the roughies, [O]

[Corowa]

The bellow of an ornery calf is a particularly distinct sound. It was unfortunately also a sound Tom Rawlinson had decided could kill a man, on the morning he decided to ride his way up from Long Plain to Dead Horse Hut.

“Oh quit bawlin you little bugger,” he said savagely when the calf bawled in protest and started to struggle against the ropes. “I’m the one that’s had to carry you all the way up this bloody mountain, trussed up like Christmas turkey!”

The calf lay panting on the front of the saddle, where it had been unceremoniously hauled up some two hours or so back. It was on account of its bawling he’d found it, caught up in some old fencing. He’d thought with its hollering it would have run straight back to its mother, but the damn thing had stuck to him like a dag to a sheep’s bum.

But even if it squalled worse than his kid sister, Tom was rather fond of the cantankerous bull calf. It reminded him of John Bergman, a particularly vocal politician back in Taparoo, and he couldn’t wait to tell the old bastard next time he met him down at the pub.

“Banjo you mangy mongrel, git the hell out of that!” Tom shouted as the kelpie looked up from where it had been happily sniffing around in the snowgrass. The dog was notorious for finding the oldest and most rotten carcasses to roll in, and last time Tom had been so furious he’d thrown him headfirst into the dam. “Bloody dog come here!”

Banjo recognised the threat in his master’s voice, and the dog whined and slunk back over towards him. Banjo was useless as tits on a bull but for all his cursing and shouting, Tom thought he had the makings of a fine cattle dog. As they rounded a clump of snowgums, the hut finally came into view and Tom reached forwards to give his tired horse a pat. Behind him, Jack the pack horse snorted, and Tom was reminded it had been a long, hard day of travelling.

Tom noticed there were quite a few horses in the stockyards, and he passed a pen full of roughies, brumbies mustered in to be broken and flipped at auction. There was a nice-looking chestnut in with the mob, but most of them were scrubby with big, plain heads and narrow chests. Brumbies were weedy horses, and though they made good stock horses when eventually broken, Tom preferred a stock horse to any of them.

Jack stood patiently, cropping at the snowgrass, while Tom fiddled around with stiff buckles and stubborn straps. Soon enough, the saddlebags and pack were unloaded and with a slap on the haunches, the horse was turned loose with the roughies. There was some squealing and thumping of hooves on as disputes were settled. Then the horses turned back to the more important business of grazing.

Tom filled up a pannikin with chaff for Bill, and though he unsaddled the stock horse, he left him tied by the fence. The calf was shoved into the stockyard with the roughies, and he immediately started up his bawling. A small rock flew through the air and bounced harmlessly off the calf’s rump, and it started forwards in surprise. Tom shook his head and whistling to his dog, headed for the hut.

His boots creaked on the veranda, and he pointed to a scrap of hessian in the corner and with one word to Banjo, left the kelpie sitting patiently outside the door. He ran his hand over the rough wooden railing. It was good to be back. He’d recognised Jason Mannering’s horses in the stockyard, and knew the wrangler well enough to swing open the door with a bang. “Alright you bludgers,” he bellowed. “The real stockmen have arrived, so it’s time to clear out!”

[Tiggs]

Shouts hollered back in varying degrees of welcome from the other residents. Jason emerged from another room, scowling at the rude intrusion until he saw Tom. His face cracked into a grin, and he strode over to clap the stockman on the shoulder roughly. “Rawlinson! Good ta see ya!” He wore his usual jeans and loose plaid shirt, the sleeved rolled up past his elbows to expose skin almost as browned as Tom’s.

The wrangler turned to rummage in a crate and chucked the visitor a glass bottle with a slowly predictable underarm throw. He took one for himself and flicked off the top with a penknife. He took a long swig and smacked his lips. Beer was always warm in the High Country, but no less refreshing.

“What brought you and your plodders up here, eh? Eyeing up my roughies? I can do a mate a good deal.” He winked. Tom had never really shown much interest in the brumbies, but Jason lived in hope. “Old Bill still in good nick? He’ll almost be as old as my Marie by now!”

