Mick of the Murchison – ‘Doing Time”

In Tuckanarra, a mining town about 25 miles north of Cue, there resided in the late 1800s, a man named Mick. He was an excellent judge of a horse, a good rider and bushman, and knew to a penny the value of an animal. He was so fond of them that he just couldn’t pass a good-looking beast without giving him the once-over and perhaps taking him away to put “in smoke” until a reward was offered or there was an opportunity of selling him to one of the many travelling horse drovers of the day who took mobs of horses, snides and otherwise from town to town for sale.

Those were the “good old days,” before motor cars were invented. Horses picked up on the Murchison or Nor-West would be taken to the Eastern fields or down south amongst the ‘Cockies’. Similarly, any animals from those parts would be brought back north. There was a constant stream of animals between one part to another. The reason for this was obvious. The drovers weren’t game to sell them locally, they might be recognised. Better take them away some hundreds of miles where the owners might never see them again.

Only one man made a mistake in this direction. He was “up North” and, seeing a fine-looking beast he picked him up and took him along with the mob. He was a sure money-getter on the eastern side. He was not! After taking him about 700 miles away he tried to sell him to the original owner from whom the horse had been

“pinched” on the trip up by another drover. Bad luck!

These horse dealers and thieves were always in possession of a list of “brands and owners” together with clippings from newspapers showing where rewards had been offered for the return of certain horses bearing the brands mentioned. The owners always seemed to be living a long way off. Most of these adverts were inserted by the drovers themselves, and the lists were generally on sheets of paper bearing the large type headings of some firm in another place, the paper was pinched as well as the horses. But it looked a lot better, more business-like and lent an air of authority that couldn’t be got out of a plain sheet of paper. As a rule, the horses were “duffed” before the adverts appeared.

These lists would always be produced to the police when they started ‘nosin in’. So would “way-bills” which all drovers were compelled to carry. These were mostly fakes as well. If found in the vicinity of where the horse had been picked up, the explanation would be that there were so many horses, so much alike with almost indecipherable brands that it was necessary to yard them and clip the hair from the brand so as to make sure that the right animal would be taken. The only way to do this was to yard the lot in the nearest enclosure. A peculiar thing was that mobs were always on the way to a yard when the police turned up. To show that all was fair and above board, the police would be asked to attend and watch operations. Those which were on the list would be held and the balance turned adrift before the eyes of the police to be picked up again immediately after their backs were turned. They were great horse thieves no doubt, and

Mick was one of the best of them!

He sweated a horse from Cue to a northern town, rode it into the backyard of a pub, along with one he was “packing” and sought refreshment at the bar. Unfortunately for him, the horse he took was well known to the local trooper. It was a beautiful bay with black points and a very noticeable streak of white hair on one flank, the result of a scratch from barbed wire when a foal. When Mick came out he was asked some questions which he couldn’t answer. The want of a title to that horse earned him a “sixer.” (eg 6 months prison)

Cue was the hub of the Murchison at this time and boasted thirteen hotels. The principal water supply was obtained from the old well in the main (Austin) street, where everyone paid 1/- per week for what they used. Later a band rotunda was erected over the well. Being the principal town of the district the gaol was there too. It was a mighty fine gaol as gaols went and it was never empty. They even had a “seniority” list for the prisoners, the “oldest inhabitant” had certain privileges and a mighty lot of liberty. He ran messages about the town and acted as batman to the “heads.”

The sergeant of the day was a good sort and allowed the prisoners as much liberty and as many privileges as possible. He did what he could to make their lives a little easier. They were allowed to go as far as the Post Office at the top of Austin Street, but no further. The first pub was just around the corner, and that was out of bounds to them. It doesn’t mean though that they didn’t sometimes sneak in and have a quick one. There was one rule which had to be observed. If they weren’t in by 10 pm, they would be locked out for the night. That meant that they would have to hang around until roll call the next morning. “Absentees” were punished with three days in barracks and all privileges stopped. In the case of the senior man offending he was reduced in “rank” and someone else got the cream. There was great joy when the leader fell by the wayside.

The Drover – British Museum

Fortunately for him Mick was sent to Cue to serve his sentence. By the time Christmas arrived about half of the incumbents had gone and he found himself the senior tenant. He did all the messages about the town. One morning the gaoler set him and two other prisoners to clear away an accumulation of refuse and manure at the back of the stables. Then he went to Court on a case and did not return until 1 o’clock. Mick was in charge of the team. Too right he was! About noon the Sarg strolled along and found three men working in the pit and Mick sitting on the fence smoking his pipe. There was one man too many in the tally. The Sarg looked, the extra one up and down and said,

“What are you doing here?” “Working of course,” replied the man!

