Читать книгу Wilderness Trek - Zane Grey - Страница 4

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The remainder of that stimulating day Sterl and Red spent in the big merchandise store, making purchases for a two-years’ trip beyond the frontier. Investment in English saddles, two fine English rifles to supplement Sterl’s Winchester .44 and thousands of cartridges broke the ice of old accustomed frugality, and introduced an orgy of spending.

It took a dray to transport their outfit to the yard on the outskirts of town, to which they had been directed. Late in the afternoon they had all their purchases stowed away in the front of one of the big new wagons, with their baggage on top, and the woolen blankets spread. Before that, however, they had changed their traveling clothes to the worn and comfortable garb of cowboys. Sterl had not felt so good for weeks. It was all settled. No turning back! That time of contending tides of trouble was past. He would be happy, presently, and forget.

They had scraped acquaintance with one of Slyter’s teamsters, a hulking, craggy-visaged chap some years their senior, who announced that his name was Roland Tewksbury Jones. Red’s reaction to that cognomen was characteristic.

“Yeah? Have a cigar,” he said, producing one with a grand flourish. “My handle is Red. Seein’ as how I couldn’t remember yore turrible name I’ll call you Rol, for short. On the Texas trails I knowed a lot of Joneses, in particular Buffalo Jones, Dirty Face Jones and Wrong-Wheel Jones.”

Roland evinced a calm speculation as to what manner of man this Yankee cowboy was. He accepted Sterl’s invitation to have dinner with them, and invited them to go to a pub for a drink. Returning to their wagon, they found a fire blazing and the other teamsters busily loading the supplies. Spreading their canvas and blankets under the wagon, as they had done thousands of times, the cowboys turned in. Sterl slept infinitely sounder out in the open, on the hard ground, than he had for two months, on soft beds. Indeed, the sun was shining brightly when the cowboys awoke. Teamsters were leading horses out of the paddock; others were tying tarpaulins over the wagons. Jones addressed Red: “You have time for breakfast if you move as fast as you said you did in Texas.”

Returning to the outfit, Sterl saw that they were about ready to start, two teams to a wagon. He had an appreciative eye for the powerful horses. He found a seat beside the driver, while Red propped himself up behind. Inquiry about Mr. Slyter elicited the information that the head drover had left at daylight in his light two-horse rig. Jones took up the reins and led the procession of drays and wagons out into the road.

Soon the town was left behind. A few farms and gardens lined the road for several miles. Then the yellow grass-centered road led into a jungle of green and gold and bronze. They had ten days or more to drive, mostly on a level road, said Jones, with good camp sites, plenty of water and grass, meat for the killing, mosquitoes in millions, and bad snakes.

“Bad snakes?” echoed Sterl, in dismay. He happened to be not over-afraid of snakes, and he had stepped on many a rattler, to jump out of his boots, but the information was not welcome.

“Say, Rol, I heahed you,” interposed Red, who feared neither man nor beast nor savage, but was in mortal terror of snakes. “Thet’s orful bad news. What kind of snakes?”

Sterl sensed Jones’s rising to the occasion. “Black and brown snakes most common, and grow to eight feet. Hit you hard and are not too poisonous. Tiger snakes mean and aggressive. If you hear a sharp hiss turn to stone right where you are. Death adders are the most dangerous. They are short, thick, sluggish beggars and rank poison. The pythons and boas are not so plentiful. But you meet them. They grow to twenty feet and can give you quite a hug.”

“Aw, is thet all?” queried Red, who evidently was impressively scared, despite his natural skepticism.

The thick golden-green grass grew as high as the flanks of a horse; cabbage trees and a stunted brushy palm stood up conspicuously; and the gum trees, or eucalyptus, grew in profusion. Shell-barked and smooth, some of them resembled the bronze and opal sycamores of America, and others beeches and laurels. Here and there stood up a lofty spotted gum, branchless for a hundred feet, and then spreading great, curved limbs above the other trees to terminate in fine, thin-leaved, steely-green foliage.

As they penetrated inland, birds began to attract Sterl. A crow with a dismal and guttural caw took him back to the creek bottoms of Texas. Another crow, black with white-spotted wings, Jones called Australia’s commonest bird, the magpie. It appeared curious and friendly, and had a melodious note that grew upon Sterl. It was deep and rich—a lovely sound—cur-ra-wong—cur-ra-wong.

“See you like birds. So do I,” said Jones to Sterl. “Australians ought to, for we have hundreds of wonderful kinds. The lyrebird in the bush can imitate any song or sound he hears. Leslie Slyter loves them. She knows where they stay, too. Perhaps she’ll take you at daybreak to hear them.”

Here Red Krehl pricked up his ears to attention. Anything in the world that could be relegated in the slightest to femininity, Red clasped to his breast.

Presently the road led out of the jungle into a big area of ground cleared of all except the largest trees. On a knoll stood a house made of corrugated iron. Jones called it a cattle station. Sterl looked for cattle in vain. Red said: “Shines out like a dollar in a fog.”

