The Great Trek Page 11

  Sterl with Leslie crossed over to the center of camp, where Friday was packing water. Williams bustled about between fire and wagon, and Slyter, after rummaging under the seat of his wagon, brought a little book to Leslie.

  “Les, one of your jobs is keeping our journal. Here you are. Don’t ever miss a day. Keep date, distance trekked, weather, incident, everything.”

  “Holy Mackeli, what a job!” exclaimed Leslie. “But I’ll love it. How far today?”

  “A long trek. Sixteen miles?” Slyter said 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. Eight to eleven, eleven to two, two till five. Which watch will you and Krehl like?”

  “The late one, boss. We’re used to the wee small hours.”

  “Aborigines seldom attack before dawn. But you’ll have our black man Friday. Hazelton, you’ll find him a tower of help.”

  “How about hobbling horses?”

  “None of ours will need it. They won’t stray away from grass like this. Keep them bunched, that’s all.”

  Sterl returned to where he had left the tent and beds. Red walked up from somewhere, the happy blaze in his blue eyes. “Wal, you old snoozer, I seen you takin’ catnaps on an’ off. Gosh, wasn’t it one old-time first day in a hundred? Nothin’ to do but fork yore saddle an’ browse.”

  They all agreed it had been a fine first day. And over dinner all congratulated themselves and each other for the day’s accomplishments. Then it was time for sleep.

  As he prepared his bed, Sterl listened to the swishy sound made by flying-foxes over his head and the bawl of cattle. Then Leslie appeared by his side. “Are you feeling better,” he asked hesitantly.

  “Red cheered me up with an argument, then a funny story. I’ll be right-o tomorrow. Good night, Sterl.”

  “Pleasant dreams, pioneer girl,” replied Sterl.

  “Ain’t a damn bit sleepy,” said Red, joining up with Sterl as he walked tentward.

  “Neither am I, pard. Excited, lively. But I’m bone-tired. Let’s hit the hay.”

  The thud of horses’ hoofs awoke Sterl before Larry called into the tent: “Two o’clock, boys. Roll out.”

  “Aw,” groaned Red, “but a cowboy’s life is ha-ard.”

  In a moment more they were outside. A campfire emphasized the black night. Friday knelt before it, drinking out of a tin.

  “I’ll pour you a cup of tea,” Larry said, handing Sterl the halters.

  “Tea?…I pass,” growled Red.

  “Better have one, Red. Let’s fall into the habit. ¿Quién sabe? We may need it.”

  “OK, pard. Wal, heah’s my white hoss Larry fetched. Which one have you?”

  “Don’t remember him in the dark. Looks all horse.” What an unusual and fine thing, Sterl reflected, to have a strange horse stand in the dead of night to be bridled and saddled by a strange man! “Well, horse,” he soliloquized, “I’ve only got so much regard to divide up, but you’ll have yours.”

  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, but Sterl downed his. Red did likewise with the aid of fearful profanity.

  “Larry, where’s the mob?” queried Sterl.

  “About a mile out, resting. Horses close by.”

  Sterl found his night hawk sight returning.

  Red said: “Pard, we gotta learn these strange stars. We only know thet grand Southern Cross. Gosh! What a bunch of brilliant sky lanterns! But, hell, they don’t make no cross!”

  “Red, that great white cloud across the sky must be the Milky Way of the Southern Hemisphere.”

  “Got ours skinned to death.”

  The band of horses was huddled between camp and the mob of cattle. They were quiet, only a few grazing. The cattle had bedded down to make a huge, irregular, black patch on the grass.

  “My Gawd, pard, shades of the old range!” Red cried poignantly. “Bury me on the lone prairiee.”

  “If you sing that, I’ll murder you,” hissed Sterl.

  “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. Sterl sensed only hunger in their utterance. Wide-winged birds or foxes passed over his head with a silky swish.

  In half an hour Sterl heard Red’s horse before he sighted it, a moving, ghostly white in the brilliant gloom. Presently the cowboys met, halting a moment.

  “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,” Red returned, and rode on.

  When Sterl reached the end of a half circle, he was amazed to see a tall, black man, like an apparition, stalk up to him. How easily one of these aborigines could spear him or knock him off his horse with a boomerang! This black, of course, was Friday, free to exercise his trust as he saw it. Sterl hailed him, to receive an affirmative reply. Then the black reached him.

  “Cheeky black fella close up,” Friday said, striding on.

  Sterl pondered that speech while he watched Friday to see just how far he could distinguish him. By straining his eyes, Sterl kept track of the black for a goodly distance. And there after he swept his gaze in wary half-circle. These aborigines would kill and steal beef. Sterl had been assured of that. Farther Outback such a night watch would be a perilous duty.

  But nothing happened. The night wore on toward dawn. Friday did not return, although Sterl had a feeling that the black man was close. Once he saw Red strike a match. Sterl sat his saddle, got down to walk to and fro, mounted to watch another hour, and slowly, mysteriously the dreaming, darkest hour passed.

