# In Bad Company, and other Stories/An Australian Roughriding Contest

AN AUSTRALIAN ROUGHRIDING CONTEST
In June 1891, at Wodonga, on the Murray River, in the colony of Victoria—on the opposite bank to Albury, a town of New South Wales—was arranged an exhibition for testing the horsemanship of all comers, which I venture to assert had but few parallels.
Prizes were to be allotted, by the award of three judges of acknowledged experience, amounting in all to about £20. Much interested in matters equine, 'nihil equitatum alienum me puto,' I traversed the three miles which separate the border towns in a cab of the period, and arrived in time for the excitement.
The manner of the entertainment was after this wise. An area of several acres of level greensward was enclosed within a fence, perhaps eight or ten feet high, formed of sawn battens, on which was stretched the coarse sacking known to drapers as 'osnaberg.' This answered the double purpose of keeping the non-paying public out and the performing horses in.
I had heard of the way in which the selected horses were saddled and mounted; I was therefore partly prepared. But, tolerably versed in the lore of the wilderness, I had never before seen such primitive equitation.
About thirty unbroken horses were moving uneasily within a high, well-constructed stock-yard—the regulation 'four rails' and a 'cap'—amounting to a solid unyielding fence, over seven feet in height.
That the steeds were really unbroken, 'by spur and snaffle undefiled,' might be gathered from their long manes, tails sweeping the ground, and general air of terror or defiance. As each animal was wanted, it was driven or cajoled by means ​of a quiet horse into a close yard ending in a 'crush' or lane so narrow that turning round was impossible. A strong, high gate in front was well fastened. Before the captive could decide upon a retrograde movement, long, strong saplings were thrust between his quarters and the posts of the crush. He was therefore trapped, unable to advance or retire. If he threatened to lie down, a sapling underneath prevented that refuge of sullenness.
Mostly the imprisoned animal preserved an expression of stupid amazement or harmless terror, occasionally of fierce wrath or reckless despair. Then he kicked, plunged, reared—in every way known to the wild steed of the desert expressed his untameable defiance of man, occasionally even neighing loudly and fiercely. 'Twas all in vain. The prison was too high, too strong, too narrow, too everything; nothing but submission remained—'not even suicide,' as Mr. Stevenson declares concerning matrimony, 'nothing but to be good.'
This, of course, with variations, as happens perchance in the married state irreverently referred to.
Before the colt has done thinking what unprincipled wretches these bush bipeds are, a 'blind' (ingeniously improvised from a gentleman's waistcoat) is placed over his eyes, a snaffle bridle is put on, a bit is forced into his mouth; at the same time two active young men are thrusting a crupper under his reluctant tail, have put a saddle on his back, and are buckling leather girths and surcingle (this latter run through slits in the lower portion of the saddle flaps) as if they meant to cut him in two.
This preparatory process being completed in marvellous short time, the manager calls out 'First horse, Mr. St. Aure,' and a well-proportioned young man from the Upper Murray ascends the fence, standing with either leg on the rails, immediately over the angry, terrified animal.
What would you or I take, O grey-besprinkled reader, to undertake the mount Mr. St. Aure surveys with calmest confidence? (We are not so young as we were, let us say in confidence.)
Deftly he drops into the saddle, his legs just grazing the sides of the crush. 'Open the gate!' roars the manager. 'Look out, you boys!' and, with a mad rush, out flies the colt through the open gate like a shell from a howitzer.
​For ten yards he races at full speed, then 'propping' as if galvanised, shoots upwards with the true deer's leap, all four feet in the air at once (from which the vice takes its name), to come down with his head between his forelegs and his nose (this I narrowly watched) touching the girths.
The horseman has swayed back with instinctive ease, and is quite prepared for a succession of lightning bounds, sideways, upwards, downwards, backwards, as he appears to turn in the air occasionally and to come down with his head in the place where his tail was when he rose.
For an instant he stops: perhaps the long-necked spurs are sent in, to accentuate the next performance. The crowd meanwhile of 600 or 700 people, mostly young or in the prime of life, follow, cheering and clapping with every fresh attempt on the part of the frenzied steed to dispose of his matchless rider. Five minutes of this exercise commences to exhaust and steady the wildest colt. It is a variation of 'monkeying,' a device of the bush-breaker, who ties a bag on to the saddle of a timid colt, and he, frightened out of his life, as by a monkey perched there, tires himself out, permitting the breaker to mount and ride away with but little resistance.
