Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  While Sterl and Red packed their bags, the ship eased alongside a dock, and tied up. From the dock, they were led into a shed, and after a brief examination were free. One of the stevedores directed them to an inn, where soon they had a room.

  It was early in the afternoon. Krehl voted for seeing the sights. But Sterl disapproved, for that meant looking upon drink.

  “Pard, we must get our bearings and rustle for the open range,” he said.

  Whereupon they set out to ask two cardinally important questions — where was the cattle country and how could they get there?

  “Outback,” replied more than one person, waving a hand, that like an Indian’s gesture signified vague and remote distance. At last a big man looked them up and down and smiled when he asked, “Yankees?”

  “Yes. It must be written all over us,” admitted Sterl, with an answering smile. “Are you drovers?”

  “Drovers?” echoed Sterl.

  “Horsemen — drivers of cattle.”

  “Oh! You bet. Plain Arizona and Texas cowboys. We eat up hard work. Where can we get jobs?”

  “Any station owner will hire you. But I advise you to go to Queensland. Big cattle mustering there.”

  “Where and how far?” queried Sterl, eagerly.

  “Five hundred miles up the coast and inland three or four hundred more. Board the freighter ‘Merrvvale’ down at the dock. Sails at six today. Brisbane is your stop. Good luck, cowboys.”

  Sterl led his comrade down the waterfront to where the big freighter was tied up in the center of busy shipping activities and bought passage to Brisbane. Next morning they awoke to find the sea calm, with the steamer tearing along not five miles out from a picturesque shoreline. And as the partners leaned over the rail of this steamer to gaze at a white-wreathed shoreline, extending for leagues on leagues to north and south, at the rolling green ridges rising on and upward to the high ranges, Sterl felt that beyond these calling, dim mountains there might await him the greatest adventure of his life.

  “Dog-gone-it!” Red was drawling. “I wanta be mad as hell, but I jest cain’t. Gosh, pard, it’s grand country! I hate to knuckle to it, but even Texas cain’t beat thet!”

  The sailors were friendly and talkative. On the second afternoon, the skipper, a fine old seadog, invited them to come up on the bridge. Sterl took advantage of the opportunity to tell him their plans.

  “Boys, you’ve a fine opening, if you can stand the heat, the dust, the drought, the blacks, the floods, the fires, besides harder work than galley slaves,” he said.

  “Captain, driving cattle on the Texas plain wasn’t just a picnic,” replied Sterl.

  “You’ll think so after droving upcountry here.”

  “Boss, I reckon we’ve been up agin’ all you said ‘cept the blacks. Jest what air these blacks?” inquired Red, deeply interested.

  “The natives of Australia. Aborigines.”

  “You mean niggers?”

  “Some people call them niggers. They’re not Negroes. But they are black as coal.”

  “Bad medicine, mebbe?” inquired Red.

  “Cannibals. They eat you.”

  “Boss,” said Red, “I’ve had my fill of fightin’ greasers, rustlers, robbers an’ redskins on the Texas trails, but gosh! all of them put together cain’t be as wuss as black men — cannibals who eat you.”

  “Captain,” said Sterl, “you’re sure putting the wind up us, as you Australians say. But tell us a little about cattle, and ranches — you call them stations.”

  “I’ve only a general bit of knowledge,” returned the skipper. “There are stations up and down New South Wales, and eastern and central Queensland. Gradually cattlemen are working outback. I’ve heard of the terrible times they had. No drovers have yet gone into the unknown interior — called the Never-never Land by the few explorers who did not leave their bones to be picked by the black men.”

  “Pard, thet’s kind hard to believe,” said Red, shaking his head. “No places I ever heard about was as bad as they was painted.”

  “You are in for an adventure at any rate,” went on the skipper. “There’s some big movement on from Brisbane. We have consignments of flour, harness, wagons, on board that prove it.”

  The “Merryvale” docked at dawn. After breakfast Sterl and Red labored ashore, dragging their burdens of baggage, curious and eager as boys half their age. Brisbane did not impress them with its bigness, but it sparkled under a bright sun, and appeared alive and bustling.

  They found a hotel, and sallied forth on the second lap of their adventure. They were directed to a merchandise store which was filling orders for a company of drovers making ready to leave Downsville in Central Queensland for points unknown.

