I was introduced to a gun shearer, Ian Redpath. He was a tall bloke who always wore a pork-pie, punters hat when he wasn't shearing. He was mostly bald at the front of his head which made his appearance seem older than his years. A heavy drinking problem did nothing to correct it either.
Redpath was a quiet bloke until he had too much grog and then he could become very argumentative or he'd simply go to sleep on the bar stool with his head on the counter until the Publican decided he'd had enough rest then he'd wake him up. Upon waking, the first words out of Redpaths' mouth were,
"Give us another middy mate."
In town, Redpath was a hopeless drunk but when he got back in the sheds, after a couple of slow days he would be ringing the shed again. I became very fond of Redpath, despite his drinking habit. When he told me he was leaving the Lake to drive over to Western Australia, I asked him if I could go with him.
"No worries mate. Sling ya swag in the back of mi Ute. I'll be leaving tonight after Giltraps closes."
It didn't take me very long to pack up mi case and as soon as Giltraps did close, Redpath very casually sauntered out, carrying a dozen cans under his arm for the ride to Hilston where he was based.
We arrived in Hilston well after midnight. Instead of going to his room, which he rented at at a mates house, he made his way to the back door of the Hilston Hotel. Once inside, we stayed there for at least 3 hours until the Publican refused to serve anymore beer.
The following day, Redpath got up at 1pm and headed towards the bar again. He kept this activity up for at least 3 days until I finally said to him,
"I'm going back to the Lake mate. I didn't come with you to watch ya drink ya self to death. I'll be leaving as soon as I find a ride back."
This statement of mine must have given him a bit of a shock because he finished his beer, bought another dozen and said, "Alright, come on mate, let's hit the road!"
Pretty soon we were on our way with my self behind the wheel of his brand new Ute. I knew he really liked me, otherwise he would have stayed at the bar drinking until he was broke. Also, he liked me to drive. No one lets a bloke drive his new Ute unless he enjoys his company.
We must have been on the road for around 6 hours. We'd changed seats and Redpath was now driving. Drunk or sober, he drove the Ute at around 80 miles an hour. Just as I was settling in for the long haul a big, semi passed us on the dirt road. The next thing I heard was a loud 'BANG' as a stone shattered the windscreen to pieces. Immediately, Redpath applied the brakes and at the same time he pushed out a big enough hole in the windscreen, which enabled him to see where we were heading. As soon as the vehicle ground to a halt, we pushed out the whole windscreen. There was shattered glass all over the place.
"What a bastard!", said Redpath. "This calls for another beer!"
I cleaned up as much of the small pieces of glass as I could without a small dust pan and broom. When it looked all right to Redpath he said, "Fuck it Yorky, that'll do sport. Open ya self a beer mate and well get moving again."
It's amazing how uncomfortable one can be in a Ute with no windscreen, especially traveling on a dirt road. Every car that drives past kicks up a huge amount of dry red dust.
When we finally reached a town called Wilcania, we were covered in a thick layer of dust from head to toe. Once we found the largest garage in town, the owner said he'd have to order a windscreen because it was a new Ute and he didn't carry spares for new vehicles. He also said that it would take at least 4 days before it arrived. Redpath ordered it and then drove straight to the Hotel to contemplate what to do, over a few cold middys.
That evening, as we made friends with a few of the local shearer, Redpath, who was known all over the Outback of NSW, managed to pick up some shearing and crutching for us. At least we'd make a few dollars while we waited in Wilcania.
That evening, we drove out to a station called Mount Pleasant. It was anything but. There was only a few sheep to shear. so the rest of our time was spent crutching, daggy-arse sheep.
Crutching consists of dragging out sheep, shearing the wool off of their rear-end in a fan-like shape. Under normal conditions, one can make a lot of money out of crutching. Unfortunately, we were not crutching in ideal conditions.
