Books: On Our Selection

S >> Steele Rudd (Arthur Hoey Davis) >> On Our Selection

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Bluey howled and plunged until Mother came out to see what was the matter.
She was in time to see a solitary kangaroo hop in a drunken manner towards
the fence, so she let the dog go and cried, "Sool him, Bluey! Sool him!"
Bluey sooled him, and Mother followed with the axe to get the scalp. As
the dog came racing up, the kangaroo turned and hissed, "G' home, y'
mongrel!" Bluey took no notice, and only when he had nailed the kangaroo
dextrously by the thigh and got him down did it dawn upon the marsupial
that Bluey was n't in the secret. Joe tore off his head-gear, called the
dog affectionately by name, and yelled for help; but Bluey had not had
anything substantial to eat for over a week, and he worried away vigorously.

Then the kangaroo slashed out with the carving-knife, and hacked a junk
off Bluey's nose. Bluey shook his head, relaxed his thigh-grip, and
grabbed the kangaroo by the ribs. How that kangaroo did squeal! Mother
arrived. She dropped the axe, threw up both hands, and shrieked. "Pull
him off! he's eating me!" gasped the kangaroo. Mother shrieked louder,
and wrung her hands; but it had no effect on Bluey. He was a good dog,
was Bluey!

At last, Mother got him by the tail and dragged him off, but he took a
mouthful of kangaroo with him as he went.

Then the kangaroo raised itself slowly on to its hands and knees. It was
very white and sick-looking, and Mother threw her arms round it and cried,
"Oh, Joe! My child! my child!"

It was several days before Joe felt better. When he did, Bluey and he
went down the gully together, and, after a while, Joe came back--like
Butler--alone.

Chapter XVII.

Dad's "Fortune."

Dad used to say that Shingle Hut was the finest selection on Darling Downs;
but WE never could see anything fine about it--except the weather in
drought time, or Dad's old saddle mare. SHE was very fine. The house was
built in a gully so that the bailiffs (I suppose) or the blacks--who were
mostly dead--could n't locate it. An old wire-fence, slanting all
directions, staggered past the front door. At the rear, its foot almost
in the back door, sloped a barren ridge, formerly a squatter's sheep-yard.
For the rest there were sky, wallaby-scrub, gum-trees, and some acres of
cultivation. But Dad must have seen something in it, or he would n't have
stood feasting his eyes on the wooded waste after he had knocked off work
of an evening. In all his wanderings--and Dad had been almost everywhere;
swimming flooded creeks and rivers, humping his swag from one end of
Australia to the other; at all games going except bank-managing and
bushranging--he had seen no place timbered like Shingle Hut.

"Why," he used to say, "it's a fortune in itself. Hold on till the
country gets populated, and firewood is scarce, there'll be money in it
then--mark my words!"

Poor Dad! I wonder how long he expected to live?

At the back of Shingle Hut was a tract of Government land--mostly
mountains--marked on the map as the Great Dividing Range. Splendid
country, Dad considered it--BEAUTIFUL country--and part of a grand scheme
he had in his head. I defy you to find a man more full of schemes than
Dad was.

The day had been hot. Inside, the mosquitoes were bad; and, after supper,
Dad and Dave were outside, lying on some bags. They had been grubbing
that day, and were tired. The night was nearly dark. Dad lay upon his
back, watching the stars; Dave upon his stomach, his head resting on his
arms. Both silent. One of the draught-horses cropped the couch-grass
round about them. Now and again a flying-fox circled noiselessly overhead,
and "MOPOKE!--MOPOKE!" came dismally from the ridge and from out the
lonely-looking gully. A star fell, lighting up a portion of the sky, but
Dad did not remark it. In a while he said:

"How old are you, Dave?" Dave made a mental calculation before answering.

"S'pose I must be eighteen now ...Why?"

A silence.

"I've been thinking of that land at the back--if we had that I believe we
could make money."

"Yairs--if we HAD."

Another silence.

"Well, I mean to have it, and that before very long."

Dave raised his head, and looked towards Dad.

