Wild Horses Don't Swim by Michael Keenan

Author:Michael Keenan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Random House Australia
Published: 2000-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Monday, 30 May 1898

Shod Jimmy and Tom Tit. Packed up and started. Went up the range, had a great job. Joe and Sultan rolled down the range, smashing everything, but we got them up again. While at them the blacks were singing out on the range above us. I had a shot over their way so heard nothing more of them. Going down the range we had to make a track, very rough but got down all right.

I expected to ride past Mount Broome on the second day.

I had run packhorses for years and looking at my campsite that evening I had to admit it was the worst ever. We did at least have fresh water at hand’s reach. Both Sal and Heather got to work on the dampers and I boiled up a kilogram of corned beef. The women placed the dough into tinfoil and covered them over with hot ash. With hot tea and coffee served, everyone was gathering in around the fire when a vehicle with powerful headlights rounded the bend on the Derby side. It stopped on the road, near the camp. The Toyota Landcruiser was towing a horse float.

‘It’s George!’ Peter exclaimed, obviously thrilled.

‘Told you I’d come, Mike,’ George said, beaming as he got out of the passenger side. ‘Brought my girl too and her friend. You said you wanted to write about our country and our girls. What the girls did when we all out here with the cattle. I brought em.’

The driver was white. I invited him for dinner but when he declined I didn’t blame him. The girls Priscilla and Rachelle, on the other hand, were very excited and I quickly popped another half kilo of corned beef into the big billy. Meanwhile Peter and Buddha unloaded the two horses from the trailer. Both were eye-catching. The larger animal was a whitish-grey stallion; the other a stylish grey mare with a black mane. Their names were Stallion Tom and Possum. They were led over to Peter’s group, which hadn’t wandered more that fifty metres after the empty nosebags were removed, and hobbled out.

I felt a bit concerned when the driver left without even a mug of coffee. They had come from Fitzroy Crossing via Tunnel Creek and Windjana Gorge, a distance of three hundred kilometres, half of which was a four-wheel-drive track. But I was delighted to see George. If Robert found his horses up around the headwaters of the Lennard, he and the girls might ride with us all the way.

The dampers emerged from the ash with a rich brown crust, and the aroma lifting from the corned beef billy had us all standing and casting long shadows from the two lanterns. I tested the beef with a fork. It went through the meat almost on touch. Our first campfire meal was ready. In a camp atmosphere everyone ate quickly, as though the dark released the inhibitions of table manners. Another mug of tea and we dwindled towards swags and tents.

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