Once sheep have been let into a paddock that has plenty of green feed they tend to get the scours. They shit all over the wool around their arse. Over a period of time, the blow-flys, who see sheep shit as a five star meal, land all over the sheeps' arse. In the process, the blow-flys lay their eggs on the shit. After some time, the eggs hatch out as maggots. Maggots, being what they are, will look for food. Once they are firmly on the skin, they will start eating the sheep alive! They bore holes deep down into the sheeps' rear end. If not caught in time, they will kill the sheep.
Any shearer knows a fly-blown sheep. He can smell it. The antidote for this little trauma is to shear off all the wool where the maggots have been. After he's done this, he yells out "TAR BOY!" A roustabout runs down the board to the shearer with a can of liquid, which he daubs all over where the blow-flys have been, which stops them getting re-infected.
The other operation that one encounters while crutching, is when the shit on the rear end of the sheep has dried hard as a rock. The only way to get this off is to chip away with the hand-piece until it's all gone. That was how we spent our time at Mt. Pleasant.
After we finished our few days, he luckily found another 2 weeks shearing for us. It was decided that we'd forget about driving a few thousand miles across the Nullabar Plain and remain in Wilcania for as long as the work held out.
The following Friday evening Redpath and me drove back into town from a weeks hard work in rough old wethers. We decided to try out one of the other bars, just for a change in scenery. We already knew quite a few shearers now which made the stay a bit more enjoyable.
At around 9:30 I decided to go for a walk down the street for some fresh air. I was not interested in getting blind drunk with Redpath that night. Once I got outside a couple of Aborigine girls smiled a big smile at me and asked me my name and where I came from. Once I said, Lake Cargelligo they asked me if knew all of their relations who lived out at the mission. After 10 minutes of talking they suggested that after the bar closed down, if I bought some beer and wine we could all go for a bit of a party out at the place they were living. I agreed to meet them later.
After I had a feed at the local Dago shop, I went back up to the bar to see how old Redpath was faring. By this time, he was firing on all 8 cylinders and was already quite argumentative when the Publican called 'Time' at 11. I told Redpath about the the 2 Abbo sheilas I'd met earlier. He seemed to like the idea cause he said,
"At least it's somewhere to go where we can hang around and drink some more grog."
When we went around the back of the Hotel where Redpath had parked his Ute, the girls were waiting for us.
"G'day", they said as we approached. "Ya got some grog?"
"Of course I've got some fucking grog.", said Redpath. "Have ya ever known me not to have any?"
One of the girls said, with a smile,
"How would we know? We've only just met ya mate."
"Then fucking go and ask anybody that knows me, they'll all tell ya the same thing. Ya might see old Redpath without food on many occasion but grog, you'll never see him without."
"Alright mate.", said the older one. "Keep ya fucking hat on. We only asked."
"Where the hell are ya taking us anyway?", asked Redpath.
"Few miles out of town. Got a humpy out there. We can have a party without being disturbed.", said on of 'em.
Once we were all squashed in the front seat of the Ute, he started it up and drove out of the car park and then up the main road. For some reason, he was driving very slow tonight which was totally out of character for him. He was driving so slow in fact, one of the girls said,
"Can't this Ute go any fucking faster?"
"Course it fucking can. It's a brand new Ute.", he said. "What d'ya wanna go faster for?
"Well mate, some one might see us with 2 white fellas."
"So fucking what?", said Redpath, who had now opened a new can.
"Don't worry me mate, but if the local cops see us with ya, you'll git into big trouble.", said one of the girls.
"Fuck the cops. I've been in jail overnight more times than I can remember so once more won't make any difference to me.", said Redpath.
At long last, we arrived at an old rusty, broken down tin shack at the end of a dirt track on the outskirts of town. When we went inside, I got quite a shock as I looked around me. It was a one-room place with a dirt floor. The inside walls were just as rusty as the outside. The only furniture in the room was 2 single beds, one at each side of the room. On the actual bed part there were no mattresses, only a sagging chain-link spring affair which was supposed to hold at least a flock mattress. Instead, all that covered them were an old wool blanket. The only other furniture I could see was an old wooden chair which only had 3 legs.
