by Zane Grey
Friday nodded. “Horses close up alonga water. Jester. King. Lady Jane. Black fella findum.” This was such a matter of relief to Sterl that it assuaged his mortification. He finished eating the strip of meat in silence, then the damper, and arose from the ground with a handful of dried fruit.
“Come, Friday. Go alonga camp,” he said. The black leaped to his lofty height, and strode off in exactly the opposite direction to that which Sterl had been traveling, so determined and sure he was right. Sterl could not withstand a shudder. Another night and another day, heading the wrong way, getting deeper and deeper into this bush and jungle maze, would almost certainly have ended in death.
At ten o’clock that night Sterl limped behind Friday into sight of a welcome campfire, where Slyter and his wife, Leslie and Red and Larry, kept a vigil that had only to be seen to realize their anxiety. The moment was more poignant than Sterl would have anticipated. Red, the sharp-eared fox, heard them coming, and, as he turned to see them emerge from the gloom, he let out his stentorian: “Whoopee!” That had scarcely ended when Leslie’s cry rang out. Slyter burst out in agitation that surprised Sterl: “It’s Sterl! Bless our black man!”
Leslie flew at Sterl, met him before he reached the fire, enveloped him with eager arms, crying out indistinguishable, broken words.
“Hazelton, I couldn’t be any gladder, if you were my own son,” Slyter said heartily. His wife at his side added: “Thank God you are safe, Sterl!” Then she addressed Leslie. “Girl, are you mad?”
“Yes, Mum. Mad with…joy!” cried Leslie as she turned her face, wet with tears, shining in the firelight.
Sterl bent his cheek to hers, then gently released himself.
Chapter Twelve
When the trekkers made several days’ camp in comfortable spots where water and grass were abundant, they gradually worked back into something approaching congeniality.
The late October halt, after Sterl had come safely out of the jungle, seemed more than ordinarily marked by pleasant relations among all concerned. But there was one exception. Sterl, going to the stream for a bucket of water, encountered Ormiston and Beryl some rods away from the camp. The girl, sitting high upon a fallen gum tree, made a most attractive picture. She had a hand on Ormiston’s shoulder, who stood leaning against the log and facing Sterl. She had not seen the cowboy. Sterl did not deviate from his course on account of them, though he usually avoided meeting the drover when possible.
“Hazelton,” spoke up Ormiston, when Sterl drew abreast, in a derisive and taunting voice, “I’d never be afraid of being tracked by you.”
Sterl was so dumbfounded that he passed right on without a word, although he flashed a searching glance at the drover. He heard Beryl ask: “Ash, what ever made you say that?” If Ormiston replied to that query, Sterl did not hear, although Ormiston’s laugh rang unpleasantly like his remark. But Sterl resented that taunt. Beryl had evidently been puzzled and astounded, which was little to what Sterl felt. Ormiston had not appeared to be under the influence of liquor. He was not much of a drinker. Sterl could not come to any conclusion other than that Ormiston hated him so deeply that the opportunity to insult had been irresistible.
Back in camp Sterl related the incident to Red. The cowboy swore long and loud. “Thet’s what’s on the son-of-a-bitch’s mind. He’s gonna slope sooner or later.”
“Right-o. But if he’s secretive and close-mouthed, as we know, why did he make that crack?”
“Pard, it was a slip. Some men air so governed by passion thet they come right out with things.”
“Yeah? There’s going to be a reason for us to track him.”
“Shore. That’s in his mind, but I reckon it’ll never come to an actual fact. I’m glad Ormiston busted out with thet. We’ve all been kinda forgettin’, you know, like folks do when there’s plenty of action an’ little time to brood.”
“Beryl had a hand on Ormiston’s shoulder. And she didn’t withdraw it, when I passed,” Sterl said casually.
“Hell, thet ain’t nothin’,” returned the cowboy gloomily.
“No? Well, spring it, pard!” Sterl shot back, no longer casual.
Red appeared bitter and ashamed, but he did not answer Sterl’s gaze. “I’ve seen Beryl in his arms…an’ kissin’ him back to beat hell.”
“Where?”
