bringing 'em in, [R]

[Corowa]

The big grey plunged wildly. Tom hauled on the rope, and the horse went up on its hind legs. It would have gone over backwards, had the stockman not let the rope go. The horse banged up against the stockyard railings in its fright, and Tom swore and with a crack of his stockwhip, sent it bolting in the other direction.

“You bloody bastard!” the stockman shouted, and he chased after it. Every time the horse slowed, Tom was there, driving it back with a sharp crack of his stockwhip until the grey was covered in lather, and sweat dripped from beneath the brim of the stockman’s hat.

Finally, the horse stopped. Tom wiped the sweat from his brow, and with one eye on the brumby, started to coil up his stockwhip. The big grey turned its head and watched the stockman with suspicion. But Tom simply reached for the pannikin of chaff he’d hung over the fence.

The horse stood with head down, and flanks heaving. Tom approached with a handful of chaff, and for a few minutes, spoke quietly to the horse. Its ears flicked nervously back and forth, but the smell of chaff was good, and though the horse flinched when Tom first slid the halter on, it didn’t move off.

“Easy there old fella,” Tom said. He’d given the roughies some of the best chaff he had, and the ribs no longer showed on any of them. While they still looked like a lot of mongrel brumbies, at least they were fat and glossy now.

In the stockyard over the other roughies milled about, and sometimes one or two of the horses stopped to watch, before they started up another of their restless circles. In the big yard just down by the hut, he’d sacked out the big grey, and had damn near busted his leg when the horse took off bucking like the old plug it was.

There were fresh spur marks on its sides, and both man and horse had been stiff and beat when the dust finally settled. But Tom Rawlinson always won, and he didn’t intend to lose a bet to some bloody no good wrangler.

[Tiggs]

“Wooo-weee!” Jason doffed his hat and waved it at the older stockman. “I didn’t think you were going to stay on that time.” He hollered from the hut’s porch where he’d been watching. Carrying a coil of rope over one shoulder, he came down to the stockyard and offered Tom a canteen of water. “How about a breather for the both of ya? I hate to admit it, but I think you’re wearing that grey down!”

The wrangler draped himself over the top rail looking significantly ruffled. The man had neglected to cut his hair recently, and his stubble was a few days overdue for a trim. He cast a critical eye over the lathered horse and gave a nod. The big grey had been a challenge, but like any brumby given time and a form hand, he would soon be broken and likely in time for the sale.

Jason flashed the man a lazy grin. “Remind me Rawlinson never to bet against you again, it’s hurting my pocket. Good job on that guy though, he’s a tough one.” He hooked his coil of rope over on of the supporting fence posts and patted the top rung. “Need some help? Planning a little brumby scouting later, but I got some time before then.”

[Corowa]

Tom took a swig of water and spat it out onto the dusty ground. “Yep, reckon you just lost yourself a tenner mate,” he grinned, and clapped the stockman over the shoulder. “No worries, I won’t tell the fellas back at Taparoo that you were stupid enough to make a bet with Tom Rawlinson,” he remarked, and he took off his hat and slapped it against the nearest fence post to dust it off.

He handed the canteen back to the stockman, and gave a short whistle. Banjo looked up from where he sat watching on the verandah, and easily covered the hundred yards from the hut to the stockyards in only a second or two. Tom gave the kelpie’s ears a quick scratch, and he sat quietly at his master’s side, while Tom casually looked over the rest of the brumbies.

Just then, Banjo shot under the high stockyard fence and got in under the roughies. There was a moment’s confusion, and then all of a sudden the brumbies swung around and bolted. “Git out of there ya bloody mongrel!” Tom shouted. The big grey in the yard over panicked, and there was a loud clang as it ran over the tin pannikin.

Tom slipped under the fence. He waved his hat, but the kelpie just swerved around him. The brumbies shoved up hard against the high stockyard fence. Banjo nipped at the hocks of the nearest horse, but this time when he turned them around, intent on getting them going in earnest, Tom reached down and grabbed him roughly by the scruff of the neck.

Banjo yelped as he was nearly hurled off his feet, and Tom swung his hand around and gave the kelpie such a belting, that he was trembling by the time he let him go. “Go on, git out of it!” he hollered, and he chucked the dog several feet. Banjo, sly as a shithouse rat, regained his footing, and skidded off under the stockyard fence, back towards the hut.