"There's four of you old enough to take up land, and where could you get
better country than that out there for cattle? Why" (turning on his side
and facing Dave) "with a thousand acres of that stocked with cattle and
this kept under cultivation we'd make money--we'd be RICH in a very
few years."

Dave raised himself on his elbow.

"Yairs--with CATTLE," he said.

"Just so" (Dad sat up with enthusiasm), "but to get the LAND is the first
thing, and that's easy enough ONLY" (lowering his voice) "it'll have to be
done QUIETLY and without letting everyone 'round know we're going in for
it." ("Oh! yairs, o' course," from Dave.) "THEN" (and Dad lifted his
voice and leaned over) "run a couple of wires round it, put every cow
we've here on it straight away; get another one or two when the barley's
sold, and let them breed."

"'Bout how many'd that be t' start 'n?"

"Well, EIGHT good cows at the least--plenty, too. It's simply WONDERFUL
how cattle breed if they're let alone. Look at Murphy, for instance.
Started on that place with two young heifers--those two old red cows that
you see knocking about now. THEY'RE the mothers of all his cattle.
Anderson just the same...Why, God bless my soul! we would have a better
start than any one of them ever had--by a long way."

Dave sat up. He began to share Dad's enthusiasm.

"Once get it STOCKED, and all that is to be done then is simply to look
after the fence, ride about among the cattle every day, see they're right,
brand the calves, and every year muster the mob, draft out the fat
bullocks, whip them into town, and get our seven and eight pounds a head
for them."

"That'd suit me down to the ground, ridin' about after cattle," Dave said.

"Yes, get our seven and eight pounds, maybe nine or ten pounds a-piece.
And could ever we do that pottering about on the place?" Dad leaned over
further and pressed Dave's knee with his hand.

"Mind you!" (in a very confidential tone) "I'm not at all satisfied the
way we're dragging along here. It's utter nonsense, and, to speak the
truth" (lowering his voice again) "I'VE BEEN SICK OF THE WHOLE DAMN THING
LONG AGO."

A minute or two passed.

"It would n't matter," Dad continued, "if there was no way of doing
better; but there IS. The thing only requires to be DONE, and why not DO
it?" He paused for an answer.

"Well," Dave said, "let us commence it straight off--t'morror. It's the
life that'd suit ME."

"Of course it WOULD...and there's money in it...no mistake about it!"

A few minutes passed. Then they went inside, and Dad took Mother into his
confidence, and they sat up half the night discussing the scheme.

Twelve months later. The storekeeper was at the house wanting to see Dad.
Dad was n't at home. He never was when the storekeeper came; he generally
contrived to be away, up the paddock somewhere or amongst the corn--if any
was growing. The storekeeper waited an hour or so, but Dad did n't turn
up. When he was gone, though, Dad walked in and asked Mother what he had
said. Mother was seated on the sofa, troubled-looking.

"He must be paid by next week," she said, bursting into tears, "or the
place'll be sold over our heads."

Dad stood with his back to the fire-place, his hand locked behind him,
watching the flies swarming on the table.

Dave came in. He understood the situation at a glance. The scene was not
new to him. He sat down, leant forward, picked a straw off the flor and
twisted it round and round his finger, reflecting.

Little Bill put his head on Mother's lap, and asked for a piece of
bread...He asked a second time.

"There IS no bread, child," she said.

"But me wants some, mumma."

Dad went outside and Dave followed. They sat on their heels, their backs
to the barn, thoughtfully studying the earth.

"It's the same thing"--Dad said, reproachfully--"from one year's end to
the other...alwuz a BILL!"

"Thought last year we'd be over all this by now!" from Dave.

"So we COULD...Can NOW...It only wants that land to be taken up; and,
as I've said often and often, these cows taken----"

Dad caught sight of the storekeeper coming back, and ran into the barn.

Six months later. Dinner about ready. "Take up a thousand acres," Dad
was saying; "take it up----"

He was interrupted by a visitor.

"Are you Mister Rudd?" Dad said he was.

"Well, er--I've a FI. FA. against y'."

Dad didn't understand.

