Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 1289
Sterl went up to Friday, tapped him on his deep breast and asked, “Friday no hurt bad?” The native understood, for he grinned and shook his head.
“Leslie, you ask him to go with us on the trek.”
“Friday, white man wantum you go with him, far, far that way,” said Leslie, making a slow gesture which indicated immeasurable distance toward the outback. Friday fastened great, black unfathomable eyes upon Sterl.
“White man come from far country, away cross big water,” said Sterl, pointing toward the east, and speaking as if to an Indian. “He need Friday — track horse — kill meat — fight — tell where pads go.”
“Black fella go alonga you,” replied Friday.
Leslie clapped her hands. “Good-o! I was sure he’d go, if you asked him,” she cried. “Dad will be happy!”
Red slouched over to Friday and handed him a cigar.
“You close up boss?” asked the black, looking from one to the other.
“Shore, Friday,” replied Red.
“You um fadder?”
“Fadder? Hell no!...Gosh, do I look thet old? Him my brudder, Friday.
“Black fella im brudder your brudder,” declared Friday, loftily, and stalked away.
CHAPTER 5
IT TURNED OUT that Leslie’s freeing of her native bear pets was merely a matter of saying good-by to them, for they were not confined. They lived in the trees of a small eucalyptus grove back of the house. Sterl enjoyed the sensation of holding some of them, of feeling their sharp, strong, abnormally large claws cling to his coat. The one that pleased Sterl most was a mother that carried her baby in a pouch. The little one had his head stuck out, and his bright black eyes said that he wanted to see all there was to see.
Gently but firmly Leslie drew the little bear from the pouch and placed it on the mother’s back, where it stuck like a burr and appeared perfectly comfortable. Sterl never saw a prettier animal sight, and said so emphatically.
“Marsupials!” said Leslie. “All sorts of them down under, from kangaroos to a little blind mole no longer than my finger.”
“Well I’m a son of a gun!” exclaimed Red. “What’s a marsupial?”
This started Leslie on a lecture concerning Australian mammals and birds. When she finished with marsupials, which carry their babies in a pouch, and came to the unbelievable platypus which wears fur, suckles its young, lays eggs and has a bill like a duck and web feet fastened on backward, she stretched Red’s credulity to the breaking point.
“How can you stand there, a sweet pictoor of honest girlhood, and be such an orful liar? How about thet liar bird Jones said you could show us? — the wonderfulest bird in Australia!”
“Rightho! Boys, if you’ll get up early, I’ll promise you shall hear a lyrebird, and maybe see one.”
“It’s a date, Leslie, tomorrow mawnin’. Right heah. Hey, pard?”
“You bet.” said Sterl, “And now let’s get to work making that wagon.”
The wagon, which Slyter intended for his womenfolk and all their personal effects, was big and sturdy, with wide-tired wheels, high sides, and a roomy canvas top stretched over hoops. Sterl examined it carefully.
“How about in water an’ sand?” queried Red, dubiously.
“In deep water she’ll float — when we fix her. Red, dig up a couple of chisels and hammers while I get something to calk these seams.”
In short order they had the wagon bed so that it would not leak. Then, while Red began the same job on the other wagon, Sterl devoted himself to fixing up some approach to a prairie-schooner tent dwelling. Sterl had Leslie designate the bags and trunks which would be needed en route; with these he packed the forward half of the wagon bed two feet deep. Then he transformed the rear half into a bedroom.
Slyter arrived with the dray, and climbed off the driver’s seat to begin unhitching. His face was dark, his brow lined and pondering.
“Roland, pack all the flour on top of this load and tie on a cover,” said Slyter. “Hazelton, how’s the work progressing?”
“We’re about done. Hope nothing more came off uptown?”
“Testy day. Just my personal business...You’ll be interested in this. Ormiston sobered up and tried to get back into our good graces. Stanley Dann accepted his apologies.”
“Then Ormiston will go on the trek?”
“Yes. He said to tell you he had been half drunk, and would speak to you when opportunity afforded. But he asked me if you cowboys had any references!”
“I was surprised that you did not ask for any.”
“I didn’t need any. Nor did Stanley Dann. Ormiston was trying to sow seeds of discord.”