Redpath walked over to one of the beds and sat down on the edge of the frame with the booze at the side of him.
"Alright mate, give us a drink.", said one of the girls to him.
"I don't know whether or not I should waste mi good beer on you Abbo sheilas. Here, ya can open up this bottle of Plonk, if ya like.
"Is this where you live?". I asked.
"Sure is mate. What else do we need?"
"Where d'ya cook?", I asked, cause there was no electricity or running water.
"Outside mate. We make a fire when we wanna cook up something."
"Where d'ya put ya clothes?", I asked.
"On mi body. Where else would I put 'em?"
"No, ya spare clothes.", I said.
"What spare clothes is he talking about?", said the other girl.
"Fucked if I know." said the other one. "He must know something we don't."
"Are these thin cotton dresses the only clothes ya have?
"Course they are. What do I need anymore for. I can only wear one dress at a time."
"What d'ya do when ya have to wash 'em?"
"I wash it in the river and hang it over a bush till it dries. What else."
As we sat and talked, I asked them many questions about their lives. Most of the time, they thought I was pretty weird. Eventually Redpath started to talk politics to the girl who was now sitting next to him. He asked her for an opinion on the war in Vietnam.
"What you mean, 'Vietnam?' What war? Where abouts in New South Wales is Vietnam? I haven't never heard of it mate."
"What about all those young white kids that are dying over there so that you bastards can be 'free'?" said Redpath, who was now pretty drunk.
"What bullshit you fucking talking white fella?", she said. "Maybe you had too much grog. Black fellas never have war. No white fella ever die for black fellas but plenty black fellas die at the hand of white fellas. If ya so worried about this Bush town, Vietnam, why don't you go to war instead of gittin' on the grog?"
"Ya stupid, bloody Giin.", said Redpath, as he took another big swig out of his can. "Vietnam ain't in the Bush. It's another bloody country all together. Didn't ya learn anything at school?"
The girl who was now sat next to me said to him,
"She never went to no white fellas school mate. She learn from tribal family everything about ancestors. Same as me mate. White fellas learning no good to black fellas. Only good thing white fellas have is plonk and Marlboroughs.
"Yeah that 's the bloody problem with you black bastards.", said Redpath. "Ya never work or look after the land."
The girl who was sitting next to him took another swig out of the wine bottle and said,
"What d'ya mean, black fellas not work or look after the land. Just look at you white fellas. You come to our land and in a few years it's almost dead! Ya put those chemical things on the land and then ya put up fences and tell us it's yours and if we walk on it, we're trespassing. Then ya go and call the white fella sergeant on us."
"Ya can have ya land back for all I care.", said Redpath, who was by now really drunk.
The Abbo girl, who was now herself a bit drunk said to him,
"We don't want it back now. You white fellas fucked it up so ya can have it. It's no good to us black fellas anymore."
As they were arguing back and forth, the girl who was sat with me said,
"Come on mate, I wanna show ya something. Come outside."
When we got outside, she closed the door and then grabbed hold of my hand and took off at a fast pace into the Bush. After about 10 minutes of walking we came to a big clearing in the Malley. The full moon was directly up above now and filled the clearing with a warm glow.
"Pretty place eh?", she said as she looked around.
"Yeah,", I said. "It's really peaceful out here."
"I wanna give you some thing very special.", she said as she pulled off her dress. "You are a very special white fella. You are a very good man. Come on.", she said as she laid down in the thick red dust. "Take off ya clothes and put it in here. I've got a gift for you."
We laid down in the Bush for at least 3 hours. When we were finished, I looked more like a black fella than a white one 'cause I was covered all over in layers of red earth.
"Let's go back now.", she said. "The Sun will be comin' up soon. It's not good for you if white fellas see you with a black Gin."
When we got back to the tin humpy, Redpath was fast asleep in the front of his Ute. The other Abbo girl was asleep on one of the rickety beds.
"You'd better wake him up and go now before some of my family show up."