He passed the man, swinging open the door to look out over the corrals. “Did you see her colt?” He asked with pride. “Cut a deal with that Sam down at Cascade – that fine looking stallion of his is the colt’s sire. Mixing that bloke and my Marie was a good idea of mine. That colt will make a fine horse in a few years.”

[Corowa]

Tom chuckled at the jumble of shouts and good-natured cursing that greeted his arrival. Most of the men were drovers or stockmen like him, but there were usually one or two wranglers, most of them blokes Tom wouldn’t trust further than he could throw them. They were cunning as shithouse rats, mean blokes, fast with their fists and hard on their horses.

A couple of minutes passed, and then Jason Mannering himself appeared in the doorway. Tom grinned and caught the beer as it was thrown to him. With one quick flick of his wrist, he cracked the lid off against the door frame and took a long swig. The beer was warm but it was better than what some of those other miserly bastards offered.

Jason Mannering was one of the finest stockmen in the district, and could sit some of the roughest brumbies this side of the mountains. Ever since the wrangler had helped him drag a cranky old bullock out of the saltbush scrub, Tom held a sort of grudging respect for the tough old bastard.

“What bunch of old plugs are you trying to flog off now, Mannering?” Tom took another swig of his beer and then shook his head. “I’ve told ya before mate, a stock horse is the way to go, not those mongrel brumbies of yours.”

He took off his hat and scratched his forehead. He knew he smelt of dust and sweat, of a hard day’s work and long hours in the saddle. In his scuffed and broken boots and filthy dirty after hauling that calf out of the mud, Tom wished he could have at least washed the smell of cattle shit from his shirt and given his boots a good polish. Even so, when Jason headed for the door, Tom ambled casually after.

Banjo, hearing Tom’s voice started to thump his tail. When his master appeared on the veranda, the dog bounded towards him and all but bowled him over in his excitement. “Get off ya cheeky bugger!” Tom shouted, and half-heartedly raised his hand. The dog slyly dodged the blow, and then barrelled past the two men to go flying off towards the stockyards. The roughies scattered nervously, and neat as you like, the dog slipped through the fence on the far side of the yard and disappeared into the bush.

“Bloody dog I’m going to kill him when I catch him,” Tom swore under his breath, and he clenched his fists. He should never have taken that damn dog as payment for a bad debt in the first place. Bloody O’ Grady and his bloody useless dog had made him the laughing stock in Taparoo.

Tom downed the rest of the beer and without saying a word, looked to where the sturdy grey mare grazed quietly in the stockyard. There by her side was a neat chestnut colt, and Tom who could appreciate a fine piece of horseflesh when he saw it, ran a critical eye over the line of shoulder, broadness of chest and strength of hindquarters. He whistled with surprise at the sight and turned to Jason. “That sure is a mighty fine looking colt you’ve got out there. But how’d she cope with the foaling, she’s got to be as old as the hills.”

[Tiggs]

Jason chuckled at the kelpie pup, surprised any creature could disobey Tom. He laughed good-naturedly at Tom, and stepped off the wooden deck. He clicked his tongue and Marie snapped to attention. She trotted primly to the fence and accepted petting and oats from her master. “Oh she was a natural. Bedded her down for the night and the next morning, there he was!” He tickled the colt’s nose and let him lip at his fingers.

“Ya know I’m mighty tempted to make more little blighters like this guy, but I can’t be giving up on the brumbies. They’re a might more fun to chase than cattle.” He added, not resisting the opportunity to dig his elbow in the ribs of Tom’s profession. “Reek less too.” He grinned.

“Come on, mate, have a look at these brumbies. The goodens have gone, but there are a few left you can at least pretend to like the look of.” He beckoned his friend over to the corral with the untamed horses, and the group milled restlessly. “Most of these will go for horsemeat, I bet. Maybe a few packhorses.” He explained, sharp blue eyes scanning the rabble. “Ah, there she is, hiding behind your old Bill.” He gestured to the tall stockhorse and the willowy filly stuck to his flank.

