Such is their origin and nature of formation. The advantage is patent. The driving of cattle, especially of a large herd, into a yard is always a troublesome, costly, and injurious process. The larger and fiercer cattle horn, crush, and sometimes fatally injure the weaker. Calves are hurt. Occasionally valuable cows are injured; even the strongest and fattest animals are not improved by the cruel goring and ceaseless crushing to which they are exposed during days or nights in the yard.
In camp-work there is little or no chance of oppression or hurt. After an hour’s ‘beating up,’ and ringing of whips, streams of cattle are seen pouring in from every point of the compass towards, let us say, the main camp. Generally situated at no great distance from the stockyard, this is supposed to be the central and principal trysting-place. From one side comes a long string of comparatively sober and peaceful cattle, comprising a goodly number of cows and calves. They trot leisurely, perhaps merely walk, until they reach the bare mound by the side of the long reed-covered lagoon, shaded by venerable white gums. There they halt or walk peacefully round and round. But stop—now far and faint more whips resound, which from time to time one hears like a tapping-bird or the snapping of dried sticks. Only the half-Indian sense of the bush-reared stockmen could say with certainty that these sounds were the volleying detonations of the mighty stockwhip, that terrible weapon in the hands of an Australian bushman. The sounds are louder, nearer, less ambiguous; the muffled lowing of a great concourse of cattle comes down the wind, mingled with shouts, yells, and strange cries. At length the herd gradually come—
Nearer still, and yet more near,
The trampling and the hum,
when suddenly there is a shout of ‘There they come,’ and a long line of magnificent bullocks, fiercely excited, breaks through the adjoining timber. On they come at a swinging trot, heads down, eyes glaring, in some instances tongues out, heading straight for the camp. Behind them is a great herd of mixed cattle, of which they are the advanced guard. There are so many of them that the ‘tail’ or rear is not at present visible. From the increasing whip volleys, the barking of dogs, and the shouts and cries of men, it would appear that the ‘tail’ is not actuated by the same lofty feelings of pride and courage which mark the ‘head’ of the column that has just dashed into camp in such distinguished fashion.
‘My word!’ said Charley Banks, ‘that’s something like a mob! What a lot of rattling bullocks, shaking fat too; this is my sort of cattle run; everything fat, from the calves upwards; as long as there’s plenty of rain, there’s no fear of the feed running short, and my opinion is that there’s room for twice as many cattle as we’ve got—and more than that, if there was water at the back.’
‘And I feel confident,’ answered Mr. Neuchamp, who was surveying with an eye of satisfaction his camp full of well-conditioned cattle, ‘that in less than two years there will be water all the way from the river to the Outer Lake. That will be something like an improvement, as you Australians call everything from a bark hut to a five-hundred guinea wash-pen.’
‘I hope so,’ said Mr. Banks, without any great show of enthusiasm. ‘But improvements cost a deal of money, and my old uncle used to say that the money ought to come first, in station management, and the improvements afterwards. He made plenty, but he never would go into debt, even for his wool bales. He used to lecture me for buying so much as a pair of hobbles without paying cash.’
‘The principle is sound, no doubt,’ replied Ernest thoughtfully. ‘But it may be pushed too far; I think many of the older pioneers might have made all the money they did in half the time if they had only had sufficient foresight to organise plans of reproductive outlay, certain to pay cent per cent upon any money which they might have expended, or even borrowed at reasonable interest, for their construction.’
‘Old Nunkey used to say that reasonable interest had a knack of growing into unreasonable interest if you didn’t pay up half-yearly, which people often found something to prevent their doing,’ said the prudent youngster. ‘Of course, I don’t know much about spending money—I never had any to speak of; but there’s nothing beats a certainty, I think.’ Here ‘the tail’ of the large lot of cattle of which ‘the head’ was so sensational and satisfactory, made their appearance, much gratified at being permitted to round up on the camp and mingle with the main multitude, with which they exchanged pushes, greetings, and salutations. Behind them rode Jack Windsor, accompanied by a band of picked volunteers, who, with him, had done an immense amount of outpost duty since sunrise.