Such Is Life (4 page)

“Never, Steve. You've been drinking.”

“Anyway, you needn't be more of a hypocrite than you can help,” grumbled Thompson. “If you want a problem to work out, just consider that God constructed cattle for living on grass, and the grass for them to live on, and that, last night, and to-night, and to-morrow night, and mostly every night, we've a choice between two dirty transactions—one is, to let the bullocks starve, and the other is to steal grass for them. For my own part, I'm sick and tired of studying why some people should be in a position where they have to go out of their way to do wrong, and other people are cornered to that extent that they can't live without doing wrong, and can't suicide without jumping out of the frying-pan into the fire. Wonder if any allowance is made for bullock drivers?—or are they supposed to be able to make enough money to retire into some decent life before they die? Well, thank God for one good camp, at all events.”

“How's the water?” asked Cooper, meeting us at the fence.

“Enough for to-night,” replied Thompson; “but very little left for posterity.”

“After us, the Deluge,” observed Willoughby.

“I hope so,” replied Cooper devoutly. “Lord knows, it's badly wanted; and I'm sure we don't grudge nobody the benefit. Turnin' out nice an' cool, ain't it? The bullocks'll be able to do their selves some sort o' justice.”

It was a clear but moonless night; the dark blue canopy spangled with, myriad stars—grandeur, peace, and purity above; squalor, worry, and profanity below. Fit basis for many an ancient system of Theology—unscientific, if you will, but by no means contemptible.

Price and Cooper, being cooks, had kindled an unobtrusive fire in a crab-hole, where three billies were soon boiling. And the tea, when cool enough, needed no light to escort a due proportion of simple provender into that mysterious laboratory which should never be considered too curiously.

After supper, we lay around, resting ourselves; everyone smoking tranquilly except Willoughby. Dixon and Bum were evidently old friends; they reclined with their heads together, occasionally laughing and whispering—a piece of bad manners silently but strongly resented by the rest of the company.

“I'll jist go an' have a squint at the carrion,” remarked Mosey, at length, with the inevitable adjective; and, passing through the broken fence, he disappeared in the timber and old-man salt-bush.

“Wants some o' the flashness took outen him,” remarked Price,
in arrogant assertion of parental authority, yet glancing apprehensively after Mosey as he spoke.

“Should 'a' thought about that before,” observed Cooper gravely. “Too late now. You ain't good enough.”

A few minutes silence ensued, while each member of the company thought the matter over in his own way. Then Mosey returned.

“Grass up over yer boots, an' the carrion goin' into it lemons,” he remarked. “I do like to give this Runnymede the benefit o' the act. ‘On't ole Martin be ropeable when he sees that fence! Magomery's as hard as nails, his own self; but he ain't the class o' feller that watches from behine a tree—keeps curs like Martin to do his dirty work. But he'd like to nip every divil of us if he got half a slant. I notice, the more swellisher a man is, the more miser-abler lie is about a bite o' grass for a team, or a feed for a traveller. Magomery's got an edge on you, Thompson—you and Cunningham—for workin' on Nosey Alf's horse-paddick, an' for leavin' some gates open. Moriarty, the storekeeper, he told me about it.”

“Well, we didn't work on Alf's horse-paddock, and we didn't leave any gates open,” replied Thompson. “We lost the steers from the ram-paddock, here, and we found them away in the Sedan paddock. Certainly, we camped them all night in the Connelly paddock, but we never touched Alf's grass, and we left no gates open.”

“Chorus, boys!” said Mosey flippantly.

“O, what a (adj.) lie!” echoed Dixon, Bum, and the precentor himself. Thompson sighed; Cooper growled; and Willoughby coughed deprecatingly.

“I don't blame ole Martin to have a bit of a nose on me,” continued Mosey laughingly. “Lord! didn't I git the loan of him cheap las' summer! Me an' the old man was comin' down from Karowra with the last o' the clip; an' these paddicks was as bare as the palm o' your hand; so we goes on past here, an' camps half-ways between the fur corner o' the ram-paddick an' the station gate; an' looses out about an hour after sundown. It was sort o' cloudy moonlight that night; an' I takes the carrion straight on, an' shoves 'em in the horse-paddick, an' shuts the gate. Then I fetches 'em into a sort of a holler, where the best grass was, an' I takes the saddle an' bridle off o' the horse, an' lays down, an' watches the carrion wirin' in. Well, you know, ole Martin, the head boundary man, he's about as nice a varmin as Warrigal Alf; an' the young fellers at the barracks they 'on't corroborate with him, no road; an' he thinks his self a cut above the hut, so he lives with Daddy Montague, in Latham's ole place, down at the fur corner o' the horse-paddick.
Well, this ole beggar he's buckin' up to Miss King, the governess,an' Moriarty, the storekeeper, he's buckin' up to her too”—