It took me ages to wake up Redpath. When he eventually came too, he said,
"Gives us a middy mate!"
Come Sunday evening Redpath and me drove back out into the Bush for another weeks hard work shearing Wethers.
The cooks name was Paddy Slaven. He was an old Irish immigrant with a bald head, fat round face and a chronic drinking problem.
People who live in the Bush that have bad drinking problems are not called 'alcoholics' as long as they can get up and go to work everyday but once the grog has really gotten hold of 'em and they can no longer work, then and only then are they branded as close to being an 'alchy'.
Old Paddy was as close to being an 'alchy' as possible, without actually being labeled one. He drank from 5 in the morning until 11 at night, when he eventually ran out of grog. If he couldn't borrow a half-gallon of plonk, he would start on the Vanilla Essence. Many a contractor thought that Paddy would be baking a lot of cakes by the amount of Vanilla Essence he ordered for the stores but I can't remember ever eating one of Paddys' cakes.
When we finished that shed, we drove back into Wilcania for the weekend. On Saturday morning old Paddy was propped up at the bar drinking with one of his mates he'd met in town. By the time the afternoon arrived, he was broke down to the bones of his arse. When I walked into the bar, he made a bee-line for me. He gave me a sob story about having no money left for food.
I was still pretty naive in those days. It only took old Paddy a few minutes to relieve me of a 10 dollar note, after promising to go to the Dagos' shop and buy himself a good feed. When he walked away from me with the 10 bucks, I decided to keep an eye on him to make sure he didn't forget the purpose of the loan.
As I watched him closely, he slid the 10 dollar bill over the counter for the Publican to change. When he got it back in two fives he gave his drinkin' mate $5 and ordered another round of booze out of his 5. Once I saw that, I was really pissed! I walked over to where he was sittin' and said,
"Hey Paddy, ya told me ya wanted to buy ya self some food cause ya hadn't eaten for 24 hours!"
"Yeah, Yeah Yorky. Ya know how it is mate."
"No I fucking don't Paddy. All I know is that you're a fucking liar! If I had known you were gonna blow it on booze, I'd have never given it to ya!"
"You'll git ya fucking money back mate. Why are ya so angry?"
"Cause you're a real fucking con-man Paddy and on top of that you're a chronic fucking alcoholic!"
"Don't ya fucking dare speak to me like that ya pommy bastard!"
"Why Paddy, what ya gonna do about it. You'll never be sober enough to remember what I called ya."
"I'll knock ya arse over head in a minute."
"You and who else Paddy, ya drunken alchy mate? I could beat the shit out of both of ya with one fucking arm. Anyway, I'll tell ya one thing for sure, ya fucking lush. If I ever saw ya starving in the gutter, I wouldn't piss on ya if ya were on fire. You're better off dead! As far as the 10 bucks go, ya can keep it Sport. From now on I'll warn everybody I know about ya, ya fucking con-man!"
With that, I left him to his misery and went to the cafe, miself, for a good breakfast. I didn't very often get angry with people but that morning, if old Paddy had have pushed the issue too far I would have put him out of his fuckin' misery.
I spent most of the afternoon playing pool and having a few beers with some of the shearers I'd met. As I was scanning the local paper, I read a small article about 3 blokes who'd killed themselves in a car crash on the outskirts of town. The article said that they were all blind drunk and had hit a Semi-trailer head on. The articles' headline read, TWO MEN AND A SHEARER KILLED! That headline was the usual local attitude toward shearers or anyone who worked in the sheds.
Later on that evening, I saw the Aborigine girl I'd met the week before. I took off into the Bush with her again before the long night was over. The following morning, as I was having a beer with Redpath, who was in a pretty bad state, the local Wilcania Sargeant appeared at the front door of the pub. I know, because I could see him in the large mirror behind the bar.
"Oye! You, ya bastard. Come out here."
Every one in the bar turned around, except me.
"Oye!", he said again. "If I have to come in there and git ya, you'll be in deep shit mate!"
Slowly, I turned around on my stool and faced the front door.
