“I’ll go down and have a look at them,” the squatter said. “Put Monarch in a loose-box and give him a feed, Murty; I may want him again.” He slipped on his coat and strode out of the yard as the stockman led the great black horse into the cool dimness of the stables.
The stockyards of an Australian station form a very important part of its working establishment. A big “run” may have several sets of yards to save the trouble of driving stock far on any direction; but the main yards are always near the homestead—sometimes, indeed, a great deal too near. The yards at Billabong, however, did not err in this respect, being planned in a secluded corner whence they opened upon two paddocks. A belt of dwarfed gum-trees surrounded and shaded them; and beyond this shelter a little lucerne-field led to the kitchen-garden and orchard, so that the house itself was screened completely, and no dust could drift to it, even when, on a big mustering day, the bullocks had trodden every inch of the earth of the yards into fine powder.
To an unaccustomed eye they presented a somewhat bewildering array of fencing. They were completely surrounded by a very high fence of red-gum slabs, laid horizontally and very close together, and finished at the top by a heavy, rounded cap of wood, bolted to the top of the massive posts, and forming an unbroken ring. This fence was calculated to withstand the rush of the maddest bullock, infuriated by the indignities of mustering; and at the same time, being easily climbed, formed a refuge in case of an animal charging a man on foot. The cap, broad and smooth, formed a pleasant place from which to watch the exciting manœuvres below; Norah had spent many a cheerful hour perched upon it.
Within the great ring-fence the space was divided into many enclosures, large and small; from the big general yard, capable of holding a mob of bullocks, to small calf-yards, where newly-branded babies were wont to bleat distressfully for their anxious mothers—little dreaming that within a very few days they would have forgotten all about them, in the joy of a wide run, new grass and youthful light-heartedness. A long race, just wide enough for a single bullock, led from the main enclosure to the drafting-yards. A gate at its further end worked on a pivot; Norah loved to watch her father stand at it as the big-horned cattle came down the narrow lane in single file, turning the gate with a movement of his supple wrist so that some bullocks were ushered into one yard and some into another, according to their class. A man needed a quick eye and hand, and keen judgment, to be able to work the drafting-gate when the bullocks were stringing quickly down the race, the nose of one beast almost touching the tail of the one in front of him. Sometimes two or three of a kind came down in succession, all bound for the same yard, and then the task seemed easy; but often they alternated, and the gate had to go backwards and forwards so quickly that either the tail of the yarded bullock or the nose of his successor was apt to suffer. Branding was done through the rails fencing the race; a brick oven was built beside it, for heating the irons. But this was one of the details at which Norah did not preside. On branding days she preferred to mount her special pony, Bosun, and go for long solitary rides along the bends of the river, or across plains where an occasional hare gave excuse for a gallop.
Altogether, the Billabong yards were the pride of its stockmen, and the cause of deep envy in men from neighbouring stations. Too often, yards are make-shift erections, hastily run up out of any timber that may be handiest, and generally awaiting a day of re-planning and re-building that never comes. But David Linton believed in perfecting the working details of his run; and his yards were well and solidly built, planned on a generous scale that gave accommodation for every class of cattle, and equipped with gates which, despite their massive strength, were so excellently hung that a touch closed them, and only another touch was needed to send home a solid catch. Once the owner of Billabong had seen a man killed, through a gate too stiff to shut quickly before a maddened bullock’s charge; and as he helped to rescue the poor, broken body he had vowed that no man of his own should ever run a needless risk through neglect on his part.
Black Billy was cutting lucerne for fodder as the squatter passed through the little paddock. He turned on him a dusky face full of ludicrous unhappiness. The black fellow of Australia takes kindly to no work that does not include horses; it was gall and wormwood to Billy to be chained to an uncongenial task almost within a stone’s throw of the breaking-yard, through the high fence of which he could catch glimpses of a chestnut coat and hear voices raised in quick interest. He hewed viciously at the tough lucerne stems.
“That pfeller him buck plenty, mine thinkit,” he vouchsafed to his employer.
“Master Jim bin ride him, Billy?”
“Baal—not yet. Lucerne plenty enough cut, eh, boss?”
David Linton laughed outright at the wistful face.