The Europeans

CHAPTER 1

The Scot

Bing McKeon felt like the loneliest man on the planet. The high country can do that to you if you arrive without a talking companion. Not that there wasn’t any conversation. The inquisitive immigrant was throwing his voice at the fearsome looking chasm in front of him, and chasing the echo as it bounced off a precipice above the abyss, before returning to him some seconds later. Who needed a talking companion?

A dog would have been nice. A mutt with malice is always a good foil should there be a vicious presence lurking in the vegetation, as there surely was. In truth, these hunters mostly come out at night and Bing hadn’t failed to notice that the light was fading fast. He heard owls, howls, and the strident vowels of the ever-present kookaburras, perched high in the gum trees, which is their designated home base.

That’s exactly what the big fellow was looking for: a home amongst the gum trees. The Bogong High Plains was mostly Crown land, but if you were a canny Scot with something to offer, arrangements could be made; and the further from town, the cheaper the property value.

The newcomer was standing in the middle of the plateau, mentally designing his future residence, when the earth began to tremble beneath his feet. The distant thunder that was fast approaching was not a warning from the weather God. The roos knew that. They stopped their feeding and looked at each other with alarm. The brumbies were in flight and coming their way.

“Listen tae that,” said Bing to himself, as he placed his hand behind his ear. The small rumble that had disturbed the eerie silence of the early evening was now a roar, significantly announcing the impending arrival of the herd. There was no longer a kangaroo in sight.

“Bloody hell,” gasped the gobsmacked intruder, as he saw the leader of the pack stride magnificently into the clearing and head in his direction. The silver steed, stretched to capacity, darted across the plain like a white flame looking for ignition. His head carriage gave off an arrogant impudence that can only be found among leaders, and his gait seemed effortless as he drove fearlessly into the open ground, almost two lengths ahead of his followers. At least forty horses trailed in his wake.

If Bing McKeon had eaten all his porridge that morning, he might have had the strength to make a run for it, but his legs had turned to jelly. If he had been wearing a kilt, he might have been able to shock the mob into a different direction, but probably not. These animals were going wherever their leader was heading and it was straight at the stranger, who may have been wondering what Hopalong Cassidy would do in a similar situation.

Of course, Hoppy would have had a lasso and that does make things easier. Big Mac just braced himself and walked straight at the oncoming herd, flaying his arms in all directions. They parted and let him through. It was a pivotal moment that would help establish his credentials as a genuine mountain man. He was very proud of himself.

The silence and solitude of the high country is satisfying yet intimidating and a challenge for both man and beast. Even the birds prefer to patrol lower regions where the accessibility of food morsels makes life less challenging. “Do you want chips and salad with that, Mr. Seagull?”

The underground residents are not so adventurous and never travel far from their lair. Where would they find the time? There is so much to do before winter sets-in— especially gathering all that tucker to store-up for provisions. One also needs to be alert for predators. They are forever foraging in the undergrowth and don’t take kindly to cheeky small pests who antagonise them. It is best to avoid these monsters.

The wild horses are no problem to the resident creatures. You can hear them coming and you know they’re showing off. It’s in their nature. Being herd animals, they run in packs and run they do. The Bogong High Plains is their territory and has been since White Nose won The Cup—that’s the Melbourne Cup—in 1931.

Some twenty years after this momentous victory, Bing McKeon, completely unaware of the home-grown devotion attached to Australia’s greatest horse race, moved into the area. He would soon learn that, in this part of the world, the horse was man’s best friend.

The fellow’s ethnic credentials were there for all to hear, and nobody recognised any city mannerisms. His speech was slow and measured, and he wore a wide-brimmed hat, which immediately identified him as a country yokel. Generous money was on offer with the construction work associated with the Kiewa Hydroelectric Scheme and many recently-arrived Europeans flocked to the region. This newcomer from Britain impressed many with his relaxed and easy-going nature, established and authenticated over a number of years travelling to various godforsaken outposts of this diverse world of ours.

One could only guess at what the Scotsman thought of his new home because he didn’t say much. He just went about his business and put away his money diligently. He didn’t smoke tobacco or drink at the ale house (both expensive habits) and, although he did hanker for wild women, there didn’t appear to be any about.

A carpenter by trade, the six-foot-four chippy arrived with his tool box in tow. To most men, such heavy baggage would present logistical problems, but the man mountain carried his implements with ease. His impressive muscular development was on show and, although the temperature often hovered around zero, the top of his shirt was always unbuttoned—his hairy chest inviting spontaneous appraisal from the opposite sex, should any wild women materialise.