Jason scratched his scalp, frowning. “Ain’t ever seen her quite so attached to another horse since that fella of hers passed on.” He’d climbed the fence to get a better vantage and he jumped back down.

“We caught most of this lot last year, and there was a chestnut stallion she lived for. He passed away in the winter, and she lost that heart those brumbies have, ya know?” He smiled a fraction. “She seems to like your Bill though – it would be a shame to see her go to the knacker – she’d polish up fine, I bet.”

[Corowa]

“It’s the stock horse in her,” Tom explained as he shook his head in disgust. “None of that mongrel blood, it makes ‘em too skittish and weedy. Always looking around, instead of focusing on the job. I’ve lost good cattle that way, mustering on a brumby.”

The mare looked hopefully out over the fence, but Tom shoved her nose away. The colt was nice enough, and Tom reckoned by the size of those hooves, he was going to be a big fella too. Must have hooves as big as a man’s hand he thought wryly as he squatted down to run his hand down the colt’s front legs.

He straightened up and turned to Jason with that slow smile of his. “I always thought that Breen had a big head, but now I guess he has to sleep outside on account of him not fitting through the door. Once he’s got some miles under the saddle and all the bucks ridden out, you’ll have yourself a fine horse in a few years.”

In the yard over, the brumbies, agitated by the presence of the two men started to trot in restless circles around the yard. Tom slid easily through the fence and walked towards the group of horses. The brumbies milled about, stamping and snorting. They watched him nervously, and then plunged away when he got too close. The calf bawled and started to follow, but Tom grabbed it around the neck and held the struggling thrashing beast.

Bill ambled over, and Tom let the calf go. The chestnut hadn’t followed, but stood with the rest of the brumbies, whinnying and stamping, as she paced back and forth. Tom scratched Bill’s ears, and the horse snorted and pressed his head against his master’s chest. Tom spoke a few soft words to him, and then gave his haunches a quick slap.

Jason stood at the fence, and Tom grinned at his words. While he enjoyed the challenge of working with the horses, it was a hard way to make a living, and he didn’t begrudge the wrangler. “Might make a good pack horse if someone’s got the mind to break her,” he said slowly, and then paused a moment to consider the chestnut. The brumbies had stopped their restless circling and now stood quietly watching him, looking placid as a bunch of station horses.

There was a plain-headed brown, two short bays and a big grey. They weren’t much, scrawny looking things with that spooky look that told Tom they’d be tough to break. “You sure are right about them being for dog food,” Tom yelled out to Jason. “Not one good one among ‘em, except for that chestnut. I don’t think you’re going to have much luck with breaking them. They look like they’d just go up and over on ya.”

He started to walk slowly towards the group of brumbies. He spoke softly to them, suddenly all business. The horses stood together for a moment, and then suddenly turned and bolted. Tom laughed and held up his arms so the group swerved back towards the furthest corner of the stockyards. He knew they weren’t really scared of him, and so he started to approach the chestnut again, watching every movement the other brumbies made.

“Least I reckon cattle have more sense than this lot,” Tom shouted when the group turned and bolted for a second time. This time however, he didn’t try to stop them, and instead headed back towards the fence where Jason stood. “Give me a couple of days and I might make something out of that sorry looking horse,” he offered as he climbed out from under the fence. “I’ll pay you meat price for her, and I bet you a tenner, I’ll sell her for more than double that at the Taparoo sale next November.”

[tingara]

The sun was shining, the gang-gangs were chattering and the horses were healthy. It was the kind of day Sam deemed perfect to ride up to Dead Horse Hut to check up on Marie’s colt and to look for a beer with his mate Jason; unfortunately he’d run out so he had to get it from somewhere. It was also a perfect day to take Nutsy out for a ride; the man had been busy gentling her in the last year and a half and had gotten her to a stage where she accepted being under saddle almost comfortably.

Whistling a random tune, Sam fetched out some beat up old tack before going to catch the palomino mare. He shooed her beautiful buckskin filly over to where her bay father stood regarding his owner curiously. ”Sorry mate, Nutsy’s my horse today. You can go visit Marie another time,” the man chuckled as he slid the saddle over the mare’s back. Before he mounted he grabbed a handful of oats and let both Cas and the, as of yet, unnamed filly have a treat before he left for the day.