"Yeh, you ya bastard."
"Come out here, I wanna a fucking word with you!"
"G'day sport.", he said in a nasty tone of voice.
"G'day, Sergeant what can I do for ya?", I said.
"Ya can't do a thing for me cobber but I've got a message for you!"
I had no idea whatsoever what the big, ugly Sergeant was talking about so I just kept quiet and waited.
"I understand from my source that ya fucking one of our local Gins."
His nasty tone and bluntness took me by surprise, but only for a second. I said to him,
"Your understanding from your source is wrong, Sargeant."
"I don't think so cobber, so listen to me and listen real good sport. If ya still in Wilcania by 1 O'clock this afternoon, I'll fucking lock ya up!"
"Why would ya do that? I haven't broken any of ya laws?"
"We've got a law in this town called 'Consorting'. If I was you sport I'd get the fuck out-a this town and don't fucking come back!"
With that, he walked off down the street to where he'd parked the local blue Bull-Wagon.
When I walked back into the bar, Redpath, seedy as he was from his Saturday night binge said to me,
"What did that big ugly bastard want?"
"He told me if I was still in town by 1 O'clock today, he was going to jail me for consorting."
"Fuckin' streuth!", said Redpath, who was now wide awake. "Let's grab a couple dozen bottles and git out of here before the ugly bastard comes back."
"Why, what does 'consorting' mean?"
"It means, ya not even allowed to talk to those black sheilas. If he finds out for sure that ya fucked one of 'em, he'll fuckin' lock both of us up and throw away the fuckin' key!"
Redpath downed his middy in one large swallow. He paid the Publican for 2 dozen large bottles of Pilsner, then said to me,
"Let's git our gear from the hotel and git out a' here. I'm sick of this scungy, fucking town anyway!"
Once our swags were packed and put in the back of the Ute, we were once more on our way. We left Wilcania behind in a cloud of red dust.
Redpath only drove a few miles before he said to me,
"I'll pull over to the side of the road and you can drive, if ya like. This driving caper is interfering with a mans' drinkin'."
When the Ute stopped, we exchanged seats. I pushed mi foot down on the accelerator and I said to Redpath,
"Where to now mate?"
"I think we'll head off South, Yorky. We'll see if we can pick up a pen in those big, fat Corradale sheep. I'm a bit sick of shearing rough Whethers. Besides, that Victorian Bitter is not too bad a drop of grog. I haven't had any since last year. We'll head down to a place called Hamilton. I'll git the road map out and once we know where we're heading, I can relax and have a few beers while you drive."
On the way down to Hamilton, we stopped at a place called Horsham. Redpath ran into a contractor that he'd worked for a few years before.
His name was Ron McClure. McClure was looking for one shearer. He had about six weeks worth of work so Redpath took the pen.
As we sat in the bar, I was starting to worry a bit because I had no work and no way of traveling without Redpath. At the end of the evening Redpath said,
"We're gonna stay at McClures' place tonight and tomorrow I'm gonna drive ya down to Hamilton. McClure says you're sure to pick up a pen shearing at this time of year. They're in full swing down there."
The following day, we took off early cause Redpath had to get back to Horsham. He dropped me off at the local shearers' pub. After I booked in, we had a couple of beers together.
For all his problems, old Redpath had a big heart. Anyone else would have left me stuck in Horsham, but not old Redpath. After we said our goodbyes, he took off and I ordered another beer. I remember it was somewhere around 3 O'clock in the afternoon. I had another 3 hours to wait until the local shearers started to roll in.
One thing about a shearers' pub is it doesn't take very long before one gets to know the local crowd. By 10 that evening, I'd met who a bloke who arranged a pen for me, starting in a few days.
A couple of days later as we drove onto the cockys' place, I noticed the size of the sheep. A Merino sheep is usually pretty light unless they've been on real good tucker. These sheep I was now looking at were huge, wooly Coradales', probably weighing around the 150 pound mark.
