The Great Trek Page 6

  “Miss Leslie, what was that you said about yore Dad’s hosses?” Red asked.

  “Dad breeds the finest stock in Australia,” she replied. “That’s where his heart is. And mine, too. We raise cattle to buy or trade horses, so everyone says. The chief reason Dad wants to cross the Never Never is because he has learned that in the far northwest, in the country of the Kimberleys, there is a perfect climate, grass and water beyond a drover’s dreams.”

  “Sounds sweet. What air the Kimberleys?”

  “Mountain ranges. Stanley Dann’s brother, Eric, has seen the Kimberleys. If what he claims is true, they are paradise. He was one of the drovers who went on the Gulf trek several years ago. Then he went on to see the Kimberleys. But that trek was not across the Never Never.”

  “I savvy. Then the three-thousand-mile drive we’re undertakin’ is jest a short cut?”

  “It is, really. But that sounds strange. The whole idea thrills me through and through.”

  “Shore. I can see why for a boy. But for a girl….”

  “I’m tired of that Downsville school. I’ve learned all the teachers know. I’m crazy about the trek. I love to ride…anything to do with horses. Then I couldn’t let Mum and Dad go without me.”

  “Yeah? But can you ride, Miss Leslie?” went on Red, drawling quizzically.

  “Please don’t call me miss. Ride? I’ll give you a go any day, Mister Cowboy.”

  “Please don’t call me mister.’ Course, I wouldn’t race you. No girl in the world could beat a Texas cowboy, if she could beat a Texas cowgirl, which I sure doubt. Sterl, tell her what you think about it.”

  Sterl had been listening smilingly to this dialogue, and, thus importuned, he replied: “I wouldn’t risk any guesses or wagers.”

  “You’d better not. My horses are the fastest in Queensland. We’ll miss the races this fall. I’m sorry about that. All the fun we ever have here is racing.”

  “Yore hosses. You mean yore Dad’s?”

  “No, my own. I have ten. You boys show a kind of a superior something when you speak of horses to me. I’m just waiting to show you!”

  “We’re from Mizzourie, Leslie, an’ shore have to be shown.”

  Soon after that the boys said good night and left for their camp, groping through the dark. It was starlight, but the great gum trees shaded the way. Dingoes were barking somewhere, and some kind of a waterfowl was booming. The air was cold now and bore an unfamiliar fragrance along with the tangy eucalyptus. They found their tent, crawled in, and, removing coats and boots, they sought their separate beds.

  “No ’skeeters around here,” observed Red with satisfaction. “Pard, did you look Leslie over tonight?”

  “I saw her, but I didn’t look twice.”

  “Shore a fine looker in that blue dress. In them ridin’ pants she ’peared a little bit bowlegged. She was born on a hoss all right. An’ what strong hands she has, an’ arms an’ shoulders! Mark my words, Sterl, she’s a hosswoman, an’ like as not a wonder…. Did you notice she was a little less free with you than with me?”

  “No, pard, I didn’t.”

  “Wal, she was. But thet isn’t goin’ to keep me from takin’ my chance. Aw, I don’t entertain no big hope of cuttin’ you out. I never could win any girl, when you was around.”

  “Red, you can have them all,” Sterl declared, settling himself to woo sleep.

  “Yeah? Wal, you’re uncommon generous all of a sudden. Doggone it, you give me the willies ever since you lost Nan. She wasn’t the only sweet an’ beautiful kid in the….”

  Red’s voice trailed off in Sterl’s consciousness and died away. When Sterl awoke, he could feel that he had slept and rested for long hours, surely the greater part of the night. The tent was so dark he could not see his hand before his eyes. Not the faintest sound disturbed the silence. Sterl lay awake until the darkness turned gray. The first sound to announce the coming dawn was the sweet notes of a thrush. That seemed to awaken other songsters. A swish of heavy wings above the tent roused Sterl’s curiosity. He heard squeals down by the creek and that same booming cry. Crows began to caw, and then the lovely cur-ra-wong thrilled through Sterl. Then other birds burst into song until the air was full of melody.

  Sterl half-dozed off into a musical dream from which he was disrupted by Red. It was daybreak. The station life had awakened. Roland called them to breakfast, which Bill served before sunrise. In short order, then, they were off for the paddock, laden with saddles, bridles, and blankets. It proved to be quite a walk down along the creek. Another barn marked the opening to the level valley. Cattle were bawling; horses were whistling. A heavy dew glistened upon grass and brush. Down the lane, riders, mounted bareback, were driving a string of horses into a corral. The barn proved to be a long, open shed of stalls.