Tom looked over to where the brumbies stood bunched up by the fence. The ground was churned to dust, and the brumbies were in a lather. They shied at every sound, and though Tom spoke gently to them, it took a long while before they’d settled enough for the stockman to get in amongst them.

[Tiggs]

Jason gave a wry smile as he took the canteen back. “Good job. You’re a good mate, mate.” The wrangler continued to lean casually on the fence, watching at the other man called over his dog. Jason rarely used dogs unless included in a big brumby run. They were more trouble than their worth most of the time. He’d thought about going down to Cascade to look at those dingo hybrids Breen had been selling, but he had never gotten round to it.

And he was very glad of that right at the moment where Banjo shot off on his own little mission to disturb the peace and quiet. The man gave a shout, and got through the fance to try and catch the slimy git. Tom eventually caught the dog and gave it a well deserved beating, but not before the mob of roughies was well and truly spooked.

“Keep you damn dog on a leash, would you Rawlinson?” Jason snapped with more of an edge to his voice than he intended. Jason did not often get angry, and he made a conscious effort to shake it off.

It took them a while to settle the brumbies, by which point Jason had forgotten his previous ire and was back to his old self. After retrieving his rope, he looked to Tom with a grin. “What next then, mate?” He asked, gesturing to the mob of brumbies.

[Corowa]

Tom’s back was stiff and his face grim as he climbed back out through the fence. A dog that chased stock was no bloody good at all. Would be easier just to go out and shoot it before one of the other stockmen did. Better to shoot the bloody useless bastard O’ Grady. He should never have taken the dog, should have made O’ Grady pay back what he owed instead of pissing it away down at the pub.

“Damn dog won’t have to worry about being tied up once I’m done with it,” he growled. “Gonna end up drying on that fence over there if he does that again.” There was no sign of Banjo and the stockman hoped the dog hadn’t gotten too far into the bush. He didn’t want the useless mongrel limping back if he’d taken on one of the big brown mulgas that sometimes hung around the hut.

The brumbies had slowly settled. They stood in one corner of the stockyard, marked with sweat and dust, tails flicking at the flies and heads down. Tom knew they were tough, a heck of a lot tougher than a stockhorse, and a couple of scratches and some nasty looking welts, wasn’t going to slow them down none.

The big grey lipped disconsolately at the remaining flakes of chaff, and then ambled over towards them. It stood with its head held over the high wooden fences of the yard, watching the two stockmen. Tom wiped his hands on his moleskins, and started to slide back under the fence. The grey let out a loud snort, but didn’t move until Tom chased it off with a whack to the rump.

“I reckon we could get the lot of ‘em branded,” he said with a nod over at the brumby. “He’s so beat it wouldn’t take more than two men to pull him down.” Tom leaned against one of the weathered grey fence posts and grinned. “Course that is if you ain’t too much of a wuss to bring down one of these old plugs, Mannering.”

[Tiggs]

The dog was a problem, and while Jason was not a cruel man, he gave a nod at Tom’s proposed punishment. If the dog was no good, it was no use to them. Better to shoot the thing than lose a bunch of brumbies who could be spooked into fences. Jason looked off into the fringe of trees for the mutt while Tom climbed back in with the grey but he saw no sign of it.

The man was right about needing to brand the group, but he had other plans. “Nah, mate. It’ll take a while to set that job up. Why don’t I set the other guys on it, and we’ll head out for a spot of brumby-scouting. See if we can’t wrangle ourselves another before we brand the lot later?” He proposed, shooing a horsefly with a swipe in the air. “Weather’s good for it.” He added. “Besides, you’ve made enough money out of me, it’s about time I made some bets I can win, and showed you how real wrangling is done.”

[Corowa]

“Yeah sure,” Tom said with a dry laugh. “Just worried one of them buggers in there will show ya up for the mug yer are Mannering.” He slapped the wrangler over the shoulders and grinned.“Only thing you can wrangle is a coupla beers,” he replied.

He coiled the rough rope in his hands. “I’ll go grab Jack, ‘bout time he did something,” he said quietly, and with a nod to the wrangler, strode back towards the hut, the rope slung over one shoulder and hat pulled down low over his brow. There was a collection of yards, where the snowgrass had been trampled down to dust, and Tom stopped by the biggest of these, which stood, flanked by a clump of sapling scrub and snowgums.

