In open order we jogged along across country,
with Jackeroo riding ahead as pilot, followed by the jangling, straggling
team of pack- and loose horses, while behind the team rode the white folk
all abreast, with six or eight dogs trotting along behind again. For a
couple of hours we jogged along in the tracks of Jack's cattle, without
coming up with them, then, just as we sighted the great rumbling mob, a
smaller mob appeared on our right.
"Run 'em into the mob," Dan shouted; and at his shout every man and horse
leapt forward--pack-horses and all--and went after them in pell-mell
disorder.
"Scrub bulls! Keep behind them!" Dan yelled giving directions as we
stampeded at his heels (it is not all advantage for musterers to ride
with the pack-team) then as we and they galloped straight for Jack's mob
every one yelled in warning: "Hi! look out there! Bulls! Look out,"
until Dan's revolver rang out above the din.
Jack turned at the shot and saw the bulls, but too late. Right through
his mob they galloped, splitting it up into fragments, and in a moment
pack-horses, cattle, riders, bulls, were part of a surging, galloping
mass--boys galloping after bulls, and bulls after boys, and the white
folk after anything and everything, peppering bulls with revolver-shots
(stock-whip having no effect), shouting orders, and striving their utmost
to hold the mob; pack and loose horses galloping and kicking as they
freed themselves from the hubbub; and the missus scurrying here and there
on the outskirts of the melee, dodging behind bushes and scrub in her
anxiety to avoid both bulls and revolver-shots.
Pages:
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304