by Zane Grey
He had his wish, at least so far as the black man was concerned. After supper, about dusk, the native appeared, a towering, unreal figure. He did not have the long spear. The cook gave him something to eat, and the native, making quick dispatch of that, accosted Jones in a low voice.
“Him sit down alonga fire,” Jones replied, pointing to Sterl.
The black man slowly approached the fire, then stood motionless on the edge of the circle of light. He made an imposing figure, strange and wild. 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 that was unpleasant. Red’s expression proved that he was a victim of various sensations.
“Sit down, chief,” said Sterl, making signs for the aborigine to take a seat beside the fire. He accepted and, folding his long legs under him, appeared to sit on them. Red gave the black some cigarettes. The cigar Sterl had given him was evidently a new one on the native. But as Sterl was smoking one, he quickly caught on, and, lighting it with a blazing faggot, he began to puff. Sterl adopted the method cowboys always used when Plains Indians visited the campfires. He manifested a silent dignity. But in the bright light he certainly did not miss any detail about this aborigine. The mere fact that he was sitting beside an Australian black man—a descendant of the oldest race of human beings, a cannibal, was a tremendous stimulus to curiosity. 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. It was, indeed, the most remarkable face Sterl had ever studied. The American Indian was new in the scale of evolution compared to this relic of the Stone Age. 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 up?” he asked.
“Might be,” replied the black.
“They watchem smokes all alonga bush?”
Either the aborigine was not communicative or his absorption with the cigar precluded any response, for he maintained silence to that remark and another direct inquiry that Jones put to him. Presently he arose and stalked away in the gloom.
“Queer duck,” Red said 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.”
“Wasn’t he funny with thet big cigar?” queried Red, his red face wreathed with smiles.
They conversed a while longer, hoping the blacks would come, but, as they did not, Red followed Jones to bed, and then Sterl, tired out in body if not in mind, soon sought his blankets.
The next day was a long trek through bush, without incident or much to see, and the following day turned out monotonously similar. On the fifth, however, they reached the blue hills that beckoned to Sterl. The wagon road wound into a region of numerous creeks and fertile valleys where parrots and parakeets abounded and kangaroos were remarkable for their scarcity. They passed by one station that day and through one little sleepy hamlet of a few houses and a store, and outlying paddocks where Sterl espied some fine horses. If it were a cattle country, the cattle were not in evidence. 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 or shoot often. It was exciting, because any kind of hunting was that for Sterl; still for one with his unerring skill, it seemed murder. The meat had a flavor that Sterl thought would grow on him, and Red avowed it was equal to porter house steak or buffalo rump. But that ever-hungry cowboy had been known to relish chuckwallas on the desert.
They had a two-day dry trek across sparsely timbered country, which fixed for good in Sterl’s mind the haunting sense of a far-flung country, of the inestimable distances to back of beyond, and the tremendousness of Australia.
When at last, two noons later, Jones drove out of the jungle to the edge of a long slope that afforded a view of Slyter’s valley, it was none too soon for Sterl Hazelton. Without action, with nothing to do but look, the long leagues had grown arduous, despite the never-ending procession of birds and beasts.
“That road goes down to Downsville,” Jones said, 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.”
“Rich, warm-looking valley,” rejoined Sterl. “That golden wattle blossoming everywhere. Heavy bush topping these hills. More of that red-flowering eucalyptus! I see water shining. And down there the open range. What say, pard?”
“Wal, if Slyter leaves this heah valley, I’ll hole up an’ stay,” Red replied, which remark from him was, indeed, expressive.
Jones headed down the gentle winding road, followed by a dray loaded with flour. The other wagons kept on to the right. 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. The whole scene was so verdant and compelling that Sterl’s heart swelled, and his love of a ranch seemed renewed.
Along the brook, farther down, a bare-poled fence of corrals came in 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 Tewksbury Jones!” Red declared gaily. “You air human, after all. Fust time I’ve heard you croak.”
Sterl leaped down to stretch his cramped legs. Red called for him to pick out a campsite up from the low ground a little, while he helped the teamsters unhitch. To that end Sterl mounted the green bench to the barn. There was a roof that extended out from the wall, upheld by sapling posts. Door after door opened upon stalls, clean, smelling of hay, then a store room, and finally a cabin with bunks.
Sterl walked on, intending to find a place for the tent under those yellow-blooming wattles. As he passed the corner of the cabin, his face turned the other way, trying to locate who was running, a person collided violently with him, almost knocking him over. He turned to see that someone had been knocked almost flat. He thought 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,” Sterl burst out in dismay. “I wasn’t looking. You ran plumb into me.”