The cocky was and old German called Shultz. Him and his son, who was about 22, ran the place. The shearers quarters were an old run-down house which had no electricity or fly screens on the windows. Because the grass around that area was long and green, mosquitos were a constant plague.
In the morning, I got into mi shearing gear and made mi way over to the main house for a bit of breakfast before I started. Shultz was also the cook. He told me his old lady had died a few years back and he was left to raise the boy on his own.
At 7:30 I was loaded up and ready to start shearing. The shed was a small 2-stander and just after 7:30 another shearer turned up from town. He walked into the shed with his tucker box and a comb and cutter tin. As soon as he looked over the wall into his pen, he said to me,
"Jesus Christ mate, these fucking sheep look like baby elephants! I'll be flatstrap shearing a fucking 100 a day in these bastards!"
It took me all my my strength to drag the big, wooly Coradale Ewes out of the holding pen, not to mention shearing them. I'd only been shearing for about a year but not consistently so my lack of experience did not enhance my ability to shear a good tally.
Normally, if I worked mi guts out all day I could shear anywhere between 80 to 100 Merinos. After 2 hard hours of shearing old Shultzs' Coradales, I had only managed to poke out 15! The wool was really long and hard-cutting which meant I had to change the combs and cutters a lot. Because the sheep were so fat they did not like being sat up or rolled on their backs. To show their disapproval, they kicked like hell. The bloke next to me cursed and swore as he sweated over the huge Coradales.
By lunch time he had shorn 45. Once old Shultz was out of earshot, he said to me,
"I'll be looking for another pen tonight when I git back to town. The bloke who told me about this place said they were not bad shearing. Wait till I see that lying bastard again!"
"How long ya been shearing?", I asked him.
"15 years mate. How about you?"
"About a year, but not every week."
"You've only been shearing a year mate? Jesus sport, you're going real well in these mongrel bastards!"
"Not really. I'll be flat out getting 60 today."
"But that's pretty good for a learner Yorky. Look at me, I've only done 45. The last place I was at, I was shearing 150 a day."
"So ya think I'm going alright?"
"Listen mate, I'm one of the fastest shearers in Hamilton. Any bastard will tell ya that. As far as I'm concerned, if you can shear 60 for the day in these bastards, you're alright in my book sport."
At first, I was feeling really down cause I expected to shear at least 80 a day but this bloke on the stand next to me helped me feel a lot better about miself. He was a real supportive bloke.
He stayed at the shed about a week before he pulled the pin on the old cocky. Over the next few days he stopped several times to give me some good pointers on how to make the job easier for miself.
On Friday night, I drove into Hamilton with him and booked into the Hotel. Over the weekend I met quite a few shearers in the barroom. Some of 'em were good blokes and some of 'em were real bastards. One bloke asked me how many a day I was shearing. When I told him 60, he started to laugh and take the piss out of me. As he was doing this, the shearer who had been working with me all week came into the bar. He was a well-known bloke around Hamilton. People greeted him as he waked in. When he saw me at the bar, he came over and said,
"Drink up Yorky, I'll buy ya a beer mate."
"Good on ya.", I said. "Good to see ya again,"
The shearer who had been taking the piss out of me knew the gun shearer who had just bought me a beer. He said to him,
"Where ya been shearing at mate?"
"I've been shearing with Yorky all week out at Shultzs' place."
"How many ya doing a day there?", he asked him.
"90 was mi best day,"
"Fucking hell sport, they must be real tough going for you to only shear 90 in 'em?"
"They fucking are.", he said. "Old Yorky here was doing as well as me for the length of time he's been shearing."
"Jesus Christ.", said the piss taker. "I'm sorry for taking the piss out of ya mate. I didn't realize how touch a-goin' the sheep were."
The bloke I worked all week with said, "They been taking the piss out of ya Yorky, have they mate? Well don't let it worry ya sport cause these lazy bastards wouldn't shear 50 a day in those sheep. I'll put mi money on you any day of the fucking week mate. Drink up Yorky, I'll buy ya another beer."
