Blackfellows' Creek, or "Harton Hills," as the proprietor caused it to be designated when it commenced to acquire fame and reputation, was a striking example of the well-known faith held by experienced pastoralists, that a good run will manage itself, and make lots of money for its owner, whereas no amount of management will cause much difference in the profits or losses of a bad run.
Blackfellows' Creek was proverbially managed "anyhow." There was a large herd of cattle upon it, which certainly enjoyed about the smallest amount of supervision of any cattle in the world, not being Red River bisons, Chillingham wild cattle, or the Bos primigenius. Twice a year they were mustered to brand; a little oftener, perhaps, to get out the fat cattle. Sometimes there was a stock-rider, often none at all for months. The owner enjoyed the inestimable advantage of having been born north of the Tweed, a fact which indisposed him to employ more labour than was absolutely necessary. It also prevented him from wasting his[Pg 133] ready money on "improvements." The yards were generally referred to as a proof of how very little expenditure was really necessary on a cattle station.
"I wish I'd been a Scotchman, Rolf," said Fred Burchett to me once, in a contemplative mood. "I should have had a good run and 20,000 sheep by this time." "True—most true, friend of my soul; the same here—and we should not only have had them,—the acquisition is not so difficult,—but have kept them. That's where one division of the empire differs so much from the other." Now, the owner of Blackfellows' Creek, partly by reason of his abnormal girth and a sort of Athelstane-the-Unready kind of nature, never did anything. Yet he prospered exceedingly, and waxed more and more wealthy and rotund. All the stock-riders in the district came cheerfully to his muster, knowing that they would be treated with a certain easy-going liberality, and, moreover, be sure to find quantities of unbranded calves and strayed stock, all in the best possible condition, and never driven off the run or impounded from the richly-abounding and carelessly-ordered pastures of Blackfellows' Creek. I myself secured at a muster, and sold there and then, a whole lot of fat bullocks to Mooney, the cattle-dealer, who was lifting a draft at the time. They were a portion of my Devil's River store lot, which had, with correct taste and calculation, taken up their abode at Blackfellows' Creek on the first winter of their arrival. They had not my station brand, but their own hieroglyph was sufficient to protect them in those Arcadian times. I received Mr. Mooney's perfectly negotiable cheque for a round[Pg 134] sum. They had fattened up wonderfully,—great, raw-boned, old-fashioned Sydney-siders,—and looked like elephants. The only remark the owner of the run made on the transaction was, "As they had done so well, it was a pity that more of them hadn't come at the same time."
It was indeed a lovely bit of country, speaking from a grazing standpoint. There was plenty of water in the Blackfellows' and other unpretending channels to provide for the stock in all seasons without obtrusive parade. The run itself consisted principally of open well-grassed forest land, with a large proportion of "stony rises," and several marshes, very useful in the summer. Not an acre of waste or indifferent land was there upon it. Nobody knew where the boundaries were, there being no natural features of any kind, and the current belief was that it was much larger than was generally supposed. It did not seem to have any of the ordinary drawbacks to which other squattages were exposed. In spite of its ill-omened name, the blacks had never been "bad" there. If they had killed a few cattle no one would have minded, and I have no doubt they would have discontinued the practice voluntarily.
As a matter of course, the cattle were always "rolling fat." There was never the least trouble of selling a draft to be taken from the camp. The dealers gave the highest price, and bid against one another. Even the two-year-old steers were often taken, so "furnished" and "topped up" were they. How they were bred could never be ascertained, and was popularly supposed to be wholly unknown to[Pg 135] any white man of the period. Bulls were seldom bought. Not the smallest trouble was taken about their breeding. No money was spent, except upon the stud, in which were some noble Clydesdales—on one of them, by the way, I once saw the proprietor, and very worthily mounted he was. The animal in question was a son of old Farmer's Favourite, a gigantic gray, no doubt having some blood on the side of the dam, and seventeen hands in height. He was active and well paced, and carried his nineteen stone most creditably.
There were sheep on the run as well as cattle. From the richness of the soil and herbage they suffered a good deal with foot-rot, which they were permitted to cure by nature's own healing art. But they paid pretty well, too, growing a heavy fleece, and gradually increasing in numbers—shepherds, ailments, and occasional free selection by dingoes notwithstanding.
Mr. Carmichael either bought the place very early or "took it up"—the latter most likely. Such a property was, presumably, not often in the market; but the proprietor told me that he had once placed it under offer, at what he doubtless considered a very fancy price, to Mr. Jack Buchanan, a handsome, spirited young Scot, who bought one of the Messrs. Boldens' runs—the Lake—in 1844. The extreme fancy price being ￡3 per head for the cattle and 10s. all round for the sheep, the run about a quarter stocked!
After the gold "broke out," the drafts of fat cattle from Harton Hills began to tell up in such figures on the right side of his banking account that[Pg 136] the owner saw the necessity for acquiring the fee-simple. This was effected, like everything else there, without much trouble. A good house was built, fencing was put up. Thousands of acres were purchased, and the whole run pretty well "secured," out of its own profits solely, by the time the invasion of the free-selecting Goths and Vandals under Gavan Duffy's Act took place. Mr. Carmichael ultimately retired, and betook himself to a town life. But, however his idyll ended, no better example than Blackfellows' Creek ever demonstrated the soundness of the old squatting belief before alluded to, that the run is everything—stock, improvements, management, capital, etc., being all secondary considerations.
It has been mentioned in the early portions of these reminiscences that the Mount Rouse station, originally taken up by Mr. John Cox, had been resumed by the Government of the day, represented by His Honour the Superintendent, and devoted to the use and benefit of the aborigines of the district. Some compunction seems to have been felt by Mr. La Trobe, a humane and highly-cultured person, at the rapid decrease and deterioration of the native race. Whether he originated the idea of an aboriginal protectorate, with a staff of officials known as "Black Protectors," I cannot state with precision. A certain missionary named Robinson had the credit of inducing the remnant of the wild men and women of Tasmania to surrender to the clemency of the Government. They were then, with a somewhat doubtful generosity, presented with an island, and maintained thereon at the charges[Pg 137] of the State. It does not appear that they lacked henceforth any material comfort. But the fierce savages who had long harassed the outlying settlers, and who possessed considerably more "............