“What else do you think I’m doing? Look at the sweat of me. I’ve been delving here for the last two hours.” “Oh, have you?” said the Sarg. “And who put you on?” Turning to Mick he said: “That bloke there.” “Well, said the Sarg, “that man’s a prisoner and should have done the work himself. I think I’ll pinch you for being on the gaol premises.” “No ruddy fear you don’t,” he said. “I’ve been fooled once this morning and have worked like blazes for two hours for nothing. You’re not going to get me, and with this, he turned and fled.

Mick never turned a hair. When asked by the Sarg what he meant by his trick Mick said: ”Well, I ask you, if a man’s fool enough to stumble into a gaol yard and not know it, he’s fool enough to do ‘ANYTHING’, so I put him to the only Job in sight. And,” he added, “he’s a jolly fine man on the end of a banjo!”

There was a splendid custom amongst the fields publicans of that time, and it still is in many outback parts – and that was to see that no one, no matter who he was, went without Christmas dinner. It was open house to all, and for weeks before people would be asked to “come along for Christmas.” There was even a certain amount of rivalry to see which pub could collect the greatest number of guests. And they need not be local people. Deadbeats and strangers just off the track, stone motherless broke and without a decent feed perhaps for weeks, were all equally welcome. Those who had money could spend what they liked, but the man without it was entitled to a meal on that day.

And what a meal!  Roast turkey, chicken, duck, goose and all the rest of it, as much as a man could eat and beer thrown in. Liquor consumed before and after the meal was at the expense of the drinkers and they were there in plenty, but what was taken with the meal was “on the pub.” And what a time some of them made that meal last. Jugs of beer, with glass pots were set on all tables and it took a couple of men running from bar to table to keep up with the demand. Nice hot weather and cool beer for nix was indeed something to write home about. The dinner was costly (to the publican) but the bar takings were immense. The merits and demerits of all pubs came under review during the next few weeks and the one with the best “feed” was in great demand the following Christmas.

George Paize, Jim Maloney, “Ma” Smith, John McManaway, and Prank Stringer were some of the early hotelkeepers of Cue. Each would “back” a man into a “show” for weeks at a time, and, whether successful or not, made no fuss about the expense of the venture. Many a man made good through the backing of a storekeeper or publican. The trooper who put Mick inside was down with another batch and struck Christmas Day. Like many more, he found his way to Jim Maloney’s Just about dinner time and partook of the good things.

A gathering outside of the Cue Hotel 1900 – Photo SLWA

Things hummed, everyone was in a merry mood, and the beer and food disappeared in huge quantities. The attendants were almost exhausted. At the table next to, and directly behind the trooper was the merriest man of all. He was a host in himself, the life of the party, and as witty as a clown. He had the room in an uproar. No one was more insistent on keeping the jugs full and empty than he, and no one could make so neat a speech. He moved a vote of thanks to Maloney, and asked them to drink his health in bumpers, which they did time and again.

He also proposed the toast of  “our visitor” the trooper who thought he had been unobserved. He spoke of him as the finest man in the north, the friend of the stock owner and the terror at the horse thieves. It was a pleasure to be acquainted with him. He had had but one official transaction with him, and had no complaints. He got all that was coming to him. As he paused for breath, a disturbance at the door distracted his attention. Something unusual had happened. All hands turned to see what it was and broke out in a loud “Hurrah!” It was the gaoler, who was always looked upon as very straight-laced, and known as a man who “would not touch it.” But someone had got the better of him and he was decidedly mellow, if not more so.

It was a huge joke, the best news of the Christmas week. The wit couldn’t let it pass. “Boys,” he said, “we have been wasting our time in filling jugs. Someone has filled the Copper!” He didn’t take much persuading to join the happy band, and they plied him with everything. What a comedown for the professed wowser! Now he was one of the boys living as a man ought and taking beer in his stride. But time was up. The dinner hour was over. One more speech only. Mr. Merryman made it. He toasted the gaoler. “Grand fellows, Best of cobbers. Treated people like a brother. Fact, he was not only his personal friend but his BOSS.” time they went home. The wag was none other than Mick ‘doing time’.

It transpired that for a week beforehand he had been paid to work as a kitchenman at the hotel, and was one of the assistant cooks on the great day. He had all his meals there too. What was handed out to him at the gaol he passed on to his less favoured associates. He put in an appearance at the hour he knew the gaoler would be around and was always in before 10pm. No wonder there were horse (and other) thieves in those days. They were better off in gaol than out of it, especially if they struck Cue to do the time in hand and had the luck to become the senior man.
by SUTER ABIS – Perth.