Free The View From Connor's Hill by Barry Heard Page B

Most managed to get away. Then the kids at school showed me how to give them a ‘rabbit killer’. You had to flatten your palm, hold it rigid, and administer a severe chop behind the poor animal’s head. Now I was a rabbit murderer.
    I was just about to jack up and tell Mum that this was the last straw when I met an old bloke across the road. Well, it wasn’t quite across the road. It was quite a walk, through a paddock, some light bush, and just behind the cattle yards. He was a really old man — maybe 40 or a bit more. Our first meeting was a coincidence. My brother and I had ventured outside our house paddock, for the first time, to find the Tambo River. Apparently, it was about half a mile away. We had to walk through a couple of paddocks and some tangled low bush. On the way, we spotted a hut or living quarters of some kind behind some cattle yards, and we wandered over for a squiz. It looked deserted, but then we spotted a shrivelled-looking old man in an army overcoat, kneeling near a log. He was setting a rabbit trap. There was a dog nearby; it, too, looked old and scruffy. I called out ‘Hello’. The old man roared with fright, and dived behind the log. He frightened the hell out of us, and the dog didn’t help. It barked savagely. We turned to run away when the strange bloke called out, ‘It’s okay, lads. You jist frightened me — eh, shuddup, Croney!’
    I guessed Croney was the dog. Cautiously, I turned back. My younger brother Robbie walked right behind me, very close. The old man asked us who we were and where we had come from. I did all the talking — and I didn’t do very much. I was scared of this hermit-looking old man who wore mittens with the ends worn off, old hobnailed boots, and funny trousers that had string tied around each leg, just under the knees.
    â€˜I’m Les, and me dog here, Croney, does tricks. Let me show you one day, eh?’
    We didn’t even answer, and our first cautious steps were backwards before we turned and ran, not to the river, but back home.
    That night we told our parents, and Mum said, ‘That’s Les. He’s a character — used to be a drover, they say.’
    It wasn’t until a few weeks later that I saw Les again. I had started trapping rabbits myself, on the flats down near the river. I wasn’t having a lot of luck around the paddocks near our house. The kids at school said that near the river was the best place, as there were ferns and blackberries — all good cover that rabbits like to hide and play in.
    I was searching for fresh burrows when I noticed that one hole had a trap sprung with just the rabbit’s paw in the jaws. It was fresh. Maybe I had ventured into old Les’s territory. This could be dangerous, as I wouldn’t know where the traps had been set. I guessed I had better go and see Les. That was a worry. The kids at school reckoned he was a strange one.
    I ventured across the flats, headed towards the river, and turned up near the cattle yards. I found Les sitting outside his hut on a log, clutching a beer. He was shaking and weeping softly. He reminded me of Uncle Jock; he used to do that sometimes. At the time, I assumed this was what must happen to all old men. Stunned at what I saw, I turned to walk away when the damn dog barked and Les spotted me.
    â€˜G’day, son. Come over ’ere, mate. Take a seat. Shut up, Croney.’
    Hesitantly, I sat and stared at the ground. From the corner of my eye, I could see his right arm shaking. He had trouble getting the bottle to his lips as he sobbed softly.
    â€˜Never spills a drop, mate. Not bad, eh? I only has one beer a day. Bloody stuff gives me the shakes.’
    I didn’t know what to say. We sat in silence for a while when Les said, ‘Croney, get me ’baccy, mate.’
    The dog, which was busy licking its private parts, jumped to its feet and pushed open the door to the hut. It then emerged