“Rath-thur!” she replied merrily. “Dad always said I’d run into something some day. I did. I’m Leslie.”
Chapter Three
With surprising agility the girl leaped erect, showing herself to be above medium height, lithe and strong, with a rounded form no boy’s garb could hide.
“You’re Dad’s Yankee cowboy…not the red-headed one?”
“I’m Sterl Hazelton,” he returned, taking the hand she offered. It had a rough palm and a hard grip. “Glad to meet you, miss.”
“Thanks. I’m glad, too. Dad has been home four days, and I could hardly wait.” She was frank and vivid and looked up at him with wonderful, clear eyes that took him in from head to foot, and back again. “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. Red and I couldn’t
sleep indoors.”
“Let us go down. I want to meet Red. Did you have a good trek Outback?”
“It was simply great. Such a strange, big country! Birds and animals galore! I never looked so hard and long before. The time just flew.”
“Oh, how nice! You’re going to like Australia,” she pronounced it Ausstraallia.
“I love it already. And Red, who’s from Texas, can’t hide from me how he likes it, too.”
It chanced that they came up to Red when his back was turned, as he was lifting bags out of the wagon. Sterl discovered zest in the moment. “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 the other Yankee cowboy, my pard, Red Krehl. Red, our boss’s daughter, Miss Leslie.”
Then, as his face blazed, he gave Sterl one meaning glance, and turned to the girl his cool, gallant self again.
“Wal, I shore am glad to meet you, Miss Leslie,” he drawled, as he doffed his sombrero and shook the hand she proffered.
“Thank you, Mister Krehl. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you cowboys,” she said, gazing up at him with wholesome interest. “Yeah? Of course, my pard heah had the luck to meet you first.”
“I don’t know about the luck,” she replied, laughing gaily. “It wasn’t for me. He knocked me flat.”
Red stared out of his flashing blue eyes, so expressive of his mischievous spirit. “Aw, he did? Sterl would do somethin’ to impress himself on you.”
“Oh, Miss Leslie, this cowboy is likely to think anything. Red, I was walking past the cabin. She came running. I heard but didn’t see her. And she ran plumb into me.”
“Pard, you shore needn’t explain,” rejoined Red resignedly. “You didn’t give me no even break. It was a double-crossin’ cowboy trick.”
“Boys, you must talk English,” Leslie cried archly, and though plainly nonplused at Red’s vernacular, a becoming blush attested to the fact that she divined the contention for her favor.
At this juncture Slyter, stalwart and vital in his range garb, stamped down upon them. “Roland, you made a fine drive. Didn’t expect you till tomorrow. Well, 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?”
“Mister Slyter, I never had a finer ride in my life,” Sterl averred.
“Boss, it shore was grand,” added Red. “But short? Umpumm. 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. Listen, all of you. 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. They plan to travel slowly, and we are to catch up with them. That leaves Ormiston, 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. He’s ordering the trek. Our mob is about mustered. We won’t have an accurate count, though. But I’m underestimating my mob at a thousand head. Now all that’s left to do is pack and start.”
“Oh, Dad! I’m on pins and needles!” Leslie cried, jumping up and down and clapping her hands. Her hazel eyes held an intense and beautiful light. “If only Mum can make a choice of what to take! She’s weeping over so much she wants to take and cannot.”
“Boss, that’s good news. We can be ready,” declared Jones.
“Slyter, how many riders…drovers have you?” Sterl queried.
“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 the other. Roland, you’ll drive the dray.”
“Seven riders, counting Miss Leslie,” Sterl pondered.
“I see you think that’s not enough,” spoke up Slyter. “Hazelton, it’ll have to do. I can’t hire any more drovers in this country.”
“Boss, how about yore remuda?” interposed Red anxiously.
“Remuda? What’s that?”
“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 Downsville.”
“Dad has the finest horses in Queensland,” Leslie spoke up proudly.
“None too many. But are your horses hard to handle?” rejoined Sterl.
“Spirited and fiery, but well broken. They will drove right along with the mob.”
“That’ll be a help. Cowboys always keep two riders with the remuda.”
“Well, men, I’m glad to get that off my mind,” concluded Slyter with a laugh. “Roland, send Bill up to get supper for all of us. We might as well begin the big family mess. Hazelton, you boys come up when you’ve unpacked. Leslie, let’s go back to Mum.”
Leslie gave Sterl a parting flash of glad eyes that the vigilant Red did not miss.