  Sterl got hold of the manager, a weather-beaten man who had seen service in the open.

  “Is there any chance for jobs outback?” he said.

  “Chance? Young man, they’ll welcome you with open arms. Report is that the drovers can’t find men enough to start. Bing Slyter is here with his teamsters. He’s one of the drovers and he’s buying supplies for the Danns. I’ll find him for you.”

  In a moment they faced a big man whose wide shoulders made his height appear moderate. If he was an Australian cattleman, Sterl thought, he surely liked the type. Slyter had a strong face cast in bronze, a square chin, and eyes that pierced like daggers.

  “Good day, young men,” he said, in a voice that matched his size. “Watson here tells me you’re American cowboys looking for jobs.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m Sterling Hazelton, from Arizona, and this is Red Krehl, from Texas. I’m twenty-five, and he’s a year younger. We were born to the saddle and have driven cattle all our lives. We rode the Chisholm Trail for three years. That’s our recommendation.”

  “It’s enough, after looking you over,” returned Slyter, in booming gladness. “We Australians have heard of the Chisholm Trail. You drove mobs of cattle across Texas north to new markets in Kansas?”

  “Yes, sir. Five hundred miles of hard going. Sand, bad rivers, buffalo stampedes, electric storms, hailstones, Indians and rustlers.”

  “Rustlers? We call them bushrangers. Cattle thieves just beginning to make themselves felt. I’ll give you jobs. What wages do you ask?”

  “Whatever you want to pay will satisfy us,” replied Sterl. “We want hard riding in a new country.”

  “Settled. If it’s hard riding you want you’ll get it. We drovers are undertaking the greatest trek in Australian history. Seven or eight thousand cattle three thousand miles across the Never-never!”

  “Mr. Slyter,” burst out Sterl, “such a drive is unheard of. Three thousand Texas longhorns made hell on earth for a dozen cowboys. But this herd — this mob, as you call it — across that Never-never Land, if it’s unknown and as terrible as they say...Why, man, the drive is impossible.”

  “Hazelton, we can do it, and you’re going to be a great help. I was discouraged before I left home. But my daughter Leslie said: ‘Dad, don’t give up. You’ll find men!’ Leslie’s a grand kid.”

  “You’re taking your family on this trek?” queried Sterl, aghast.

  “Yes. And there’ll be at least one other family.”

  “You Australians don’t lack nerve,” smiled Sterl.

  “Do you need money to outfit?”

  “No, sir. But we need to know what to buy.”

  “Buy rifles, and all the ammunition you can afford. Tents, blankets, and mosquito nets, clothes, extra boots, socks, some tools, a medicine kit, bandages, gloves — a dozen pair, some bottles of whisky, and about a ton, more or less, of tobacco. That goes furthest with the blacks. You needn’t stint on account of room. We’ll have wagons and drays.”

  “But, Mr. Slyter,” exclaimed Sterl in amaze, “we don’t want to stock a store!”

  “Boys,” laughed the drover, “this great trek will take two years. Two years droving across the Never-never Land to the Kimberleys!”

  “It will be never!” cried Sterl, sta
ggered at the import.

  “Whoopee!” yelled Red.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE REMAINDER OF that stimulating day Sterl and Red spent in the big merchandise store, making purchases for a two-year’s trip beyond the frontier. Investment in English saddles, two fine English rifles to supplement Sterl’s Winchester .44 and thousands of cartridges broke the ice of old accustomed frugality, and introduced an orgy of spending.

  It took a dray to transport their outfit to the yard on the outskirts of town, to which they had been directed. Late in the afternoon they had all their purchases stowed away in the front of one of the big new wagons, with their baggage on top, and the woolen blankets spread. Before that, however, they had changed their traveling clothes to the worn and comfortable garb of cowboys. Sterl had not felt so good for weeks. It was all settled. No turning back! That time of contending tides of trouble was past. He would be happy, presently, and forget.

  They had scraped acquaintance with one of Slyter’s teamsters, a hulking, craggy-visaged chap some years their senior, who announced that his name was Roland Tewksbury Jones. Red’s reaction to that cognomen was characteristic.

