Children of the Bush Part 26

"It takes me that way sometimes," he said. "I catch my breath just as if I was going to lose it."

A DROVING YARN

Andy Maculloch had heard that old Bill Barker, the well-known overland drover, had died over on the Westralian side, and Dave Regan told a yarn about Bill.

"Bill Barker," said Dave, talking round his pipe stem, "was the _quintessence_ of a drover--"

"The whatter, Dave?" came the voice of Jim Bentley, in startled tones, from the gloom on the far end of the veranda.

"The quintessence," said Dave, taking his pipe out of his mouth. "You shut up, Jim. As I said, Bill Barker was the quintessence of a drover.

He'd been at the game ever since he was a nipper. He run away from home when he was fourteen and went up into Queensland. He's been all over Queensland and New South Wales and most of South Australia, and a good deal of the Western, too: over the great stock routes from one end to the other, Lord knows how many times. No man could keep up with him riding out, and no one could bring a mob of cattle or a flock of sheep through like him. He knew every trick of the game; if there was gra.s.s to be had Bill'd get it, no matter whose run it was on. One of his games in a dry season was to let his mob get boxed with the station stock on a run where there was gra.s.s, and before Bill's men and the station-hands could cut 'em out, the travelling stock would have a good bellyful to carry them on the track. Billy was the daddy of the drovers. Some said that he could ride in his sleep, and that he had one old horse that could jog along in his sleep too, and that--travelling out from home to take charge of a mob of bullocks or a flock of sheep--Bill and his horse would often wake up at daylight and blink round to see where they were and how far they'd got. Then Bill would make a fire and boil his quart-pot, and roast a bit of mutton, while his horse had a mouthful of gra.s.s and a spell.

"You remember Bill, Andy? Big dark man, and a joker of the loud sort.

Never slept with a blanket over him--always folded under him on the sand or gra.s.s. Seldom wore a coat on the route--though he always carried one with him, in case he came across a bush ball or a funeral. Moleskins, flannel waistcoat, cabbage-tree hat and 'lastic-side boots. When it was roasting hot on the plains and the men swore at the heat, Jim would yell, `Call this hot? Why, you blanks, I'm freezin'! Where's me overcoat?' When it was raining and hailing and freezing on Bell's Line in the Blue Mountains in winter, and someone s.h.i.+vered and asked, `Is it cold enough for yer now, Bill?' `Cold!' Bill would bellow, `I'm sweatin'!'

"I remember it well. I was little more than a youngster then--Bill Barker came past our place with about a thousand fat sheep for the Homebush sale-yards at Sydney, and he gave me a job to help him down with them on Bell's Line over the mountains, and mighty proud I was to go with him, I can tell you. One night we camped on the Cudgegong River.

The country was dry and pretty close cropped and we'd been "sweating"

the paddocks all along there for our horses. You see, where there weren't sliprails handy we'd just take the tomahawk and nick the top of a straight-grained fence-post, just above the mortise, knock out the wood there, lift the top rail out and down, and jump the horses in over the lower one--it was all two-rail fences around there with sheep wires under the lower rail. And about daylight we'd have the horses out, lift back the rail, and fit in the chock that we'd knocked out. Simple as striking matches, wasn't it?

"Well, the horses were getting a good bellyful in the police horse paddock at night, and Bill took the first watch with the sheep. It was very cold and frosty on the flat and he thought the sheep might make back for the ridges, it's always warmer up in the ridges in winter out of the frost. Bill roused me out about midnight. `There's the sheep,' he says, pointing to a white blur. `They've settled down. I think they'll be quiet till daylight. Don't go round them; there's no occasion to go near 'em. You can stop by the fire and keep an eye on 'em.'

"The night seemed very long. I watched and smoked and toasted my s.h.i.+ns, and warmed the billy now and then, and thought up pretty much the same sort of old things that fellers on night watch think over all over the world. Bill lay on his blanket, with his back to the fire and his arm under his head--freezing on one side and roasting on the other. He never moved. I itched once or twice to turn him over and bake the front of him--I reckoned he was about done behind.

"At last daylight showed. I took the billy and started down to the river to get some water to make coffee; but half-way down, near the sheep camp, I stopped and stared, I was never so surprised in my life. The white blur of sheep had developed into a couple of acres of long dead silver gra.s.s!

