Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  All at once Sterl’s keen eye caught the movement of something. It was a small, round, furry animal, gray in color, with blunt head and tiny ears. It was clinging to a branch, peering comically down at him, afraid. Then Sterl espied another one, farther up, another far out on the same branch, and at last a fourth, swinging upon a swaying tip. Sterl yelled lustily for Red and Jones.

  “Look, Red! Jones, what are those queer little animals?”

  “Koala bears,” said the teamster, “Queensland bush is alive with them.”

  “Pard, pass me yore gun,” said Red.

  “Ump-umm, you bloodthirsty cowboy!...They look tame.”

  “They are tame,” rejoined Jones. “Friendly little fellows. Leslie has some for pets.”

  Night made the campfire pleasant. The teamsters, through for the day, sat around smoking and talking. Campfires in Australia seemed to have the same cheer, the same opal hearts and flying sparks, the same drawing together of kindred spirits, that they had on the ranges of America. But the great Southern Cross, an aloof and marvelous constellation, proved to Sterl that he was an exile. A dismal chorus of wild barks sounded from the darkness.

  “Dingoes,” said a teamster.

  “Dingoes. Haw! Haw!” laughed Red, “Another funny one.”

  “Wild dogs. They overrun Australia. Hunt in packs. When hungry, which is often, they’re dangerous.”

  “Listen,” said Sterl. “Isn’t that a dismal sound? Not a yelp in it. Nor any of that long, wailing sharp cry of the coyote which we range riders love so well.”

  “A little too cool tonight to be bothered with mosquitoes,” remarked Jones. “We’ll run into some farther outback. They can bite through two pair of socks.”

  “Gee!” said Red. “But thet’s nothin’ atall, Rol. We have muskeeters in Texas — wal, I heahed about one cowboy who was alone when a flock of em’ flew down on him. Smoke an’ fire didn’t help none. By golly, he had to crawl under a copper kettle thet the cook had. Wal, the sons-of-guns bored through the kettle. The cowboy took his gun an’ rivited their bills on the inside. An’ damn me if them skeeters didn’t fly away with the kettle!”

  Red’s listeners remained mute under the onslaught of that story, no doubt beginning a reversal of serious acceptance of all the cowboy said. Sterl followed Red toward their tent.

  The crackling of fire without awoke him. Dark, moving shadows on the yellow tent wall told that the teamsters were stirring.

  He parted the tent flaps and went out to find it dark as pitch beyond the blazing fires, air cold, stars like great white lanterns through the branches, active teamsters whistling as they hitched up the teams, fragrance of ham and tea wafting strong.

  “Morning, Hazelton,” was Jones’s cheery greeting. “Was just going to yell that cowboy call, ‘Come and get it!’...We’ll have a good early start.” Sterl could not recall when he had faced a day with such exuberance.

  A long gradual ascent through thick bush offered no view, but the melodious carol of magpies, the squall of the cockatoos, the sweet songs of thrush, were worth the early rising. Topping a long ascent Jones drove out of the bush into the open. “Kangaroo Flat,” said the teamster. “Thirty miles. Good road. We’ll camp at the other end tonight.”

  “Aw, thet’s fine...Holy Mackeli, pard, air you seein’ what I see?” exclaimed Red.

  Sterl was indeed, and quite speechless. A soft hazed valley, so long that the far end appeared lost in purple vagueness, stretched out beneath them, like a sea burnished with golden fire. It was so fresh, so pure, so marvelously vivid in sunrise tones! The enchanted distances struck Sterl anew. Australia was prodigal with its endless leagues. As the sun came up above the low bushland a wave of flame stirred the long grass and spread on and on. The cool air blew sweet and odorous into his face, reminding him of the purple sage uplands of Utah.

  Down on a level again their view was restricted to space near at hand. A band of dingoes gave them a parting chorus where the bush met the flat. Rabbits began to scurry through the short gray-green grass and run ahead along the road, and they increased in numbers until there appeared to be thousands.

  “One of Australia’s great pests,” said Jones.

  “Yeah? Wal, in thet case I gotta take some pegs,” replied Red, and he proceeded to raise the small caliber rifle and to shoot at running targets. This little rifle and full store of cartridges had been gifts from Sterl. Red did not hit any of the rabbits. Deadly with a handgun, as were so many cowboys, he shot only indifferently well with a rifle. Sterl’s unerring aim, however, applied to both weapons.