  “Yeah? Have a cigar,” he said, producing one with a grand flourish. “My handle is Red. Seein’ as how I couldn’t remember yore turrible name I’ll call you Rol, for short. On the Texas trails I knowed a lot of Joneses, in particular Buffalo Jones, Dirty Face Jones and Wrong-Wheel Jones.”

  Roland evinced a calm speculation as to what manner of man this Yankee cowboy was. He accepted Sterl’s invitation to have dinner with them, and invited them to go to a pub for a drink. Returning to their wagon, they found a fire blazing and the other teamsters busily loading the supplies. Spreading their canvas and blankets under the wagon, as they had done thousands of times, the cowboys turned in. Sterl slept infinitely sounder out in the open, on the hard ground, than he had for two months, on soft beds. Indeed, the sun was shining brightly when the cowboys awoke. Teamsters were leading horses out of the paddock; others were tying tarpaulins over the wagons. Jones addressed Red: “You have time for breakfast if you move as fast as you said you did in Texas.”

  Returning to the outfit, Sterl saw that they were about ready to start, two teams to a wagon. He had an appreciative eye for the powerful horses. He found a seat beside the driver, while Red propped himself up behind. Inquiry about Mr. Slyster elicited the information that the head drover had left at daylight in his light two-horse rig. Jones took up the reins and led the procession of drays and wagons out into the road.

  Soon the town was left behind. A few farms and gardens lined the road for several miles. Then the yellow grass-centered road led into a jungle of green and gold and bronze. They had ten days or more to drive, mostly on a level road, said Jones, with good camp sites, plenty of water and grass, meat for the killing, mosquitoes in millions, and bad snakes.

  “Bad snakes?” echoed Sterl, in dismay. He happened to be not over-afraid of snakes, and he had stepped on too many a rattler to jump out of his. boots, but the information was not welcome.

  “Say, Rol, I heahed you,” interposed Red, who feared neither man nor beast nor savage, but was in mortal terror of snakes. “Thet’s orful bad news. What kind of snakes?”

  Sterl sensed Jones’s rising to the occasion. “Black and brown snakes most common, and grow to eight feet. Hit you hard and are not too poisonous. Tiger snakes mean and aggressive. If you hear a sharp hiss turn to stone right where you are. Death adders are the most dangerous. They are short, thick, sluggish beggers and rank poison. The pythons and boas are not so plentiful. But you meet them. They grow to twenty feet and can give you quite a hug.”

  “Aw, is thet all?” queried Red, who evidently was impressively scared, despite his natural skepticism.

  The thick golden-green grass grew as high as the flanks of a horse; cabbage trees and a stunted brushy palm stood up conspicuously; and the gum trees, or eucalyptus, grew in profusion. Shell-barked and smooth, some of them resembled the bronze and opal sycamores of America, and others beeches and laurels. Here and there stood up a lofty spotted gum, branchless for a hundred feet, and then spreading great, curved limbs above the other trees to terminate in fine, thin-leaved, steely-green foliage.

  As they penetrated inland, birds began to attract Sterl. A crow with a dismal and guttural caw took him back to the creek bottoms of Texas. Another crow, black with white spotted wings, Jones called Australia’s commonest bird, the magpie. It appeared curious and friendly, and had a melodious note that grew upon Sterl. It was deep and rich — a lovely sound — cur-ra-wong — cur-ra-wong.

  “See you like birds. So do I,” said Jones to Sterl. “Australians ought to, for we have hundreds of wonderful kinds. The lyrebird in the bush can imitate any song or sound he hears. Leslie Slyter loves them. She knows where they stay, too. Perhaps she’ll take you at daybreak to hear them.”

  Here Red Krehl pricked up his ears to attention. Anything in the world that could be relegated in the slightest to femininity, Red clasped to his breast.

  Presently the road led out of the jungle into a big area of ground cleared of all except the largest trees. On a knoll stood a house made of corrugated iron. Jones called it a cattle station. Sterl looked for cattle in vain. Red said. “Shines out like a dollar in a fog.”