The Sheriff's officer drew a document from his inside breast-pocket and
proceeded to read:

"To Mister James Williams, my bailiff. Greeting: By virtue of Her
Majesty's writ of FIERI FACIAS, to me directed, I command you that of the
goods and chattels, money, bank-note or notes or other property of Murtagh
Joseph Rudd, of Shingle Hut, in my bailiwick, you cause to be made the sum
of forty pounds ten shillings, with interest thereon," &c.

Dad understood.

Then the bailiff's man rounded up the cows and the horses, and Dad and the
lot of us leant against the fence and in sadness watched Polly and old
Poley and the rest for the last time pass out the slip-rails.

"That puts an end to the land business!" Dave said gloomily.

But Dad never spoke.

Chapter XVIII.

We Embark in the Bear Industry.

When the bailiff came and took away the cows and horses, and completely
knocked the bottom out of Dad's land scheme, Dad did n't sit in the ashes
and sulk. He was n't that kind of person. He DID at times say he was
tired of it all, and often he wished it far enough, too! But, then, that
was all mere talk on Dad's part. He LOVED the selection. To every
inch--every stick of it--he was devoted. 'T was his creed. He felt
certain there was money in it--that out of it would come his independence.
Therefore, he did n't rollup and, with Mother by the hand and little Bill
on his back, stalk into town to hang round and abuse the bush. He walked
up and down the yard thinking and thinking. Dad was a man with a head.

He consulted Mother and Dave, and together they thought more.

"The thing is," Dad said, "to get another horse to finish the bit of
ploughing. We've got ONE; Anderson will lend the grey mare, I know."

He walked round the room a few times.

"When that's done, I think I see my way clear; but THAT'S the trouble."

He looked at Dave. Dave seemed as though he had a solution. But Joe spoke.

"Kuk-kuk-could n't y' b-reak in some kang'roos, Dad? There's pul-lenty in
th' pup-paddick."

"Could n't you shut up and hold your tongue and clear out of this, you
brat?" Dad roared. And Joe hung his head and shut up.

"Well, y' know"--Dave drawled--"there's that colt wot Maloney offered us
before to quieten. Could get 'im. 'E's a big lump of a 'orse if y' could
do anythin' with 'im. THEY gave 'im best themselves."

Dad's eyes shone.

"That's th' horse," he cried. "GET him! To-morrow first thing go for
him! I'LL make something of him!"

"Don't know"--Dave chuckled--"he's a----"

"Tut, tut; you fetch him."

"Oh, I'll FETCH 'im." And Dave, on the strength of having made a valuable
suggestion, dragged Joe off the sofa and stretched himself upon it.

Dad went on thinking awhile. "How much," he at last asked, "did Johnson
get for those skins?"

"Which?" Dave answered. "Bears or kangaroos?"

"Bears."

"Five bob, was n't it? Six for some."

"What, A-PIECE?"

"Yairs."

"Why, God bless my soul, what have we been thinking about? FIVE SHILLINGS?
Are you sure?"

"Yairs, rather."

"What, bear-skins worth that and the paddock here and the lanes and the
country over-run with them--FULL of the damn things--HUNDREDS of them--and
we, all this time--all these years--working and slaving and scraping
and-and" (he almost shouted), "DAMN me! What asses we HAVE been, to be
sure." (Dave stared at him.) "Bear-skins FIVE SHILLINGS each, and----"

"That's all right enough," Dave interrupted, "but----"

"Of COURSE it's all right enough NOW," Dad yelled, "now when we see it."

"But look!" and Dave sat up and assumed an arbitrary attitude. He was
growing suspicious of Dad's ideas. "To begin with, how many bears do you
reckon on getting in a day?"

"In a day"--reflectively--"twenty at the least."

"Twenty. Well, say we only got HALF that, how much d' y' make?"

" MAKE?" (considering). "Two pounds ten a day...fifteen or twenty pounds
a week...yes, TWENTY POUNDS, reckoning at THAT even. And do you mean to
tell ME that we would n't get more than TEN bears a day? Why we'd get
more than that in the lane--get more up ONE tree."

Dave grinned.

"Can't you SEE? DAMN it, boy, are you so DENSE?"

