CHAPTER 9
Gun Riders; and The Showdown At Short Gully Creek
Gower Abbey College was, in many ways, a real “hands-on” sort of agricultural high school. Our Animal Husbandry Prac. course included such things as collecting the eggs and cleaning-out, feeding the pigs and cleaning-out, and milking the cows and cleaning out.
Animal Husbandry Prac. overlapped with Market Garden Horticulture Prac. to some extent, as the manure from the various yards and pens had to be barrowed over to the vegetable garden. There it was applied to the plots or worked into the soil of the new sections.
We boys were encouraged to have a garden plot of our own and, as this was not compulsory, most of us happily took up the offer. Too much duplication was discouraged but in practice we could grow almost anything we liked, with my own specialty being watermelons. Most of our produce went to the school kitchen with excess going to the more needy members of the parish.
In the mid 1970’s I learned that the whole garden plot business was terminated, when the then headmaster – a certain Brother Roget – discovered some well-tended marijuana plants flourishing in one of the tomato patches. Also terminated were the promising school careers of the two Senior boys responsible, their impromptu free-marketing project being graded minus about several million points out of ten.
(...Well, poor non-target group product-reaction assessment, I suppose. Either that or lack of contingency planning.)
On the larger undeveloped portion of the property – an area we called “the backland paddocks” – the college ran a moderate sized herd of cattle. Its station buildings and stockyards were situated about half a kilometre away from the school and for the most part the business was run as an independent operation. From time to time, though, some of us would be called on to lend a hand there – and, I later realised, to learn the ropes.
There was one activity on the station, however, that was always handled by us boys, and this was...
Yes: the mustering. And oddly, due to some sort of school tradition, the job had become the exclusive domain of just the first and second year pupils.
Like most of the new boys I looked forward to the coming adventure with great excitement, and as the appointed time approached and drew nigh the more eager we first-year Juniors became – until we could hardly stand still. We’d prattle on endlessly about it at every opportunity, to the extent that we completely misread the loud and hearty urging being lavished on us by the older boys.
I can’t imagine why; that plus their half-muffled snickering and knowing looks should have given us some idea that things were other than we were imagining.
It didn’t take long for us to wake up once the mustering began, though. Our so-called privilege was quickly revealed for what it was. That is to say: something of a Mixed Blessing, with the heat, humidity, dust, flies, mosquitoes and other bitey bugs – plus the scrub itself – combining to make the whole business a test of our endurance. Only later did we realise how much the process had toughened us, both in limb and in spirit.
For the novice riders among us it was a fresh and exciting adventure. For most of the second-year boys it was a chance to improve on skills learned since the previous muster. And for those with previous riding experience it was an opportunity to show-off and impress each other with casual feats of horsemanship.
And didn’t the urgers of third year and higher fawn on us Juniors. Oh how we envy you, the old hands would cry, and oh how we wish we could still join in. …And why oh why should the school rules so unfairly exclude us?
No one actually protested to management about it, however, and by the time I reached third year I’d come to realise why. Most of us had gotten over this mustering business by then.
—And who in their right mind would want to join another expedition anyway? …riding with your head inside a second tee-shirt and peering out through the neck-hole for hours on end to keep the flies from your eyes was no longer all that appealing. Neither was the subsequent saddle-cramp and blisters.
On the other hand, winding up the Junior boys was always entertaining. Their eagerness to participate guaranteed plenty of bums on saddles, too, so our numbers were never really required. Besides, we were now third year students or better, and while mustering was certainly valuable experience the pressure of studies no longer allowed us time to swan around the bush looking for uncooperative cattle.
It was certainly exciting though! And rounding up and holding some of those cranky old cows took real teamwork, because they’d try anything to avoid being mustered. In fact some of the more crafty old dears would head straight for the ranges as soon as they heard us approaching, there to hide themselves in the gullies where the property backed onto the mountains. And after being flushed out they would constantly try to escape.
They learned quickly, too. And those succeeding in getting away were always harder to hold next time.
On my second muster I rode with Doogle and Sash (the first having seen me covered in something other than glory on falling from my horse in the stockyard).
Their job was to muster the western boundary, a fence line going up to where the ranges formed the northern limit of the property. This was the most difficult section of all and was allocated to them because of their being station kids with plenty of previous experience.
But the job required three and, with us tending to hang around together, I suppose it was only natural they use me to make up the number. —One thing though: my riding had improved since the last muster. In fact I could now demonstrate a number of advanced equestrian skills.
Trotting, for instance. The gallop. Staying on my horse.
Mostly.
Away from the fence-line the trees and scrub were fairly thick, particularly along the small creek cutting through that section. The waterway was known as Short Gully Creek, because it issued from a small, steep-sided gully we called Short Gully Gorge.