"I woke Bill, and he swore as I never heard a man swear before--nor since. He swore at the sheep, and the gra.s.s, and at me; but it would have wasted time, and besides I was too sleepy and tired to fight. But we found those sheep scattered over a scrubby ridge about seven miles back, so they must have slipped away back of the gra.s.s and started early in Bill's watch, and Bill must have watched that blessed gra.s.s for the first half of the night and then set me to watch it. He couldn't get away from that.

"I wondered what the chaps would say if it got round that Bill Barker, the boss overland drover, had lost a thousand sheep in clear country with fences all round; and I suppose he thought that way too, for he kept me with him right down to Homebush, and when he paid me off he threw in an extra quid, and he said:

"`Now, listen here, Dave! If I ever hear a word from anyone about watching that gory gra.s.s, I'll find you, Dave, and murder you, if you're in wide Australia. I'll screw your neck, so look out.'

"But he's dead now, so it doesn't matter."

There was silence for some time after Dave had finished. The chaps made no comment on the yarn, either one way or the other, but sat smoking thoughtfully, and in a vague atmosphere as of sadness--as if they'd just heard of their mother's death and had not been listening to an allegedly humorous yarn.

Then the voice of old Peter, the station-hand, was heard to growl from the darkness at the end of the hut, where he sat on a three-bushel bag on the ground with his back to the slabs.

"What's old Peter growlin' about?" someone asked.

"He wants to know where Dave got that word," someone else replied.

"What word?"

"_Quint-essents_."

There was a chuckle.

"He got it out back, Peter," said Mitch.e.l.l, the shearer. "He got it from a new chum."

"How much did yer give for it, Dave?" growled Peter.

"Five s.h.i.+llings, Peter," said Dave, round his pipe stem. "And stick of tobacco thrown in."

Peter seemed satisfied, for he was heard no more that evening.

GETTIN' BACK ON DAVE REGAN

A RATHER FISHY YARN FROM THE BUSH

(AS TOLD BY JAMES NOWLETT, BULLOCK-DRIVER)

You might work this yarn up. I've often thought of doin' it meself, but I ain't got the words. I knowed a lot of funny an' rum yarns about the bush, an' I often wished I had the gift o' writin'. I could tell a lot better yarns than the rot they put in books sometimes, but I never had no eddication. But you might be able to work this yarn up--as yer call it.

There useter be a teamster's camp six or seven miles out of Mudgee, at a place called th' Old Pipeclay, in the days before the railroad went round to Dubbo, an' most of us bullickies useter camp there for the night. There was always good water in the crick, an' sometimes we'd turn the bullicks up in the ridge, an' gullies behind for gra.s.s, an' camp there for a few days, and do our was.h.i.+n' an' mendin', and make new yokes perhaps, an tinker up the wagons.

There was a woman livin' on a farm there named Mrs Hardwick--an' she _was_ a hard wick. Her husban', Jimmy Hardwick was throwed from his horse agenst a stump one day when he was sober, an' he was killed--an'

she was a widder. She had a tidy bit o' land, an' a nice bit of a orchard an' vineyard, an some cattle, an' they say she had a tidy bit o' money in the bank. She had the worst tongue in the district, no one's character was safe with her; but she wasn't old, an' she wasn't bad-lookin'--only hard--so there was some fellers hangin' round arter her. An' Dave Regan's horse was hangin' up outside her place as often as anybody else's. Dave was a native an' a bushy, an' drover an' a digger, an' he was a bit soft in them days--he got hard enough arterwards.

Mrs Hardwick hated bullick-drivers--she had a awful down on bullickies--I dunno why. We never interfered with her fowls, an' as for swearin'! why, she could swear herself. Jimmy Hardwick was a bullick-driver when she married him, an' p'r'aps that helped to account for it. She wouldn't let us boil our billies at her kitchen fire, same as any other bushwoman, an' if one of our bullicks put his nose under her fence for a mouthful of gra.s.s, she'd set her dogs onter him. An'

one of her dogs got something what disagreed with him one day, an' she accused us of layin' poisoned baits. An', arter that, she 'pounded some of our bullicks that got into her lucerne padd.i.c.k one night when we was on the spree in Mudgee, an' put heavy damages on 'em. She'd left the sliprails down on purpose, I believe. She talked of puttin' the police onter us, jest as if we was a sly-grog shop. (If _she'd_ kept a sly-grog shop she'd have had a different opinion about bullick-drivers.) An' all the bullick-drivers hated her because she hated bullickies.