  Presently Sterl and Red were perched upon the top bar of the corral fence, as they had done perhaps thousands of times on Western ranches, directing keen and experienced eyes at the drove of dusty, shaggy horses. They proved to be fat, full of fire and dash, superb in every requirement so critical an audience might require. They came of a rangier, heavier, more powerful stock than the ordinary Western horses, and in these particulars markedly superior to the plains mustang. Sterl doubted that any horses in the world had the speed, the endurance of the Río Grande-bred mustang. Nevertheless, he sustained an agreeable surprise at the general excellence of these Australian horses.

  “Wal, come out with it, you locoed hoss-fancier,” drawled Red, crossing his legs and lighting a cigarette.

  “Wonderful bunch, Red, that’s all,” declared Sterl.

  “Gosh-durn-it! I never seen their beat. Did we have to come way out heah to see English stock beat the socks off ours?”

  “But, Red, they have to have speed and stamina,” returned Sterl weakly.

  “Hell, you can see thet in every line. Hosses gotta be the same all over. We never knowed any but ornery-eyed, kickin’, bitin’ cayuses in all our lives.”

  “Red, I remember a few that you couldn’t call that. Baldy, Whiteface, Spot…my old favorites on the Chisholm. And, Red, you couldn’t demean, let alone forget, Dusty…that broke his heart and died on his feet for you.”

  “Shet up! I wasn’t meanin’ a hoss in a thousand. Lord, could I forget the day Dusty outrun them Comanches? Wal, pard, the past is daid, along with all them grand hosses. An’ heah we air. I have no idee what hossflesh is wuth heah, but at home this bunch would fetch a fortune. Look at their eyes, pard. Not one mean, cross-eyed…. Wal, there is one I wouldn’t trust.”

  Jones sauntered over, accompanied by a brawny young man whom he introduced as Larry. “Boss’s orders are for you each to pick out five horses. Hurry now, for we have two days’ work to do in one.”

  “Wal, Rol, they look so darn’ good, I don’t see any sense in pickin’ a-tall. But it’s fun an’ tickles a cowboy’s vanity. Sterl, toss you for first pick.”

  Red won, and his choice was the very black Sterl had set his heart on. Still in a moment he espied another that suited him, and chose that.

  “Bays, browns, blacks, whites, sorrels, an’ a couple blue roans. An’ there’s a chestnut. Gosh, what a hoss! I pick him. Pard, I aim to have five colors, an’ name ’em accordin’.”

  “Not a bad idea. Here’s a sorrel for me. I’ll name him after you, Red. But I don’t see a black like that one you beat me to.”

  Leslie’s rich contralto rang out from behind. “What’s that about a black?”

  “Hello. I wondered about you,” replied Sterl.

  “Mawnin’, Leslie,” Red drawled. “I kinda like you better in them ridin’ togs. Not so dangerous lookin’ to a pore cowboy. Looks like you been ridin’ some, at thet.”

  Indeed, she did, thought Sterl, and could not recall any ranch girl who equaled her. Leather worn thin, shiny, metal spurs that showed bits of horse hair, ragged trousers stuffed in high boots, gray blouse and colorful scarf, her chestnut hair in a braid down her back—these charmed Sterl entirely, as
ide from the gold-tan cheeks with their spots of red, her curved lips like cherries, and her flashing eyes.

  “Red got first pick on me,” Sterl explained. “Snitched that black from me.”

  “Not too bad, you cowboys,” returned Leslie, her glance taking in their choices. She was then silent, but an intensely interested spectator of the remainder of that horse-choosing contest.

  “It’s not so easy to choose the best ones, when they’re all good,” Leslie said. “Roland, you and Larry bring them over to the shed. The boys may want to try them, when we come back from town.”

  “Gosh, I wonder if I can fork a hoss after thet orful buckin’ ship,” drawled Red plaintively.

  “Red, I’ve about concluded you are a terrific impostor,” Leslie replied. “How about my judgment, Sterl?”

  “Correct, marvelous, infallible!” ejaculated Sterl.

  “Yeah? All right, double-crosser,” Red sighed. “I see where I get off.”

  Leslie giggled. “You Yankees are the queerest talking people. But I believe you’ll be good cobbers. Come now, I’ll show you some real American horses.”

  “Lead me on, lady,” said Red happily.

