So conversing, after about three hours’ steady-riding through open box forest country, flat and monotonous, we arrived at ‘Fort Dwyer’—or Dee-wyer, as invariably pronounced thereabouts—a long, low building, constructed of huge, roughly squared logs of nearly fireproof red coolabah, or swamp-gum, and situated right on the verge of the steep clay bank, twenty feet below which glided sullenly along the sluggish Barwon, then nearly half a ‘banker.’
A hearty welcome greeted us; and the inevitable ‘square-face’ of spirits was at once produced, to which my companion did justice whilst pledging the health of the company with a brief, ‘Well, here’s luck, lads!’ For my own part, not daring to tackle the half-pannikinful of fiery Mackay rum so pressingly offered, with the assurance that it was ‘the finest thing out after a warm ride,’ I paid my respects to an immense cask of honey-beer which stood under a canopy of green boughs, thus running some risk of losing caste as a bushman by appropriating ‘the women’s swankey,’ as old Dwyer contemptuously termed it, whilst insisting on ‘tempering’ my drink with ‘just the least taste in life, sir,’ of Port Mackay, of about 45 o. p. strength.
There must have been fully one hundred people assembled; and the open space just in front of the house was crowded with buggies, spring-carts, wagonettes, and even drays; but the great centre of attraction was the stockyard, where Jim Dwyer was breaking-in to the side-saddle a mare, bought in one of his recent trips ‘up north,’ and intended as a present for his bride, of whom I caught a glimpse as she sat on an empty kerosene tin, with her sleeves rolled up, busily engaged in plucking poultry; a fair type of the bush-maiden, tall and slender, with good, though sharply cut features, deeply browned by the sun, laughing dark eyes, perfect teeth—a rare gift amongst young Australians—and as much at home—so old Bray assured me—on horseback cutting out ‘scrubbers’ or ‘brombees,’ as was her husband-elect himself.
The rails of the great stockyard were crowded with tall, cabbage-tree-hatted, booted and spurred ‘Cornstalks’ and ‘Banana-men’ (natives of New South Wales and Queensland respectively); and loud were their cries of admiration, as young Dwyer, on the beautiful and, to my eyes, nearly thoroughbred black mare, cantered round and round, whilst flourishing an old riding-skirt about her flanks.
‘She’ll do, Jim—quiet as a sheep’—‘My word! she’ll carry Annie flying’—‘What did yer give for her, Jim?’—‘A reg’lar star, an’ no mistake!’ greeted the young man, as, lightly jumping off, he unbuckled the girths and put the saddle on the slip-rails.
Jim Dwyer differed little from the ordinary style of young bush ‘native’—tall, thin, brown, quick-eyed, narrow in the flanks; but with good breadth of chest, and feet which, from their size and shape, might have satisfied even that captious critic the Lady Hester Stanhope, under whose instep ‘a kitten could walk,’ that the Australians of a future nation would not be as the British, ‘a flat-soled generation, of whom no great or noble achievement could ever be expected.’
I fancied that, as the young fellow came forward to shake hands with Bray, he looked uneasily and rather suspiciously at me out of the corner of one of his black eyes. My companion evidently observed it also, for he said laughingly: ‘What’s the matter, Jim? Only a friend of mine. Is the mare “on the cross?” And did you think he was a “trap?”’
‘None o’ your business, Jack Bray,’ was the surly reply. ‘“Cross” or “square,” she’s mine till some one comes along who can show a better right to her, an’ that won’t happen in a hurry.’
‘Well, well,’ replied Bray, ‘you needn’t get crusty so confounded quick. But she’s a pretty thing, sure enough. Let’s go and have a look at her.’
Everybody now crowded round the mare, praising and admiring her. ‘Two year old, just,’ exclaimed one, looking in her mouth.—‘Rising three, I say,’ replied another.—‘And a cleanskin, and unbranded!’ ejaculated Bray, at the same time passing his hand along the mare’s wither.