horror movie. He turned and glanced at me and his eyes flashed
blue and orange.
'Anyhow,'
said Henry, 'I was camped up the Track a bit one night a couple of
years back when this bad bastard comes into me camp.
'I
knew he was a bad bastard because he was black.
'Not
that all blacks are bad bastards,' Henry added fairly, 'but this was
a bad black
bastard.
'But
I'll say this for him, he would have a drink with a man.' Henry
looked pointedly at me and refilled his own mug. He didn't offer me a
drink this time.
I
hastily swigged at my rum, but I was already half drunk and I just
couldn't get the stuff down. If only Henry would take his piercing
eyes off me for a second, I thought, I'd pour it out on the sand. Hut
his gaze never left me. I realised for the first time that Henry's
two blue eyes were the same shade as the cat's one blue eye.
'So
we have a few drinks together,' continued Henry, 'quite a few drinks
we had, because he was a good drinker even if he was a bad bastard.'
A few drinks to Henry probably meant a couple of barrels of rum.
'Well,
we got to arguin' a bit about something — I
forget what it was, you know how it is when you're having a few
drinks — and the argument
gets a bit heated.
'Next
thing I know this black bastard is coming at me with an axe — my
own axe,' he added aggrievedly, as if that somehow made things worse.
Henry
finished his rum and poured another, again ostentatiously not
offering me one. 'Well, by now, you see, I know how good Cedric is
and I know all I've got to do is shout and he'll be at this black
bastard in a second.
'So
I shouts, see — out comes
Cedric and goes for the bastard's throat.
'Well,
the bastard gets the shock of his life when he sees Cedric comin' at
him and he takes a mighty swipe at him with the axe — my
axe — and takes his ear clean
off.
'But
that doesn't stop Cedric. No bloody fear. He's into that black
bastard and has 'im by the throat in no time at all.'
Henry
drank some more rum and paused. His eyes left my face but he seemed
to be staring into the region of my navel, so I still couldn't empty
my mug.
The
pause continued. The story seemed to have petered out.
'And
what happened to the . . . er . . . bastard?' I asked.
Henry
raised his head.
'Oh,
he's buried back along the Track there.'
You
don't believe everything you hear along the Birdsville Track, but
you'd be surprised how much of what you don't believe is cold hard
truth.
I
stood up. 'Well, I suppose I'd better be getting back to camp,' I
said.
Henry
stood up. His face was bulging and writhing with fury. 'So you're not
gonna drink with a man, you bastard!'
I've
seen it before, time and time again, and I never learn. Anywhere in
Australia west of the Bogan, you can cheat a man, run off with his
wife, despoil his daughter, debauch his sons, even steal his dog and
it's possible for him to forgive you, but refuse to drink with him
and you're dingo class, outcast forever, beyond redemption, not worth
the bullet he'd cheerfully use on you otherwise.
'Listen,
Henry . . .' I started.
'You
bastard!' he shouted.
And
that, of course, activated Cedric. The great misbegotten cat glared
at me, then at Henry, no doubt, looking for instructions, then back
at the camel.
'You
bastard!' bellowed Henry.
Cedric
sprang. At the camel.
The
camel roared and reared, breaking its tether. Cedric landed on its
rump and dug in.
The
camel took off into the desert with Cedric on its rump, apparently
gnawing it.
Henry
was looking around wildly. Seeking his axe, I supposed. I turned and
ran, making for the distant yellow glow I knew was my friend Bill's
campfire. 'You bastard! You bastard! You bastard!' followed me,
growing blessedly fainter as I sprinted across the sand and stones.
I
arrived gasping at the camp. My friend Bill received me with some
expression of concern and alarm at first, but when I told him what
had happened, he lost interest.
'Oh,
yes,' he said, 'old Henry and his cat. I should have warned
blue and orange.
'Anyhow,'
said Henry, 'I was camped up the Track a bit one night a couple of
years back when this bad bastard comes into me camp.
'I
knew he was a bad bastard because he was black.
'Not
that all blacks are bad bastards,' Henry added fairly, 'but this was
a bad black
bastard.
'But
I'll say this for him, he would have a drink with a man.' Henry
looked pointedly at me and refilled his own mug. He didn't offer me a
drink this time.
I
hastily swigged at my rum, but I was already half drunk and I just
couldn't get the stuff down. If only Henry would take his piercing
eyes off me for a second, I thought, I'd pour it out on the sand. Hut
his gaze never left me. I realised for the first time that Henry's
two blue eyes were the same shade as the cat's one blue eye.
'So
we have a few drinks together,' continued Henry, 'quite a few drinks
we had, because he was a good drinker even if he was a bad bastard.'
A few drinks to Henry probably meant a couple of barrels of rum.
'Well,
we got to arguin' a bit about something — I
forget what it was, you know how it is when you're having a few
drinks — and the argument
gets a bit heated.
'Next
thing I know this black bastard is coming at me with an axe — my
own axe,' he added aggrievedly, as if that somehow made things worse.
Henry
finished his rum and poured another, again ostentatiously not
offering me one. 'Well, by now, you see, I know how good Cedric is
and I know all I've got to do is shout and he'll be at this black
bastard in a second.
'So
I shouts, see — out comes
Cedric and goes for the bastard's throat.
'Well,
the bastard gets the shock of his life when he sees Cedric comin' at
him and he takes a mighty swipe at him with the axe — my
axe — and takes his ear clean
off.
'But
that doesn't stop Cedric. No bloody fear. He's into that black
bastard and has 'im by the throat in no time at all.'
Henry
drank some more rum and paused. His eyes left my face but he seemed
to be staring into the region of my navel, so I still couldn't empty
my mug.
The
pause continued. The story seemed to have petered out.
'And
what happened to the . . . er . . . bastard?' I asked.
Henry
raised his head.
'Oh,
he's buried back along the Track there.'
You
don't believe everything you hear along the Birdsville Track, but
you'd be surprised how much of what you don't believe is cold hard
truth.
I
stood up. 'Well, I suppose I'd better be getting back to camp,' I
said.
Henry
stood up. His face was bulging and writhing with fury. 'So you're not
gonna drink with a man, you bastard!'
I've
seen it before, time and time again, and I never learn. Anywhere in
Australia west of the Bogan, you can cheat a man, run off with his
wife, despoil his daughter, debauch his sons, even steal his dog and
it's possible for him to forgive you, but refuse to drink with him
and you're dingo class, outcast forever, beyond redemption, not worth
the bullet he'd cheerfully use on you otherwise.
'Listen,
Henry . . .' I started.
'You
bastard!' he shouted.
And
that, of course, activated Cedric. The great misbegotten cat glared
at me, then at Henry, no doubt, looking for instructions, then back
at the camel.
'You
bastard!' bellowed Henry.
Cedric
sprang. At the camel.
The
camel roared and reared, breaking its tether. Cedric landed on its
rump and dug in.
The
camel took off into the desert with Cedric on its rump, apparently
gnawing it.
Henry
was looking around wildly. Seeking his axe, I supposed. I turned and
ran, making for the distant yellow glow I knew was my friend Bill's
campfire. 'You bastard! You bastard! You bastard!' followed me,
growing blessedly fainter as I sprinted across the sand and stones.
I
arrived gasping at the camp. My friend Bill received me with some
expression of concern and alarm at first, but when I told him what
had happened, he lost interest.
'Oh,
yes,' he said, 'old Henry and his cat. I should have warned
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