  From the first faint lighting in the east there were gradual, almost imperceptible changes until the dim downs were clear, and the cattle began to stir. Sterl circled around to meet Red. “ ’Mawnin’,” said that worthy. “J’ever see such a tame bunch of cattle? But I had a scare at thet. One of them flyin’ bats hit me on the haid. 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 waiting. Two of the wagons were already hitched up. Friday was in the act of loading the cowboys’ tent and bedding into one of them. Leslie stood by the fire, drinking tea. She waved a gauntletted hand. Booted and spurred, with cheeks like roses, she looked, indeed, what Red had called her—an eyeful for a cowboy. While Sterl and Red hurried with their meal, Slyter drove off, with a cheery call for those behind. Jones soon followed Slyter’s wheel tracks for the ford. Larry came riding up, leading three horses, one of which was Duchess, Leslie’s favorite.

  Red saw the girl swing up on her saddle with one hand, and he said: “Pard, I gotta hand it to that kid. If Beryl is like her, wal, it’s all day with me.”

  When they rode out on fresh horses, the sun had just burnt red and glorious 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, and his long, pealing cowboy call to the cattle rang through Sterl. 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. Sterl watched the black man, marveling at the human being who could set out on foot to cover thousands of miles. Friday would be a source of endless interest and education to Sterl. The picturesque girl, bareheaded, with the sunlight shining on her hair, was not too far distant for Sterl to watch and admire her in secret. For the rest there were the Thoroughbreds to draw his attention, and the colored mob of cattle, and the myriad of winged life about, the rocky and timbered slope on the left, and the wide, winding lanes of grass ahead, bordered by patches of scrub and ridges of bushland. The wilderness to the fore could not be too far, too wide, too hard for Sterl Hazelton.

  Three times before afternoon, Leslie rode over to Sterl on some pretext or other, the last of which was an offer to share the 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 man.”

  “I suppose you cowboys live without fun, food, or…love?” she queried flippantly.

  “We do, indeed.”

  “Like hoo 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 was distracting. She did interrupt the even, almost unconscious, ebb and flow of his sensorial perceptions. Presently, no doubt, as this lonely trek lengthened out, and the inescapable accidents and dangers of it brought them close together, depending on one another, she would be pretty nigh irresistible. Sterl resented the healing of his heart, the fading of sad memories, and the singular appeal of this virile chestnut-haired daughter of Australia.

  “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?”

  “Oh-h!” cried Leslie, outraged, reddening from neck to brow. And she wheeled her horse to lope far along the line toward Red.

  “That should hold her a while,” Sterl murmured regretfully. “Too bad I’ve got to be mean to her. But….”

  He forgot her presently. Mile on mile the slow progress was offset by new vistas. A flock of emus held his gaze for long. The trek crossed one dry stream bed and another flowing creek. There was no obstacle to hinder the cattle, and the horses might have been in their paddock. Once, from a slow heave of land, Sterl caught a glimpse of Dann’s mob, far ahead, like a huge cloud shadow on the green.

  A bit of open bush, where scrub and scattered gums made the stock hard to locate, marked the flat country below the low eminence from which he could see afar. Progress there was slow. The drovers rode to and fro, keeping their charge intact. A league of rolling grassland led into a thicker area of bush. Once penetrated, it proved to hold a gray-green oval which was bisected by a winding line of wattle trees, a veritable snake of gold crawling across the meadow. Slyter had halted for camp at the foot of a ridge, running out like a spur from the rougher bushland. Manifestly a stream came from around that ridge.

  It was no later than mid-afternoon with the sun still warm. A short trek, Sterl thought, perhaps owing to the fact of longer distance to water the next day. Cattle and horses made for the stream that turned out to be a river that could not be forded with wagons at the point Sterl reached it. Letting the horse drink, Sterl eyed the golden-lined wattles with appreciation.

  In camp, Sterl was pitching the tent when Red and Leslie rode in, followed at some distance by Friday. The girl with head up and eyes forward rode by Sterl as if he had not been there. Red slid out of his saddle in his old inimitable way, and soon with a slap on the flank he sent his horse scampering.

  “About ten miles, I’d say,” he drawled. “Slick camp and a hefty river. Say, pard, what’n’ll did you do to the kid?”

  “Nothing,” replied Sterl.

  “Wal, you’re a dad-blasted liar. Leslie was all broke up.”

  “She bothers me, Red.”

  “Ah-huh. I savvy. Same heah. But I’m feared the kid likes you an’ hasn’t no idee a-tall about it.”

  Sterl remained silent, revolving in his mind a singular realization prompted by Red’s talk—that he had felt a distinct throb of pleasure. This would never do, yet how could he help it?

  The cowboys finished their chores, then strolled over to the busy Slyter. Leslie sat near, writing in her journal.

  “Boss, how come you hauled up so soon?” asked Red.

  “Long trek tomorrow to next water.”

  “Where will we ford this river?” added Sterl.