Grass and brush densely covered the undulating hills. Sterl concluded that Australian cattle were equally browsers and grazers. The road wound to and fro between the hills, keeping to a level, eventually to enter thick bush again. Sterl made the acquaintance of flocks of colored parrots—galahs the driver called them—that flew swiftly as bullets across the road; and then a flock of white cockatoos that squawked in loud protest at the invasion of their domain. When they sailed above the wagon, wide wings spread, Sterl caught a faint tinge of yellow. When they crossed the first brook, a clear swift little stream that passed on gleaming and glancing under the wide-spreading foliage, a blue heron and a white crane took lumbering flight.

They came into a wide valley, rich in wavy grass, and studded with bunches of cattle and horses. “Ha! Some hosses,” quoth Red. As Jones slowed up along a bank higher than the wagon bed, Sterl heard solid thumping thuds, then a swish of grass, and Red’s stentorian, “Whoopee!”

He wheeled in time to see three great, strange, furry animals leaping clear over the wagon. They had long ears and enormous tails. He recognized them in the middle of their prodigious leap, but could not remember their names. They cleared the road, to bound away as if on springs.

“Whoa!” yelled Red. “What’n’ll was thet? ... Did you see what I see? Lord! there ain’t no such critters!”

“Kangaroos,” said the teamster. “And that biggest one is an old man roo all right.”

“Oh, what a sight!” exclaimed Sterl. “Kangaroos—of course. ... One of them almost red. Jones, it struck me they sprang off their tails.”

“Kangaroos do use their tails. Wait till you get smacked with one.”

The trio of queer beasts stopped some hundred rods off and sat up to gaze at the wagon.

“Air they good to eat?” queried the practical Red.

“We like kangaroo meat when we can’t get beef or turkey or fowl. But that isn’t often.”

“What’s that?” shouted Sterl, suddenly, espying a small gray animal hopping across the road.

“Wallaby. A small species of kangaroo.”

More interesting miles, that seemed swift, brought them to an open flat crossed by a stream bordered with full-foliaged yellow-blossoming trees, which Jones called wattles. Jones made a halt here to rest and water the horses, and to let the other wagons catch up. Red began to make friends with the other teamsters, always an easy task for the friendly, loquacious cowboy. They appeared to belong to a larger, brawnier type than the American outdoor men, and certainly were different from the lean, lithe, narrow-hipped, cowboy. They built a fire and set about making tea “boiling the billy,” Jones called it. Sterl sampled the beverage and being strange even to American tea he said: “Now I savvy why you English are so strong.”

“I should smile,” drawled Red, making a wry face. “I shore could ride days on thet drink.”

Under a huge gum tree, in another green valley, on the bank of a creek, Jones drove into a cleared space and called a halt for camp.

“Wal, Rol, what air there for me an’ my pard to do?” queried the genial Red.

“That depends. What can you Yankees do?” replied Jones, simply, as if really asking for information.

Red cocked a blazing blue eye at the teamster and drawled: “Wal, it’d take a lot less time if you’d ask what we cain’t do. Outside of possessin’ all the cowboy traits such as ridin’, ropin’, shootin’, we can hunt, butcher, cook, bake sour-dough biscuits an’ cake, shoe hosses, mend saddle cinches, plait ropes, chop wood, build fires in wet weather, bandage wounds an’ mend broken bones, smoke, drink, play poker, an’ fight.”

“You forgot one thing, I’ve observed, Red, and that is—you can talk,” replied Jones, still sober-faced as a judge.

“Yeah? ... But fun aside, what mought we do?”

“Anything you can lay a hand to,” answered the driver, cheerily.

One by one the other wagons rolled up. These teamsters were efficient and long used to camp tasks. The one who evidently was cook knew his business. “Easy when you have everything,” he said to Sterl. “But when we get out on trek, with nothing but meat and tea, and damper, then no cook is good.”

After supper Sterl got out his rifle and, loading it, strolled away from camp along the edge of the creek. The sun was setting gold, lighting the shiny-barked gums and burnishing the long green leaves. He came upon a giant tree fern where high over his head the graceful lacy leaves drooped down. The great gum was by far the most magnificent tree Sterl had ever seen. It stood over two hundred feet high, with no branches for half that distance; then they spread wide, as large in themselves as ordinary trees. The color was a pale green with round pieces of red-brown bark sloughing off.

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 alive with them.”

“Pard, pass me yore gun,” said Red.

“Umpumm, 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 pairs 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’ riveted 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 calibre 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 make 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, jaribu, 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 vaqueros, for his keen sight.

“Brumbies,” declared Jones.

“What?—What you say?” shouted Red. “If they’re not wild hosses, 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?”

“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 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 up?” 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 flavor 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 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 Tewksbury 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 some day. I did.... I’m Leslie.”