“Clever feller, that Moriarty,” interposed Price, in pathetic sycophancy. “Rummest young (fellow) goin', when he likes to come out. Ain't he, Mosey?” He paused and laughed heartily. “Las' time I unloaded at Runnymede—an' it was on'y one ton lebm; for we was going out emp'y for wool, on account o' them two Vic. chaps snappin' our loads. I disremember if I tole you the yarn when I pulled you at the Willandra. Anyhow it was raining like (incongruous comparison) when I drawed up at the store; an' Moriarty he fetches me inter the office, an' gives me a stiffener o' brandy. Or whisky? Now, (hair-raising imprecation) if I don't disremember which. But I think it was brandy. Yes, it was brandy.”

“Well?” interrogated Mosey, after a pause.

“On'y jist showin' how one idear sort o' fetches up another,” replied the old man, with simulated ease of manner.

“Well, you are a (adj.) fool. But as I was telling you chaps: About eleven o'clock, who should come dodgin' down the paddick but ole Martin. Bin pokin' roun' after Miss King, I s'pose. He walks right bang through the carrion, thinkin' they was the station bullicks; an' me layin' there, laughin' in to myself. By-'n'-by he stops an' consithers, an' then he goes roun' examinin' them, an' smellin' about, an' then he has a long squint at Valiparaiser; an' in the heel o' the hunt he rounds up the lot, an' sails off to the yard with ‘em; an' me follerin' ready to collar 'em when the coast was clear. By-'n'-by I sees him leavin' the yard, an' I goes to it, an' lo an' behold you! there was a padlock on the gate as big as a sardine-box.

“Well, we had a bunch o' keys at the camp. I had snavelled 'em at the railway station, las' time we was at Deniliquin, thinkin' they might come in useful. So I heads for the camp at the rate o' knots. Collars the keys, an' gits a drink o' tea, an' takes a bit o' brownie in my fist, an' back I goes, doin' the trip in about an hour. Providential, one o' the keys fits the lock, so I whips out the carrion, an' shoves 'em down to where the ole sinner took 'em from. Well, there was two station teams in the paddick—I s'pose they wanted 'em very early for somethin'—so I saddles Valiparaiser an' scoots across to where I seen these bullicks when I was goin' for the keys; an' I shoves 'em into the yard; an' I rakes up a ole grey horse, lame o' four legs, an' shoves him in along o' the carrion, an' locks the gate, an' goes back to our lot, an' keeps an eye on 'em till they
laid down, fit to bust Lord! how I laughed that night! I seen Martin watchin' us nex' mornin', after we started. He's got a set on me for that, among other things.”

“Hasn't Warrigal Alf got a set on you too?” asked Thompson coldly. “Strikes me, you're not the safest man in the world to travel with.”

“Yes, Alf gives me the prayers o' the Church now an' agen,” replied Mosey complacently. “It was this way: The winter afore last, we got a leader in a swap at Deniliquin. Same time I made the keys. Yaller, hoop-horned bullick—I dunno if you seen him with us? Well, this Pilot, you couldn't pack him”—Here Cooper slowly rose, and walked across to his wagon—“Lazy mountain o' mullick, that.”

“Burden to his own self,” assented Price obsequiously.

“Thick-headed galoot, appearingly,” suggested Bum.

“Ought to be hunted back to the Sydney side,” contributed Dixon.

—“You couldn't pack him for a near side leader,” resumed Mosey; “but there was nothin' for it but shepherd all night. You might bet yer soul agen five bob, Pilot was off. Whenever he seen a fence, he'd go through it, an' whenever he seen a river, he'd swim it; an' the whole fraternity stringin' after, thinkin' he was on for somethin' worth while. Grand leader, but a beggar to clear. Well, las' year, when we went up emp'y to Bargoona—same trip the ole man got that wonderful drink off Moriarty—who should we fine there but this Alf, waitin' for wool, an' due for the fust load. No fear o' him goin' up emp'y nyther. He 'd manage to collar six ton”—

“Don't mention that name if you can help it, Mosey,” interrupted Cooper, as he returned to the group, carrying a blanket and the little bag of dead grass which he used as a pillow. I'm a good-tempered man,” he continued, in sullen apology; “but it gives me the wilds and the melancholies, does that name.”