“By thet big tree where you jest met them. You see, since the Danns throwed together with Ormiston an’ Hathaway in one camp, Beryl an’ Ormiston have been thick as hops. Slyter’s camp is close this time, an’ I couldn’t help seein’ them. But I got sore, an’ jealous, an’ played Injun on them. I sneaked up on them at night. An’ I’m gonna keep on doin’ it.”
“Red, has Beryl ever kissed you?” Sterl asked seriously.
“Hey, pard, what’s your idee? Want me to kiss an’ tell?”
“Nonsense. This is different. I like Beryl. I’ve a queer faith she’ll turn out OK. Red, has she?”
“Wal, yes, a coupla times,” admitted Red. “Not the devourin’ kind she gave Ormiston. Gosh, how she must like his brand! All the same what she did give me was enough to make me leave home.”
“Red, your little finger is worth more than a wagonload of Ormistons,” stormed Sterl. “And by heaven she’ll find it out.”
“I reckon…if only it ain’t too late!”
“What you mean?”
“You savvy what I mean. Sterl, don’t blame the girl. Hell, you know girls, an’ what this wild livin’ does to them. Ormiston is a handsome cuss. You remember Leslie sayin’ he fascinated her. An’ you an’ me know only too well thet a man bein’ bad is an urge to a woman’s love, not a hindrance.”
“Yes. But I can’t forgive Beryl,” Sterl returned with passion. “Listen, pard, I can pick a quarrel with Ormiston. Any day. It’d be murder, sure, but these people won’t know that it’d be a fight. And he’d be out of the way. Lord knows what that might save the Danns.”
“Right-o, Sterl,” Red rejoined, cool of voice and dark of brow. “I’ve reckoned on thet myself. But shore as Gawd made little apples, if either of us bored Ormiston, it’d queer us with these drovers. We jest cain’t afford to risk it on account of a girl.”
“Let him hang himself, huh?”
“Thet’s the deal. But it’s long in comin’. Besides, Sterl, I’m good an’ sore at Stanley Dann an’ Slyter for not seein’ the game this hombre plays.”
“So am I,” declared Sterl.
“All right, then. We can stand this trek longer than any of them, onless it’s your black man. Gosh, what a guy! An’ Sterl, leave Beryl’s affair to me. I don’t mean thet to apply to Ormiston. I’ll spy on them. If Beryl doesn’t give him away, Ormiston will himself.”
“OK, Red. At that, I guess I have my own hands full.”
“Ha! You had yore arms full the other night,” Red declared with a short laugh. “Aw, Sterl, how thet kid worships you! It jest did my pore old battered heart good.”
“Red! You…it’s…only this infernal trek,” burst out Sterl, as if stifled.
“Shore. Thet’s the whole trouble. This trek! This…almighty trekkin’ across the whole wide world till we die or turn into a boss!”
Stanley Dann sent word to all his company that, as he had decided to break camp at dawn the next day and continue the trek, he wished to see everyone at his campfire for a conference and to have dinner afterward.
An hour before sunset that afternoon, when the heat still lingered, all the invited were present except Larry and Cedric, and Henley—one of Ormiston’s drovers—who were on guard with the mob. In the shade of a great spreading gum tree, the trekkers sat and reclined and stood around in a half circle before the leader. Sterl had an intimation that conference might become historical. It certainly showed a striking group of people. Leslie and Beryl, naturally, had put on bright colors, and their beauty graced the occasion. Brown, slim, strong, clear-eyed, and shining of hair, they attested to the beneficence of the sun and the rigors of the trek. The drovers matched any
bronzed and bearded outfit of hard-riders Sterl could recall. The big men, like Stanley and Slyter, had trained down and did not show a pound of superfluous flesh.
Stanley Dann got up from his table with a paper in his hand, his eagle eyes alight, the goldness of him, the magnificence and virility impressively outstanding. “Well, here we are, family and partners and drovers,” he began, in his rich, resounding voice, “at this pleasant camp, and it is an occasion to thank God, to take stock of the present, and renew hope for the future. We are one hundred and fifty-seven days and nearly six hundred miles on our great trek. It seems hardly possible. Barring the unfortunate and tragic loss of our partner, Woolcott, we have been wonderfully blessed and guided by Providence. There have been only minor injuries and accidents and illnesses, which, indeed, is remarkable. Our losses have been insignificant. We have lost only fourteen horses…a remarkable showing. And two hundred head of cattle, including, of course, those we needed for beef. Let me say this company upholds the prestige of Australians as meateaters!”
