From Strength to Strength

by Sara Henderson

  For a few seconds silence hung suspended over this comedy scene. The ringer moved away from the group of horsemen and cut out a bull. He galloped him a while and then shouted the estimated weight to Charles. But while Charles was over with me fitting the capsule to the tranquilliser gun, the ringer changed bulls. His thousand-pounder went bush so he switched to a fourteen-hundred-pounder. The serum would not have the same effect on the bigger animal but the ringer, not being aware of this, failed to mention the change in weight.

  Charles galloped in with the dart and shot the bull right on target. Everyone waited the prescribed few minutes while the bull did a war dance, trying to dislodge the dart. He then paused, looking at the ring of horses and humans closing in on him, and the over-anxious director gave the order, ‘let ’em roll’.

  The ringer jumped off his horse and raced in for the bull’s tail. The bull, seeing his enemy at close quarters, snapped out of his trance, turned towards the ringer and charged with all the alertness and determination that only a mad, wild bull with a dart in his rear can achieve. The ringer, realising too late that he had a very awake, mad bull on his hands, did a nifty sidestep leaving his hat for the bull to pulverise, and shouted to the other ringers still on horseback to surround the bull. They did, and the ringer dived to safety.

  The bull, really mad now, charged at random, and his next target was our director. Beside himself with excitement, Bill was so busy filming he did not realise that the face of the charging bull he was filming just happened to be charging at him. However, his horse, having a better grip on the situation, promptly turned and let fly with several short rapid kicks, which successfully discouraged the bull but dislodged our director over the horse’s head.

  Eventually, the bull was directed away from the scene, the dust cleared and Bill was found to be in one piece. Then, after a long discussion, it was discovered why the bull hadn’t behaved as planned. The ringer was informed of the importance of giving the right weight. And, believe it or not, they were going to try it again! With one change—this time Charles would carry the serum in a small cooler around his neck.

  I stood on top of the cabin and watched. As impossible as it all seemed, the ringer did his job and cut out a bull. Charles somehow managed to measure and load the serum at a gallop, Bill actually made it to the scene with camera rolling, and everything was going beautifully, when the bull propped! Bill’s horse went flying past the bull just at the moment Charles fired the dart, and copped the dart. Luckily the dart fell out before the poor horse received the full dose, thus saving its life. However, it still collapsed like a house of cards and poor old Bill was catapulted once more over its head and into a creek. Bill was alright but the camera was waterlogged and all the film was ruined.

  It was decided that night, over many more bottles of champagne, by everyone but Bill, that he would have to be satisfied with the footage he already had on bull-catching.

  We said goodbye on Monday morning and watched them drive down the road. After the dust had cleared, we started to assemble what was left of our employees and station and once more set our minds to normal operations. By mid-afternoon this was going along nicely, when a cloud of dust appeared in the sky. They were back.

  It seemed that a semi-load of supplies, with bear-hugging Rico at the wheel, was bogged in three feet of bulldust on a slight rise where the road was carved into a twenty-foot ridge of sandstone. The truck was stopped right in the pass, making it impossible for any vehicle to pass. Obviously Rico’s driving skills were about as good as his English. Bill said the truck was right down to the axles in bulldust and needed a tow. He and the crew left an hour later in the Toyota with winch attached.

  Bill was back again after dinner. The winch could not do the job, the truck was too heavy. We now also had the stock inspector on the other side of the truck waiting to come in, so out went the tractor and stockmen to help. Next morning, Bill returned once more! To Rico, the stock inspector, the head stockman, and a few more stockmen, had been added a very dangerous item, namely, a six-month supply of grog. It had been casually discovered when someone lifted the tarp. Bill reported that everyone on the scene of ‘operation move truck’ was well and truly plastered.

  Charles departed with Bill, they unloaded the grog and left the men to sober up. The film crew also returned to the house to await the clearing of the road. Two days later the truck was finally moved and the road was cleared. A very miserable group turned up, all with massive hangovers.

  The film crew departed again, the stock inspector arrived, and we tried once more to settle down to station routine.

  The stock inspector worked with the stockmen in the yards for a few days and then departed, saying he would see us at the races. I questioned Mary on the subject of the races and was told that everyone goes to their local race weekend, and they also go to every other race meeting within two hundred miles. I put the thought of races aside to discuss with Charles at a more convenient time. The work and mustering were progressing and the season was drawing to a close. It was approaching the end of September and it would soon be too hot to work cattle.

  Before I had a chance to bring up the subject, Charles announced we were going to the races the following weekend to celebrate our surviving one year in the Outback. He also had another surprise. He had bought a little four-seater plane so we could go in style. About mid-week, the entire staff left for the races by truck. It seemed the system was you arrived days before the weekend to get in the right mood, drinking mood, as far as I could see, and then spent several days after the event winding up the weekend. And this was not counting the days it took to get over the whole thing once you finally arrived back at the station. If it was a distant race meeting, you had to add time for travel, and this in turn was determined by how many hotels were between the races and the station.