From that point on, no one else took the piss out of me. In fact, I had a pretty good time in Hamilton the 6 weekends I spent there."
After the bar closed down at 10:30, I made mi way out to the lounge. The lounge was open at least another 3 hours for residents and their guests. I met a shearer called Brian Cullen. Brian was a pretty big, strong bloke who came from Cunnamula. We hit it off right from the beginning. That made mi stay there a lot more comfortable.
Once that shed was finished, I left a message for Redpath at McClures' place. He returned my message saying, 'Hitchhike up to Horsham. I've got a pen for ya, shearing with me.' The message made me feel really good. I packed up mi case, paid mi bill at the bar and made mi way up to the Hotel in Horsham where I found Redpath, full as a boot, propping the bar up.
Redpath was very supportive of my shearing efforts. The following day we drove out to the Bush to start another shed. One weekend, whilst hanging out in the bar, I met a bloke, Clay O'malley. He was a handsome-looking bloke with wide shoulders and a reputation to match. He was very popular with the sheilas and the contractors for his respective talents.
Redpath and me were sat quietly at the bar drinking a cold beer when he made his grand entrance. Modesty was not one of O'malleys' better qualities. Before long, he was bragging about the amount of sheep he could shear, the amount of sheilas he'd had and the amount of grog he could hold.
During his bragging session, the subject somehow got on to snakes. As expected, O'malley was also an authority on poisonous snakes. To prove it, he said he'd head out into the bush and catch one. The Publican told him no to be so stupid because he had too much grog in him. True to form, O'malley would not have a bar of it. He downed his beer in one mouthful, picked up his change, then made his exit from the bar.
Whilst he was gone, no one gave it another thought because most people were used to his ways. It wasn't until he made his grand entrance again, carrying a small sugar bag that anyone took him seriously.
"Give us another middy.", he said to the publican as he sat down on the bar stool and put the sugar bag on top of the bar.
"What's in the bag Clay?", said Redpath, who was not at all keen on snakes.
"It's a copper-head mate?"
"Oh Bullshit!", said Redpath, who was now sliding his stool a couple more feet to the right of the bag.
"I tell ya, it's a copper head mate. As soon as I've finished this beer, I'll get it out and show you.
O'malley didn't wait to finish his beer, instead he slid his bar stool back from the counter and started to undo the string which held the top of the sugar bag securely tied. Once the string had been loosened he held it closed with his left hand.
"Now I'll show you bastards what's in the bag!", he said as he felt around the outside of it. "Ah, here we go!" he said as he held onto something from the outside.
"I've got hold of his head now. I'm gonna put mi hand inside the bag and pull him out!"
Everyone, including myself, stepped back at least another 3 feet as he let go of the bag opening. O'malley pushed his hand, very carefully, into the bag as we all looked on. Just then he pulled his hand back out at great speed and said,
"Shit! Bastard! He fucking got me!"
"What d'ya mean, 'he got me'?", said Redpath.
"I thought I had hold of his head securely but he wriggled free and bit me thumb!", he said as he closed the bag tightly.
"Hurry up!", he said in a panicked voice. "You've gotta get me to a hospital!"
Redpath, drunk as he was, sprang into action!
"Alright, hurry up mate. My Ute's outside. I'll take ya!
The publican told us where the closest hospital was. Before we went any further, O'malley cut his thumb and tied a piece of string around it as fast as he could. In no time at all, we were doing 90 miles an hour up the wide bitchuman highway towards the hospital. On the way, O'malley kept saying to me, "Undo the tourniquet and move it up a bit and then pull it as tight as ya can." Once this was done, he said, "Well, it looks like I'm really fucked now. I'll never make it cause once the tourniquet's up to the top of mi arm, there's no where else to tie it!"
Redpath drove like a first-class racing car driver as he steered the Ute around the wide corners with the needle bouncing on 105, most of the time. Before long, I had made the last tie, just below the shoulder muscle in O'malleys' left arm.
