Cattle thief who bragged for 15 years is finally tricked into eating his own beef
A boastful station owner who spent 15 years stealing neighbours' cattle for dinner gets the ultimate comeuppance when he breaks his own rule, in Ando’s TALK OF THE NORTH.
I’d written a story about fellers out on the stations eating each other’s beef.
It was the unwritten law of the land. If they needed a killer, a station owner or manager might shoot a neighbour’s fat bullock that had come through a broken fence onto his property. After it was shot, he’d snig it among some thick bushes, cut off the brand and earmarks, slice them into tiny pieces and throw them to the four winds, or even better, feed them to his dogs. Another way was to push the bits and pieces into the backside of the dead animal, knowing scavengers would quickly consume them. This is easy meat to get at and the first part eaten by pigs, dingoes, hawks, crows and goannas.
The evidence disposed of, the station boss would then set about the serious business of cutting up the bullock, tossing the hunks of meat, the topsides, rumps, brisket and whatnot onto a carpet of leafy branches laid out carefully on the back of the station ute. The branches were there to stop the meat from coming into contact with any dirt on the tray of the ute.
Job done, he’d go back to the homestead, salt down the brisket and silverside and hang the rest in the cold room for a few days to let it break down. It wasn’t unusual on the big places for neighbours not to even bother to wait for a beast to stray across the boundary. They were happy to go over the boundary themselves, find a beast, shoot it, cut it up and then get the hell out of there.
A nice old bloke rang me after it was published and said he could tell me a good yarn involving two neighbours. To protect the guilty, let’s call them Bernie and Bob. Bernie was gifted a station by mum and dad, who gave him enough money to ensure he never had do too much. Bernie liked it that way. He’d drive around his property in his Range Rover (Bank of Mum and Dad shouted him a new one every couple of years) checking the water levels in his dam, making sure the fences were in good order, while all the time keeping out an eagle eye for any of Bob’s cattle that might have strayed over to his side of the fence. There was nothing Bernie loved more than putting one of Bob’s bullocks or a fat heifer in the crosshairs of his .308. He prided himself that in the 15 years he’d been on his property, he’d never once killed any of his own cattle for his consumption. That’s the way he liked it. “Nothing tastes better than the neighbour’s beef,” he loved to boast to his mates during his regular visits to the city. They’d slap him on the back and say things like “you’re a card Bernie” or “Bernie, you’re a regular outlaw”. He loved the notoriety.
One afternoon it came to pass that Bernie, when driving around in his latest Range Rover, checking the waters and fences, got bogged. There’d been 25mm of rain in this particular area two days before. Bernie, probably too busy looking for one of Bob’s bullocks, didn’t notice the boggy patch in front of him until it was too late. He was four wheels in and stuck. The more he gunned the engine, the more the wheels spun and the deeper the vehicle sank into the mud.
He was about 10 kilometres from Bob’s humble corrugated iron hut out on the edge of a gidgee scrub. The main track to Bob’s place was just through the nearby boundary fence. Bernie knew if he didn’t muck around and walked quickly he could be there by 7pm. “Bob might even cook me dinner,” he thought to himself as he set off in the direction of the setting sun.
It was seven ‘o’clock when he saw the light of Bob’s hut, a couple of hundred metres ahead. He heard a dog bark and sang out, “Bob it’s me, Bernie, I’m bogged a few ‘k’ back.”
Bob met him at the door. They said their ‘giddays” and Bernie explained what had happened and that he was hoping Bob could help him out.
“Well,” said Bob. “We’d better get you fed and watered and then we’ll jump into the Hilux and I’ll go pull you out.”
Bob put two thick rump steaks into a hot frypan on the stove and they listened to them sizzle while they sipped rum from mugs. Four spuds were boiling away in a saucepan. They talked about all the usual things like the weather, politics and the local council’s latest pipeline building stuff-up.
Bob pulled the steaks from the pan, poured Sunflower oil in lieu of butter over the potatoes, topped up the rums and they set about having dinner.
Both were silent for a couple of minutes. One thing Bob could do well was cook steak. Give him a thick, three-centimetre juicy rump and he could make magic happen. One thing missing was tinned mushrooms. Bob liked his ‘mushies’ and apologised to Bernie for not having any to add a bit more danflavour to the spuds.
“Steak this good Bob, who needs mushrooms?” Bernie said.
After Bernie had eaten his last bite of steak, he sat back, took a swig of rum and said, “you know Bob, I’ve lived on my place now next to you for 15 years. That’s a long time, and you know another thing?
“No, Bernie. What? Said Bob.
“In that 15 years I‘ve never once eaten my own beef. That’s pretty good record in my book,” he said, implying he’d always eaten Bob’s cattle instead of his own.
Bob, on cue, sat back, took a swig of his own rum, and said, “You know what, Bernie?
“What, Bob? said Bernie.
“Well. Tonight you broke that record. You’ve just eaten your own beef. Good, ain’t it?”
Originally published as Cattle thief who bragged for 15 years is finally tricked into eating his own beef
Townsville warns of deadly daytime-biting mozzies