  Sterl had prepared himself for a treat to a horse-lover’s eyes, but, when he looked through the fence of a corral adjoining the shed, he could hardly credit his sight. He saw the finest horses he had ever seen in one bunch in his whole range experience. These were not shaggy, dusty, range-free horses, but well-groomed, sleek, and shiny Thoroughbreds in the pink of condition.

  “Don’t say anything,” Leslie cried, delighted with the sensation she had created. But that did not keep Red from letting out his long cowboy yell.

  “Leslie…who takes such grand care of these horses?” gasped Sterl.

  “I do a good deal. It’s all the work I have. But Friday does most of it. He’s my black man. Dad sent him up town. Well, I’m disappointed. You might say something.”

  “I can’t, child,” Sterl returned feelingly. “Horses have been the most important things in my life. Even before guns! I know horses. I’ve loved several…. And these of yours! But are they really yours, Leslie?”

  “Indeed, they are. Mine! I haven’t anything else. Hardly a new dress to my name. A few books. But I’m happy with my horses.”

  “Leslie, haven’t you any beaux?” Sterl asked lightly, not looking at her.

  “I had. But Dad shut down on them lately. Too many fights,” replied the girl seriously. “Not that I cared very much. Only I’ve been lonesome.”

  “Wal, young lady,” drawled Red, “it ain’t gonna be so lonesome from now on, if my hunch is correct.”

  “Oh, I won’t be,” she said happily. “My horses, the long trek, and two new friends. But….” She broke off there, blushing. Sterl read her mind. There were other young men concerned in this long trek.

  “That black horse,” spoke up Sterl, pointing to a noble, racy beast to which his greedy gaze had continually returned.

  “That’s King. He’s five years old. Bred from Dad’s great dam. King has won all the races the last two years. Oh, he’s swift! He threw me last race. But we won.”

  “So you were up on him? Well!” Sterl rejoined, victim to a sensation of wonder and admiration. The girl was sweet enough without such call to a cowboy’s love of horses, speed, nerve.

  “Yes, I can ride him. But Dad says no more. At least not in races. He’s too strong. Has a mouth like iron. And once running against other horses he’s terrific.”

  “I’ll have to put my hands on him,” Sterl said.

  “You’re going to ride him, cowboy,” replied the girl. “Let’s go inside the paddock.”

  Red had straddled the top bar of the fence, and his silence was eloquent. Sterl had never seen him look any more rapt. Leslie opened a huge gate, and led the way inside. She called and whistled. All the horses threw up their heads, and some of them started for her. Then they all trooped forward, fine heads up, manes flying. Sterl needed no more to see what pets they were. Still they halted some yards from the fence, eager, whinnying, but not trustful of the strangers.

  “Come up heah, pard,” called Red. “They’re skeered of you. Instinct! They know you’re a hard-ridin’ hombre from Arizona.”

  Sterl, thus admonished, climbed up beside Red. “Good Lord, Red, what have we fallen into? Look at them!”

  “I’m lookin’, Sterl. An’ thinkin’ thet, after all, there’ll always be hosses.”

  Leslie walked away from the fence somewhat and coaxed. A spotted, iron-gray horse, clean-cut in build and unusually striking in his color, was the first to come to the girl.

  “Jester,” she called him, and got hold of his mane to lead him back to the fence. “One of my best. He’s tricky…full of the devil, but fast, tireless…. Red, would you like to have him on the trek? It would please me. I think you’d be tricky enough to match him.”

  “Would I? Aw, Leslie, thet’s too good of you. Why, he took my eye fust thing. But I oughtn’t take him. You hit me in my one weak spot, Leslie. My heart!”

  “Done. He’s yours. Get down and make friends with him.”

  Red complied with alacrity. Sterl watched as he saw the cowboy’s lean, brown hand, slow and sure, creep out to touch the arching, glossy neck. “Jester, you dog-gone lucky hoss! Why, I’m the kindest rider that ever threw his laig over a saddle.”

  “King, come here,” Leslie called to the magnificent black. But it was a beautiful bay, a racer, that came at the girl’s bidding. “Lady Jane, you know I’m going to ride you this morning, now, don’t you?” She petted the sniffing muzzle and laid her cheek against the trim black mane. Then, most of the others, except King, came begging for her favor, dark eyes softly alight. She introduced them to the cowboys as if they were persons of rank—her favorite, Lady Jane, a beautiful mettlesome bay, Duke, a great rangy sorrel, almost red, pride and power in every line, Duchess, a white mare, an aristocrat whose name was felicitous, her distinguishing features long white and black mane and tail, Lord Chester, a trim gray that was hard to overlook, even in that band of Thoroughbreds.

