by Zane Grey
“Plenty bad black fella along dere. Big ribber. Plenty croc. Plenty salt.”
They were crushed. Stanley Dann sat with his elbows on his knees, his broad hands over his golden beard. The corded veins stood out upon his bronzed brow.
“Lost!” he ejaculated, in a hollow voice. “Hundreds of miles out of our way.”
“Salt water!” burst out Slyter, appalled.
“It must be the Flinders River,” croaked Eric Dann.
“Wha-at?” roared the giant. “According to you we crossed the Flinders weeks back!”
“But afterward I remembered it was not. This is the Flinders. Near its source. Once across we will find higher ground.”
He seemed so fired with inspired certainty that most of his listeners, grasping at straws, felt a renewal of hope. But Red and Sterl eyed him with suspicion.
The sun rose on the wrong side.
“Spread along the river to find a place to cross,” ordered Stanley Dann to his drovers.
Below camp some distance, Sterl, Red and Larry found an opening in the bush where the mob could be driven to the river, and where a road could be opened for the wagons.
“Look dere,” called Friday, who strode beside Sterl, and he pointed to smoke signals rising beyond the break in the bush. “Imm black fella know.”
They rode through the opening, with Friday in the lead, scaring the tiger snakes out of his path with his long spear, and presently emerged upon the low bank of a wide river. Slopes of yellow mud ran a hundred yards out to meet the turgid channel of about the same width, and the opposite slope ran up to the bush.
“Tide running out. Swift too,” observed Larry.
“Gosh, you mean this heah is tidewater?” queried Red.
“It must be. Friday said it was salt water.”
“Friday, go alonga see how deep mud,” said Sterl.
Ankle-deep the black waded some rods out, and then began to sink in deeper and deeper until he was over his knees.
“Even with the tide in full the mob would have to wade a bit, at least close to shore,” observed Larry, seriously. “And the wagons. What a job to cross them here!”
“Righto. But it can be done,” averred Red.
“We’d cut poles and brush to make a road. Thet channel buffaloes me, though. What say, Sterl?”
“Boys, without the menace of crocodiles, which Friday mentioned, we’d have a killing job here. Larry, how big do these Gulf crocodiles grow?”
“Up to twenty-five feet, I’ve heard. They can break a man’s leg with one whack of their tails.”
“Red, how will we get the girls across?”
“Aw, thet’s a slicker. I was thinkin’ about it. If we only had a boat! Mebbe we could build a raft. In a pinch we might use the bed of our wagon. But I wonder — should we go across?”
They rode back to camp. The other drovers who had ranged still farther up the river reported no practical crossing.
“Boss, there’s a ford below. But it looks awful tough,” said Sterl.
“Mr. Dann, cain’t we get out of tacklin’ this heah river?” queried Red, anxiously.
“Krehl,” returned the chief, patiently, “as we cannot go back we must cross.”
“Hell no! We can go back aways, an’ thet’d save an orful job, a lot of cattle, an’ somebody’s life shore as Gawd made little apples! Dann, yore a cattleman as big as all this heah outdoors. But a dry land drover.”
But Eric Dann’s abnormal and malignant obsession again protruded its hydra head.
“Krehl is afraid,” he shouted, hoarsely. “Once and for all, I demand to be heard! No foreigner is going to upset my plans — to make me ridiculous.”
“Brother,” rejoined the leader, “I ask you once more — do you know what you’re doing when you advise us to cross this river?”
“Yes, I know. I know too that Krehl is afraid. Ask him yourself. I’ll ask him! See here, cowboy, are you man enough to confess the truth — that you are afraid?”
Red Krehl gave the drover a long, uncomprehending gaze. Dann was indeed a new one for the Texan. Then he spoke: “Hell yes. I shore am afraid of this river, the crocs an’ the abo’s. But I reckon I oughta be more afraid of you, Mr. Dann. Because you’re a queer mixture of fool, liar an’ crook.”
Sterl restrained himself until this argument ended, then he addressed the leader.
“Dann, I want you to know — and to remember — that I strongly advise against the attempt to cross this river here.”
“Sorry, Hazelton. But we cross!”