Sometimes indeed the colt turns in his tracks, and being unmanageable as to guiding in his paroxysms, charges the crowd, whom he scatters with great screaming and laughing as they fall over each other or climb the stock-yard fence. But shortly, with lowered head and trembling frame, he allows himself to be ridden to the gate of egress. There he is halted, and the rider, taking hold of his left ear with his bridle-hand, swings lightly to the ground, closely alongside of the shoulder. Did he not so alight, the agile mustang was capable of a lightning wheel and a dangerous kick. Indeed, one rider, dismounting carelessly, discovered this to his cost after riding a most unconscionable performer.
A middle-aged, wiry, old-time-looking stock-rider from Gippsland next came flying out on a frantic steed without a bridle, from choice. For some time it seemed a drawn battle between horse and man, but towards the end of the fight the horse managed to 'get from under.'
One horse slipped on the short greensward and came over backwards, his rider permitting himself to slide off. The next animal was described as an 'outlaw,' a bush term for a horse ​which has been backed but never successfully ridden. She, a powerful half-bred, fully sustained it by a persevering exhibition of every kind of contortion calculated to dissolve partnership. At one time it looked as if the betting was in favour of the man, but the mare had evidently resolved on a last appeal. Setting to with redoubled fury, she smashed the crupper, tore out one of the girth straps, and then performed the rare, well-nigh incredible feat of sending the saddle over her head without breaking the surcingle. This is the second time, during a longish acquaintance with every kind of horse accomplishment, that I have witnessed this performance. It is not always believed, but can be vouched for by the writer and about five or six hundred people on the ground. I felt the girth, and saw that the buckle was still unslacked.
The rider, Mortimer, came over the mare's head, sitting square with the saddle between his legs, and received an ovation in consequence.
The last colt had been driven into the crush 'fiercely snorting, but in vain, and struggling with erected mane,' and enlarged 'in the full foam of wrath and dread,' when another form of excitement was announced. A dangerous-looking four-year-old bullock was now yarded in the outer enclosure, light of flesh but exceeding fierce, which he proceeded to demonstrate by clearing the place of all spectators in the shortest time on record.
Climbing hurriedly to the 'cap' of the stock-yard fence, they looked on in secure elevation, while the toreadors cunningly edged him into the crush, and there confined him like the colts. Here he began to paw the ground and bellow in ungovernable rage. At this stage the manager thus delivered himself: 'It's Mr. Smith's turn, by the list, to ride this bullock, but he says he don't care. Is there any gentleman here as'll ride him?'
With Mr. Smith's natural disinclination for the mount the crowd apparently sympathised. The bullock meanwhile was pawing the earth and roaring in a hollow and blood-curdling manner, as who should say, 'Let me at him; only let me have one turn with hoof and horn.' To the unprejudiced observer the mount seemed one that no gentleman would court or even accept.
However, the Gippslander, removing his pipe from his ​mouth, calmly remarked, 'I'll ride him,' whereupon the crowd burst out with a cheer, evidently looking upon the offer as one of exceptional merit.
There was no bridle or saddle in this case. A rope was fastened around the animal's body, and with this slender accoutrement only, the stock-rider deposited himself upon the ridge of the red bullock's back. Then the gate was opened, and out he came in all his glory.
No one that has merely observed the clumsy gambols of the meadow-fed ox can have an idea of the speed and agility of the bush-bred steer, reared amid mountain ranges and accustomed to spurts up hill and down, with a smart stock-horse rattling by the side of the drove, always making excellent time, and not infrequently distancing their pursuers amid the forests and morasses of their native runs.
This one had a shoulder like a blood horse, great propelling power, and stood well off the ground, with muscular arms and hocks to match.
He reared, bucked, and plunged almost with the virulence and variety of the colts, and when, after a prolonged and persevering contest, he gradually managed to shift his rider on to his croupe, and thence by a complicated and original twist of his quarters dislodged him, it was felt by the spectators that he had worthily sustained the honour of the stock-riding fraternity. Cheers resounded from all sides, as the crowd returning to a centre surrounded the fallen but not disgraced combatant. I think the boys were privately disappointed that the bullock did not turn to gore his antagonist, but he was too much excited for such an attack. He made a bee-line for the fence, which, all-ignorant of its flimsy nature, he did not attempt to jump or overthrow, contenting himself with running by the side of it until he came to the corner, where a gate was cunningly left open for his departure. After a respectable 'cap' had been collected for the veteran, who was more than twice the age of the other competitors, the prizes were distributed, and the entertainment concluded.