"That's it. We can't move it again. I'm out of time mate! I always wondered how I was gonna die. Now I don't have to wonder anymore."
"You'll be alright mate.", I said. "Don't worry, there's not too far to go now!"
"How far to go, Redpath?", asked O'malley.
"Twenty miles mate but at this speed it won't take long."
"I'm fucked! Now I'm really fucked! Tell mi old lady what happened will ya and do what ya can for mi kids."
O'malley was now starting to get groggy. His eyes started to close and his breathing became shallow and slower.
"Don't let me go to sleep." he said in a whisper. "Keep me awake."
The only thing I could think to do was to slap his face and shake him.
"Tell me how many sheep ya shore last week mate?", I said
"I was the fastest in the shed.", he said softly.
"Just as fucking well for you that I wasn't shearing next to you, ya gutless bastard. I'd have run rings around ya!", I said.
This statement brought him back a bit, so I pursued it further.
"The only problem with you fucking Aussies is ya full of shit and ya got no balls. A fucking good pommy could blow ya arse off, in a shed!". I said, as his head lolled from side to side.
"Wake up, ya gutless bastard!". I screamed at him as I slapped his face from side to side.
"That fucking hurts.", he said in a soft whisper.
"That's because you've got no fucking guts O'malley. You're all fucking talk and no action!, I yelled in his face.
"I could work you into the ground, ya fucking pommy bastard." he said as his head lolled forwards.
"You haven't got the fucking balls O'malley!", I screamed at him.
I pulled his head up and I slapped his face around a bit more.
"Hospital's coming up on the left", said Redpath. "Smack him around a bit more mate. Don't let him drift off!"
As we pulled up outside the Emergency entrance, a couple of doctors were waiting with a wheel chair. The publican had called ahead and everyone was fully prepared for him. It only took seconds before he was out of the Ute and into the wheelchair heading for the front door.
Redpath and me parked the Ute and then went into the Emergency waiting room to wait for some information. After about an hour, a doctor came out and said,
"He's gonna be alright now. We gave him a shot of anti-venom and he's sleeping peacefully. It's a good job you kept him conscious, cause if not, he'd be dead by now."
"How long will he be kept in?" asked Redpath.
"At least 5 hours or so. We want to make sure he's alright before we let him go."
We decided there was no more we could do. We filled up the Ute with petrol and drove back to the hotel, only this time the speedo needle never got above 60.
"You're not a bad driver.", I jokingly said to Redpath.
"You're not a bad psychologist. Ya really got his attention when ya called him a gutless bastard and told him ya were gonna run rings around him if ever you were in the same shed together."
"Yeah mate, but I wouldn't dare tell him that, had he been alright."
"Fucking hell no. He's knocked some real big men arse over head for just looking sideways at him."
"Oh shit. I hope he doesn't remember!"
Late that afternoon, O'malley made another grand entrance into the barroom. This time his thumb was bandaged and his ego was a bit bruised.
"Are ya alright mate?", I asked him.
"Course I'm fucking alright. I'm an Aussie. If it had been a pommy bastard that'd gotten bit, he'd have been dead by now."
Redpath piped up, in a drunken slur, and said,
"If it wasn't for this pommy, you'd have been one big, dead, fucking Aussie. I think you owe us, at least, a round of beer so quit your skiting and put ya fucking money where ya mouth is!"
"We'll have 2 more middys' publican." said O'malley.
Not long after that Redpath and me did a couple of sheds in South Australia at a place called Narrow Court. We both lost a good few bucks on a horse called Tobin Bronze. According to Redpath, he could not lose! After that, we drove to a place called White Cliffs where they mine for Opal.
There was not much work around by now. Redpath told me to go to Broken Hill cause he was gonna get on the grog for at least a week. He said he'd had it with shearing for a while.
I said goodbye to Redpath the following day and got a ride with the mail truck to Broken Hill. I never saw Redpath again after that. I firmly believe that if he's still alive, he can be found propping up the bar at the Hilston Hotel in New South Wales!
