The PR Blog

A Stranger on the Line: Meeting the Boundary Rider

By Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble, Dusty Gulch Gazette

Last night I rode out past Dusty Gulch, further than usual, under a sky so wide it could swallow a station. The Honklanders - those blundering, honking, chaotic fiends - are now spreading beyond town limits, and this time, they aren’t alone. Reports had trickled in about swamp creatures skulking in the dust, Prentis Penjani orchestrating mischief in the shadows, and Maurice E Duck paddling through the mess like he owned the place. Odd colours flashed through the scrub, gates yanked loose, and posts left leaning like drunk soldiers. Proof was needed, and I was the one to go fetch it.

Hours in, the horizon swallowed the last streaks of sunset, and I spotted him: a lone cat riding the fence line with the calm certainty of someone who’s stared trouble in the eye more times than most folk breathe. He tipped his hat and kept moving. The wind carried dust and distant, discordant honks - warnings that these Honklanders, now joined with swamp creatures, Prentis Penjani, and Maurice E Duck, were gathering, bold enough to come out under cover of darkness.

I made camp in a little clearing, lit a modest fire, careful not to draw their attention. The night seemed thick with anticipation, like the air itself was holding its breath. The cat approached, swung down from his horse with grace, and introduced himself simply: Boundary Rider. No fanfare. No first name. No social media presence. Just a man who watches fences and notices when chaos is trying to slip through.

Silent paws patrolling the line, ears tuned to every rustle beyond the fence. He doesn't scratch first... but when trouble leans in, he notices. And he acts.

We sat opposite each other, the fire casting long shadows across the scrub, the stars sharp and bright above. The Boundary Rider began to tell his story. Born somewhere west of the Divide, raised on dust, wire, and hard work. His Dad was a shearer , his Mum kept the gates together with fencing wire and sheer bloody-mindedness. He’d ridden stations bigger than some countries, mended fences under suns hot enough to fry your thoughts, and chased strays into mulga thick enough to hide a mob of camels.

But this wasn’t just about past glories. He spoke of the Honklanders’ growing audacity, of swamp creatures who slip in where fences and gates are weak, and of a coalition orchestrated by none other than Prentis Penjani and Maurice E Duck. “They’ve got the laws on their side now,” he said, voice low, “the so-called No Honk Speech Act passed in the dead of night. Some of the old Gulchians are too scared even to whisper the word lamington, lest they be arrested.”

“Old Dulcie McFee nearly choked on her tea the other night when she muttered ‘lamington’ under her breath. Had to sprint to the back paddock before the patrol caught her. That’s how sharp they are now.”

The frightening thing was that the No Honk Act allowed the Honkloanders to honk but stopped all  quacks, tweets, woofs. meows and grumbles. The only thing that could still be legal was honks. Such is the way of law these days. 

I listened, a shiver crawling across my spine despite the fire. 

All night, the Boundary Rider spoke of fences and gates - literal and metaphorical - falling, of disorder creeping in, and of how small lapses can let the swamp creatures and their honking allies take over. Each story carried a warning, wrapped in humour, allegory, and grit only the outback can breed.

He paused, eyes narrowing on the distant glow of dust, and muttered, ‘Better to ride the line now, or face the mess tomorrow.’

By dawn, the first gold streaks of sunlight lit the clearing. The Honklanders and their minions had retreated for the moment, but the night’s revelations had left their mark. The Boundary Rider stretched, tipped his hat toward me, and said quietly: “Alright. I’ll ride for the Gazette. Not to start fights. Not to call names. But to watch the fences, spot the breaks, and report what I see. And, if necessary… resist.”

And that’s how he became part of our ranks. He’ll send dispatches from the edge - stories, allegory, observations, and the odd nugget of gossip from Dusty Gulch and beyond. He won’t name names, but he will notice what others miss. He’ll track the movements of Honklanders, swamp creatures, and their mischievous political allies. Most importantly, he’ll be ready to stir the hearts of those who still care for the real Dusty Gulch, keeping watch before the chaos becomes unstoppable.

As I write, I am on edge.. every so often a twig snapped in the darkness, and a ripple of honks answered somewhere past the ridge. The bush itself seemed to hold its breath. My nerves are on edge...

Before the stars faded completely, he leaned closer and murmured something that I knew would be reserved for his first column: there are fences far beyond our borders - between nations, between alliances, and between loyalty and expedience. Some sag under the weight of broken promises. Some bend under pressure from forces unseen. And, he said, the story of those fences, and what happens if we fail to mend them… that yarn would wait for another night.

A fence doesn’t stop the wind, and a Boundary Rider doesn’t start fights. He just notices when the line’s leaning before the trouble gets through.

So, if you hear feet crunching on red dust, or spot fresh tracks along the fence line, tip your hat. That’ll be him. Out there under the great Australian sky, riding the line, keeping watch, and sending his tales back for all of us at the Dusty Gulch Gazette. 

Stay watchful. Mend your own fences while you can. And beware of the Honklanders - they’re not just honking. They’re plotting. And Prentis Penjani dosn't see that he is plotting for his own downfall when they take over.  IF they take over. 

- Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble, Dusty Gulch Gazette

And before you ask, The Boundary Rider is a Tabby. Not by accident.

A tabby wears the fences in his fur:

• stripes like wire

• mottled greys and browns that vanish at dusk

• a coat made for margins, shadows, and places where lines blur

A ginger announces himself. A tabby survives. The Boundary Rider learned early that the safest cats are the ones who look like:

• dust at sunset

• timber posts

• old fence rails half-swallowed by the paddock

When the Honklanders draw closer and the No Honk Speech Act makes even lamington a dangerous word, a tabby can sit three yards away and be dismissed as “just another bit of scrub.”

Roderick, of course, knows this -  and notes it in his private journals:

“You don’t put a bell on a Boundary Rider.And you don’t paint him orange.”