  Kangaroos made their appearance, sticking their heads out of the grass, long ears erect, standing at gaze watching the wagon go by, or hopping along ahead with their awkward yet easy gait. In some places they slowed the trotting team to a walk.

  The sky was dotted with waterfowl. Jones explained there were watercourses through the flat, and a small lake in the center, where birds congregated by the thousands. Sterl’s quick eye caught a broken’ column of smoke rising from the bushland in the rear.

  “By golly! Red, look at that!”

  “Shore I was wonderin’. How about it, Rol?”

  “Black men signaling across the flat. Look over here. They know all about us twenty miles ahead. The aborigines talk with smoke.”

  “All the same Indian stuff,” ejaculated Red.

  “Stanley Dann, who’s mustering this big trek, says the abo’s will be our worst obstacle,” volunteered Jones.

  “Has Dann made a trek before?”

  “No. This will be new to all the drovers.”

  “Do they believe there’s safety in numbers?”

  “That is one reason for the large muster of men and cattle.”

  “Like our wagon trains crossing the Great Plains. But driving cattle is a different thing. The Texas trail drivers found out that ten or twelve cowboys and up to three thousand head of longhorns moved faster, had fewer stampedes and lost fewer cattle than a greater number.”

  After a short rest the cavalcade proceeded onward across the rippling sea of colored grass. Herons were not new to Sterl, but white ibis, spoonbills, egrets, jabiru, and other wading fowl afforded him lasting wonder and appreciation. The storks particularly caught his eye. Their number seemed incredible. They were mostly gray in color, huge cranelike birds, tall as a man; they had red on their heads, and huge bills. Sterl exchanged places with Red, and drowsy from excessive looking, went to sleep.

  He was awakened by yells. Sitting up he found Red waving wildly.

  “Ostriches!...Black ostriches!” yelled Red, beside himself...”Whoever’d thunk it?...Dog-gone my pictures!...Sterl, wake up. You’re missin’ somethin’.”

  Sterl did not need Red’s extended arm to sight a line of huge black bird creatures, long-necked and long-legged, racing across the road.

  “Emu,” said the teamster, laconically. “You run over them outback.”

  “As I’m a born sinner heah comes a bunch of hosses!” exclaimed Red, pointing. On the range Red had been noted, even among hawk-eyed riders and vanqueros, for his keen sight.

  “Brumbies,” declared Tones.

  “What? — What you say?” shouted Red. “If they’re not wild horses. I’ll eat ‘em.”

  “Wild, surely. But they’re brumbies,” said the Australian.

  Red emitted a disgusted snort. “Brumbies! Who in the hell ever heahed of callin’ wild hosses such an orful name?”

  “Red, it is a silly name,” responded Jones, with his rare grin. “I suggest we have an interchange and understanding of names, so you won’t have to lick me.”

  “Wal, I reckon I couldn’t lick you, at thet,” retorted Red, quick as a flash to meet friendliness. “You’re an orful big chap, Rol, an’ could probably beat hell out of me pronto. So I’ll take you up.”

  “What does pronto mean?”

  “Quick. Right now...I heahed you say ‘pad.’ In my country a pad is what you put under a saddle. What is it heah?”

&nb
sp; “A pad is a path through the bush. A narrow single track.”

  “Ahuh. But thet’s a trail, Rol. Say, you’re gonna have fun ediccatin’ us. Sterl heah had a mother who was a schoolteacher, an’ he’s one smart hombre.”

  The sun slanted toward the far horizon, the brightness changed to gold and rose. It was some time short of twilight when Jones hauled up at the edge of the bush, which had beckoned for so many hours. A bare spot on the bank of a narrow slow-moving stream attested to many campfires.

  “Look!” interposed Sterl, pointing at forms across the stream. They were natives, of course, but a first actual sight was disconcerting.

  “Black man, with gin and lubra, and some kids,” said Jones.

  “Holy Mackeli!” ejaculated Red. “They look human — but—”

  Sterl’s comrade, with his usual perspicuity, had hit it. The group of natives stood just at the edge of the bush. Sterl saw six figures out in the open, but he had a glimpse of others. The man was exceedingly tall, thin, black as coal, almost naked. He held a spear, upright, and it stood far above his shaggy head. A scant beard fuzzed the lower part of his face. His big, bold, somber eyes glared a moment, then with a long stride he went back into the bush. The women lingered curiously. The older, the “gin,” was hideous to behold. The lubra, a young girl, appeared sturdy and voluptuous. Both were naked except for short grass skirts. The children were wholly nude. A harsh voice sent them scurrying into the bush.

