Chapter VI: Life on the Station

Three times a year all the cattle on the run are mustered, and passed through the drafting-yards, that the young calves may be branded, and the older ones weaned.

The cattle belonging to each camp are brought in separately, drafted and turned out again to make room for the next lot, as the yards will only hold about a thousand head comfortably at a time. Mustering is pretty hard work, for, when once you start, you have to stick at it from daylight to dark, Sundays very often included, until it is finished. A general muster at Mount Spencer used to take us a month, and a fortnight after to “clean up.” One or two hands from the neighbouring stations used generally to come up and help, and look after their own cattle, a good number of which were pretty certain to pass through the yards.

Drafting cattle in the yards is very good fun, especially if they are at all rowdy, but it is work that requires a good deal of nerve to start with, and long practice before a man becomes a good hand at it. The yards are very strong enclosures of posts and rails, the posts from a foot to sixteen inches thick, set in eight feet apart, and the rails not less than four inches thick and ten inches wide, the top rail being about six feet from the ground. For the purpose of drafting the various classes of cattle, the yards are subdivided according to the accompanying plan. The whole mob are first of all run into one of the big “receiving yards,” an enclosure about seventy yards long and forty yards broad. The gate leading into “the lane” is then thrown open, and five or six men, each armed with a sapling about six feet long, and a couple of inches thick, go into the receiving yard, and jam the cattle up into the corner against the gate of “the lane,” until seventy or eighty have gone through, when the gate is shut. This is called “yarding up,” and is about the most dangerous part of the work; for if a beast charges a man in the middle of a big yard, he has a very poor chance of getting out of its way. An old hand knows in a moment, from the look of a beast that charges him, whether it is safe for him to stand his ground and turn it with a blow on the nose from his stick, or whether he ought to clear out for the rails. But the instant the cattle begin to move in the yard, the dust becomes something awful. It rises in dense clouds, sometimes entirely hiding the cattle from view, getting into one’s eyes, nose, and mouth, and mixing with the sweat into a thick black paste, which makes white men and niggers all pretty much the same colour for the time being. I have often seen the dust so bad that we have had to knock off for half an hour to let it settle, as it was perfectly impossible to see to work the cattle. Under cover of the dust it is often hard to see a beast charging, until it is too late to attempt to get out of the way, and then the best thing to do is to lie flat down in front of it, and in nine cases out of ten it will jump over you and pass on, unless it is a cow, when most likely it will stop, turn round, and horn you as you lie on the ground. When a beast comes tearing out of the mob in an awful hurry, its head down, its tail in the air, and its eye rolling, it is quite safe to stand still. It will pass you with a frightful snort, that gives a new chum rather a queer sensation under the ribs, but hardly makes an old hand smile. But when it comes out rather slowly, with its head in the air, its brisket shaking, and its eye fixed straight upon you, it is time to clear out. The animal means business, and, be it a cow or a bullock, you might as well hope to stop the charge of an express train. It will hunt you for your life, and if you are not up the rails before it can catch you, it will have its horns into you as sure as fate.

A man running for his life, pursued by an infuriated animal with horns two feet long and as sharp as needles, does not at first sight seem to be a particularly mirthful spectacle. Familiarity, however, breeds contempt, and a charge in the yard is always greeted with shouts of laughter from the lookers-on, especially if the man who is hunted has a narrow escape. Provided he is not actually hurt, the nearer he is to being horned the funnier everyone thinks it, including the individual himself, who is always ready to join in the laugh the instant that he has got up the rails out of harm’s way. Occasionally the best and most experienced hands get caught, and very few men have worked for any length of time amongst Bush cattle without getting a horn into them once or twice. The wound from a beast’s horn is always a nasty one, and very bad to heal, and I have known several cases where it has ended fatally.

The “lane” leads into a small square enclosure called “the pound,” from which gates open into five different yards. Behind each gate a man stands, ready to open it when a beast intended for his special yard comes into the pound. Two men work the cattle in the lane, running them into the pound according to their respective classes, calling out “stranger,” “weaner,” or “calf,” as the case may be. The proper gate is open ready for it, before it gets into the pound, and a man stands ready to hurry it through, so that no time is lost.

In drafting cattle, everything of course depends upon the men working in the lane, and there are very few prettier sights than to see a good hand amongst cattle that are inclined to be rowdy. The least nervousness or flurry on the part of the man communicates itself in a marvellous way to the cattle, and makes them perfectly unmanageable; while, on the other hand, a man who keeps quite cool and collected has an extraordinary influence over the animals which he is working.

One of our stockmen, Billy Burgess, was reckoned to be about the best hand in the yards in the north of Queensland, and, certainly, the whole time I was in the country, I never saw anyone who could hold a candle to him. No one ever saw him in a hurry, but he would draft more cattle in an hour than most men would in two. While other men were shouting, and swearing, and running for their lives, he would stand perfectly still, watching the cattle with an amused smile on his face, and seeming to know by instinct exactly how far he could trust them. To an outsider, the power he possessed over cattle seemed little short of mesmerism; but in reality it was only the result of years of experience and work amongst them, combined with an excellent temper and iron nerves.

