Skyglow Page 8

  Snow held his breath, didn’t move a muscle.

  Johnny gave a whistle, short and sharp.

  In a spinning rush, the animal charged the fence, smacking a wide bony head into the timbers. Johnny balanced like a dancer, and with one slow graceful arc, plunged the picket downward, embedding it deep in the animal’s skull. Snow caught the grin on his neighbour’s face, a sickening triumph, before the steer went down in a rush of breath and pain, thudding all five hundred kilos into the ground, blood and brain leaking into the parched ground. Its hooves scrabbled uselessly in the air, finding no traction.

  Snow’s dog barked frantically from the tray of his ute.

  ‘Jesus!’ All the wind went out of Snow. He thought he might throw up. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  Johnny turned from his perch, smiling, and gave him a measured look. ‘You want the meat for your dog, Snow?’

  Snow threw his hat to the ground in disgust, a line of white forehead vulnerable in the stark sunshine. ‘You didn’t have to do that, Johnny!’ He was near to tears, guilt hot in his lungs. ‘He was just a traveller, mate. Coulda just stayed around here.’

  ‘Then why’d you ring me, neighbour?’ Johnny swung himself down from the rails and rounded on Snow. ‘Won’t be a traveller now, will he? Not once he’s all butchered up. Won’t be no trouble at all.’

  Snow looked from the bulk of the dead steer to the face of his neighbour and took a step backwards. ‘No, mate.’ He raised his hands, palms outward. ‘He won’t be no trouble.’

  The Blow-In

  Although the immediate cause is known…the exact nature of the processes that govern its repetitive cycle are still not certain.

  David B. Enfield on El Niño–Southern Oscillation

  The first cool desert winds send a whispered promise of the dry season westward across the great wide plains of the Kimberley. Stock saddles drag from tack-shed rafters; scraped, washed and rubbed with Neatsfoot to soften and supple. As the large pastoral runs begin preparing for another frantic set-to of man against the elements, young Mallory Jones leaves North Queensland, heading west. With his swag, a battered canvas bag of gear and a leap of faith, the whipcord ringer drives his dented Falcon across the Top End to try his chances elsewhere.

  Things happen around Mallory. Disaster and accident follow him from place to place until, finally, his personal curse becomes so well known around the local stations, he becomes virtually unemployable.

  ‘No, mate,’ they say at station after station, banging hats nervously against their legs. ‘No openings. Got a full camp. Try up at the Dunnart’s place.’ Then, as soon as his dejected dust rolls up the dirt road, they’d be on the phone to Elders. ‘For Christ’s sake, Harvey, I’m three down in the camp. Haven’t you got anybody?’

  Mallory, hope and innocence writ large on his long thin face, would cry if he knew, turn bitter with the unfairness of it all. His guileless blue eyes so tender, even the hard-bitten men of the interior, faces folded against merciless flies, can’t bring themselves to let him down hard; instead leaving him puzzled at the sudden lack of jobs on places notoriously hard to staff.

  Another type of character would figure it out eventually. Mallory instead turns his axe-blade face towards the west and sings cowboy songs for four thousand kilometres, all the while marvelling at his luck. He is getting to experience the vast and beautiful interior, and the end-of-wet-season sunsets, a different kind of luck could have denied him.

  *

  In the West Kimberley on Frazers Run, where boundless green paddocks roll towards a petticoat line of mangroves fringing the ocean, the mustering season is gearing up. The horses were run in with the chopper from their seasonal lay-off, kicking and grunting with disgust at the intrusion, mud spattered, split-hooved with neglect. They are roped, galloping in a circling mass at the homestead yards, remembered of manners and chosen by the team.

  Seven horses each, eight riders. Fifty-six horses, plus a few extras, to choose from a hundred and ten. Old favourites first. Magnet, Snowdrop, Trish and Bec, all gun rides. Able to turn on a sixpence. Misty, Dog, Runner, Coconut and Brazen. Deep-chested, trained to push a beast over and down, do it all day for fun. Led away, wild-eyed and snorting, enjoying the game. On it goes, all afternoon. Experienced hands meeting old equine friends in a rough and tumble reunion. The new chums watch the leftovers close, looking for guts and stamina and leg.