“Thank you, Slyter. I’m sure you’ll never regret your kindness.”
“Hathaway and Woolcott left about midday,” went on Slyter. “Some of their drovers were drunk. The Danns are all ready to leave at dawn. We’ll start tomorrow sometime.”
“How about waterholes?”
“No fear. We’ve had a few good rains lately. There’ll be plenty of water — maybe too much — and grass all the way out of Queensland. Stanley Dann and his brother Eric had another hot argument. Eric was one of the drovers who made that Gulf trek. He wants to stick to that route. But Stanley argues we should leave it beyond the Diamantina River and head northwest more directly across the Never-never. I agree with him.”
It was dim gray morning when, keeping their engagement with Leslie, the Americans mounted the shadowy aisle leading up to the house.
They found her waiting with Friday. “Aren’t you ashamed? You’re late...Come. Don’t talk. Don’t make the slightest sound.”
They followed Friday, a shadow in the gray gloom. The east was brightening. Presently, Friday glided noiselessly into the bush. Gradually it grew lighter. Soft mist hung low under the pale-trunked trees. They came to a glade that led down into a ravine where water tinkled. It opened out wide upon a scene of veiled enchantment. Small trees, pyramid shape, pointed up to the brightening sky, and shone as white as if covered by frost. Great fern trees spread long, lacy, exquisite leaves from a symmetrical head almost to the ground. Huge eucalyptus sent marble-like pillars aloft. Their fragrance attacked Sterl’s nostrils with an acute, strangling sensation. A bell-like note struck lingeringly upon his ear. Friday halted. As he lifted his hand with the gesture of an Indian, Sterl heard the lovely call of a thrush near at hand. Leslie put her lips right on Sterl’s ear. “It is the lyrebird!” Then it seemed to Sterl that his tingling ears caught the songs of other birds, intermingled with that of the thrush. Suddenly a bursting cur-ra-wong, cur-ra-wong shot through Sterl.
Could that, too be the lyrebird? The note was repeated again and again, so full of wild melody that it made Sterl ache. It was followed by caw, caw, caw, the most dismal and raucous note of a crow.
“Don’t you understand, boys?” whispered Leslie, bending her head between them. “The lyrebird is a mocker. He can imitate any sound.”
That sweet concatenation of various bird notes was disrupted by what seemed to be the bawling of a cow.
From off in the woods sounded a mournful, rich note, like the dong of a bell.
“Another! Oh, but we’re lucky!” whispered Leslie.
Across a little leafy glade, Sterl noticed low foliage move and part to admit a dark brown bird, half the size of a hen turkey. It had a sleek, delicate head. As it stepped daintily out from under the foliage, its tail, erect and exquisite, described the perfect shape of a lyre. Long, slender, fernlike feathers rose and spread from the two central feathers — broad, dark velvety brown, barred in shiny white or gray, with graceful curling tips that bowed and dipped as it passed out of sight into the bush.
“Wal,” said Red, “yore lyrebird has our mockers skinned to a frazzle.”
“That must mean something!” returned Leslie, giggling. “Come. We’ll be late and Dad will row. Let’s run.”
When they went in to breakfast, Roland and Larry were leaving, sober as judges. Bill Williams, the cook, was banging pots and pans with unnecessary force. Slyter looked as if he were going to a funeral, and his wife was weeping. Leslie’s smile vanished. She served the cowboys, who made short work of that meal.
“Boss, what’s the order for today?” queried Sterl, shortly.
“Drake’s mustering for the trek,” replied Slyter, gruffly.
Leslie followed them out. “I’ll catch up somewhere. I’d go with you now, but Mum...Ride King and Jester, won’t you?”
Sterl found difficulty in expressing his sympathy. The girl was brave, though deeply affected by her mother’s grief. It really was a terrible thing to do — this forsaking a comfortable home in a beautiful valley, to ride out into the unknown and forbidding wilderness.
King surprised Sterl with his willingness to be saddled and bridled. He knew he was leaving the paddock, and liked it. Sterl tied on the slicker and canteen, and slipped into his worn leather chaps, conscious of a quickening of his pulse. He took up his rifle and walked around in front of the horse. “Are you gun shy, King?” The black apparently knew a rifle, and showing no fear, stood without a quiver while Sterl shoved it into the saddle sheath.