It wasn’t long before the pair were on their way on the path through the mountains. For a bit of fun, Sam urged the mare into a gallop. Like most brumbies her feet were sturdy and stamina phenomenal. Sweat had darkened the flanks of the horse and dampened the brow of the man by the time they reached Dead Horse Hut. At the site of the familiar yards and tin roof Sam pulled Nutsy back to a stop and dismounted. She may have been a good horse generally but there were dogs and other brumbies around, and the palomino mare was still a fair bit green.

”Jason, mate, hope you got a beer waiting for me,” he called out as he tethered his horse. He searched for the familiar sight of his friend but found another one instead looking at the brumbies in one of the yards. ”Jesus, is that Tom Rawlinson?” he shouted boisterously in mock surprise, ”How you been mate, it’s been awhile since I seen you last. How are the cattle treating you?”

[Tiggs]

Jason grinned triumphantly ear to ear and slapped Tom on the back. “You’ve got a deal.” He offered his hand. “I’ve got no doubt you’d fetch that for her once she’s all prettied up, but I’m betting on you not selling her at all. Once you go brumby, you don’t go back.” He shook his friend’s hand, and strode off to fetch a rope.

Coming out of the hut, he was greeted by another friendly face, “Oi, Sam!” He called, raising his hand in a large wave. “You know where the beer is, you sod – help yourself.” He grinned. “Old Tom here just bought himself a brumby, fancy helping me out?” He scaled the fence and dropped into the roughies paddock.

The brumbies were used enough now to men that he was in little danger by joining them, but they were hardly tame enough to catch easily. They started to shift again, sticking to the opposite side of the space to the man. Luckily Bill was hardly worried, and the chestnut seemed content enough to stick beside him. After donning his gloves, the wrangler noosed the young mare and gestured for the other men to stand ready by the gate.

She led easy enough, though she seemed reluctant to leave the side of the old bay gelding. Getting her out of the pen went without a hitch, and he tethered her close so Tom could get a better look at her. “She’s firm. As good as any shape you’re going to get out of a brumby. She might be a good mover if you cared to put a saddle on her and break her in.”

He looked to Sam. “How that brumby mare of yours working out? Haven’t had time to stop down there and take a look at her foal, Cas make a good one?”

[Corowa]

Jason shook on the deal and with that sly smirk of his, which told Tom he was in for a mighty fine ribbing, went off to get some rope. There was some commotion up by the hut, and Tom shaded his eyes, cursing under his breath when he saw who it was. Sam yelled out a greeting, and Tom grinned a little. Bloody Sam Breen, he thought, some things never change.

“Sight better than this mob,” Tom shouted as he stepped forwards to greet him. He squinted and gave a short laugh when he saw the horse the wrangler rode. "Christ, I’m surprised you made it up here on one of those bush mongrels. Thought maybe we’d have to pull ya out the mimosa scrub.”

The horses knew something was happening, and they started up their restless circling again. Jason climbed over the fence, and at once, the horses scattered. Tom watched carefully, his elbows resting on the fence. Bill stuck with the group of brumbies, but it was obvious the poor bugger was confused as to why they were running in the first place. Tom laughed and called the old bay stock horse over to him.

Tom knew better than to interfere with a man when he was doing a job. Instead, he stood by the gate and waited while the wrangler separated the chestnut from the rest of the bunch, before he swung it open, shooing the big heavy grey out of the way with his hat. Bill wriggled his lips, and would have snatched the hat right out of his hand, if Tom hadn’t given the horse’s rump a good slap and sent him on his way.

“He sure is a husky,” Tom exclaimed to Jason, with a nod in the direction of the grey. “I bet if you sacked him out and got some miles on him, you could sell him for a work horse. Better than the knackers anyway.” The horses had settled some, but they still watched the men and Tom knew they’d bolt given the chance.