“Which?—Bargoona?”

“No; the other name. You've got Nosey Alf, an' Warrigal Alf, an' (sheol) knows how many other Alfs. I got reason to hate that name.”

“Well,” resumed Mosey, after a pause, “as I was tellin' you, this cove he was there; an' it so happened his near side leader had got bit with a snake, an' died; an' as luck would have it, he'd sold the pick of his bullicks to a tank-sinker, an' bought steers in theyre place; an' he hadn't another bullick fit to shove in the near side lead to tackle sich a road as he'd got in front of him. Well, this
cove he makes fistfuls o' money, but he's always dog-poor, so he”—

“Which cove makes fistfuls o' money?” demanded Price, roused from a reverie by the magic dissyllable.

“Fine out, you (adj.) ole fool. So he was flyblowed as usual in regard o' cash; an' he was badly in want of a near side leader; an' I kep' showin' off this Pilot, shifting wagons from the door o' the shed, an' tinkerin' about; an' he offered us two good bullicks for the counterfit; an' me an' the ole man we hum'd and ha'd, an' let on we didn't want to part with him; an' me as thin as a whippin'-post with watchin' the yaller-hided dodger every night, to keep him from goin' overland to the bounds o' creation. Well, at long an' at last we swapped level for Valiparaiser. I seen the workin' o' Providence in it from fust to last. The horse he's worth twenty notes, all out; an' Pilot he was dear at a gift. I say, Tom; that's a grand horse you got off o' the Far-downer. Goes like a greyhound. Gosh, you had that bloke to rights. He's whippin' the cat now like fury. I was chiackin' him about the deal, when he told me you swapped level; an' he wanted to change the subject. ‘I'm frightened you'll be short o' grass to-night,' says he. ‘Where you goin' to camp?' says he. The (adj.) fool!”

“What did you tell him?” asked Thompson.

“Ram-paddick, of course. You don't ketch me tellin' the truth about where I'm goin' to camp. But you got a rakin' horse, Tom; an' I give you credit for gittin' at the blind side o' the turf-cutter.”

“He'll do me well enough for poking about,” I replied modestly. “But how did the other fellow get on with Pilot?”

“It was the fun o' the world,” resumed Mosey. “The other feller he left the shed three days ahead of us; an' when we drawed out, an' camped at the Four-mile Tank, this feller's wagon was standin' there yet; an' no sign o' him nor his carrion. I was thinkin' he'd have some fun with Pilot, 'specially on account of havin' to do his bullick-huntin' on foot; for he couldn't afford to git another horse till he delivered. Well, I never seen him agen till to-day when we stopped for dinner; but the feller at the Bilby Well he told me about it when we was goin' back to Bargoona, nex' trip.

“Seems, the other feller he goes out in the mornin' on foot, thinkin' to fine his carrion among that mulgar in the corner to yer left; an' when he got to the corner, there was a hole in the fence, an' the tracks through. Course, he runs the tracks; he runs 'em all day, an' at night he lays down, an' I s'pose he swears his self to sleep. Nex' mornin' off he scoots agen, an' jist before sundown he hears
the bells, an' he pipes the tail end o' the string ahead; an' the front end was jist at the Bilby Well—sixty good mile, if it's an inch, an' scrub all the road. Pilot he hadn't thought worth while to go roun' by the Boundary Tank, to git on the wool track; he jist went ahead like a surveyor, an' the fences was like spiders' webs to him. It was blazing hot weather; and the other fellow he never seen tucker nor water all the trip, for he wouldn't leave the track. Laugh? Lord! I thought I'd 'a' busted when the bloke at the well told me. I noticed the other feller was a bit narked when he seen me on the horse to-day. He's got red o' Pilot.”

“Look here, Mosey,” said Thompson slowly: “I'd rather—so help me God—I'd rather cut my own throat than do a trick like that. Aren't you frightened of bringing a curse on yourself?”

“I ain't (adj.) fool enough to believe in curses,” replied Mosey—his altered tone nevertheless belying his bravado.

“Simply because you don't keep your eyes open,” retorted Thompson. “Isn't it well known that a grog-seller's money never gets to his children? Isn't it well known that if you mislead a woman, a curse'll follow you like your shadow? Isn't it well known that if you're disobedient to your parents, something'll happen to you? Isn't it well known that Sabbath-breaking brings a curse on a man that he can't shake off till he reforms? Now you stole that horse in the dirtiest way; and stealing—well, anything except grass or water—brings as heavy a curse as anything you can do. Mark my words.”