Through dust and mud
Through fire and flood
Through tears and blood

Then came the ultimate station experience, the muster and overland drive to the sale yards on the coast; this is why cowboys are cowboys,

‘for the drovers life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know’.

This was not a mill run, this was not a fence run, not even a job. It was the culmination of everything that everybody had worked for; it was the reason behind the reason they were there, a purpose to be. The Station was abuzz with enthusiastic activity and anticipation; every man involved, not one would remain behind. The wagons were loaded with everything they would need, food and cooking pots and guitars, swags and dry-z-a bone coats and guitars, tools and axes and guitars…No need for extra water, if they couldn’t get the cattle to water every day, then they would have no water either, but that was never an option.

The day finally arrived, it was like an army assembled, and a formidable army it was too, Cooky pondered. He and his men, along with, it seemed, a hundred other riders toting stockwhips and rifles.

The thunderstorms had been slowly advancing; the wet season build up had begun. A hundred cowboys had mustered, keen for the ride as the two older fallas, the two B’s, Billie and Benji engaged in deep discussion. The rumbling of distant thunder and the glow of the lightning flash, not a concern in itself, a regular afternoon event this time of year. It was that ominous dark cloud approaching from the south, the direction of their travel. And though it obscured the sky in its approach, it was not of the sky but of the earth; it was a dust storm, dust picked up and carried by a ferocious approaching thunderstorm which would throw a blinding, choking blanket over everything in its path. Daunting enough to ride into such a storm, though this was not the main concern, but fire. If those lightning strikes started a fire the wind would carry it roaring right through the homestead with catastrophic consequences. The decision was made; the ride would be delayed and every man knew his role. The horses were unsaddled and unhitched from the wagons and gathered in a safe green paddock. Every container that could hold water was filled from the windmill, and hessian bags soaked and shovels gathered to beat out the flames. And they didn’t have long to wait for the challenge, the dust storm cloud now bearing a threatening red glow; now carrying more than just dust.

It hit with such choking ferocity, every man’s face covered with a wet scarf just so he could breath. And in the blinding storm, fire, the hay shed first to go up as they formed a bucket line from the windmill trough, and then smoke coming from the sleeping quarters and soon after the kitchen, stretching even the manpower resources of a hundred men. Then the unthinkable; the powerful winds spinning the long blades of the windmill at such speed the pumping mechanism could not cope and snapped with a sudden crack, leaving the blades spinning aimlessly, the water flow gurgled to a stop. There was no other option; what little water remained in the trough would have to be used to soak hessian bags, the flames would have to be beaten out by a hundred pairs of hands.

Just as quickly as it had arrived, it had passed; just a smouldering, smoky smell remained with a lot of mess to clean, but not right now. The 2 B’s had detected the follow up pending disaster. The thunder storms had intensified and surrounded them, bringing torrential rain, and as they all knew, the creek was very likely to flood, which would mean disaster for the homestead. Orders were given to get every vulnerable item up off the floor and open all doors and shutters. And even as the horses were being hitched to the wagons, the distant roar of flood waters was coming terrorisingly close.

It was a mad dash for the creek crossing; beyond, high ground and safety from the flood. Horse riders led the charge with the wagons bouncing and crashing to the rear, the evil roar of impending disaster now filling their ears. Billy’s wagon was the last to cross and there was no time to take it gently, a six foot high wave of water and debris now visible, rounding a bend in the creek. Then, the unthinkable, in mid crossing Billy’s wagon came to a shuddering halt. A rear wheel had shattered on the rough creek bed and the axle well and truly dug in. Billy shouted at his young offsider to run. The young man hesitated, but Billy’s next roar left him in no doubt that he should obey, as Billy set about unhitching his team. Just about to a man the crew made a dash towards their stranded mate, but the sight of that charging wall of terror pushing all manner of boulders, logs and debris before it, and even the bravest took a pull. There was no hope. Billy had somehow managed to unhitch his steeds, and with a slap of the reins across the horses arses, sent them galloping for the safety of the far bank, he fruitlessly in hot pursuit.

Billy gave his life for his team of horses that day, the sickening collision with that wall of water and debris left none of the onlookers in doubt, a much loved and highly respected man was gone. Throughout the day every man on horseback scoured the creek banks, calling out his name, more out of respect rather than any sense of hope, it seemed to Cooky. And that night, camped right where it happened, the singing was not the usual camp style, guitars replaced by tapping sticks and didgeridoos, and the songs all in their native tongue.

This foreign land made no sense at all to Cooky. In the space of one day they could have lost everything at the homestead even their lives, for lack of water, and then lost the life of a mate for too much water…

Through dust and mud, Through fire and flood, Through tears and blood.