  “Gosh! I’d hate to meet thet long-laiged hombre in the dark,” said Red.

  “Hope some of them come around our campfire,” added Sterl, with zest.

  He had his wish. After supper, about dusk, the black man appeared, a towering unreal figure. He did not have the long spear. The cook gave him something to eat; and the native, making quick despatch of that, accosted Jones in a low voice.

  “Him sit down alonga fire,” replied Jones, pointing to Sterl.

  The black man slowly approached the fire, then stood motionless on the edge of the circle of light. Presently he came up to Sterl.

  “Tobac?” he asked, in a low deep voice.

  “Yes,” replied Sterl, and offered what he had taken the precaution to get from his pack. At the exchange Sterl caught a good look at the native’s hands, to find them surprisingly supple and shapely. He next caught a strong body odor, which was unpleasant.

  “Sit down, chief,” said Sterl, making appropriate signs. The black man, folding his long legs under him, appeared to sit on them. A cigar Sterl had given him was evidently a new one on the native. But as Sterl was smoking one, he quickly caught on. Sterl, adopting the method cowboys always used when plains Indians visited the campfires, manifested a silent dignity. The black man was old — no one could have told how old. There was gray in his shaggy locks, and his visage was a map of lines that portrayed the havoc of elemental strife. Sterl divined thought and feeling in this savage, and he felt intensely curious.

  Jones left the other teamsters, to come over and speak to the native.

  “Any black fella close us?” he asked.

  “Might be,” was the terse reply.

  “Me watchem smokes all alonga bush.”

  But the aborigine returned silence to that remark. Presently he arose and stalked away in the gloom.

  “Queer duck,” said Red, reflectively.

  “He sure interested me,” replied Sterl. “All except the smell of him. Rol, do all these blacks smell that bad?”

  “Some worse, some not at all. It’s something they grease themselves with.”

  On the fifth day, they reached the blue hills that had beckoned to Sterl. The wagon road wound into a region of numerous creeks and fertile valleys where parrots and parakeets abounded. They passed by one station that day and through one little sleepy hamlet of a few houses and a store, with outlying paddocks where Sterl espied some fine horses. Camp that night offered a new experience to the cowboys. The cook was out of beef, and Jones took them hunting. They did not have to go far to find kangaroo, or shoot often. The meat had a flavour that Sterl thought would grow on him, and Red avowed it was equal to porterhouse steak or buffalo rump.

  Two noons later Jones drove out of the jungle to the edge of a long slope that afforded a view of Slyter’s valley.

  “That road goes on to Downsville,” said Jones, pointing, “a good few miles. This road leads to Slyter’s station. Water and grass for a reasonable sized mob of cattle. But Bing has big ideas.”

  Presently Slyter’s gray-walled, tin-roofed house came into sight, picturesquely located on a green bench with a background of huge eucalyptus trees, and half hidden in a bower of golden wattle. The hills on each side spread wider and wider, to where the valley opened into the range, and numberless cattle dotted the grassy land.

  Along the brook, farther down, bare-poled fences of corrals came into sight, and then a long, low, log barn, with a roof of earth and green grass and yellow flowers, instead of the ugly galvanized iron.

  “Home!” sang out Jones. “Eight days’ drive! Not so bad. If we just didn’t have that impossible trek to face!”

  “Wal, Rollie Tewkesbury Jones!” declared Red, gayly. “You air human after all. Fust time I’ve heahed you croak.”

  Sterl leaped down to stretch his cramped legs. Red called for him to pick out a camp site up from the low ground a little, while he helped the teamsters unhitch. Sterl walked on, intending to find a place for the tent under those yellow-blooming wattles. He heard rapid footfalls coming from somewhere. As he passed the corner of the barn, his face turned the other way, trying to locate whoever was running, someone collided violently with him, almost upsetting him.

  He turned to see that this individual had been knocked almost flat. He thought that it was a boy because of the boots and blue pants. But a cloud of chestnut hair, tossed aside, disclosed the tanned face and flashing, hazel eyes of a girl. She raised herself, hands propped on the ground, to lean back and look up at him. Spots of red came into her clear cheeks. Lips of the same hue curled in a smile, disclosing even, white teeth.

