Warrigal's Way by Warrigal Anderson Page A

doin’ now.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?” I asked him.
    â€œWork my laddie, work. He’s been negotiating a contract price with Angliss, so now we might finally go to work.”
    â€œDo you know where we’re off to?” I asked Mike.
    â€œYep, out the Gilbert River. Ted tells me we got four hundred mixed Angus, Brafords and Herefords, all steers, to go to CQME in Rocky.”
    â€œHow long will that take us?” I asked Mike.
    â€œAbout five months, depending on how fast Hugh wants to push them, or how soon the meatworks wants them, what condition, how much feed’s about. You’ll like it on the road. It’s relaxin’, free and time don’t seem to mean much. When everything’s going right you wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
    I unsaddled Shorty and rubbed him down, filled his feed bin and topped up his water, and limped after Mike up to the kitchen. We sat on the back steps and took off our boots. I gave a big sigh of relief and luxuriously stretched my feet. They were sore and tired from being so tightly confined all day. They were the first boots I ever owned and I was so proud of them I could put up with a bit of pain, but oh the relief to free my feet.
    â€œYour dogs howling, mate?” Mike asked, seeing the look on my face.
    â€œYeah, you’re not wrong, they’re smarting alright.”
    â€œLook, I’ll give you the mail. See that bucket? Go fill it with water, drop your boots in it, soak them overnight, put them on wet in the morning, and they’ll stretch to a good fit.” He gave me a smile. “I guarantee it.” (Willing for anything I tried it and it worked a treat.)
    We went inside to find Ted getting tea ready and Hugh poring over all sorts of papers.
    â€œHow did you go?” asked Mike.
    â€œIt’s all on, brother. We can get ready to leave day after tomorrow at daylight. We’ll use tomorrow to go over everything and fine tune our gear. Ted’s got everything in place.”
    â€œYeah, this is going to be a ripper trip, mate. Country’s lookin’ good, plenty of feed and water everywhere, billabongs and turkey nests chock-a-block.” Ted smiled. Billabongs I knew about, but what the hell was a turkey’s nest? I asked Mike after tea.
    â€œA turkey nest? It’s a name for a dam—you know, a man-made waterhole for stock. It gets its name because of the shape. Once the dozers have finished pushing the dam, it looks like a turkey’s nest. Clear now?” He smiled and pulled out his tobacco and rolled a smoke.
    I was working on my saddle, soaping it to get the leather nice and supple. Ted told me it would be easier on the rear end. “Softer the leather, softer the ride,” he reckons.
    At the breakfast table next morning Hugh said, “Anything you want from town you better go get it. You know the form, Mike.” Then he added, “You stay behind after breakfast, Warrigal. I got some papers for you to sign.”
    I had a small panic attack at those words. I couldn’t read at that stage much less write or sign my name. But Hugh was great. He explained that the paper was an agreement between him and me, that he agreed to teach me to be a drover, and I agreed to learn. Then if the Departmentturned up, at least he’d have something to argue with. So he signed my name and I put my thumb on the ink pad and rolled a thumb print alongside the signature. Hugh said that was legal.
    I went with Mike and Ted after that, and we had a furious burst of checking gear, and by half past ten we were finished. Hugh gave us all a sub on our pay—we got two quid each—and we went into town in Hugh’s car. He said he’d see us at the Crown later, so we piled into his ‘52 Chev, with Ted driving, and me sitting in the middle in all my new gear, my hat in my lap.
    The boys let me off just before the bridge by the Shamrock Hotel, and told me they would at the Crown