Well, one wet season half a dozen of us chaps was camped there for a fortnight, because the roads was too boggy to travel, an' one night they got up a darnce at Peter Anderson's shanty acrost the ridges, an' a lot of gals an' fellers turned up from all round about in spite of the pourin' rain. Someone had kidded Dave Regan that Mother Hardwick was comin', an' he turned up, of course, in spite of a ragin' toothache he had. He was always ridin' the high horse over us bullickies. It was a very cold night, enough to cut the face an' hands off yer, so we had a roarin' fire in the big bark-an'-slab kitchen where the darncin' was.

It was one of them big, old-fas.h.i.+oned, clay-lined fire-places that goes right acrost the end of the room, with a twenty-five foot slab-an'-tin chimbly outside.

Dave Regan was pretty wild about being had, an' we copped all the gals for darncin'; he couldn't get one that night, an' when he wasn't proddin' out his tooth with a red-hot wire some one was chaffin' him about Mrs Hardwick. So at last he got disgusted an' left; but before he went he got a wet three-bushel flour-bag an' climbed up very quietly onter the roof by the battens an' log weights an' riders, an' laid the wet bag very carefully acrost the top of the chimbly flue.

An' we was a mortal hour tryin' to find out what was the matter with that infernal chimbly, and tackin' bits o' tin an' baggin' acrost the top of the fire-place under the mantelshelf to try an' stop it from smokin', an' all the while the gals set there with the water runnin' out of their eyes. We took the green back log out an' fetched in a dry one, but that chimbly smoked worse than ever, an' we had to put the fire out altogether, an' the gals set there s.h.i.+verin' till the rain held up a bit an' the sky cleared, an' then someone goes out an' looks up an' sings out, "Why, there's somethin' acrost the top of the blazin' chimbly!"

an' someone else climbs up an' fetches down the bag. But the darnce was spoilt, an' the gals was so disgusted that they went off with their fellers while the weather held up. They reckoned some of us bullickies did it for a lark.

An' arter that Dave'd come ridin' past, an' sing out to know if we knew of a good cure for a smokin' chimbly, an' them sorter things. But he always got away before we could pull him off of his horse. Three of us chased him on horseback one day, but we didn't ketch him.

So we made up our minds to git back on Dave some way or other, an' it come about this way.

About six months arter the smoked-out darnce, four or five of us same fellers was campin' on th' Pipeclay agen, an' it was a dry season. It was dryer an' hotter than it was cold 'n' wet the larst time. Dave was still hangin' round Mrs Hardwick's an' doin' odd jobs for her. Well, one very hot day we seen Dave ridin' past into Mudgee, an' we knowed he'd have a spree in town that night, an' call at Mrs Hardwick's for sympathy comin' out next day; an' arter he'd been gone an hour or two, Tom Tarrant comes drivin' past on his mail-coach, an' drops some letters an'

papers an' a bag o' groceries at our camp.

Tom was a hard case. I remember wonst I was drivin' along a lonely bit o' track, an' it was a grand mornin', an' I felt great, an' I got singin' an' practisin' a recitation that I allers meant to give at a bush darnce some night. (I never sung or spouted poetry unless I was sure I was miles away from anyone.) An' I got worked up, an' was wavin'

me arms about an' throwin' it off of me chest, when Tom's coach comes up behind, round a bend in the road, an' took me by surprise. An' Tom looked at me very hard an' he says, "What are yer shoutin' an' swearin'

an' darncin' an' goin' on at the bullicks like that for, Jimmy? They seem to be workin' all right." It took me back, I can tell yer. The coach was full of grinnin' pa.s.sengers, an' the worst of it was that I didn't know how long Tom had been drivin' slow behind me an' takin' me out of windin'. There's nothin' upsets a cove as can't sing so much as to be caught singin' or spoutin' poetry when he thinks he's privit'.