Indeed, with such visions of
soap and water and waltzing washerwomen, a couple of changes of
everything appeared absurd luxury. But even optimism can have
disadvantages; for in our enthusiasm we forgot that a couple of cambric
blouses, a cotton dress or two, and a change of skirts, are hardly equal
to the strain of nearly five months constant wear and washing.
The pillow-cases went in, however. Mac settled that difficulty by saying
that "all hands could be put on to pluck birds. The place is stiff with
'em," he explained, showing what a simple matter it would be, after all.
The Maluka turning out two cushions, a large and a smaller one,
simplified matters even more. "A bird in the hand you know," he said,
finding room for them in the swag.
Before all the arrangements were completed, others of the Creek had begun
to thaw, and were "lending a hand," here and there. The question of
horses coming up, I confided in the helpers, that I was relieved to hear
that the Telegraph had sent a quiet horse. "I am really afraid of
buck-jumpers, you know," I said, and the Creek looking sideways at Mac,
he became incoherent.
"Oh, look here!" he spluttered, "I say! Oh, look here! It really was
too bad!" Then, after an awkward pause, he blurted out, "I don't know
what you'll think, but the brute strayed first camp, and - he's lost,
saddle and all."
The Maluka shot him a swift, questioning glance; but poor Mac looked so
unhappy that we assured him "we'd manage somehow." Perhaps we could tame
one of the flash buck-jumpers, the Maluka suggested. But Mac said it
"wouldn't be as bad as that," and, making full confession, placed old
Roper at our service.
By morning, however, a magnificent chestnut "Flash," well-broken into the
side-saddle, had been conjured up from somewhere by the Creek. But two of
the pack-horses had strayed, and by the time they were found the morning
had slipped away, and it was too late to start until after dinner. Then
after dinner a terrific thunderstorm broke over the settlement, and as
the rain fell in torrents, Mac thought it looked "like a case of
to-morrow all right."
Naturally I felt impatient at the delay, but was told by the Creek that
"there was no hurry!" "To-morrow's still untouched," Mac explained. "This
is the Land of Plenty of Time; Plenty of Time and Wait a While. You'll be
doing a bit of waiting before you've done with it."
"If this rain goes on, she'll be doing a bit of waiting at the Fergusson;
unless she learns the horse's-tail trick," the Creek put in. On inquiry,
it proved that the "horse's-tail trick" meant swimming a horse through
the flood, and hanging on to its tail until it fought a way across; and I
felt I would prefer "waiting a bit."
The rain did go on, and, roaring over the roof, made conversation
difficult. The bushmen called it a "bit of a storm"; but every square
inch of the heavens seemed occupied by lightning and thunder-bolts.
"Nothing to what we can do sometimes," every one agreed. "WE do things
in style up here - often run half-a-dozen storms at once. You see, when
you are weather-bound, you might as well have something worth looking
at."
The storm lasted nearly three hours, and when it cleared Mac went over to
the Telegraph, where some confidential chatting must have taken place,
for when he returned he told us that the Dandy was starting out for the
homestead next day to "fix things up a bit." The Head Stockman however,
waited back for orders.
The morning dawned bright and clear, and Mac advised "making a dash for
the Fergusson." "We might just get through before this rain comes down
the valley," he said.
The Creek was most enthusiastic with its help, bustling about with
packbags and surcingles, and generally "mixing things."
When the time came to say good-bye it showed signs of breaking down; but
mastering its grief with a mightily audible effort, it wished us "good
luck," and stood watching as we rode out of the little settlement.
Every time we looked back it raised its hat, and as we rode at the head
of our orderly little cavalcade of pack horses, with Jackeroo the black
"boy" bringing up the rear, we flattered ourselves on the dignity of our
departure. Mac called it "style," and the Maluka was hoping that the
Creek was properly impressed, when Flash, unexpectedly heading off for
his late home, an exciting scrimmage ensued and the procession was broken
into fragments.
The Creek flew to the rescue, and, when order was finally restored, the
woman who had defied the Sanguine Scot and his telegrams, entered the
forest that fringes the Never-Never, sitting meekly upon a led horse.
CHAPTER III
Bush chivalry demanding that a woman's discomfiture should be ignored,
Mac kept his eyes on the horizon for the first quarter of a mile, and
talked volubly of the prospects of the Wet and the resources of the
Territory; but when Flash was released, and after a short tussle settled
down into a free, swinging amble, he offered congratulations in his own
whimsical way.
"He's like the rest of us," he said, with a sly, sidelong look at the
Maluka, "perfectly reconciled to his fate."
Although it was only sixty-five miles to the Katherine it took us exactly
three days to travel the distance. Mac called it a "tip-top record for
the Wet," and the Maluka agreed with him; for in the Territory it is not
the number of miles that counts, but what is met with in those miles.
