For 15 years, a station owner known for his boastful claims about never eating his own beef has finally faced a poetic form of bush justice. The man, who made a habit of stealing and butchering his neighbour's cattle, was recently tricked into breaking his own long-standing rule in a classic outback tale of comeuppance.
The Unwritten Law of the Land
The story originates from a common, though illegal, practice on remote Australian cattle stations. According to the unwritten code, if a neighbour's fat bullock strayed through a broken fence, a station manager might shoot it for meat. To hide the crime, the brand and earmarks would be meticulously cut off, sliced into tiny pieces, and scattered to the winds or fed to the dogs. Sometimes, the evidence was shoved into the carcass for scavengers to devour.
With the evidence disposed of, the butchering would begin. The prime cuts – topsides, rumps, and briskets – were carefully laid on a bed of leafy branches in the back of a station ute to keep them clean. Back at the homestead, the brisket would be salted, and the rest hung in the cold room. On larger properties, some wouldn't even wait for an animal to stray; they'd cross the boundary themselves, shoot a beast, and quickly retreat.
Bernie's 15-Year Boast
After a story on this practice was published, an older gentleman called with a fitting yarn about two neighbours, whom we'll call Bernie and Bob. Bernie was a station owner set up by his parents, who provided him with ample funds and a new Range Rover every few years. His daily routine involved checking dams and fences, all while keeping an eagle eye out for Bob's cattle that had wandered onto his land.
For 15 years, Bernie took pride in never killing his own cattle for meat. He exclusively targeted Bob's bullocks and heifers, boasting to his city mates that "nothing tastes better than the neighbour's beef." He revelled in the playful notoriety, enjoying being called a "card" or an "outlaw" by his friends.
The Bogged 4WD and an Invitation to Dinner
The tables turned one afternoon when Bernie, distracted while searching for Bob's cattle, drove his latest Range Rover into a boggy patch. The vehicle was stuck fast, about 10 kilometres from Bob's humble corrugated iron hut. With the sun setting, Bernie trekked to Bob's place, hoping for help and perhaps a meal.
Bob greeted him warmly. After hearing about the bogged vehicle, Bob insisted on feeding Bernie first before heading out with his Hilux to pull him free. He cooked up two thick rump steaks and boiled potatoes, and the pair shared rum while discussing the weather and local politics.
The meal was a quiet, serious affair, with Bob proving his skill with a three-centimetre thick rump steak. Bernie, enjoying the meal, even remarked that the steak was so good it didn't need the missing tinned mushrooms.
The Ultimate Revelation
After finishing his last bite, Bernie leaned back, took a swig of rum, and launched into his familiar boast. "You know Bob," he said, "I've lived next to you for 15 years. And in that 15 years, I've never once eaten my own beef."
Bob mirrored his actions, sitting back and taking a drink. "You know what, Bernie?" Bob replied. "Well. Tonight you broke that record. You've just eaten your own beef. Good, ain't it?"
The ultimate irony was served. The cattle thief who had dined on stolen meat for a decade and a half had finally, and unknowingly, consumed his own product. It was a moment of perfect, silent bush justice, where the punishment fit the crime with delicious precision.