  We arrived at the races on Saturday morning to find everyone well in the mood. Having only ever been to southern country race meets, I turned up in hat and gloves, expecting to stroll the lawns. I was in for a rude shock. The racetrack was set in a red bulldust gully, just off a red bulldust highway, and the highway was the only road in town. Every time a vehicle of any sort drove down the road, the whole racecourse area was drowned in a layer of thick red dust. The track itself was the same high grade bulldust. There was only an inside rail, and that only extended the length of the straight. The rest of the track was open. What there was of the inside rail was made of extremely crooked paperbark saplings tied together with wire. The outside rail of the straight depended on how excited the crowd became and fluctuated during the race, according to how wide the horses swung at the home turn.

  The members’ stand was a continuation of the inside rail, more crooked paperbark saplings. These saplings were a little stouter and held up the roof, which consisted of chicken wire covered by dead branches. A few tables formed a square and an unbelievable array of sun umbrellas tried in vain to keep the sun off the dried-up, fly-covered sandwiches and cold hotdogs.

  Bar? That consisted of an endless row of kegs that reached all the way back to the pub. The system was really quite ingenious. There were plug-in drawing guns and these gadgets were attached to the first few kegs in line. A table was placed in front of the operating kegs and the bar was open for business. This procedure continued down the long line of kegs until the bar ended up back at the hotel, along with the race-goers. At the point of no return, that is when it was too far to walk back to place a bet, the races were officially over and the crowd would settle down in earnest to a steady night of drinking.

  In complete shock, Charles and I wandered around being gawked at. Most of our fellow race-goers were barefoot. The best-dressed wore singlets, while the casually attired wore only a pair of dirty, wrinkled footy shorts.

  We wandered over to the betting ring hoping to be lost in the crowd, and also to place a bet on a horse that someone in Darwin had said would win by a mile. The horse was in the second race and was a rank outsider. I had visions of win
ning a mint. Charles wasn’t the least bit interested in racing and I was not enjoying myself, but thinking I was about to win a fortune, I managed to momentarily ignore the heat, the bulldust and drunks.

  The first race had just finished with only two horses crossing the line, and one of them without a jockey. Two bolted through the inside rail coming down the straight and went bush and another hit a deep hole of bulldust and fell over. It was quite a sideshow watching the intoxicated stewards trying to deal with the protests and announce the results.

  The second race was not long away and I anxiously awaited the prices. The names went up, the favourite was six to one on, the second favourite was two to one on, and my rank outsider was even money!

  Disgusted with the prices, I didn’t even bet. We went back to our airconditioned motel. Charles ordered some cold beer and snacks, and we settled down to a few good books. The rest of Saturday passed most pleasantly.

  Saturday was to be ‘finished off’ with a ball and this was to be held, believe it or not, in the meatworks. Not on the killing floor, thank heavens, as Charles had led me to believe. We really didn’t want to go, we were too comfortable where we were, but we had been invited by our neighbours to join them at their table so we had to put in an appearance.

  We arrived late and the ball was in full swing. Most of the men had come straight from the keg line. Why they called it a ball I have no idea—no one was dancing. Inside the hall, along with a few decorations, was the musical entertainment for the evening. This consisted of piano, bass, drums and violin. To say they were ‘old time’ is a compliment.

  Charles joined the men and had the required rounds of welcoming drinks. He then excused himself and took me in to dance. This shamed a few at our table to do the same, but none of the old diehards! The six of us had the floor to ourselves. This would have been great if we could have danced to the music, but the group had its own time and it was a secret to the dancers. One of the men went home and returned with a record player, and we finally had dance music. The group played along.

  As soon as we could we slipped away, back to our airconditioning. Having learned our lesson twice the hard way, we decided not to leave the room again until we went home. There were knocks on our door all day Sunday but we just ignored them. We flew home Monday morning after Charles had found our very sad and sorrowful-looking head stockman and told him to ‘round up’ the camp, plus a new man Charles had hired.

  We had a smooth flight home and enjoyed a few days alone before the truck arrived back, loaded down with supplies and people. What a dejected lot! I handed out an enormous supply of headache tablets, indigestion tablets, diarrhoea tablets and sent them down to the camp to sleep off medication and alcohol until the next morning.

  Still sitting on the truck was a load of people, mostly children, with a few women and two men. I told Charles about them and he said, ‘Must be the new man.’

  ‘What do you mean “new man”? There must be at least twelve people on that truck.’

  Charles went outside to investigate. He came back bewildered. The man he had hired was there, but so were his wife and ten children!

  ‘Who are the other two?’

  ‘They just tagged along.’

  ‘What do you mean “just tagged along”?’

  ‘Well, it seems that the guy I hired lost his eldest daughter in a card game to Billie, the guy tagging along. Jason hasn’t yet handed the girl over to Billie, so he just follows him around until he does.’

  ‘What? You can’t be serious?’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s the truth, and you can’t do anything about it, so don’t start trying!’

  ‘Who’s the other woman?’

