A Night On the Road

A Night on the Road It was a dark and stormy night, as he rode around the mob. The bridle reins held loosely, the night horse knew his job. With twelve hundred head of cattle, it was a long and tiring day. There was not a drop of water to quench their thirst away. The boss drover knew the country like the back of his hand. He'd been a stockman all his life in this mostly barren land. A mob that size cannot be held when they smelled the rain, And to keep the mob as one tonight would be a worthy claim. They walked in from the Territory a long and dusty trip, Been on the road a month or more, barely used the whip. They traveled along the stock route at seven miles a day, Now this could be a night, when the ringers earn their pay. Storm clouds building on the horizon, it was sure to rain. They had a thirsty mob of cattle milling on the plain. There was lightning to the north, a storm far in the east, The bullocks smell'd wet soil, that drifted on the breeze. Extra horses kept close by, this would be a tiring night. It won't take much to set them off, to start them with a fright. They could go in any direction, there was a fence out to the west. It would take three men to hold them working at their best. Without a drink for thirty hours, then a storm wafts past their nose. They'd make a break to get away whenever the chance arose. Two horses a man by midnight they prayed for daybreak to come. The storm in the east had faded but the horses were kept on the run. They'd settle a while, gather strength and then try to get away. With two more changes of horses before the break of day. When daylight cracked the horizon, men and horses a lather of sweat, They'd held the mob together, demands on their stamina well met. “Lead em out, and hold them up, don't let them have their way. Don't let them push you around, they have a price to pay. It's a mile and a half to water, with tank, windmill and trough. Can only water three hundred head, the pipe can not keep up.” The boss drover called from the other wing he had done a count. “That rhone bullock is three hundred head or close that amount. Take them over that sandy ridge, from there you'll see the mill, After they drink, move them out, we'll have nine hundred still.” The bullocks saw the windmill as they crested that sandy rise Drawn in by the water trough, like a carcass attracts the flies. No way now to hold them back, the leaders they broke rank, With fifty yards of water trough from either side they drank. The bullocks moved away contented for they had their fill, Another lot had breached the rise and trotted to the mill. That's how it went for an hour or more until the mob was done, Their thirst was now abated they walked east toward the Sun. Now the day was back to normal the stock had had their drink The men had time to scratch themselves and even time to think. So that's the way it is when you're out there on the road Take what comes and give your best you can shoulder any load.