As an Australian I may be slightly prejudiced, but I must confess to holding the opinion that our bush-riders in certain departments are unrivalled. The South American 'gaucho' and the 'cow-boy' of the Western States are, doubtless, wonderful horsemen, but they ride under conditions more favourable ​than those of our bushmen. The saddle of the Americans is the old-fashioned Spanish one—heavy, cumbrous, and, besides the high pommel and cantle, provided with a horn-like fixture in front, to which the lasso is attached generally, but which serves as a belaying-pin and a secure holdfast for the rider in case of need. The tremendous severity of the heavy curb-bit must also tend to moderate the gambades of all but the most vicious or untamed animals. Besides all this, the horses ridden by them are mere ponies compared to the big, powerful Australian colts, and as such easier to control.
But let the stranger, when minded to try his horsemanship, find himself upon a 'touchy' three-year-old, and how insecure does his position appear! He is a good way off the ground, which said ground is mostly extremely hard. The colt is nearly sixteen hands high, and feels strong enough in the loins, if fully agitated, to throw him into a gum-tree. The single-reined snaffle, to which he trusts his life, is of the plainest, cheapest description of leather and iron. The saddle is the ordinary English saddle, fuller in the flap and, pads, but otherwise giving the impression of being hard, slippery, and affording but little hope of recovery when once the seat is shaken.
When, with nothing but this simple accoutrement, or perhaps a rolled bag, strapped in front of the pommel, our bushmen ride, as I have described, it must be conceded that no horsemen could be less indebted to adventitious aid.
In the peculiar, strictly Australian department, known as 'scrub riding,' no one not 'to the manner born' can be said to hold a candle to them.
The home of the half-wild herds of cattle and horses is frequently mountainous, thickly-wooded, and rocky. Amid these declivitous fastnesses in which they are reared, the outliers of the herd acquire speed, wind, and activity, which must be known to be believed. Through these interlaced and thick-growing woodlands, down the rocky ridge, across the treacherous morass, away go the cattle or the wild horses at a pace apt to take them out of sight and hearing in remarkably short time. The ordinary horseman, able to hold his own fairly well on road or turf, even in the hunting field, here finds himself hopelessly at fault. Not wanting in pluck, he does his best for a mile or more. But he knocks his knee against one tree, his shoulder against another, and narrowly escapes ​dashing his brains out by reason of a low-lying branch, which knocks off his hat, and might easily—he reflects—have performed the same office for the head which it covered. He realises the disability under which he labours by reason of not being able to calculate his distance from the unyielding timber in front, beside, around; at the same time to distinguish the route of the fast-vanishing 'mob' (Anglice, drove), while all his skill and strength are required to control a stock-horse, if such a mount has been provided for him, which clambers along hill-sides and tears down the same with the sure-footedness of a mule, while he leaves the full responsibility of directing his headlong career to his rider. When at the end of several miles the visitor pulls up, he is entirely out of the hunt. Neither men, horses, dogs, nor cattle are within sight and hearing. He is not accustomed to tracking, nor perhaps is the ground favourable to such practice. Nothing is left for him but to follow on as nearly as may be in the direction of the riders, fortunate if, some hours after, he is hunted up by a man sent in search of him, or, more fortunate still, has left all path-finding to his horse, and joyfully recognises the homestead, which comes into sight much sooner than he expected.
In contrast to this exploit, behold the sons of the waste under the same circumstances. Riding along with apparent carelessness, several pairs of sharp eyes are piercing the forest glades in every part of the foreground. One man has descried the outline of a group of slowly-moving forms, or it may be but a single beast, high up a hill-side in the gorge of a mountain-range, the depths of a narrow brook, traversed ravine—it matters not. It is the herd they are seeking, or a section of it. The quick-eyed scout gives a low whistle, perhaps holds up his hand; the signal is understood. Bridle-reins are gathered up. No word is spoken, but each man has his horse in hand as they move slowly towards the grazing or stationary outliers. A few minutes bring them nearer, within perhaps good wheeling distance, when a sentinel gets view or winds them, and the whole troop is off like a shot. Each horse, but a minute since stumbling along at a 'stockman's jog' or a go-as-you-please walk, starts into top speed as if for a mile heat. The men, taking a 'bee-line,' ride straight for the fast-vanishing cattle, as if there was not a tree or a rock within miles. How they do it is a never-ending marvel to the ​uninitiated. But they will not only keep with the outlaws, but outpace and out-general them; wheeling them at critical places, racing ahead and rounding them up; eventually, with mingled force and diplomacy, hustling them across a country without track, road, or apparently natural features, till dead-beat and defeated they are landed in the high, secure stock-yard, from which some of their number at least will never emerge alive.