“Say, air you a mud hen, thet you go duckin’ jest ‘cause I’ve got a gun?” Red was complaining to his horse.
In another moment they were in the unfamiliar English saddles. Joining Larry, they rode out into the open valley. Ahead of them, about a mile out of the widening valley, a herd of grazing horses, and beyond them Slyter’s cattle, added the last link to the certainty of the trek.
Waiting this side of the horses were three riders, superbly mounted. Their garb, and the trappings of the horses, appeared markedly different from those of the Americans. Sterl had made up his mind about these riders of Slyter’s; still he gave each a keen scrutiny. Drake was middle-aged, honest and forcible of aspect, strong of build. The other two, Benson and Heald, were sturdy young men not out of their teens, and sat their saddles as if used to them.
“Drake, we have Slyter’s orders to report to you,” added Sterl, after the introductions.
“I’ve sent Monkton on ahead to let down the bars,” replied Drake. “We fenced the valley ahead there where it narrows. I’ll join him. You men bring up the rear.”
“No particular formation?”
“Just let the mob graze along at a walk. We’ll keep right on till Slyter halts us, probably at Blue Gum.”
Drake said no more, and rode away to the left, accompanied by Heald, while Benson trotted off to the right.
“Huh! Short an’ sweet. All in the day’s work,” complained Red.
“Red, you ought to be in front,” said Sterl, “but, no doubt, that’ll come in time.”
In another moment Sterl was alone. He lighted a cigarette. King pranced a little and wanted to go. Sterl patted the arched neck, and fell at once into his old habit of talking to his horse. “King, we don’t know each other yet. But if you’re as good as you look, we’ll be pards. Take it easy. I see you’re too well trained to graze with a bridle on. You can unlearn that, King.”
He was to ride across a whole unknown continent, from which journey, even it he survived it, he would never return. Sterl faced the east. And he could not keep back a farewell whisper: “Good-by, Nan...Good-by!” which seemed final and irrevocable.
When he turned again, prompted by the keen King, the long line of cattle was on the move. The great trek had begun. The valley was filled with a rich, thick, amber light. Fleecy white clouds sailed above the green line of bush. The gold of wattles and the scarlet of eucalyptus stood out vividly even in the brilliance of the sun-drenched foliage. A faint and failing column of smoke rose above the forsaken farmhouse, that seemed to have gone to sleep among the wattles. A glancing gleam of tranquil, reed-bordered pond caught Sterl’s sight. All this pastoral beauty, this land of flowers and grass and blossoming trees, this land of milk and honey, was being abandoned for the chimera of the pioneer!
CHAPTER 6
FIRST CAMP! A huge dead gum tree, bleached and gnarled, marking a sunset-flushed stream; outcropping rock and jungle beyond; to the right lanes of open country opening into the bush. Cattle and horses made for the creek and spread along its low bank for a mile. When they had drunk their fill some of the cattle fell to grazing, while many or them lay down to rest. The horses, which had fed all day behind the cattle, trooped back to their grazing. In Sterl’s judgment both would require little night guarding on such pasture as that.
He watered King, then rode down the creek into camp. Pungent wood smoke brought back other camp scenes. But no other camp site he could remember had possessed such an imposing landmark as the great dead blue gum tree. On its spreading branches Sterl identified herons, parrots, a hawk perched on a topmost tip, kookaburras low down. The wagons were spaced conveniently, though not close together. Locating his own, Sterl dismounted to strip King and let him go. He was unrolling his tent when Leslie approached.
“Well, so here you are? I wondered if you’d ever catch up,” said Sterl.
“I hadn’t the heart to leave Mum today. I...I...I would have been all right, but for her.”
“Why you’re all right anyhow, Leslie. Don’t look back — don’t think back!...Our first camp’s dandy...Where’re Friday and your Dad?”
“Friday walked all the way. I rode a little. Mum came out of it all at once. Dad is all fit. He and Drake just had a drop from a bottle...And here come Red and Larry.”
Sterl with Leslie crossed over to the center of camp, where Friday was carrying water. Slyter, after rummaging under seat of his wagon, brought a book to Leslie.
“Les, one of your jobs is keeping our journal. Record date, distance trekked, weather, incident, everything.”
“Whew! what a job!” exclaimed Leslie. “But I’ll love it...How far today?”
“A long trek. Sixteen miles?” asked Slyter, dubiously.
“And then some,” interposed Sterl. “Ask Red. He’s a wonderful judge of distance...Now, boss, how about night guard?”
“Three changes. Two men on for three hours each. Eight to eleven, eleven to two, two till five. Which watch would you and Krehl like?”
“The late one, boss. We’re used to the wee small hours.”
“You’ll have our black man, Friday. Hazelton, you’ll find him a tower of help.”
The thud of horses hoofs awoke Sterl before Larry called into the tent: “Two o’clock, boys. Roll out.”
Ready to go, the cowboys repaired to the fire for the tea Larry had poured for them. It was scalding hot and strong as acid. The band of horses was huddled between camps and the mob of cattle. They were quiet, only a few grazing. The cattle had bedded down.
“What’ll we do, Sterl? Circle or stand guard?”
“Circle, Red, till we get the lay of the herd.”
Red rode on into the bright starlight, and the cold wind brought back the smoke of his cigarette. Sterl turned to walk his horse in the other direction. Old sensorial habits reasserted themselves — the keen ear, the keen eye, the keen nose and the feel of air, wind, cold. The cattle and the horses were quiet. Strange, discordant barks of dingoes lent unreality to the wild. Wide-winged birds or flying foxes passed over his head with silky swish.
In half an hour Sterl heard Red’s horse before he sighted it, a moving, ghostly white in the brilliant gloom.
“Fine setup, pard,” said Red. “A lazy cowboy job!”
“All well on my side. Go halfway round and stand watch.”
“Air kinda penetratin’, pard. I reckon I’ll mosey to an’ fro,” returned Red, and rode on.
When Sterl reached the end of a half circle, came the voice of Friday, “Cheeky black fella close up,” he said, and vanished.
Sterl swept his gaze in wary half circles. Further outback, this night watch might be a perilous duty. But nothing happened. Friday did not return, although Sterl had a feeling that the black was close. Slowly, mysteriously, the dreaming darkest hour passed.
At the first faint lighting in the east the cattle began to stir. Sterl circled around to meet Red. “Mawnin’,” said that worthy. “J’ever see such a tame bunch of cattle? How’d you make out?”
“Just killed time. This sort of work will spoil us. It’s after five. Let’s ride in.”
Breakfast was awaiting them. Two of the wagons were already hitched up. Leslie stood by the fire, drinking tea. Larry came riding up, leading three saddled horses, one of which was Duchess, Leslie’s favorite.
Red saw the girl swing up into her saddle with one hand, and said, “Pard, I gotta hand it to thet kid. If Beryl is like her, wal, it’s all day with me.”
When they rode out on fresh horses the sun had just burst over the eastern bush, and the downs were as if aflame. Drake had the mob ready. Leslie and Larry were driving the straggling horses. Red loped across the wide flank to take up his position on the far right. Friday came along with giant strides, carrying his spears and wommera in his left hand and a boomerang in the other. Leslie rode loping back to turn on the line even with Sterl. Then the four rear riders, pressing forward, drove the horses upon the heels of the cattle, and the day’s drive was on. The bustle and hurry before the start seemed to come to an abrupt end in the slow, natural walk of grazing cattle and horses.
Three times before afternoon, Leslie rode over to Sterl on some pretext or other, the last of which was an offer to share a bit of lunch she had brought.
“No thanks, Leslie. A cowboy learns to go without. And on this trek in particular, I’m going to emulate your black men.”
“I suppose you cowboys live without fun, food or — love?” she queried, flippantly.
“We do indeed.”
“Like hob you do,” she flashed. “Oh, well maybe you do. This is the third time you’ve snubbed me so far today. You’re an old crosspatch.”
Sterl laughed, though he felt a little nettled. The girl interrupted the even, almost unconscious ebb and flow of his sensorial perceptions.
“I’ve been called worse than that, by sentimental young ladies,” replied Sterl, satirically. “Would you expect me to babble poetry to you or listen to your silly chatter?”