Dave saw. He became enthusiastic. He wondered why it had never struck us
before. Then Dad smiled, and we sat to supper and talked about bears.

"We'll not bother with that horse NOW," said Dad; "the ploughing can go;
I'm DONE with it. We've had enough poking and puddling about. We'll
start this business straightaway." And the following morning, headed by
the dog and Dad, armed with a tomahawk, we started up the paddock.

How free we felt! To think we were finished for ever with the raking and
carting of hay--finished tramping up and down beside Dad, with the
plough-reins in our hands, flies in our eyes and burr in our feet--finished
being the target for Dad's blasphemy when the plough or the horses or the
harness went wrong--was delightful! And the adventure and excitement
which this new industry promised operated strongly upon us. We rioted and
careered like hunted brumbies through the trees, till warned by Dad to
"keep our eyes about;" then we settled down, and Joe found the first bear.
It was on an ironbark tree, around the base of which we soon were
clamouring.

"Up y' go!" Dad said, cheerfully helping Dave and the tomahawk into the
first fork.

Dave ascended and crawled cautiously along the limb the bear was on and
began to chop. WE armed ourselves with heavy sticks and waited. The
dog sat on his tail and stared and whined at the bear. The limb cracked,
and Dave ceased chopping and shouted "Look out!" We shouldered arms. The
dog was in a hurry. He sprang in the air and landed on his back. But
Dave had to make another nick or two. Then with a loud crack the limb
parted and came sweeping down. The dog jumped to meet it. He met it,
and was laid out on the grass. The bear scrambled to its feet and made
off towards Bill. Bill squealed and fell backwards over a log. Dad
rushed in and kicked the bear up like a football. It landed near Joe.
Joe's eyes shone with the hunter's lust of blood. He swung his stick for
a tremendous blow--swung it mightily and high--and nearly knocked his
parent's head off. When Dad had spat blood enough to make sure that he
had only lost one tooth, he hunted Joe; but Joe was too fleet, as usual.

Meanwhile, the bear had run up another tree--about the tallest old gum in
the paddock. Dad snapped his fingers angrily and cried: "Where the devil
was the DOG?"

"Oh, where the devil wuz the DORG?" Dave growled, sliding down the
tree--"where th' devil wuz YOU? Where wuz the lot o' y'?"

"Ah, well!" Dad said "--there's plenty more we can get. Come along."
And off we went. The dog pulled himself together and limped after us.

Bears were plentiful enough, but we wandered far before we found another
on a tree that Dave could climb, and, when we DID, somehow or other the
limb broke when he put his weight on it, and down he came, bear and all.
Of course we were not ready, and that bear, like the other, got up another
tree. But Dave did n't. He lay till Dad ran about two miles down a gully
to a dam and filled his hat with muddy water and came tearing back with it
empty--till Anderson and Mother came and helped to carry him home.

We did n't go out any more after bears. Dave, when he was able, went and
got Maloney's colt and put him in the plough. And, after he had kicked
Dad and smashed all the swingle-trees about the place, and got right out
of his harness a couple of times and sulked for two days, he went well
enough beside Anderson's old grey mare.

And that season, when everyone else's wheat was red with rust--when
Anderson and Maloney cut theirs for hay--when Johnson put a firestick in
his--ours was good to see. It ripened; and the rain kept off, and we
reaped 200 bags. Salvation!

CHAPTER XIX.

Nell and Ned.

That harvest of two hundred bags of wheat was the turning-point in the
history of our selection. Things somehow seemed to go better; and Dad's
faith was gradually justified--to some extent. We accumulated out-buildings
and added two new rooms to the hut, and Dad was able to lend old Anderson
five pounds in return for a promise to pay seven pounds ten shillings in
six months' time. We increased the stock, too, by degrees; and--crowning
joy!--we got a horse or two you could ride to the township.