  Grass and brush densely covered the undulating hills. Sterl concluded that Australian cattle were equally browsers and grazers. The road wound to and fro between the hills, keeping to a level, eventually to enter thick bush again. Sterl made the acquaintance of flocks of colored parrots — galahs the driver called them — that flew swiftly as bullets across the road; and then a flock of white cockatoos that squawked in loud protest at the invasion of their domain. When they sailed above the wagon, wide wings spread, Sterl caught a faint tinge of yellow. When they crossed the first brook, a clear swift little stream that passed on gleaming and glancing under the wide-spreading foliage, a blue heron and a white crane took lumbering flight.

  They came into a wide valley, rich in wavy grass, and studded with bunches of cattle and horses. “Ha! Some hosses,” quoth Red. As Jones slowed up along a bank higher than the wagon bed, Sterl heard solid thumping thuds, then a swish of grass, and Red’s stentorian, “WHOOPEE!”

  He wheeled in time to see three great, strange, furry animals leaping clear over the wagon. They had long ears and enormous tails. He recognized them in the middle of their prodigious leap, but could not remember their names. They cleared the road, to bound away as if on springs.

  “Whoa!” yelled Red. “What’n’ll was thet?...Did you see what I see? Lord! there ain’t no such critters!”

  “Kangaroos,” said the teamster. “And that biggest one is an old man roo all right.”

  “Oh, what a sight!” exclaimed Sterl. “Kangaroos — of course...One of them almost red. Jones, it struck me they sprang off their tails.”

  “Kangaroos do use their tails. Wait till you get smacked with one.”

  The trio of queer beasts stopped some hundred rods off and sat up to gaze at the wagon.

  “Air they good to eat?” queried the practical Red.

  “We like kangaroo meat when we can’t get beef or turkey or fowl. But that isn’t often.”

  “What’s that?” shouted Sterl, suddenly, espying a small gray animal hopping across the road.

  “Wallaby. A small species of kangaroo.”

  More interesting miles, that seemed swift, brought them to an open flat crossed by a stream bordered with full-foliaged yellow-blossoming trees, which Jones called wattles. Jones made a halt there to rest and water the horses, and to let the other wagons catch up. Red began to make friends with the other teamsters, always an easy task for the friendly, loquacious cowboy. They appeared to belong to a larger, brawnier type than the American outdoor men, and certainly were different from the lean, lithe, narrow-hipped cowboy. They build a fire and set about making tea, “boiling the billy,” Jones called it. Sterl sampled the beverage and being strange even to A
merican tea he said: “Now I savvy why you English are so strong.”

  “I should smile,” drawled Red, making a wry face. “I shore could ride days on thet drink.”

  Under a huge gum tree, in another green valley, on the bank of a creek, Jones drove into a cleared space and called a halt for camp.

  “Wal, Rol, what air there for me an’ my pard to do?” queried the genial Red.

  “That depends. What can you Yankees do?” replied Jones, simply, as if really asking for information.

  Red cocked a blazing blue eye at the teamster and drawled: “Wal, it’d take a lot less time if you’d ask what we cain’t do. Outside of possessin’ all the cowboy traits such as ridin’, ropin’, shootin’, we can hunt, butcher, cook, bake sourdough biscuits an’ cake, shoe hosses, mend saddle cinches, plait ropes, chop wood, build fires in wet weather, bandage wounds an’ mend broken bones, smoke, drink, play poker, an’ fight.”

  “You forgot one thing, I’ve observed, Red, and that is — you can talk,” replied Jones, still sober-faced as a judge.

  “Yeah?...But fun aside, what ought we do?”

  “Anything you can lay a hand to,” answered the driver, cheerily.

  One by one the other wagons rolled up. These teamsters were efficient and long used to camp tasks. The one who evidently was cook knew his business. “Easy when you have everything,” he said to Sterl. “But when we get out on trek, with nothing but meat and tea, and damper, then no cook is good.”

  After supper Sterl got out his rifle and, loading it, strolled away from camp along the edge of the creek. The sun was setting gold, lighting the shiny-barked gums and burnishing the long green leaves. He came upon a giant tree fern where high over his head the graceful lacy leaves dropped down. The great gum was by far the most magnificent tree Sterl had ever seen. It stood over two hundred feet high, with no branches for half that distance; then they spread wide, as large in themselves as ordinary trees. The color was a pale green — with round pieces of red-brown bark sloughing off.