In or out of the yards he knew every beast on the run by sight, and was never at a loss for a moment when he was drafting. A furious charge from an animal that would send most men flying up the rails, seldom elicited more than a gentle remonstrance of, “Steady, old man! where are you coming to now?” from Billy, and perhaps a tap on the nose from his stick if its horns went rather nearer to him than he considered good manners. But if a beast meant mischief, no one knew it sooner, and he took care to put himself out of harm’s way. If the animal was more than usually vicious he would wait his opportunity, and give it a blow just behind the horns with infinite precision, which would bring it blundering on to its knees, and, without killing it, leave it sick and stupid for the rest of the day.

It does not require at all a heavy blow to stun a beast, if laid on in the right place, just on the “pith” of the neck, behind the horns. I have seen a full-grown bullock drop in its tracks, as dead as a herring, from a blow with a stick no thicker than a man’s finger.

The rowdiest cattle, as a rule, are bullocks, and the quietest of all, in or out of the yards, are bulls; but a cow, if she is rowdy, is the worst of all. It is a curious thing, however, that the quietest of bullocks will become absolutely infuriated, and charge anything and everything he can see, if he is shut up alone in a yard for a little while. A bullock bred and raised in the Bush, though he may be as fat as a pig, is a very different animal to the sleepy creatures that one meets on their way to an English market, driven by a couple of small boys and a dog. He is as quick on his legs as a rabbit, and for a few furlongs it takes a good horse to get away from him, and, moreover, as a rule, he can jump like a deer.

One day my brother was drafting in “the lane,” and I was working “the pound.” I had just turned a beast back into the lane, and was going back through the gate, when my brother sang out, “Stranger! clear out, or he’ll have you!” Looking round, I saw a great hard-skinned white bullock belonging to the next station, with horns about a yard long, just behind me. He was charging up the lane full gallop, and as I sprang through the gateway and turned aside, he made a sweep at me which just grazed my ribs, but, fortunately, did no damage beyond tearing my shirt. Without the least hesitation, the brute went straight at the opposite fence of the pound, six feet high, and got over without a fall, though he hit the top rail hard with every leg he had. The performance was the more astonishing as he had not a very long run, and what there was of it up the lane was slightly uphill. We ran him round again, and into the lane, as he had jumped into the wrong yard. The next time he came up we all let him alone to see what he would do. He came full tilt up the lane as usual, looking for someone to kill, and when he got into the pound, he turned sharp to the right, pulled himself together, and going straight for the gate at the far end of the pound, five feet six high, he cleared it without a mistake. After this performance we concluded to leave him alone until we had finished drafting.

In some yards it is the fashion to leave a big post, or the stump of a tree about four feet high, in the middle of the big yard, so as to afford a shelter for anyone who is charged and has no time to get to the rails at the side. We had nothing of the kind at Mount Spencer; but I remember a most ludicrous scene at Gracemere, a station near Rockhampton, where there was one of these harbours of refuge in the middle of the yard. Seven or eight men were yarding up a mob of cattle, when suddenly an old cow came out and charged in a most business-like manner. Five men all ran for their lives for the post. The first who got there, of course, was all right; but there was only room for one, so the next man had to hang on to the belt of the man in front, and so on, till the whole five were extended in a row. The cow charged, and, of course, no one could tell which side of the post she would pass, so it was not until she was within a few feet that the human tail swung round out of her way, a yell of terror escaping from the last two men, as the brute’s horns passed within an inch of them. Quick as lightning the cow turned and charged again, and again the end of the tail had a narrow escape. Four times the cow charged, four times the tail swept round, their howls of anguish mingling with shouts of laughter from the men on the rails who were looking on. Anything more ridiculous than the whole scene cannot possibly be imagined. The last man at the end was very fat, and very nervous, and had no business in a yard at all. He was evidently getting weak with terror and exhaustion, so a diversion was made by those on the rails, and, the cow having been induced to charge someone else, the men in the middle of the yard were enabled to leave their post and make for the rails.

When the cattle are run through the yards in a general muster, all the calves that are old enough to wean are picked out. They are then “tailed,” as it is called, for several weeks; that is to say, they are let out in a mob in the daytime to feed, and carefully watched by one or two hands, to see that none get away, and that no strange cattle mix with them, and shut up in a small paddock every night. Of course, the object of everyone in working a cattle-station is to get all the cattle as quiet as possible, and nothing has such an excellent effect in quieting a whole herd as tailing the weaners when they are young. But of all occupations that fall to the Bushman’s lot, it is probably the most irksome.