He could see the horses through the stout high fences of the stockyard. The little mob grazed down beneath the snowgums, heads down and tails swishing at the flies. Tom rattled the tin pannikin, and they both looked up. Bill flattened his ears and struck out at the younger horse, and then the two plodded up from the far corner of the yard, the chestnut mare hanging back, still a bit jumpy even after being sacked out.

“Git out ya bunch of bludgers!” he said good-naturedly. Tom tipped the pannikin over the fence. Bill snorted and with ears back, chased the others off. There was a loud squeal and then the thump of heels and when the dust settled the big bay gelding stood nibbling at the last bits of chaff, while the two young stockhorses snorted and stamped, nipping at each other in their impatience.

Tom slid off the fence into the stockyard. Jessie propped and swung about, watched the stockman with head held high and ears flickering nervously back and forth. Jack came over for a scratch and a sniff, and Tom slipped the rope over the stockhorse’s head and gave his neck a quick slap. The horse turned and regarded his master with pricked ears and his nostrils quivered at the good smells of leather, sweat and chaff.

Jack stood quietly, nosing at the bag of oats he’d been offered, while Tom threw the saddle up onto his back. He dusted it off and tightened the girth before he mounted. Jack stepped about impatiently beneath him, eager to be off, though he’d covered some twenty miles of rough high country bush only the day before.

[Tiggs]

Marie was a might easier to fetch from the smaller paddock out back and tack up. The bay mare had been dozing in the shade of a wooden structure, but as Jason unlatched the door, she came at a swift trot. Her chestnut son stayed behind, content to stand and graze. “That bloody boy of yours is gunna get fat, baby.” He said to Marie, tickling her nose and playing with her whiskery lips. “Come on then, time for a run.”

There was hardly a point to clipping on a halter rope, as Marie followed Jason out of the pen with her chin on his shoulder. The two were tacked up and mounted after some more canoodling and fussing, and came around the hut as Tom was settling onto Jack. Jason did one final check that he had everything, and trotted on past Tom. “Come on then mate, let’s catch us some brumbies. Maybe with your expertise, we’ll bag ourselves a creamy.” The wrangler laughed good naturedly, and set off down the well worn path to Dead Horse Gap.

[Corowa]

“Bloody brumbies aren’t worth the trouble of a lame stockhorse mate.” Tom grinned at the wrangler and gave Jack’s neck a quick slap. The chestnut’s ears twitched and he let out a loud snort. Even though the tops of the snowgums swayed with a change in the wind, the stockhorse was covered in lather and he swished and stamped at the flies.

Tom swatted Jack on the rump with the ends of the reins, and the horse tossed up his head and shot forwards stiff-legged, with one or two rough bucks. Tom sat them easily, and then the stockman drove the horse on with a mighty crack of his stockwhip. Jack propped for a moment, and then with that swinging trot, headed off down the old stockman’s track, back towards Dead Horse Gap.

“Course might pick me self up a coupla scrubbies and find a decent pack horse amongst ‘em,” Tom shouted good-naturedly. The stockman clamped his legs around Jack’s side and leaned back in the saddle as the stockhorse picked his way carefully down through the thick mimosa scrub and big old gums.

“Too bad most of ‘em are weedy as hell,” he remarked dryly. “Reckon they need some more like that big grey of yours. He has a nice broad back and an arse like Clarry’s missus. Would have taken him off your hands if I had, had the need for an ole plug of a work horse.”

[Tiggs]

“Aw mate,” Said Jason as he and Marie set off at an easy lope after them, “You’re hurting Marie’s feelings. Best horse I ever had, and she’s brumby through and through.” Just to prove their point, Jason gave Marie her head and they came down the hill swiftly. Marie picked her course, and Jason saluted Tom as they overtook. The hill eased out and the scrub pressed in. Marie knew her way, and Jason turned in the saddle to continue the conversation with Tom.

“If you want some big’uns, I know where to find a herd with some draft in them. Stocky like you want, should tame up no problem. Brains the size of peas mind you, but docile. You’ll find the cream of the crop down in a good grazing valley down near Cascade Hut, but I haven’t seen the herd there in a while. I figure they’ve moved south. On a week when I got more time, I fancy a rind down there to find the sods. Big black in the lead last I saw. You should see the size of that herd, mate. Catch the lot of them for auction and then you’d see the money rolling in.”

The trees began to thin out and as Marie’s pace altered, Jason sat front again. He pulled his hat down to shade his eyes and looked out at the gap. “I spot a couple on the far side.” He said in a more serious and lower tone. “Wanna take a closer look?”