  Kev Miller has been at Frazers five seasons running. He knows all the horses, trained half of them. He’s earned first pick of the bunch: Casper, Midnight, the Lunatic, Ronald, Sonny, Blockhead and Bob. All of them young and strong, except Bob. Here, the last of the pure strains of Arab run through the horse’s fine-turned legs and the proud curve of his golden neck. Bob’s great-great-grandsire infused the herd before shipping off to the Great War, lost forever on the Western Front. Somewhere in his lineage, a palomino has left its stamp against the caramel of his coat, mane and tail flowing white.

  Bob’s fortune in life took a turn for the worse two years before. Boldly chasing a rogue bullock through paperbark country at the urging of a frantic Kev, the gelding tripped in a goanna hole, crashing into an ancient fence post. The collision took out his left eye and half his cheekbone. The trauma of the accident and subsequent medical treatments to save him left Bob with allergic reactions to everything from grass to sweat. Kev reckons it was all the antibiotics crashing his system, others maintain it was shock at the loss of his good looks. Whatever the reason, Bob was never the same. His beautiful coat now lumpy, raw with scratching. The side of his face missing a chunk, his remaining vision forcing him to run with his head to one side.

  Kev swears when they’d hit the fence post, Bob dodged left at the last second to save his rider’s leg. His love for the horse threatens at times to unman him, but he’s perfected the outback’s long stare to the horizon as a defence and holds steady. Kev rides Bob gentle every year on the plains, tailing out the weaners, to keep the horse’s spirits up.

  ‘Nothin’ sadder than a stock horse no use anymore,’ he explains around the campfire to the new chums, out of their depth and awestruck. ‘They just up and die of shame.’

  *

  Before the first muster at Frazers begins, Kev comes a cropper trying to ride the buck out of one of the new colts. Four young ringers cling to the yard rails with their stiff new boot heels, taking seconds to register that the great Kev Miller, legend of the Kimberley circuit, is in trouble. He writhes in the deep sand of the breaking yard for some long seconds as the black colt bucks around the yard, trying to dislodge Kevin’s saddle, before busting the top rail and taking to the plains, loose stirrups banging a tattoo of madness on its flank.

  At first, the string of curses being issued from Kev is taken as his disenchantment at having been so badly made a fool of, but it gradually dawns on the sniggering ringers that his curses are more pain than anger. They jump apprehensively to the ground to approach their idol.

  ‘Fuckin’ leg’s broke.’

  In the hours following, this crisis makes itself felt along the length and breadth of the station. All the way up to Big Bill Callahan, who’s inherited the place off his hardscrabble father back in the seventies and now runs it as his own kingdom. Forward dates of the first muster are set in stone, sale contracts signed, choppers booked, trucks locked in for transport. Time lost now means dollars, and they are a main man down, with no chance of replacing him so late in the season.

  Bill puts the word out that he needs a new man right around the time Mallory smokes into town with one crumpled ten dollar note left in his pocket. Attempting to tie up the Falcon’s loose exhaust with bailing twine, he collects a hot piece of grit in his right eye, causing curses aplenty and the urgent need to keep that one eye closed with an awkward suspicion of tears. Hearing of the job going out at Frazers, Mallory hightails it out of town, a trail of exhaust sparks lighting his wake in the darkness.

  Even in his desperation, Big Bill is canny enough not to take anyo
ne on without a reference. He spends considerable time that evening ringing the places Mallory has listed as references over in Queensland and the Top End. All the station owners speak glowingly of the young Queenslander, afraid he might come back, dragging his curse towards them like the Comet Hyakutake. Bill is impressed despite himself, rubs his hands at his lucky strike and takes the youngster on, watery eye or no.

  Bill’s conversation with Kev is short and to the point. Kev, in his third year as head stockman and criminally underpaid, is the station linchpin. With a cast on his leg and four pins holding his knee together, Kev is being kept on as verandah manager this season and directs operations from the homestead. Secretly pleased at his unexpected paid holiday, Kev gives Mallory the once-over and shakes hands with the gratified newcomer, who hasn’t felt so welcome anywhere for a long time.

  In bright starlight, Mallory hums to himself as he rolls out his swag atop an overgrown disused septic. He puts the odour down to his love of baked beans straight from the tin. Meanwhile, behind the stockman’s quarters, the ringers are planning to divide Kev’s good plant horses among themselves. When they finish, Mallory is left with two green colts and ugly Bob, who they are too ashamed to be seen on.

  *

  Next morning, as the sun lights the dry season frost over the flatlands, Mallory dons his full-length Driza-Bone coat against the early morning chill. In all the fancy catalogues and rodeo grounds of Queensland, they are just the thing, but regional fashion has its own peculiar rules and nobody this side of the Great Sandy would be seen dead in one. Oblivious, Mallory makes his way to the yards on stork-like legs, the spectacle amplified by the way he picks his way through the cowshit in his Cuban heels.

  The ringers giggle behind their hands as they sort bridles and shake out dew-damp blankets. ‘Hey look, boys. It’s Johnny Farnham!’

  ‘Nice dress,’ Rory McAltry deadpans as Mallory pulls his saddle from the rail and looks around for a horse to ride. Rory’s double handicap of frizzled red hair and rabbity buck teeth make him prone to striking first with newcomers to deflect the insults he feels bound to endure.

  Mallory doesn’t pause but turns a watery eye towards Rory, smiles his sweet smile. ‘Thought we’d go out dancing later, sunshine.’

  The lack of retaliatory insult silences Rory and earns his abiding loyalty. By way of apology, he gives Mallory the heads-up about the horses, warning him about the black colt gleaming wickedly in the dawn light. ‘That’s the one that busted Kev up. Name’s Tucker but we just rhyme it out to, you know.’ Shy about swearing in front of his new companion, he lets the obvious speak for itself.

  Mallory’s forehead creases in puzzlement. ‘Bucker, is it then?’ Hefting his saddle on one shoulder, he makes his way towards the snorting fever of a colt.

  Miracles occur every day, in all sorts of places. A flower opens on the right day, brolgas take flight at dawn on improbable wings. As Mallory approaches the colt, innocent of fear, Rory and the others witness a miracle that has become the stuff of Kimberley legend.

  The colt throws up its head as Mallory strides across the grainy yard, equine eyes rimmed white, the muscles in its powerful rump quivering like shaken water. The horse remembers that saddle, those stirrups banging. The ringers stand watching in silence.

  ‘Bit of a bucker, are ya, Tucker?’ Mallory throws his saddle over the horse’s back. Two of the younger ringers cover their eyes, anticipating disaster. The horse bares his teeth, yellow and vicious, as Mallory reaches beneath its tense belly to grab the surcingle, pulling it tight with one easy heave. ‘Tucker the bucker.’ He slaps the glossy neck none too gently. ‘Let’s get into it then.’

  The ringers peek through their fingers as Mallory jams his boot down in the stirrups, raising himself lightly into the saddle. Once astride, he looks around in surprise at the others still standing by the rails. ‘Come on then, you lot.’ He urges the colt towards the gate. ‘Wasting daylight.’

  The look on the colt’s face is mirrored by the ringers, shock and surrender mixing to a shamefaced stew. Tucker the bucker, who’s had the other name too, becomes a horse who forever-more wears the same bewildered expression as he did the day Mallory Jones ignored all warnings and blithely swung aboard.

  There follows the worst season Frazers has ever experienced. Cattle break out of yards, gates come open by themselves, pumps refuse to pump, and the blades fall off the windmill. The power supply blinks on and off as the generator develops fuel line gremlins, causing the homestead area to twinkle at night in the wilderness like the lights on a Christmas tree.

  Blown tyres are stacked against the workshop wall. There are so many they can’t find time to fix them, what with the grader losing oil from a hairline crack in the sump and most of the vehicles out of action more often than not. Big Bill narrowly escapes death himself as the tyres cascade down when he walks past on his way to take a piss behind the workshop one morning, having developed a urinary complaint that he is too embarrassed to seek help for.

  A parasitic infection takes hold among the ringers, causing endless emergency dismounts out on the muster, desperate as they are for the scant shelter of the few low bushes to relieve themselves, backsides flaming and chafed in the saddle. Blame falls on the cook, who promptly downs her tools, refusing to feed the camp until they come to their senses and admit it has nothing to do with her cooking.

  Mallory, with his love of canned baked beans, avoids both the runs and the cook’s wrath, and rides on regardless. He takes the disasters occurring around him as the natural course of things. In his experience, all stations are places of chaos and unexplained happenings, and even with his recurring eye problems, he is as happy as he has ever been.

  *

  Everyone is relieved when rodeo season comes around. Competition between the local stations is fierce, and the ringers are issued new red brigalow shirts, Frazers emblazoned in yellow on the back.

  Mallory seeks Kev’s advice on which horse to take to the main event.

  ‘Take Bob.’ Kev is still smarting from the black colt’s uncanny capitulation to this blow-in while he remains trapped, bored to fretfulness now, on the verandah by his cast. The devil in him is keen to see this usurper made a fool of on an ugly one-eyed horse, in the most public domain available. Everybody who is anybody will be at the rodeo, and Kev feels he has nothing left to salvage this season but his wounded pride. He’s heard the talk about the new fella out at Frazers who rode that mad bloody colt like a little kid’s pony after it was too much for Kev. A creeping sensation of heat washes over his neck whenever he thinks about it.

  Bob is a good stock horse, the best, but he’s never left the station in his life and will surely be overwhelmed by the noise and confusion of the rodeo. The double whammy of his awkward ugliness and certain stage fright will surely put an end to any glory Mallory might have garnered.

  ‘You reckon?’ Mallory hasn’t considered this possibility.

  ‘Definitely,’ says Kev.

  Mallory keeps Bob in the yards in the weeks leading up to the rodeo. He feeds him up on oats and brushes furiously at his mouldy coat but can do nothing about the horse’s missing eye or the bashed-in side of his face. His trust in Kev is such he never questions his motives, having a great belief in the goodness of mankind and no notion of doing anything underhanded to anything, animal or human. He goes on confidently with his preparations.

  *

  With Mallory riding in the horse truck, things run true to form on the way to the event. Twice they overheat on the way to Derby, and just outside town they hit a wandering bull, shattering a headlight and causing Rory to break his nose on the dashboard. They limp into town, too late to attend the pre-rodeo dance, and curse as the ringers from other stations jeer at their passing. Rory pulls his nose back into shape with a wet sounding crack and helps set up camp at the rodeo grounds while their competitors snore off hangovers.

  ‘Never had so much bad luck in one year,’ says Rory in wonderment, as the chill air throbs
against his swollen face. ‘Don’t know what we’ve done to deserve it.’

  Mallory unrolls his swag beneath the stars and claps his friend on the shoulder. ‘No such thing as luck, mate.’ Tucking himself in for the night, he sleeps dreamlessly until woken by the sounds of the camp stirring.

  Saddling Bob up amid the flurry of horses coming and going from the arena, Mallory smooths the horse’s forelock over a weepy patch of dermatitis. ‘Now, we’re riding for Frazers today, Bob,’ he says. ‘And they haven’t had much go good for them lately, so I want us to do this right.’ The weight of responsibility hangs heavy on his sloping shoulders. ‘I want you to really think about things, Bob. Really give it a red-hot go, okay?’

  Already the other Frazer riders have found misfortune in their events. Rory, now sporting a busted-up hand from a disastrous two-second bull ride, is unable even to wipe his own bloodied and crestfallen face. Two others are waiting in the emergency department of the local hospital for treatment, one for a possible torn shoulder and another for his parasitic burden which has flared overnight. Mallory sighs, wanting nothing more than to do Frazers proud.

  ‘It’s down to us, mate.’

  Bob, for his part, turns his one good eye trustingly towards the soft voice in his ear, before lowering his head and blowing warm air across the ringer’s cold fingers.

  As their number is called over a tinny loudspeaker, Mallory swings aboard Bob’s back and they make their way towards the chutes, oblivious to the amused glances of the crowd. Bob tosses his honey mane, warrior blood surging, and prances into the arena unfazed and ready for the adoration he’s always felt was his equine due.

  In the strange way that fate works, it so happens that Bob’s missing eye is on his left side and the injury to Mallory’s is on his right. Between them, they have good vision on both sides so long as their trust in each other is complete. The cattle, doughy from the warm sunshine and ready to camp up for the day, don’t stand a chance. Beneath Bob’s scars and threadbare coat runs the engine of a V8, and under Mallory’s scrawny chest beats a heart brave enough to face a lifetime of cursed luck with a smile and a steady nod to the future.