Hard Times: A Runaway's Adventures in the Americas by Jack Mercer

Author:Jack Mercer
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781921924545
Publisher: Transit Lounge Publishing

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SHINGlE POINT

My employers owned another property in conjunction with La Sarita, which was supervised by the gentlemen of the Casa Grande, who rode out periodically to Shingle Point, some ninety miles down near the mouth of the Santa Cruz river, where it widened to twelve miles across its estuary. There the shearing began ahead of Casa Grande and one of the bosses and a man usually went over in late September for a chat with the manager.

‘Quite a trip. I did it last year,’ Tinker told me. ‘It is good country. I liked it, and it was as good as a holiday.’

Somehow I got the message, and was not at all surprised when told to get my gear together and be ready next morning to leave with Mr Denniston for Shingle Point.

‘Hooray.’ I couldn’t have wished for a better boss to accompany, though Mr Ironside would have been all right.

‘You’ll enjoy it,’ Tinker assured me. ‘Mr Denniston is great. Travelling with him is a treat and shearing doesn’t last all that long. Usually the men are back within a couple of weeks or so to start shearing here.’

That sounded fine to me. I felt quite excited at the prospect of travelling through new country and busied myself with preparations, whistling a happy tune.

Mr Denniston and I took two horses, each adhering to the local routine of changing mounts daily – one horse to ride and the other to carry one’s pack, and vice versa. A good arrangement, provided the horses were on a par, which was hardly the case with my two. They boasted unusual names of El Chancho (the pig) and El Turco (the Turk). Turco lived up to his name, being a difficult character and held in poor esteem by all, capricious and stubborn as a mule. While Chancho, despite his unattractive name, was an excellent mount.

With our personal effects and a supply of fiambre (dry sausage), boiled leg of mutton, bread and the indispensable kettle, gourd and bombilla for yerba making packed into our maletas (saddle bags), and with a good blanket each under our saddles, we started off on our three-day journey. I could not resist casting lingering glances at Mr Denniston’s saddle, a beautiful one of Australian make, one of our best, while I balanced myself on the basto, perched high, like a monkey on a stick. I never did feel wholly at home on these Argentine saddles, though I managed to stay on, and nothing downed my spirits on that bright spring day.

The pampa moved away smoothly and effortlessly as we advanced on the flat and monotonous terrain, but with a travelling companion like Mr Denniston, this treeless country did not become dreary, as it first appeared when accompanying the sullen Domingo up from the port. To me this trip was an exciting novelty. Although on that first day we encountered little scenic variation, I still was entertained with all I saw and heard.

Mr Denniston was a most companionable fellow – bright, talkative, and in no way inhibited by travelling with a peon.

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