Dann consulted the paper in his hand, and then went on. “We have consumed one fourth of our flour. Too much, but it cannot be put down to extravagance or wastefulness. Tea we have, of course, an abundance left. Also salt and sugar. One fifth of our stock of dried fruits is gone, and that is our worst showing. We depend upon fruit to keep us well, and it must be conserved. There is a ton or more of canned goods left, which is luxury, and no doubt will not last long after we get into hard trekking. So much for all that…. By the grace of God we are going to win through to the Kimberleys, I hope and pray, some time towards the end of next year. In view of our good luck so far, and my faith in what is to come, I think it well to have everyone present speak out how they feel about the trek. If it is favorable, and I believe that will be true in every case, such open expression here before all will have been splendid spiritual reaction. Make us happier, stronger, more hopeful, more unified in faith. Because we have burned our bridges behind us. We cannot go back. Now Sister Emily, will you be the first to speak out?”
One by one all the women—Emily Dann, a sturdy little woman of forty, Mrs. Slyter of the weather-beaten face, Leslie with her wonderful eyes flashing, Beryl whose beauty graced the occasion— expressed their hope for the future, their determination not to turn back on Stanley Dann, and it was plain to all that what Beryl felt meant a great deal to him.
If Beryl had come on this strenuous trek to find a golden beauty, she would already have her reward. A red silken scarf enhanced the gold-tan of her face and the fairness of her hair. But if she had possessed only her eyes, blue-black with excitement, she would have looked her father’s daughter.
“This trek is grand,” she said. “I believe now in my father’s vision. We trek on to seek and find, and never yield. We are empire builders. We will be remembered when Australia comes into her own. I idled away the days in Sydney. At home I vegetated. On this trek I am living.”
The tall Hathaway had a tribute for their leader, and a courageous look forward. Slyter spoke brief, eloquent words about their progress and the surety of success. Eric Dann said: “It has been far better than I believed possible. I have been wavering on my chosen plan to stick to the old Gulf trek.” Stanley Dann let out a roar of approval and called lustily upon Ormiston. Sterl, skeptic as he was, admitted the drover’s forceful and convincing presence. His former, dark-browed, sullen passion appeared in abeyance.
“Friends, I have not yet recovered from the loss of our partner, Woolcott,” he said in a deep voice. “But still I see our unexpected and marvelous success so far. If it lasts, I will be hard put to make a decision when we come to the headwaters of the Diamantina. Far be it from me to cast cold water upon this meeting. Yet, there should be one voice of warning…one voice lifted against an over-confidence that might lead to fatal blunders…. It is absolutely certain that this incredible good luck will not last. But we will trek…and on!”
Red Krehl nudged Sterl as if to confirm a disappointment that had formed in Sterl’s mind. Stanley Dann betrayed a disappointment that he harbored only a moment. Next he called upon the drovers, and they, apparently united, lustily vented their enthusiasm.
“Hazelton, you, being an American trail driver, long versed in this business of cattle and horses and men against the cruel and rugged ranges, you should have something unforgettable and inspiring to say to us novices at the game.”
“I hope I have,” rang out Sterl. “Stanley Dann, you are the great leader to make this great trek. On to the Kimberleys! No heat, no drought, no flood, no desert…no man can stop us!”
Of all those who had spoken thus far only Sterl appeared to strike fire from their leader. He expanded his wide chest, his face flushed, he raised a prophetic hand and held it aloft. But if he had meant to respond to Sterl’s eulogy and dynamic force, he thought better of it. Then he called to Red. “You, cowboy!”
“Dog-gone it, boss,” Red drawled, “I had a helluva nifty speech, but I’ve clean forgot it…. However, enough has been said for us to trek on for another hundred an’ fifty days. I’ve the same hunch as my pard heah. We cain’t be licked. The thing’s too big. It means too much to Australia. If Gawd is really guidin’ us, as there seems some sense in our believin’, little troubles like water an’ blacks an’ heat an’ dust…an’ the contrariness of men thet always bobs up…these can’t swerve us from the great issue. Fork yore hosses, an’ ride!”
