Thick clouds of white-grey bulldust billowed-up behind the cut-down bull-catcher as the grader driver and trapper patrolled the tracks and fence lines, perhaps a beer each in-hand, trying to keep just ahead of the suffocating dragon chasing them through November’s awful build-up heat.
The midday landscape was glaring and desolate, heat mirages almost racing alongside and underfoot. As usual, the wakwaks (crows) were making the afternoon boring, just sitting there, their harsh call the only thing heard above the engine. The bush was mostly stark and bare trees, their long-gone leaves littering the windswept ash with browns and faint reds and dull oranges. Only on some of the acacia patches could a colour be spied that almost appeared green but was still more of a grey.
Then from out of nowhere came the beautiful Maiwok, or one of its branches. The dark, living green line of its bush-choked steep-sided banks proudly contrasted with the grim. The Maiwok feeds the Flying Fox which feeds the Roper which feeds the Gulf - which I guess feeds the world. Actually, that’s not true, the Maiwok doesn’t feed the Flying Fox at all, instead hitting the Roper upstream. But when you’re younger and thinking about other things you form a picture in your head to the best of your knowledge without technology and declare to yourself: “That’s about right!”
The bull-catcher bucked downhill through the sandy ruts and into the Maiwok, which might’ve been a trickle or perhaps just a few stagnant small pools or a combination of both. It was definitely nice and shady down there, almost cool by comparison. And shifting into second or so, about to put the boot in for the up-side, the trapper was interrupted by the grader driver who was excited about some buffalo lurking in the shadows to the left - especially one particular fence-wrecker bull.
The grader driver tumbled out with a Marlin .45-70 the trapper had never seen before. He sneaked his way through the strands of barbed wire, through the humming silence of heat punctuated by the tick-tick-tick of the switched-off bull-catcher, and slid the barrel over a fallen, burned-out bit of timber. The cowboy action cycled alright and after taking aim the hammer fell. He then commenced swearing and cursing, unable to open the action.
The trapper had seen all this and knew it was a bad hit. With the grader driver still puzzling and muttering over the buggered-up lever-action, the trapper returned to the bull-catcher and took the Winchester .458 from the slip, and put-on the cartridge belt. The dried leaves were too thick upon the ground to warrant shoes, so he kicked his thongs off and left them, hoping the wounded bull wouldn’t be too far away in the hypsis.
There was no blood trail, and fifty slow metres turned into a few hundred before the flick of an ear and the swishing of tails ahead gave away the presence of buffalos moving slowly along the pads leading out into the wilderness. They were several immature bulls only slightly spooked by the earlier report, but following the larger herd.
The trapper followed the little bulls through the grey bush, hot and still save for the quiet procession. The little bulls made their way down a gentle incline and walked right into the rest of the herd, about thirty-strong, staring back the way they’d come for the source of the noise that had frightened them, faint grey ghosts through the grey and leafless brush. The trapper stopped still, searching for signs of an injured animal, aware that the sharp eyes of the herd would pick-up his very next step.
The spell broke a few minutes later when the herd grew uneasy and began filing away to the south along the embankment. And out on the open flat behind the herd, a lone bull came limping into view, aiming to keep-up and rejoin. Some limps don’t mean much, and can be forgotten in a heartbeat, and this was one of them. There was a window for the trapper to shoot through at about seventy yards over the backs of the herd in front, and he made a good hit. In a moment only dust remained, and one old bull standing his ground out on the flat, unable to keep going.
The barefoot stroll across the dry-cracked claypan was pain-free despite the burning heat, total concentration on the mortally-wounded bull. Initially he took a few feeble steps toward the distant amphitheater country, but grew more aware of the man walking ever-nearer and swung around to face this final threat and make his last stand.
The trapper was about twenty-five yards away now, and as the bull sensed this and swung around to charge the first collision between heavy skull and heavy bullet rocked him but didn’t stop him, having missed the brain. The bull was struggling and yet still possessed the energy to launch himself into his final battle if granted the chance, however the bolt had already done its work and a split second later a new impact rocked him and he braced himself to stay upright before a final unfelt, unheard hit lifted his legs from underneath him, pitched his head up and crashed him into the dust.
The grader driver was still cursing the jammed lever over a freshly cracked beer when the trapper returned.
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