But the river and the tide had something to say about that, and when they were right, as near as the drovers thought they could be, then the cattle had the last word. This mob had been extraordinarily docile and easily managed, as the cowboys knew cattle. Many of the calves and cows that had distinguishing marks or habits that brought them into the daily notice, had become veritable pets. Toward the end of that day, however, they manifested evidences of a contrary disposition. About midafternoon Friday reported that they stopped grazing and became uneasy. Slyter went out to observe for himself. Upon his return he announced: “For some reason or other they dislike this place.”
“Then, we may be in for a night of it. I wouldn’t care to try to stop a rush in this bush.”
“Might be smellum crocs,” said Friday.
Flying foxes had appeared during the afternoon, great, wide-winged, grotesque bats, swishing out of the brush over the cattle, and their number increased toward sunset.
“Shore, it’s them dinged bats thet have the herd buffaloed, an’ they’re gonna get us, too,” said Red Krehl.
Here was one camp where a fire did not flame brightly, cheerily. The wood burned as if it were wet, and the smoke was acrid. Night settled down black, with the stars obscured by the foliage on three sides.
Supper had been eaten and five drovers had ridden out on guard when all left in camp were startled by a weird, droning sound off in the bush, apparently across the river.
“Black fella corroboree. Imm no good,” said Friday, his long black arm aloft.
Suddenly — a trampling roar of hoofs. The cowboys were as quick to leap up as Larry and Rollie. Slyter came thudding from his wagon. Eric Dann lifted a pale and haggard face. “A rush!” cried Stanley Dann.
“Aw, I knowed it,” said Red, grimly. “Come, Sterl. Let’s rustle our hosses.”
“Wait, you cowboys,” ordered Dann. “Some of us must guard camp. Larry, Roland. Call Benson and join the drovers out there.”
Slyter made off with the hurrying drovers, shouting something about his horses. Friday, at the edge of the circle of light, turned to the others and yelled, “Tinkit mob run alonga here!”
“My God!” boomed Stanley Dann.
“Stand ready all! If the mob comes this way, take to the trees!”
The increasing roar, the quaking ground, held all those listeners fraught with suspense and panic for an endless moment.
“Stampede’ll miss us!” yelled Red Krehl. Then Friday stooped to make violent motions with his right arm, indicating that the herd was rushing in the direction of the river. Gun-shots banged faintly above the din.
“All right! We’re safe!” yelled Sterl, and then felt himself sag under the release of tension. It had been a few moments of terrible uncertainty.
Then a crashing augmented the trampling roar. The stampede, now evidently pointed up the river, had run into the bush. The noise lasted for minutes before it began to lessen in volume.
“Providence saved us again,” rang out Stanley Dann, in immense relief. “But this rush will be bad for the mob.”
“Dog-gone bad for the drovers, too, I’d say,” declared Red.
“You may well think so. But usually a mob does not rush long. I am hopeful.”
“They might stampede into the river,” interposed Sterl.
Eric Dann sat down again and bent his gaze upon the ruddy fire embers. It was necessary to sit close to the heat and smoke to be even reasonably safe fro
m mosquitoes. Eric Dann, however, sat back in the shadow. Not improbably he had too much on his mind to feel bites. Presently Slyter returned to camp.
“Horses all right,” he was saying to Dann as they approached the fire. “The rush was bad. But half the mob were not affected.”
“That was strange. Usually, cattle follow the leaders, like sheep. Uncanny sort of a place.”
“Righto. I jolly well wish we were out of it. Hello, Mum. You and Les should be in bed.”
“I see ourselves, with the mob threatening to run us down. And Stanley calling us to climb trees!” retorted his good wife. “But we’ll go now.”
“Beryl, that would be a good idea for you,” said her father.
“I’m afraid to go to bed,” replied the girl, petulantly.
“Me too,” added Leslie. “These sneaky, furry bats give me the creeps. I just found one in our wagon. Ugh!”
“Well, as long as Sterl and Red have to sit up, I suppose it’s all right for you girls. But it’s not a very cheerful place for courting.”
Beryl let out a scornful little laugh. “Courting! Whom on earth with?”
“Sometime back it was royalty condescending. Now it’s how the mighty have fallen!” returned Mrs. Slyter, subtly, and left them.
“Leslie, whatever did your mother mean by that cryptic speech?” asked Beryl, annoyed.