  “Below here. There’s a shallow place. But the river is high. Dann crossed ten miles or more below. If it had been the rainy season, we’d cross before camping.”

  “Any work we can lay a hand to?”

  “No. Early camps like this make a trek good. There’s two between Brisbane and Downsville, if you remember. Rest or find tasks of your own. There’s always something. You can always hunt. Our main ration will be meat, you know. And the more game you kill, the less beef we need to use.”

  “Dog-gone! Pard, get the black and let’s rustle.”

  Sterl turned to the girl. “Leslie, where is Friday?” As she did not appear to hear, he asked her again. Then she looked up. “Please do not annoy me, Mister Hazelton. I’m composing poetry,” she said coldly.

  Sterl kept a straight face until his back was turned. Red drawled: “Holy Mackeli, pard! Didn’t she freeze you? Say, I hope you didn’t insult her…or somethin’.”

  “How could I do that, Red?”

  “Well, you needn’t look at me like I was a skunk. You might have tried to kiss her, anyhow. Leastways, I’ve known you to do thet on short acquaintance.”

  “No, you brainless baboon. I asked Leslie if she wanted me to babble poetry to her and listen to her silly prattle.”

  “Haw! Haw! Wal, you did? No wonder she has her chin up. Dad-blast you, pard, I reckon thet’s why wimmin lose their haids over you so pronto. I’ll try that on Beryl.”

  “Umpumm, pard. Save Beryl’s life or ride a chariot race for her.”

  “Damn if I don’t!” Red ejaculated gleefully.

  They got their rifles, and, finding Friday, they took him along. Upstream, around the corner of a ridge, they found thickets leading up to the bush. Red evinced great interest in the black’s weapons. “Boomerang an’ wommera? They’re some tongue-twisters, pard. Pretty soundin’, though. It’ll shore be a circus to see him use them.”

  Chapter Seven

  Day after day passed on the trek. Camp after camp left Sterl with some memory of location or incident. The late afternoon hour arrived, at length, when Slyter caught up with the Dann brothers and their partners. The place befitted such an important occasion. From here the drovers would push on together to the end. It was the gateway to a valley between mountain ranges. Giant eucalyptus trees towered loftily, their opal-lined trunks and lacy canopy of green bright in the westering sun. They stood far apart, stately and unsociable. Here and there blossoming wattle trees, like huge golden mounds, graced the verdant parks, through which a crystal stream ran babbling over rocky shoals. Sterl, growing more used to beautiful campsites, still protested this one was too good to be true.

  Slyter led his mob to the left and hauled up on a wide curve of the stream. In the center, half a mile from Slyter, the Dann encampment, with its ten wagons and drays, its canvas tents bright against the green, its blue smokes and active figures, made an imposing sight in Sterl’s eyes, like a plains caravan. Farther to the right showed the camp of Hathaway and Woolcott. Hundreds of horses grazed in between. Across the river flamed the enormous mob of cattle which the drovers had evidently thrown together. Twice as much stock as Sterl had ever seen at one time. It bore some resemblance to a herd of buffalo. What ever the magnificent effrontery of these drovers, the bold challenge flung into the teeth of inland Australia, with its rivers and cannibals, its wastelands and jungles, its terrific heat and growth, the specta
cle was one to wring sincere tribute from Sterl. This Stanley Dann possessed the qualities of the country.

  With Slyter’s mob and remuda placed to rest and graze, the drovers made toward camp by diverse routes. Sterl arrived first. More days passed than he could remember; the black horse, King, had completed his conquest over memories and exceptions the cowboy clung to. They had taken to each other. King recognized a gentle, firm, and expert master; Sterl reluctantly crowned the black for spirit, tirelessness and speed, and for a remarkable power in the water. After a first ford over slippery rocks Sterl put iron shoes on the horse and that made him invincible.

  While Sterl was unrolling the tent, Red and Leslie rode in. Exposure and sun had given the girl a golden tan that magnified her charm. After that tiff the second day out, Leslie had persistently ignored Sterl. But this day, knowing as they all knew that they were to come up with the main company of drovers, she had manifested unmistakable signs of remorse and uneasiness. Sterl, however, gave her no encouragement.

  “Pile off, Red, and go through the motions,” called Sterl, and soon his comrade was helping, markedly reticent for him.

  “Well, what’s on your chest?” queried Sterl, desiring to express himself.

  “Pard, I reckon it’s over,” Red said without his cheerful drawl.

  “What?”

  “Wal, this nice, long, easy drive. It’ll be hell from now on.”

  “Let it come.”

  “Say, you cheer me up. Sterl, what do you think? Leslie has commissioned me to beg you to forgive her for bein’ catty.”

  “Yeah? Red, you’re sure a good friend to have on one’s side, but you can tell Leslie to ask me herself.”

  “OK, pard. I won’t give you away, but you’ll forgive her, I’m shore.”

  “I have nothing to forgive. I was deliberately rude to her. And I’m sorry. A few sunny days on horse back changed my mood. Red, she’s worried, now we’ve caught up with the big outfit.”