G'day from Downunder.

WHEN THE EVIDENCE WENT MISSING



I was perched upon a wooden bench beneath a bottle tree

when this worn out wiry ringer stopped to rest his gammy knee.

I’d been touring through the outback and had sought to sit a spell

while the missus spent her hard earned cash and some of mine as well.



His grey hair was to his shoulder and his unkempt beard grey too

and he moaned, “Me old knee’s knackered and there’s nothing they can do.”

He’d suggested that a fall way back, while duffing some stray steers,

was responsible for his bad limp and pain all through the years.



“So it’s fair to say the adage then … crime does not pay …. is true

and the walking stick you carry mate is proof enough for you.

“With respect to that … perhaps old mate, but not the case always,

you see … once I beat the system … but back in my younger days.”



This old codger had me spell-bound, as a tale was on the boil,

and I figured if I stayed around he’d give me the good oil.

Bony fingers forced his hat back, which was battered, torn and old,

then he rubbed his wiry whiskers as the story did unfold.



“Old man Smythe from Yukeabilla sought assistance for his herd

as his property was bare of feed and he had just got word

that agistment was available down south at Myabode,

so he mustered all his cattle and he took them on the road.



“With his son Dave on the payroll they pushed past the neighbour’s block,

but they somehow gained an increase to the numbers of their stock.

Then again as they passed Brucedale, the Smythe herd it grew some more

and it wasn’t natural increases: I know that, mate, for sure.



“After weeks of choking dust and flies they reached their journey’s end

where they left the stock to fatten and return a dividend.

Back up north the local stock squad warned all cockies ‘round that way

should they sight the stolen cattle, they should ring without delay.



“The old manager on Myabode was taken by surprise

when he recognised the stolen brands, but instantly got wise

as to how the mob had got there and then rang Detective Brown,

who impounded them as evidence and trucked them to this town.



“All the cattle in the yarding pen were supervised at night

while their day trip to the Common proved to be a frequent sight.

With the native tracker out in front and driving his old ute,

this small motley herd of cattle learnt to follow in pursuit.



“All their comings and their goings were so closely scrutinised

as the prosecution’s trump card was the evidence they prized.

Though the wily prosecutor gathered facts to build his case,

some old bushmen too were scheming and a plan was put in place.



“They were crafty, artful dodgers, who’d been slipped a quid their way,

and could see to it the evidence might somehow go astray.

The bold band then took advantage of the absence of the guard

for some twenty or so minutes and then broke into the yard.



“In the small hours of that morning they absconded with the stock

and the speed of the audacious theft had left police in shock.

These bold Bushmen used a vehicle which, much to their delight,

lured the cattle through the darkened streets and quickly out of sight.



“All available policemen joined the search to find their trail,

but their roadblocks and sheer numbers proved to be of no avail.

Then at sunrise the black constable, a tracker of renown,

traced the mob out to the stockyards on the outskirts of the town.



“All the cattle had been slaughtered and not one ear could be seen

and a piece of hide was missing, where the owner’s brand had been.

Still the heads and hides were proof enough … or so the lawyers thought,

but the judge dismissed the evidence and threw it out of court.



I just sat there flabbergasted as the old bloke rose to go,

‘cause the way he’d told the story he was really in the know.

But he sensed I sought the obvious and said “I need a drink.”

Then he hobbled down the street away … and turned and gave a wink.



                                                      

In the book Champagne Country, which explores the history of Roma and district, there is a chapter on Bushranging. In part it discusses how the notorious Harry Redford was tried in Roma, though found not guilty and also there was another account of an incident which took place in 1952.



A number of head of cattle being held as evidence in a cattle duffing offence disappeared from the Police yards about two a.m. in the morning while supposedly being under constant guard. The culprits were never apprehended.



Years later my wife’s dad, who went droving at the age of ten and a well-known identity around Roma, shed a little light on the subject.



The above tale tells what took place. Certain facts have been hidden to protect the guilty. Barry Donnelly would write a book on this subject called, “Go Your Hardest.”