“Oh, Mum’s got softening of the brain,” returned Leslie, and she dropped down on the log very close to Sterl. Red, who sat across the fire from them, looked up at Beryl, who was standing.
“Say, all you women have softenin’ of the brain,” he drawled.
“Yeah?” queried Leslie.
“Is that so, Mr. Krehl?” added Beryl.
“Yes, it’s so. Take that crack of Leslie’s mother, for instance. Les’s Ma an’ you girls air of one mind, I reckon. The idee is to collar a man, any man temporarily, till you meet up with one you aim to corral for keeps.”
“That is true, Red. Disgustingly true,” admitted Beryl, suddenly frank and earnest. “But Les and I are not to blame for being born women.”
“I reckon not, Beryl,” returned Red, conciliated by her sincerity.
“Go on, Red. You were going to say something,” went on Beryl.
“I was,” rejoined the cowboy. “It seemed to me kind of farfetched an’ silly — thet sentimental yearnin’ of yores, if it was thet. Heah we air lost in this Gawd-forsaken land. Aw, I know Eric there swears we ain’t lost, but thet doesn’t fool me, an’ this hole is as spooky an’ nasty a place as I ever camped. It’s more. It’s a darned dangerous one. We jest escaped somethin’ tough. An’ thet’s why I jest wondered at you womenfolks, feelin’ thet soft, sweet mushy sentiment in the face of hell.”
“Red Krehl, that’s the wonder of it — that we can feel and need such things at such a time,” returned Beryl, eloquently. “I left such things behind, to come with my father. I could have gone to live in Sydney. But I came with Dad. And you’ve seen something of what I’ve suffered. This hard experience has not wholly destroyed my sensitivities, my former habits. I can see why Sterl thinks we’re going bush. I can see that we’ll turn into abo’s, if we’re stuck here forever. But just now, I’m a dual nature. By day I’m courageous, by night I’m cowardly. I can’t sleep. I’m afraid of noises. I lie with the cold chills creeping over me. I can’t forget what — what has already happened to me. Red Krehl, you said you wonder at me. But I say it’s a wonder you cannot see how I’d welcome any kindness, any attention, any affection, to keep me from thinking!”
It was a long speech, though quickly spoken, one that Sterl took to his heart in shame and self-reproach. He was intensely curious to see how Red would take it, and somehow he had faith in the cowboy’s greatness of soul.
“Come heah, girl,” said Red, gently, and held out his hand. Beryl stepped to him and leaned, as if compelled. He drew her to a place beside him on the narrow pack, and he put his arm around her to draw her close. “I’m sorry I made all them hard cracks about this place. Only I’m glad, ‘cause I understand you better. But Beryl, I reckon you can’t figger me out. When all was goin’ fine back on this trek you gave me some pretty bad times. So, even if I wanted to be sweet an’ soft about you, which I shore don’t after the way you treated me, I couldn’t be on account of what this damn trek has done to me. I’ve saved yore life a coupla times, an’ I reckon I’ll have to do thet a heap more. If I wasn’t a hard-ridin, hard-shootin’ cowboy, a killer, grim an’ mean, I couldn’t do thet much for you. Thet ought to make you see me clear.”
“Oh, Red,” Beryl cried, poignantly, “I don’t want you any different!”
The thud of hoofs disrupted this scene, and Larry rode up. Friday came running to throw brush upon the blaze.
“Larry, you’re all bloody!” exclaimed Sterl.
“No, Just ran — into a snag,” panted the drover. “Let me — sit down.”
Dann arrived to bend over Larry. “Bad scalp cut. Girls, fetch water and linen. Larry, are you all right?”
“Yes, sir — except played out.”
“Where are the other drovers?”
“Back with what — was left of the mob. That rush got — away, sir.”
“How many?”
“Benson said one-third of the mob. They rushed into the bush. They were a crazy lot of cattle. They crashed through the bush — some into the river. So we yelled to come together — then rode back. That mob will work out of the bush by morning.”
Meanwhile Dann had unwound the scarf from Larry’s head and began to dress the wound. Slyter told the girls to go to bed, and this time they obeyed. Red was sent off to take Larry’s place with the drovers and Sterl ordered to stay in camp.