  “Oh, miss! I’m sorry,” burst out Sterl, in dismay. “I wasn’t looking...You ran plump into me.”

  “Rath-thur!” she replied. “Dad always said I’d run into something someday. I did...I’m Leslie.”

  CHAPTER 3

  THE GIRL LEAPED erect, showing herself to be above medium height, lithe and strong, yet with a rounded form no boy’s garb could hide.

  “You’re Dad’s Yankee cowboy — not the redheaded one?”

  “I’m Sterl Hazelton,” returned Sterl. “Glad to meet you, Miss Leslie.”

  “Thanks, I’m glad, too. Dad has been home four days, and I could hardly wait.” She looked up at him with wonderful clear eyes that took him in from head to foot.

  “I came up here to find a place for our tent. All right to put it there, under this tree?”

  “Of course. But we have a spare room in the house.”

  “No, thank you. whisky and I couldn’t sleep indoors.”

  “Let us go down. I want to meet whisky. Did you have a good trek outback?”

  “It was simply great. I never looked so hard and long before.”

  “Oh, now nice! You’re going to like Australia?”

  “I do already. And whisky can’t hide from me how he likes it, too.”

  It chanced that they came upon whisky when his back was turned, as he was lifting bags out of the wagons.

  “Red, a lady to meet you.” Sterl saw him start, grow rigid, then slowly turn, to disclose a flushing, amazed face. “Miss Slyter, this is my pard, Red Krehl...Red, our boss’s daughter, Miss Leslie.”

  At this juncture Slyter, stalwart and vital in his range garb, stamped down upon them. “Roland, you made a fine drive. So, cowboys, here you are. Welcome to Australia’s outback! We saw you coming, and I sent Leslie to meet you. How are you, and did you like the short ride out?”

  “Mr. Slyter, I never had a finer ride in my life,” averred Sterl.

  “
Boss, it shore was grand,” addwhisky. “But short? Ump-umm. It was orful long. I see right heah we gotta get so we can savvy each other’s lingo.”

  “That will come in time, Krehl. I’m just back from Downsville. Allan Hathaway leaves tomorrow with six drovers and a mob of fifteen hundred cattle. Woolcott has mustered twelve hundred and will follow. Stanley and Eric Dann go next day with ten drovers and thirty-five hundred head. We are to catch up with them. Ormiston has three drovers and eight hundred head. He wants to drove with us. I don’t know Ormiston and I’m not keen about joining him. But what can I do? Stanley Dann is our leader. Our own mob is about mustered. Now all that’s left to do it pack and start.”

  “Oh, Dad! I’m on pins and needles!” cried Leslie, jumping up and down, and clapping her hands.

  “Slyter, how many riders — drovers have you?” queried Sterl.

  “Four, not counting you cowboys. Here’s Leslie, who’s as good as any drover. I’ll drive our covered wagon and Bill Williams, our cook, will drive one dray. Roland, you’ll have the other.”

  “Seven riders, counting Miss Leslie,” pondered Sterl.

  “I see you think that’s not enough,” spoke up Slyster. “Hazelton, it’ll have to do. I can’t hire any more in this country.”

  “Boss, how about yore remuda?” interposwhisky, anxiously.

  “Remuda?”

  “Excoose me, boss. Thet’s Texas lingo for hosses. How many hosses will you take?”

  “We’ve mustered the best of my stock. About a hundred. The rest I’ve sold in Downville.”

  “Dad has the finest horses in Queensland,” interrupted Leslie.

  “Well, men, I’m glad to get that off my mind,” concluded Slyter, with a laugh. “Roland, send Bill up to get supper. Hazelton, you boys come up when you’ve unpacked. Leslie, let’s go back to Mum.”

  Sterl labored up the grassy bench, conscious of a queer little sensation of pleasure, the origin of which he thought he had better not analyze. He dropped the heavy canvas roll in the likeliest spot, and sat down in the golden glow from the wattle. The adventure he had fallen upon seemed unbelievable. But here was this golden-green valley, with purple sunset-gilded ranges in the distance; there was bowleggwhisky staggering up the gentle slope with his burdens. He reached Sterl, wiped the sweat from his red face, and said: