No one knew how far into the interior the settlements reached, or how far each man traveled with his herds. Maps that might have assisted would-be settlers and stockmen had yet to be drawn up. The continent was to them a blank stone, scratched only along the edges with a few lines running inward, the Great Dividing Range holding all of the newcomers back for a quarter century. Then, in a haphazard, each-man-for-himself rush, the psychological barrier crumbled. The government sent out surveyors and issued land grants and titles, but herdsmen quickly spread beyond the farthest surveyed limits, beyond the known world, and beyond the reach of the law. Livestock were pushed into new areas across the continent, and released to find their own ways of surviving.
Great herds reached the northern state of Queensland, and the far north of the gulf country, in the 1860s. Livestock were shipped by boat, then waded through mangrove swamps to reach dry land and find water holes that weren’t full of tide. In some cases they were driven across the desolate inner swaths to the farthest reaches of the continent. The tough—the stock that didn’t get smashed to death by hurricane winds and swells, or sucked into mud, didn’t sicken from bad water or disease, or die of exhaustion and lack of water or feed—made it to the interior and beyond. Sheepmen sheared and shipped the wool back to England, to be spun and woven into blankets and garments. Cattlemen shipped out beef on the hoof. The industry became the foundation for wealth and sustained the continent during the first century of its colonial occupation.
When stock prices dropped too low and livestock herds grew too large for the arid land to support them, a few thought they would recover their costs and turn a profit by boiling millions of sheep and cattle until they turned to grease. They called it boiling down, a sickening image, but tallow made soap to cleanse the country of its overindulgence. This was the story. The people who stayed endured every manner of depression, drought, and setback, layer after layer.
Cattle gradually replaced sheep as the wool market plummeted and refrigeration techniques were developed on cargo ships to transport beef back to Europe. Cattle also proved more durable in the long run. English breeds of Shorthorn and Hereford adapted well to the more verdant fringes and the South, but the interior demanded other blood. So in the early part of the twentieth century the North American-bred Brahman cattle—heat-, tick-, and disease-resistant—changed the entire herd of Australia. Over time the stockmen adapted too, developing their own traditions and heritage, born of Australia, written into songs and the creases of their hands and faces; carried with pride, patience, and the requisite rugged recklessness. The process resulted in a coevolution of stock, stockmen, and the environments of the immense island continent.
A Quiet Muster
DAWN SEEPED IN AT THE EDGE of the clearing beyond the kitchen, offering its pale glow as a halo over our world. We gathered and left in the dark, piling into utes to drive to the yards. I had silently joined the mustering crew, following after Miles when he left the kitchen after a brief consultation with Angus. No one told me to do otherwise. If I kept quiet and almost invisible, I might be able to slip in, as I had in the yards, without much disruption.
The crew had split up to divide the work, and just a few of us—Miles, Victoria, Cole, and I—would ride together that morning, bringing in cattle that had been mustered to a holding paddock to be worked at the house yards. Cole, with his vest zipped up but bare arms exposed, started the big diesel horse truck that stayed parked at the yards and pulled up alongside the loading ramp. Vic opened the door to the shipping container that served as the saddle shed. She and Cole had brought a pile of saddles, bridles, pads, shoeing tools, and veterinary supplies along with their truckload of thoroughbreds. The inside of the shipping container was so dark I couldn’t distinguish the saddles, but I found mine by feel, and the other ringers seemed to know by instinct which rack held their saddles and bridles. Vic and Cole gathered halters and bridles and entered the pens through metal gates, their figures moving in among the shadowy forms of horses.
I caught Darcy and slipped the snaffle bit into his mouth and the headstall over his ears. He followed me on a loose rein through the pale filtered dawn. The ringers tied their horses and hauled saddles out of the shed. We brushed the horses’ backs with our hands, placed blankets and saddles, and pulled up cinches. The little Australian stock saddles were lightweight, easy to toss up onto the horses’ backs. The latigo—a strap used to adjust the cinch—was just a piece of webbing, instead of the thick band of leather I was used to. Following the others, I led Darcy carefully up the loading ramp to stand packed close and parallel with the other horses. The horses lined up in the back of the big truck, their hooves braced against the metal grid welded to the floor to give them extra footing.
Miles tied his horse at the front so he could unload his mount last, after he mustered the paddock with the motorbike. Cole closed the heavy iron doors of the truck crate and slid the ramp back into place. The ramp was hard to lift, and harder to slide under the bed of the truck. Cole said a bull had smashed it a few weeks back and bent it out of shape. He spoke quietly, gently, his tone defying the meaning of his words. Miles left ahead of us with the motorbike; he would gather cattle together in that small paddock and work them toward the watering area.
Cole drove carefully, downshifting to slow the vehicle so the horses would have a smooth ride. He sat silent for the most part. Vic had a few things to say about the muster, how she wasn’t so sure about the whole prospect, how the crew seemed a bit disorganized. The radio broadcasted a quiet stream of American country music. The flat landscape made for good radio reception even hours from the transmitters.
We parked out in the middle of the paddock near a water trough, and the three of us unloaded our horses and waited in the early morning heat. The plains seemed larger away from the yards. The first light blasted us, Vic with her button-down shirt and tight black Wranglers, her black hat and blond braid, Cole in his vest and faded jeans, a pair of old tennis shoes. His face, arms, and hands were burned a deep red and brown.
We watched as cattle began to arrive from different directions and gather at the concrete troughs. They came in as if pulled by a magnet, bawling for calves and raising enough dust to obscure the rim of the morning sky.
Miles eventually pulled up with the motorbike, dirt covering his bulk. His pack of little dogs hopped into the water trough, displacing cattle. The dogs eventually leaped out, shook, and came over to drop to their bellies in the dust beside him.
“A bit stirred up, that mob. Thought they’d’ve worked out the salt in this holding paddock.”
Vic said, “Wouldn’t surprise me if they’d run ’em with the chopper just to stir ’em up for us.” She tightened her cinch and swung up, one hand gripping the horn of her Western saddle, one hand on the neck of her horse. She headed off toward the mob.
“They’ll settle in once we get moving,” Cole said.
Miles nodded. He stepped off the motorbike, cast a worried glance toward the cattle, and climbed the metal ramp up to the truck to unload his horse. Some had already begun to disappear back into the scrub, and Vic took off after them. I tightened my cinch, pulled on my gloves, and followed Cole, who had loped out to hold the stirring mob that remained. Vic brought back her little dissidents and then she blocked and redirected others back until we could form a better net around them.
Miles joined us on horseback, followed by his pack of dogs. “Cole, if you’ll take the lead, Vic and I’ll ride the wings, and Rafael, you can take the tail? Guess we’ll walk them to the gate in the corner?” The corner of the paddock lay somewhere to the southeast, invisible in the distance. I rode away with a pounding heart. The tail was the easiest place to ride, usually assigned to the newest or greenest of a crew. A thrill flooded my chest, knowing Miles was considerate of what I could and could not do. Darcy seemed pleased with the task and stepped out with ears forward and a lift to his stride.
Cattle circled up