  King, the black, stayed behind with three other horses, and Leslie had to go fetch him. Closer at hand his magnificent physical qualities appeared more striking.

  “King,” Leslie said impressively. “This is an American cowboy, Sterl Hazelton, who is going to ride you…ride you, I said, you big devil, on our great trek to a new range.”

  Sterl had feared this very thing. Faced with it, he could not have refused the horse on any pretext or excuse imaginable. Still he protested. “Leslie, don’t ask me to take him…your favorite.”

  “But he’s not my favorite! I don’t love him…well, not so much since he threw me. I can’t ride him. And I don’t care to have any of the drovers ride him. Please, Sterl.”

  “I only wanted to be coaxed,” rejoined Sterl lamely. “Thanks, Leslie. It’s just too good to be true. I had a horse once….”

  “Lead him out,” Leslie said, then with surprising ease she leaped upon the back of Lady Jane. Red followed with Jester, and Sterl gently urged the black to join them. Red shut the gate on the whistling horses left behind.

  “King, let’s look each other over,” said Sterl, as he let go the mane and squared away in front of the horse. King threw up his noble head, and his black eyes had a piercing curiosity. He sensed events. But he was not mean. He had never been hurt by a rider. He was not in the least afraid. Sterl put out a confident hand to rub his nose. Then he walked all around the black. He did that wholly out of tingling pleasure, not in doubt of any of the horse’s points. Reluctantly, as far as appearance went, Sterl admitted that King uncrowned all the other horses he had ever ridden, and he had no doubt that this grand beast had the speed, the endurance, the fighting heart to match his looks.

  “Saddle up, boys,” Leslie said, slipping off. “Let’s get this trip to town over. I don’t mind showing you to the girls, because they’ll be left behind, except Beryl Dann. And I just hate to introduce you to
her.”

  Sterl did not voice his surprise, but Red blurted out: “An’ ’cause why, Leslie? We’re Yankees, shore, but not so pore.”

  “I’ll be jealous,” laughed the girl frankly. “I’d like you both for my cavaliers. Oh, Beryl is lovely, even if she is spoiled and proud. Her father is lord of the manor, so to speak.”

  In short order they were saddled up and ready to ride away. King pranced a little under Sterl, but a firm hand and voice, unaccompanied by touch of spur, quieted any rebellion he might have felt. Sterl sensed the tremendous latent power underneath that saddle.

  “Pard, air we on a picnic or somethin’?” Red drawled, the blue blaze in his eyes.

  “I guess…. Leslie, you had better pinch me.”

  “What for?” she asked curiously.

  “To wake me up.”

  “Oh! I’d rather you kept on dreaming. Boys, it’s nice to have you with me. You say such new and sweet things.”

  One branch of the road turned back past the house; the other, which Leslie took, crossed the creek and wound up the slope into the bush. The three trotted abreast. Wattle trees sent a golden shade down upon them, and again the red-blossoming eucalyptus changed it to red. It appeared to Sterl that singing currawongs followed them, and he remarked about these birds to Leslie.

  “Bell-magpies,” she said. “I love them almost as well as the kookaburras. Of course, you know them by now.”

  “I don’t think so. I have a good memory.”

  “Oh, just wait!” exclaimed the girl heartily. “That reminds me, Dad won’t let me take all my pets. I’ll have to part with some of them. Oh, dear, more packing! But I’ll find time to show them to you boys.”

  They rode on. Red appeared as one in a trance. Everything that pleased the cowboy here in Australia made Sterl glad, because remorse knocked at his heart that this comrade had forsaken the American range for this unknown country.

  Thick bush began to thin out, soon evidencing the clearing axe of the pioneer. Another mile brought open country, green rolling hills and vales that looked to Sterl as if they had been over-grazed. In the distance blue ranges towered hauntingly. Presently Sterl saw horses and cattle, and columns of smoke, and at length a big, white house with the inevitable tin roof and great, tin water tanks under the eaves. He had not observed this around Slyter’s house, but he had grasped that most of these Australian station owners had to catch their water. The road turned to permit better view down a long lane of trees to the town. Three huge wagons, one of them canvas-covered, with men packing them attested to another of the drovers’ activities. Leslie explained that this was the Dann station, just outside of town.