When toward dawn Red and Rollie came in, relieved by two of Dann’s drovers, Sterl lay down beside Red. The sun was up when Friday called them.
“Where black fella, Friday?”
“Alonga dere. No good. Hidum about. Watchum white man.”
“Sterl, these abo’s up heah ‘pear to be a different breed. All same Comanche Injuns,” said Red.
They found the drovers straggling in. Benson reported two-thirds of the mob intact. Their ragged garb, scratched hands, bruised faces gave evidence of their strenuous effort to head that rush.
“We stopped it, five miles west,” reported Bligh, wearily. “They’re out in the open, not many on their feet. Dehorned, crippled, snagged — a sorry mess!”
Friday appeared, carrying a kangaroo that he had speared.
“Plenty roo,” he said. “Ribber full up. Plenty croc.”
“Friday, see any blacks?” asked Sterl.
“Black fella imm conga bush. Bimeby.”
“Men, eat and drink all you can hold,” said Stanley Dann. “We’ll leave those cattle that started the rush last night until the last. If they scatter, we’ll abandon them. Our mob has been too large. We’ll break camp now. Move all the wagons and horses to the open break in the bush below. Then drove the main mob closer. Two guards on and off for two hours. We’ll ford the river with the wagons, divide our party and camp on both sides until the last job, which will be to drove the mob across.”
It was a bold and masterly plan, Sterl conceded. The execution remained to be an inspiration of genius and a heroic job. They mounted and rode away.
The river! The drovers, even their leader, had only to go within sight of that reed-bordered, mud-sloped yellow swirling tide to be confronted by seeming impossibilities.
“Friday, where are the crocodiles?” boomed Dann.
“Alonga dere,” replied the black, his spear indicating the river and the margins of reeds.
“Slyter, do they hide in the grass?”
“Yes, indeed. These big crocs live on animals. This water is brackish. Kangaroos, wild, cattle, brumbies would drink it. I’ve been told how the crocs lie in wait and with one lash of their tails knock a large animal or an aborigine into the water.”
“They may not be plentiful. But all of you use your
eyes. Have your guns ready. Slyter, you will drive your wagon in first. Send a drover ahead to test the bottom. Make haste, while the tide is in.”
They all watched Heald wade his sturdy horse into the river. After perhaps a hundred steps, he returned to say: “Mud bottom. Soft. But not quicksand. If you keep your horse moving you can make it.”
“What will a heavy wagon do?” queried Slyter, dubiously.
“It’ll stick, but not sink,” declared Dann. “We have heavy ropes and strong horses. We can pull out.” In a moment more Slyter, accompanied by Dann and six drovers, had driven his big teams into the river.
Slyter had not got quite so far out as Heald had waded when the wheels stuck. Two drovers leaped out of their saddles to unhitch the teams. Bligh and Hood dragged the teams out. Rollie, with a bag in front of him and a cracking stockwhip in hand, kept abreast of the teams. Soon they were swimming. Four drovers followed carrying packs. Slyter stood up in his wagon, rifle in hand, watching vigilantly.
“Crocs over dere all alonga,” cried Friday, pointing.
Sterl saw the reeds shake and part. “Grab your rifle, Red,” he shouted.
Suddenly on the opposite bank there was a loud rush in the reeds, then a zoom, as a huge reptile leaped off the bank and slid upon the narrow strip of mud. But it was not quick enough to escape Red’s shot.
Sterl heard the bullet thud, and then the huge reptile flopped up and flashed into convulsions. Sterl let out a yell as he drew a bead upon it and pulled the trigger. The distance was nothing to a marksman. His bullet, too, found its mark.
Another! Four shots left that reptile rolling in the mud. Its back seemed broken.
“Dere, alonga dere!” shrilled Friday, pointing below.
Slyter was shooting at another one, smaller and nimbler. But there was another rush and zoom as a big one catapulted off the bank to meet a hail of lead. Crippled and slow, he crawled into the river.
Stanley Dann’s horse appeared, wading out. The drovers dragged and yelled at the teams, while Rollie cracked his long whip from behind. They got across at last and climbed the bank to deposit the packs and find a place to land the wagon. Then they piled into the river pell-mell, keeping close together, some of them with drawn guns held high.