With Nell and Ned we reckoned we had two saddle-horses--those were their
names, Nell and Ned, a mare and a colt. Fine hacks they were, too!
Anybody could ride them, they were so quiet. Dad reckoned Ned was the
better of the two. He was well-bred, and had a pedigree and a gentle
disposition, and a bald-face, and a bumble-foot, and a raw wither, and a
sore back that gave him a habit of "flinching"--a habit that discounted
his uselessness a great deal, because, when we were n't at home, the women
could n't saddle him to run the cows in. Whenever he saw the saddle or
heard the girth-buckles rattle he would start to flinch. Put the cloth
on his back--folded or otherwise--and, no matter how smart you might be,
it would be off before you could cover it with the saddle, and he would n't
have flicked it with his tail, or pulled it off with his teeth, or done
anything to it. He just flinched--made the skin on his back--where there
was any--QUIVER. Throw on the saddle without a cloth, and he would "give"
in the middle like a broken rail--bend till his belly almost touched the
ground, and remain bent till mounted; then he'd crawl off and gradually
straighten up as he became used to you. Were you tender-hearted enough to
feel compunction in sitting down hard on a six-year-old sore, or if you
had an aversion to kicking the suffering brute with both heels and belting
his hide with a yard or two of fencing-wire to get him to show signs of
animation, you would dismount and walk--perhaps, weep. WE always rode him
right out, though.

As a two-year-old Ned was Dad's hope. Pointing proudly to the long-legged,
big-headed, ugly moke mooching by the door, smelling the dust, he would
say: "Be a fine horse in another year! Little sleepy-looking yet; that's
nothing!"

"Stir him up a bit, till we see how he canters," he said to Joe one day.
And when Joe stirred him up--rattled a piece of rock on his jaw that
nearly knocked his head off--Dad took after Joe and chased him through the
potatoes, and out into the grass-paddock, and across towards Anderson's;
then returned and yarded the colt, and knocked a patch of skin off him
with a rail because he would n't stand in a corner till he looked at his
eye. "Would n't have anything happen to that colt for a fortune!" he said
to himself. Then went away, forgetting to throw the rails down. Dave
threw them down a couple of days after.

WE preferred Nell to Ned, but Dad always voted for the colt. "You can
trust him; he'll stand anywhere," he used to say. Ned WOULD! Once, when
the grass-paddock was burning, he stood until he took fire. Then he stood
while we hammered him with boughs to put the blaze out. It took a lot to
frighten Ned. His presence of mind rarely deserted him. Once, though, he
got a start. He was standing in the shade of a tree in the paddock when
Dad went to catch him. He seemed to be watching Dad, but was n't. He was
ASLEEP. "Well, old chap," said Dad, "how ARE y'?" and proceeded to bridle
him. Ned opened his mouth and received the bit as usual, only some of his
tongue came out and stayed out. "Wot's up w' y'?" and Dad tried to poke
it in with his finger, but it came out further, and some chewed grass
dropped into his hand. Dad started to lead him then, or rather to PULL
him, and at the first tug he have the reins Ned woke with a snort and
broke away. And when the other horses saw him looking at Dad with his
tail cocked, and his head up, and the bridle-reins hanging, they went for
their lives through the trees, and Blossom's foal got staked.

Another day Dad was out on Ned, looking for the red heifer, and came
across two men fencing--a tall, powerful-looking man with a beard, and a
slim young fellow with a smooth face. Also a kangaroo-pup. As Dad slowly
approached, Ned swaying from side to side with his nose to the ground,
the elder man drove the crowbar into the earth and stared as if he had
never seen a man on horseback before. The young fellow sat on a log and
stared too. The pup ran behind a tree and growled.

"Seen any cattle round here?" Dad asked.

"No," the man said, and grinned.

"Did n't notice a red heifer?"

"No," grinning more.

The kangaroo-pup left the tree and sniffed at Ned's heels.

"Won't kick, will he?" said the man.

The young fellow broke into a loud laugh and fell off the log.

"No," Dad replied--"he's PERFECTLY quiet."

"He LOOKS quiet."

The young fellow took a fit of coughing.

After a pause. "Well, you did n't see any about, then?" and Dad wheeled
Ned round to go away.

"No, I DID N'T, old man," the other answered, and snatched hold of Ned's
tail and hung back with all his might. Ned grunted and strained and tore
the ground up with his toes; Dad spurred and leathered him with a strap,
looking straight ahead. The man hung on. "Come 'long," Dad said. The
pup barked. "COME 'long with YER!" Dad said. The young fellow fell off
the log again. Ned's tail cracked. Dad hit him between the ears. The
tail cracked again. A piece of it came off; then Ned stumbled and went on
his head. "What the DEVIL----!" Dad said, looking round. But only the
young fellow was laughing.

Nell was different from Ned. She was a bay, with yellow flanks and a lump
under her belly; a bright eye, lop ears, and heavy, hairy legs. She was a
very wise mare. It was wonderful how much she know. She knew when she
was wanted; and she would go away the night before and get lost. And she
knew when she was n't wanted; then she'd hang about the back-door licking
a hole in the ground where the dish-water was thrown, or fossicking at the
barn for the corn Dad had hidden, or scratching her neck or her rump
against the cultivation paddock slip-rails. She always scratched herself
against those slip-rails--sometimes for hours--always until they fell down.
Then she'd walk in and eat. And how she COULD eat!

As a hack, Nell was unreliable. You could n't reckon with certainty on
getting her to start. All depended on the humour she was in and the
direction you wished to take--mostly the direction. If towards the
grass-paddock or the dam, she was off helter-skelter. If it was n't,
she'd go on strike--put her head down and chew the bit. Then, when you'd
get to work on her with a waddy--which we always did--she'd walk backwards
into the house and frighten Mother, or into the waterhole and dirty the
water. Dad said it was the fault of the cove who broke her in. Dad was a
just man. The "cove" was a union shearer--did it for four shillings and
six pence. Wanted five bob, but Dad beat him down. Anybody else would
have asked a pound.

When Nell DID make up her mind to go, it was with a rush, and, if the
slip-rails were on the ground, she'd refuse to take them. She'd stand and
look out into the lane. You'd have to get off and drag the rails aside
(about twenty, counting broken ones). Then she'd fancy they were up, and
would shake her head and mark time until you dug your heels into her; then
she'd gather herself together and jump high enough for a show--over nothing!

Dave was to ride Nell to town one Christmas to see the sports. He had n't
seen any sports before, and went to bed excited and rose in the middle of
the night to start. He dressed in the dark, and we heard him going out,
because he fell over Sandy and Kate. They had come on a visit, and were
sleeping on the floor in the front room. We also heard him throw the
slip-rails down.

There was a heavy fog that morning. At breakfast we talked about Dave,
and Dad "s'posed" he would just about be getting in; but an hour or two
after breakfast the fog cleared, and we saw Dave in the lane hammering
Nell with a stick. Nell had her rump to the fence and was trying hard to
kick it down. Dad went to him. "Take her gently; take her GENTLY, boy,"
he shouted. "PSHAW! take her GENTLY!" Dave shouted back. "Here"--he
jumped off her and handed Dad the reins--"take her away and cut her
throat." Then he cried, and then he picked up a big stone and rushed at
Nell's head. But Dad interfered.

But the day Dad mounted Nell to bring a doctor to Anderson! She started
away smartly--the wrong road. Dad jerked her mouth and pulled her round
roughly. He was in a hurry--Nell was n't. She stood and shook her head
and switched her tail. Dad rattled a waddy on her and jammed his heels
hard against her ribs. She dropped her head and cow-kicked. Then he
coaxed her. "Come on, old girl," he said; "come on,"--and patted her on
the neck. She liked being patted. That exasperated Dad. He hit her on
the head with his fist. Joe ran out with a long stick. He poked her in
the flank. Nell kicked the stick out of his hands and bolted towards the
dam. Dad pulled and swore as she bore him along. And when he did haul
her in, he was two hundred yards further from the doctor. Dad turned her
round and once more used the waddy. Nell was obdurate, Dad exhausted.
Joe joined them, out of breath. He poked Nell with the stick again. She
"kicked up." Dad lost his balance. Joe laughed. Dad said, "St-o-op!"
Joe was energetic. So was Nell. She kicked up again--strong--and Dad
fell off.

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