Western Mail 21 October 1937, page 13
Over the Plates
In Search of Lucky Pol
I liked that camel; she was a cunning and lucky old devil. She had pulled out one nostril when breaking away. When she bolted, if you were riding her, it was dangerous to try to pull her up, for you only pulled her snarling head into your face.
She was the last of the three with whom we had started out prospecting. One had a mysterious death. We were camped one night at the Ninety Mile. The camels had settled down quietly for the night, and no sounds were heard by us. In the morning, two of the camels were feeding nearby. The other was lying dead, and the whole of her insides seemed to have burst out of her. It was a ghastly sight, and we could never find any explanation for it.
The second one was hamstrung, killed, and partly eaten by the natives.
We third we called ‘lucky Poll’, for when crossing the salt lake on our way to Niagara, one of her legs went right through the crust of the lake. She had 400 lbs on her back, so we expected her leg to be broken. Feverishly, we hauled off the load. Poll gave a mighty heave; her leg came out with a plop, and no harm had been done.
Again, having loaded up stores at Niagara, I was returning to camp and on the way, stopped for lunch with some other prospectors. Poll was “hoostahed” down. Suddenly she jumped up and commenced to buck. “Run,” I shouted, “run like hell. There’s dynamite and detonators on board.” We all ran, threw ourselves on the ground and watched with horror the boxes banging against her sides. Off they fell with a crash on the hard ground. Poll calmly ambled off to camp. “Good God,” gasped the prospectors, “no wonder you call her lucky.”
When we were camped near Kookynie working a show there, a so-called mining expert blew into our camp. He had plenty of capital behind him, he said, and was looking around for options. He had obtained a number, he informed us, but had lost his horse, which a well-known mining man had lent him at Menzies. He inspected our show and took it under option for £5,000.
That night, he asked us for the loan of Poll to inspect some shows further north. We reluctantly agreed, but could not well refuse, as we hoped for a sale. “What about a deposit?” we asked. He pulled out his cheque book, put it back again, and said:
“Oh, I will be back the day after tomorrow, will that suit?”
We foolishly agreed. Three days went by. A week passed, and no sign of him. Then word came to us he was in Niagara, five miles away. Jack, one of our party, started off at once. The long, hot walk had raised his temper to fever heat. “Where is the Blanky cow?” was blurted out to the first man he met. “Over in the pub.” Jack rushed in. There he found the expert boasting to cynical listeners of his fighting qualities.
“Where’s that camel?” shouted Jack, with threatening fists. “I ‘ve-I’ve lost it,” stammered the pugilist. “Well, you will blanky well come and find it with me.” Jack borrowed a horse and made the expert trot along beside him, for the five miles back to camp. Another of the party, Bob, we will call him, then took up the quest for Poll. He rode, with the expert walking beside, searching for the place where the camel was last seen. For two days, they kept going, when Bob told the expert that water and tucker were getting scarce and that they seemed hopelessly lost.
The frightened man then confessed that he had no money. He knew nothing about mining and was a deserter from the Indian Army. Bob then turned south and reached Niagara in two hours. A dry-blowing dish was banged, a crowd collected, and a ‘roll up’ began. Later, as was the custom, the ‘expert’ was sent on his way with water and tucker sufficient to carry him to Menzies, the next town.
Then I took up the search with a borrowed camel and a native boy. I made for a soak about twenty miles from the camp. Poll’s tracks, which the boy would have known, could not be seen. We then camped for the night. At dawn, I was awakened by my dog barking and jumping on me to see three natives with spears turning and making off into the thick scrub. A rifle shot over their heads hurried them on their way. The next night, a man was speared at a nearby soak. We then made for another place, where Poll had been watered once before.
As we approached the gnamma hole, another party advanced to meet us. Of course, I met them with: “Have you seen a stray camel?” “No,” answered one. “But fancy meeting you.”
Later, I asked how he recognised me with a beard after ten years. “By the tone of voice. You used to give me 100 lines at school.” He had been a pupil of mine. As the sound of bells could be heard more clearly in the early morning, the three of us decided to start at dawn and search in different directions. I started southwards and, a few miles from camp, heard my name called. I made off in the direction of the call and stumbled into a camp and was greeted by an old surveying friend I had last seen in Victoria.
“I seem to be able to find everything but Poll,” I muttered as I left the camp.
The search seemed hopeless, so we abandoned it. While in my bunk a few mornings later, I heard the tinkle of a bell. I rushed out: Poll, I think, winked as she looked at me. I liked that camel!
By W.B.S., Claremont
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