me for some reason. Then, after shaking himself vigorously, he wandered off past me into the dark. And judging from the look he gave me as he went by I’ll swear the mangy bugger had been thinking about giving my leg a nip on the way past.
Course they reckon dogs can’t reason and don’t think about things like we do. —Yeah. And they never met old Blue before, neither.
About then Teddy came out of his reverie and gave me the benefit of one of his colder, more lingering, flinty appraisals – like as if he’d never seen me before in his life.
“Gawd bugger me,” he muttered eventually. “That would have to be the most far fetch’dst yarn I ever bloody heard.”
The withering X-ray glare continued for a time, after which he went back to staring at the fire. Eventually he added: “When you were fifteen the manager of Carandotta Station would have been a joker by the name of Jack Murchison. Big solid sort of bloke. Red face; bad temper. And that ex-boxer camp-cook feller… Well he finished up doing time in the Longreach slammer, and not long after that the grog got him.”
He paused again with his eyes shut, then went back to staring at the fire. “I’m just trying to think of the dopey young ringer’s name who Murchison sacked that day along with the other two – the one you reckon they called Weetbix...”
If there was one thing about old Teddy Washpan that never failed to amaze me it was his knowledge of Western Queensland’s tittle-tattle. Like a flamin’ encyclopaedia, it was; all the scandals and swindles and comings and goings about everyone and everything for the previous three or four decades – right down to the last little detail.
He took his makings from a pocket and set about constructing another of his thin, economical rolies, then after lighting it he leant over a bit and idly scratched at a prickle or something in the seat of his pants. “…Yeah. I think I recall him now,” he ventured after a time. “It was a youngster from Winton if I’ve got things right. Bit of a bloody larrikin from what I heard; never did much good for himself.”
“Do you remember his name?” I asked.
He thought it over for a while longer then stood up and knelt on his swag to undo the straps. “If my memory serves me correctly…“, he said as he began to unroll it – half to himself as much as anything – “I believe his name was Teddy Washpan.”
When I went to get into my swag the pillow was wet.
Bloody old Blue. The stinking mongrel had only cocked his leg on it.
© L A Johannsen 2014
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A Bushman's Tail Page 3