“Well I’m gonna have to toss a leg over her back sooner or later,” Tom said more seriously. "I reckon some of the blokes back in Taparoo are as touched in the head as you lot. Say those brumbies make good stock horses once the buck is ridden out of ‘em. I told one of them, mate, I have enough damn trouble with me dog.” He grinned, and then took a step back from the fence.

Tom had a shrewd eye for a good horse. He didn’t say very much, but thought it hadn’t been a bad deal, much as the thought of having to listen to Jason bragging about good ole’ Tom Rawlinson buying one of the roughies, chafed him. The chestnut was high in the haunches and a touch short in the neck. But she watched him curiously and had a kind expression, if a bit of a plain head.

Outside of the stockyard, the chestnut looked like any other unbroken horse. He’d picked up a few from the yard at the knackers over the years, and they’d been good horses, a bit of a rough ride, but honest and quiet. Tom slid around her, and gave her rump a whack, and she moved over smartly without so much as a kick or a fidget.

“I’ll pay two-hundred for her now, and you can owe me that tenner next time I see ya” he said casually. In the stockyard, the other horses had started to crop at the snowgrass, and Tom watched them a moment. He hated the fact good horses went for meat, and he thought the grey and one of the bays might make decent enough work horses if given a chance.

He turned to Jason, and pushed himself back from the fence. “I’ll tell ya what,” he said after a while. “ I’ll give ya a hand with the others if ya want it, and we can break them and this mutt of mine together. A couple of them could probably scrub up all right for the Cooma sale, but it’s going to take more than one man to break ‘em all.”

[tingara]

”Tom bought a roughie? Well I’ll be damned, I never thought I’d live to see the day Rawlinson,” Sam jeered with a grin as he tethered his palomino mare. Giving Nutsy one final pat on the rump the man wandered over to stand beside Jason to get a better view of the brumbies in the corral and of Tom. He regarded the scene with a snort before hunting out a beer in the hut. ”You blokes want one?” he called from the doorway, grabbing three beers regardless of the other men’s answers. Cracking one open he handed the other two bottles to Jason and rested on the fence of the corral, eyes on the horses.

All of the brumbies in there had the potential to be useful, even if they weren’t used for work there was a huge market in children’s ponies. If experience had taught him anything it was that although wild now, once they were broken and trained up most of them would be quite docile. ”Nutsy foaled a beaut of a buckskin filly, with no problems whatsoever,” Sam answered Jason’s question from before proudly. ”It’s a pity about losing that chestnut stallion, he was well built and a nice horse,” the man commented, nonchalantly taking a sip of his beer.

” Nutsy over there is probably one of the best mounts I’ve had.” Sam retorted to Tom. Of course Cas was better but that was to be expected, the palomino was only relatively new to the saddle. He stood contentedly at the fence listening to Tom ramble on about the roughies. There were bits he didn’t agree with but whilst he had a beer Sam was going to stay quiet. The talk of breaking the horses got the bottle out of the man’s mouth however. ”Does that offer extend to me Rawlinson or are you scared I’ll make more out of this mob than the pack horses you think that’s all they’re good for?”

[Tiggs]

Jason winked to Sam and took the beer he’d offered and passed the second one to Tom. He used a fencepost to dislodge the cap, and slipped it in his pocket. Couldn’t be doing with horses laming themselves on bottle caps. “You’re welcome to help any time.” He said to the both of them. “These guys need breaking, and the year ain’t getting any longer!” He looked to Tom, slightly more serious. “Those Taperoo blokes know what they’re on about, mate. A brumby sure ain’t winning no beauty contest, but when it comes down to working, they got brains in them heads. They got more sense than any purebred.” He said proudly.

“You sure can manage breaking a brumby, old man?” He grinned knowingly at Sam. “Old Rawlinson is going to get more than he bargained for. As we’re in a betting mood, what are the odds he’ll be off on his first go?” He teased, chugging back more beer. “I better get that money for the mare off you before you go spending it all on defending your honour. You got it now, or should I write an IOU?” The older man might be a friend, but Jason was a business-minded fellow, and business came before games.