The gorge was only about two hundred metres long and behind the low ridge it cut through lay a small natural pound of some three hectares. This was where the really cunning old scrub-cows would hide themselves, in the thick patch of timber at its centre.
Finding them was easy enough, of course. The tricky part was to hold them, for on breaking cover they would charge down the gorge and scatter out into the bush. The idea was to muster whatever cattle you could on the way up there and then hold them in the mouth of the gully to prevent an attempted break-out.
But the mustered animals would do more than just block the runaways. By standing around quietly they’d also act as a coaching-mob, so calming the escapee-hopefuls and dissipating the bovine angst, panic, desperation or whatever was motivating those wild old scrubbers.
Twenty-eight cows and weaners we collected as we worked our way toward the ranges out from the fence. Then Doogle and I rode into Short Gully Gorge and Sash pushed the cattle in behind us.
Once in the pound itself we separated, each of us doing a half-navigation of the perimeter – Doog to the right and me to the left. We met up again at the far side then turned and made our way back toward the timber in the centre, at the same time keeping some twenty to thirty metres apart.
When the scrubbers first saw us they tried to hide, but as we drew nearer they broke cover and ran. We’d expected this and spurred our mounts to follow (... not that we had spurs, exactly).
Through the trees we pelted as they stormed toward the gorge, lashed by low hanging leaves and branches, desperately trying to close the gap. We had to succeed or they’d double back at the last moment, after which we could chase them around all day.
On approaching the gorge we gave no quarter. We were right behind them, forcing them to keep going and pressing hard on their heels as they hurtled into the narrow waterway. Only then were we able to ease back on the reins.
But the scrubbers didn’t slow. They crashed on until plowing into the tight-packed cattle at the other end.
Nine head we flushed from the pound that day. Their leader was a bad-te
mpered old scrub cow called Jezebel – easily recognised by her missing horn. She’d pushed on, right through the coaching-mob.
But Sash had recognised her and was waiting. He turned her back and forced her into the herd again. She then tried escaping back to the gorge but that failed as well: Doogle and I were pressing from behind. In the end she had to give up, beaten by the sheer mass of tight packed brown bodies.
Once they had all settled we started them moving, heading the little mob out of the gully toward the track along the boundary fence. Sash rode out in front as leader, the cattle following him as we pushed them along. Then suddenly Doogle wheeled his horse around and started cantering back to the gorge.
“Hey! What are you doing?” I said “The station’s down this way!”
“I won’t be long,” he shouted over his shoulder. “I just want to have a look at something.” He urged his mount to a gallop.
“Yeah? ...What!” I yelled after him.
“Something, ay. It won’t take long.”
Looking in that exact direction at the right moment was just blind luck, he told us later. “We were goin’ pretty hard when we hit the gorge and this branch nearly got me in the face. As I turned away I caught a glimpse of something up on the cliff – like some stacked up rocks. It was only a snap but it looked kind of odd.”
He caught up to us about fifteen minutes later. “There’s definitely something there,” he said, as he reined in alongside me. “We’ll have to go back and dig it out some time.”
“Dig what out?”
“Whatever’s been put in behind those rocks. There’s a hollow in one of the big overhanging rock ledges, not far up the side of the gully. Someone’s bricked it up with rocks.”
“What, you mean a cave?”
“Yeah, like a small cave. But with the front blocked.”
“And you reckon there’s something in there?”
“Well, there’s certainly something in there. When I pulled out a couple of the rocks I could see some sort of a bundle further in. It was too dark to see it properly.”
“Couldn’t you get it out?”
“Nah. Not enough time. We’ll have to go back later.”
Just then one of the cattle broke away from the mob. “Oh no; it’s Jezebel again,” I muttered. “You can get her this time. I’m sick of chasin’ the stupid thing.”
Doogle spurred his horse to follow. He had to outflank the cow to head her off, his horse instinctively taking the best line through the scrub. But old Jezebel was the trickiest cow on the station – cunning, crafty, devious, belligerent and, as they said in the cowboy pictures, jes’ plain an’ downright ornery. While Doogle was off chasing her Sash and I kept the others moving toward the holding paddock.
Suddenly Jezebel came crashing out of the scrub, Doogle in hot pursuit. She bulldozed her way back into the mob, deciding (for the moment at least) that this was a better option than being harassed in the bush by a fair rider on a good horse.
The other cattle were quiet enough but I knew Jezebel too well. She’d be watching and at the slightest opportunity would make another dash for freedom.
As for Sash... Well, from where I was riding at the back of the mob it looked like he was having a little doze, as his mare plodded along in front.
I yelled at him a couple of times but there was no response. When I asked him about it later he said his bum was getting sore. He was just leaning over to one side, he said, to ease the pressure.
Yeah mate, sure.
—Erm... Which side, Sash?
Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles Page 13