Shepherding sheep is bad enough, and the asylums are three parts full of idiot shepherds, whose reason has succumbed to the dreariness of their lives; but for a short time it is infinitely preferable to tailing a mob of weaners. A man who is looking after sheep can, at all events, enjoy long intervals of perfect repose, during which, if he likes, he can lie on his back and read a book. But a mob of weaners will never give him an instant’s peace. Without being at all interesting, their habits are extremely irritating. They never know exactly where they want to go, or what they want to do, but the one thing they will not do is to keep still and feed sensibly. Out of a thousand weaners you may possibly induce nine hundred and ninety-nine to lie down round a water-hole for an hour in the middle of the day. But the remaining one is certain to keep on the move the whole time, walking off into the Bush, first one way and then another, so that you never have a spell. If you get off your horse for a drink, the whole mob will probably pretend they never saw a man on foot before in their lives, and make a wild stampede. Fortunately, it is an occupation that does not last long; for a continuance of it at the best of times would drive the most sane man out of his mind, and in wet, cold weather it is simply deadly. However, it is very necessary and very useful work, though everyone shirks it who can, and a “new chum,” if one can be found, is invariably selected for the duty.

A great many young men who go out to the colony with the view of following stock-growing as a profession, make a grave error in not making themselves fully acquainted with all the details connected with the working of a station. Of course, before starting on their own account to work a station, they go into the Bush to gain colonial experience, during which process they are known in the colony as “Jackaroos.” Especially on a cattle-station, the Jackaroo very soon discovers that a great deal of the work is very pleasant. He goes into the yard every morning and catches his horse, rides round the run with the stockman, camps out when required, and lends a hand to draft and brand at the general muster, and generally has a very good time. The consequence is, at the end of a couple of years he knows very little more about the management of a cattle-station than he did when he started, and probably labours under the additional disadvantage of imagining that he knows a great deal.

The efficiency of the manager of a cattle-station depends largely upon his being a good judge of other men’s work; and it is impossible for him to be this, unless he has actually performed the work himself. It is not enough to sit on a rail and watch another man breaking in a horse or a milking-cow. However good a hand he may be, you will learn much more by helping him than by watching him. One of the largest items of expenditure on every station is always fencing, and the manager should be thoroughly able to form an estimate of how much it ought to cost. It is nearly always done by contract, and, of course, the price at which a contractor will put up fencing varies enormously according to the nature of the country. An old hand riding through the forest with a tomahawk, and cutting a chip out of a tree here and there to try if it will work freely, can tell to a nicety at what price it will pay him to split posts and rails and any other class of timber that may be required. But this experience is only gained by practical work, by felling trees and splitting them up with a maul and wedges oneself. The manager of a station ought always to be a thorough judge of timber-getting in all its branches, for it is a part of his yearly expenditure where experience and judgment will enable him to save largely. It is pretty hard work to pull a cross-cut saw and swing a heavy maul all day, with a vertical sun and the thermometer up to 110° in the shade, and it requires a good constitution to stand it. But if a man is thoroughly sound, the harder he works in Australia the better health he will have, and it is odd if he does not look back to the time when he was splitting rails for ten hours a day as one of the happiest in his life. It is not a very intellectual employment, certainly. Still, it must be an unfortunate nature to which perfect health does not bring the keenest pleasure, in a climate like that of Australia.

It is pleasant to set out to work in the morning, after eight hours of such sleep as none but men who work hard ever enjoy. The sun is just rising, and there is not a breath of wind, but the air feels as cool and fresh as iced champagne. The tools have been “planted” under a sheet of bark by the big tree which you felled overnight; so you have nothing to carry but a pipe, and as the blue smoke curls round your lips, mingled with the fragrant scent of the gum-trees and blood-wood flowers, you decide that certainly the first pipe after breakfast is the most thoroughly enjoyable of any. By the time that you have got to your work you are wet through up to the knees, and it is just cold enough to make you very glad to roll up your sleeves and start in with a will to work yourself dry. This does not take long, and as the sun rises and makes himself felt, it does not take long to work yourself damp again. If you are wise you will not drink much in the morning, for if you once start you will be thirsty all day. With a cheery mate, and an occasional spell of five minutes for a smoke, the morning does not seem very long, and the sun fair overhead, combined with certain internal sensations, warns you that it is time to knock off and boil the “billy” for dinner. Every meal in the Bush is, if possible, accompanied by a brew of tea; and, though it may seem strange, when you have worked yourself up to boiling point under a grilling sun, there is nothing in the world so refreshing as a pannikin of very hot tea, not too strong, with not too much sugar and without any milk. Refreshed with a square meal of salt beef and damper, which is of all forms of bread the sweetest and most easily digested if it is properly made, you start in again, with a firm determination to raise a good “tally” by the end of the day. As the sun gets low, a hundred sound rails, nine feet long, bear witness that your day’s work has been an honest one. A pleasant feeling of languor, which cannot be called fatigue, makes you very glad to get home, and a wash in the creek brings a sensation of perfect strength and soundness into every fibre and muscle of your body, unknown to those who have not worked hard in the healthiest climate in the world. Supper ended, you pitch a fresh log on the fire to make a blaze, and, stretching your limbs full length on a ’possum-rug, prepare to devour the last number of the _Australasian_, a paper which, for general interest and information, was never surpassed. A fresh pipe lighted with a fire-stick, just as the stars are coming out, makes you forget the sweetness of the morning air; and for the hundredth time you tell yourself that tobacco never tastes so nice as in the cool of the evening, after a real sound day’s work splitting rails.