“Pack the tent, pard, an’ I’ll foller with our bags,” he said.
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. But Red, the fox, had caught the cause even before Sterl had felt it. He dropped the heavy canvas roll into the likeliest spot, and sat down in the gold 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 bow-legged Red staggering up the gentle slope with his burdens. He reached Sterl and, depositing them on the grass, wiped the sweat from his red face, and said: “Queer deal, eh, pard?”
“I should snicker to snort, as you say sometimes.”
“Wal, if you’re jest wishin’ I could be back on the Brazos, I wouldn’t wish it. I’d rather be heah with you, pard.”
“Thanks. But you look most damn’ serious.”
“I feel kinda serious. Don’t you?”
“Maybe that’s what is wrong.”
“Pard, I’ve a hunch these fine Australian men have no idee what they’re up ag’in’. They’re takin’ their families. Leastways, Slyter is, an’ this Stanley Dann. Must be one fine hombre, accordin’ to Jones. Takin’ his only daughter, too. Beryl Dann. Purtiest lass in Queensland, so Rol says. Wal, it’d be hard enough an’ tough enough for us without a couple of girls…. This Leslie kid. About sixteen, I’d say. But a woman, an’ full of all a woman has to make men tremble. Pard, even if you hadn’t seen her first, I’d pass,’ cause I seen her look at you, as I’ve seen other girls look.”
“Red, don’t be a sentimental jackass, not out here in Australia,” replied Sterl severely. “These people are English. Why, this Leslie is like a boy. Outspoken…wholesome. She’s English, I tell you.”
“Wal, what’n’ll is the difference if she is?” retorted Red. “Shore I’m a sentimental jackass. But I’m no fool about women. An’ you know it, pard.”
“Would you advise giving up this trek?” asked Sterl half hopefully.
“Hell, no! Leave this Slyter in the lurch? Not me. An’ you know you wouldn’t. Pard, I’m jest kinda sick in the gizzard at the most turrible mess we ever rode into. An’ thet’s sayin’ a lot.”
“By thunder, you can say a lot anytime. Let’s put up the tent and unroll our beds. It’ll be dark when we get through supper.”
They had advanced halfway through their task before Red spoke again, and this time it seemed he was thinking aloud. “Wonder what this Beryl Dann is like. Gosh! A flock of girls is bad enough. But jest one…orful pretty…out alone in this Never Never…. Red, you’re a ruined man!”
Sterl entertained the same idea; indeed, he had been ruined before he left America, but this Australia bade fair to give ruin to the bright face of danger, the zest of strife.
Red contrived to rope up the mosquito nets so that they could be let down when needful and
rolled up with the tent. And he said: “Pard, I’ve an idee. You know I’m handy with canvas. Wal, I’ll sew a canvas floor in this tent, with buckles in front, so we can keep out the varmints.”
“Dog-gone it, Red, are we getting soft?” queried Sterl dubiously.
“Soft-haided, you mean? Wal, you always was, an’ I’m gonna do it this…what they call it?…this trek.”
“I meant soft physically, you dunce.”
“Wal, if we air, you can bet yore sweet life it won’t be for long. This Never Never will make the Llana Estacado an’ the Jornada del Muerto look like green pastures.”
Presently, just before dusk, they were called to supper. Sterl was struck with the wonder of the falling shadow, the stealing on of the golden dusk, the strange bird songs, of which only the sweet melancholy cur-ra-wong, cur-ra-wong was familiar. Here again the strangeness emphasized the reality of a far country.
They were ushered into a big, plain living room, where a fire burned in a crude, stone fireplace, and a long table with steaming, savory foods invited keen relish. Slyter introduced the cowboys to his wife, a buxom, pleasant woman who appeared to be a fitting pioneer mate for him. She wore havoc on her broad face that Sterl had seen on the faces of Western ranch women. Evidently Leslie inherited her fine physique, but not her coloring. However, when the girl came in, Sterl hardly recognized her in a dress. She did not look slim or provoking, but appeared infinitely prettier. Her frank, winning gaiety offset her mother’s silence. Probably Mrs. Slyter anticipated the rigor and gravity of the coming trek. Red brought a smile to her face, however, by saying such a supper would be something to remember when he was hungry way out on the Never Never. Sterl averred that Red had eaten enough to last through the whole trek.
“Wal, Sterl, I reckon I didn’t see you puttin’ away from the table,” retorted Red.
“Boys, in the morning, first thing I want you to look over the horses,” Slyter said. “After that, we’ll ride over to town. Dann is keen to talk with you before he leaves.”