Stanley Dann possessed the unquenchable ideal and courage and faith and zeal of the explorer-pioneer who stamped his name upon an unknown wilderness or left his bones to bleach there. He imbued his followers with a passion that kept pace in leagues and trials. All on that trek, except Sterl and Red, seemed to be overcome by that powerful personality, and even the brooding Ormiston reacted to the subtle influence. If Ormiston had not been in his heart all that he pretended not to be, he would have capitulated to this great leader.
But Red claimed he had caught limits and intimations which, pieced together, presented a certainty that Ormiston would not go beyond the headwaters of the Diamantina. Hathaway and Eric Dann believed the contrary drover would try to persuade them to make the longer trek by way of the Gulf to the Kimberleys. They were deceived. Ormiston had no communal interests. Sterl and Red, in their talks on night guard, were divided between a suspicion that Ormiston plotted to go on with Eric and Hathaway, if he could engineer the split with Stanley, in order to get possession of all their stock, or cut off from all of his partners to drove on alone to some unknown destination. The former was Red’s opinion, the latter Sterl’s. And there they were deadlocked.
“Pard,” Red concluded somberly, “mark what I tell you…I’m gonna kill that slick devil. There are reasons enough, heaven knows, but the one that boils in me comes from heahin’ him make love to Beryl.”
“Red, every night when we come on guard you tell me that,” replied Sterl impatiently. “Why, in the name of heaven, do you lay yourself open to it?”
“No sense a-tall in it. I jest love Beryl so orful!”
“I’m moseying,” was Sterl’s only reply.
He rode back to his post, and, finding Friday, he talked to the black a while, trying as always to pierce the veil of the aborigine’s mind. But Friday forever eluded any deep penetration. That did not convince Sterl, however, that the black man did not understand him. Nevertheless, Sterl sensed a closer communion, if not understanding, as the nights multiplied.
Several series of two- and three-day treks without water marked the approach to the Diamantina River. The cattle did not suffer dangerously from thirst until the last arid spell. Then with two hot dry days and no prospect of relief, the drovers faced their most serious predicament.
That second night all the drovers went on guard duty. Sterl had observed the absence of game and birdlife, always an indication of the lack of water. Friday encouraged Sterl with a hopeful— “Might be water close up.” But close up for the black could have a wide range. It was early in the evening when
the riders went on guard at this camp. A full moon was rising. The cattle were restless, bawling, milling, and the guards had their work cut out for them. Sterl approached Red.
“Pard, Friday says there might be water close up. What do you say to my riding ahead on a scout? If I find anything wet around twenty miles, I’d advise Dann to trek clear through tomorrow and tomorrow night.”
“Wal, it’s a hell of a good idee,” declared the cowboy. “Go ahaid. Thet is, if you reckon you can find yore way back!”
Red had never ceased to plague Sterl about getting lost. The opportunity for a cowboy was too good to resist. “Say, you could joke on your grandmother’s grave!” Sterl retorted. “I’ve a notion to bat one. This scout job isn’t funny. It’s something Dann should have thought of.”
“I should smile, pard. We gotta find water, or else…. I reckon we’re workin’ out on a plateau. Not one stream bed today. Rustle, pard, an’ ride till you find water.”
Sterl turned away toward the remuda to change horses. He wanted to save King. As he rode off, Red called after him: “If you figger the moon, you can find yore way back!”
The horses had been in need of water, but always after dark, when the dew was wet on the grass, they slaked acute thirst. Sterl changed to the big rangy sorrel, an animal he had not been able to tire. Then he set out, taking his direction from the Southern Cross.
Heat still radiated from the ground. But the night was pleasant. For two weeks and more the trek had been through open country, with the ranges fading gradually in the rear. The heave of the land suggested a last mighty roll toward the interminable level of the interior. Sterl rode at a brisk trot through bleached grass, silver in the moonlight. Stunted gum trees reared spectral heads; there were dark clumps of mulga scrub and bare, moon-blanched spaces, across which rabbits scurried. Birds of prey whisked low over the ground. When at length the glimmer of campfires failed to pierce the blackness, Sterl halted his horse for a moment.