  ‘Oh, that’s Billie’s wife.’

  ‘Typical. He already has a wife and is looking for another!’

  ‘Well, there’s a lesson to be learnt—don’t get fat or I’ll trade you.’

  The next day was busy with preparations for the last muster of the season. Departure was to be at dawn the following day. That night, Charles informed me that he needed my help with the mustering.

  ‘Me? Not on your life! What I saw while filming was enough for me! Sorry, but I’d like my children to grow up knowing their mother!’

  Charles explained that he didn’t want me mustering on a horse, he wanted me in the plane with him. He was going to try to muster the cattle with the plane. That way, he could move a lot of cattle, which would otherwise be impossible to get within reach of the horsemen. All I had to do was pull the trigger on the shotgun whenever Charles told me to. Because it was such an insignificant job, they did not want to waste a man on it.

  Apparently this method of mustering had been tried successfully in America, except that they used a helicopter. We were going to use a plane. However Charles was sure that the high lift wing of his small plane made it almost as manoeuvrable as a helicopter. It was the ‘almost’ that worried me. But Charles reckoned that with the horses and men on the ground, and his skill as a pilot, we could achieve nearly the same effect at one-twentieth the cost. Or so it worked out on paper. I reluctantly agreed to go.

  We had to take off early in the morning when the air was cool. Low flying is dangerous at any time, so you have to make use of any factor in your favour. The men on the ground were in position, so with a waggle of the wings we were off. Charles was a superb pilot and this day he excelled himself—a helicopter couldn’t have done the job as well. He moved mob after mob into the coachers held by the men. The men didn’t have to move and I didn’t have to fire a shot.

  We continued through the morning until it was too hot for low flying, but on our way back to the airstrip, Charles saw a large mob of about twenty animals in a ravine under some trees. They weren’t far from the herd, but impossible to get to from the ground. Charles decided to move them into the approaching herd, which was just to the left but over the ridge.

  We approached at extremely low altitude. I was to fire a round into the trees above the cattle and this would scatter them. Then Charles would pull the plane up sharply to miss the rock wall in front of us, do a slow turn, and put the cattle through a narrow break in the ridge just in time to meet the herd on the other side.

  He told me to get ready as he started the approach run. I was on the straps, leaning out the hole where the door had been, gun at the ready. He was coming up on the rock wall fast.

  ‘Fire!’ he shouted.

  I hesitated. Charles pulled up to avoid crashing into the cliff and my shot hit about one hundred feet up the cliff face. Charles executed a perfect roll and brought the twenty head of cattle straight into the narrow break in the ridge. At the other end they walked into the mob just as quiet as lambs. My one shot, which hit halfway up the cliff face, had had no bearing on the operation at all. Charles just wanted me along so he could show off his new mustering skills in a plane.

  So that finished the mustering for the season. The cattle were drafted through the yards and put out in the paddocks and the maintenance was started immediately. The supplies were now coming in weekly so that there would be enough to last the seven months that the road was out. There would only be the family and possibly one or two stockmen to feed during the wet, but that still totalled six, and six people can eat a lot in seven months.

  As it was the end of the season, our road was badly cut up and some of the semi drivers would not risk coming in for fear of being stuck for the entire wet. They would bring the load as far as they dared, and then we would have to run back and forth with our four-ton truck until we had carried it all back to the station. The last truck was caught in heavy early season rain and would not come in any further than four miles, so the driver left the load just off the highway and went to the next station house, which was on the highway, and told them to inform us on the next radio session.

  Charles suggested that we all go to pick up some of the load. That way we would see a lot more of the station, and also our front gate, which was something I had never seen. When your front gate
is fifty miles away and over a mountain range, you don’t exactly go tripping out to it every day to collect the mail.

  The trip would take the best part of a day because it was a good four hours each way. I arranged the children and Mary in the back with mattresses and pillows and a shade cover to keep the sun off them. The boys tied a pole across the truck so they had something to hold onto going over bumps. Charles had the steering wheel to hold, but I had nothing and never stopped going up and down the entire trip. That road was a nightmare. We lurched and bumped all the way till I thought my head would drop off. Charles could see I was not faring too well, so he decided we would camp for the night and go back in the morning.

  We stopped at a beautiful part of the river, with lovely shade trees, pure white sand and crystal water. There were birds everywhere. Mary gathered wood and made fishing poles for the girls and herself. They caught five fish among them. There was great excitement cooking them over the fire, and along with the food I had packed, we had a magnificent meal.

  Charles had slipped a bottle of rum into the glove box, so we mixed it with the children’s orange cordial and sat under a tree watching the girls and Mary and just talked. It was one of those days that just happen, but are the best.

  Early the next morning, in much better condition, I made it to our front gate. I put a pile of stones on each side of our entrance to mark it, as there was no gate or fence, then helped Charles load timber and cement onto the truck. Mary and the children sat on top of the flat load and we started the return journey. I made it home, but only just. A few more miles and my teeth would have been where my eyes are.