Читать книгу Wilderness Trek - Zane Grey - Страница 7

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It turned out that Leslie’s freeing of her native bear pets was merely a matter of saying good-by to them, for they were not confined. They lived in the trees of a small eucalyptus grove back of the house. Sterl enjoyed the sensation of holding some of them, of feeling their sharp strong, abnormally large claws cling to his coat. The one that pleased Sterl most was a mother that carried her baby in a pouch. The little one had his head stuck out, and his bright black eyes said that he wanted to see all there was to see.

Gently but firmly Leslie drew the little bear from the pouch and placed it on the mother’s back, where it stuck like a burr and appeared perfectly comfortable. Sterl never saw a prettier animal sight, and said so emphatically.

“Marsupials!” said Leslie; “All sorts of them down under, from kangaroos to a little blind mole no longer than my finger.”

“Well I’m a son-of-a-gun!” exclaimed Red, “What’s a marsupial?”

This started Leslie on a lecture concerning Australian mammals and birds. When she finished with marsupials, which carry their babies in a pouch, and came to the unbelievable platypus which wears fur, suckles its young, lays eggs and has a bill like a duck and web feet fastened on backward, she stretched Red’s credulity to the breaking point.

“How can you stand there, a sweet pictoor of honest girlhood, and be such an orful liar? How about thet liar bird Jones said you could show us?—the wonderfulest bird in Australia!”

“Righto! Boys, if you’ll get up early, I’ll promise you shall hear a lyrebird, and maybe see one.”

“It’s a date, Leslie, tomorrow mawnin’. Right heah. Hey, pard?”

“You bet,” said Sterl, “And now let’s get to work making that wagon.”

The wagon, which Slyter intended for his womenfolk and all their personal effects, was big and sturdy, with wide-tired wheels, high sides, and a roomy canvas top stretched over hoops. Sterl examined it carefully.

“How about in water an’ sand?” queried Red, dubiously.

“In deep water she’ll float—when we fix her. Red, dig up a couple of chisels and hammers while I get something to calk these seams.”

In short order they had the wagon bed so that it would not leak. Then, while Red began the same job on the other wagon, Sterl devoted himself to fixing up some approach to a prairie-schooner tent dwelling. Sterl had Leslie designate the bags and trunks which would be needed en route; with these he packed the forward half of the wagon bed two feet deep. Then he transformed the rear half into a bedroom.

Slyter arrived with the dray, and climbed off the driver’s seat to begin unhitching. His face was dark, his brow lined and pondering.

“Roland, pack all the flour on top of this load and tie on a cover,” said Slyter. “Hazelton, how’s the work progressing?”

“We’re about done. Hope nothing more came off uptown?”

“Testy day. Just my personal business.... You’ll be interested in this. Ormiston sobered up and tried to get back into our good graces. Stanley Dann accepted his apologies.”

“Then Ormiston will go on the trek?”

“Yes. He said to tell you he had been half drunk, and would speak to you when opportunity afforded. But he asked me if you cowboys had any references!”

“I was surprised that you did not ask for any.”

“I didn’t need any. Nor did Stanley Dann. Ormiston was trying to sow seeds of discord.”

“Thank you, Slyter. I’m sure you’ll never regret your kindness.”

“Hathaway and Woolcott left about midday,” went on Slyter. “Some of their drovers were drunk. The Danns are all ready to leave at dawn. We’ll start tomorrow sometime.”

“How about waterholes?”

“No fear. We’ve had a good few rains lately. There’ll be plenty of water—maybe too much—and grass all the way out of Queensland. Stanley Dann and his brother Eric had another hot argument. Eric was one of the drovers who made that Gulf trek. He wants to stick to that route. But Stanley argues we should leave it beyond the Diamantina River and head northwest more directly across the Never-never. I agree with him.”

It was dim gray morning when, keeping their engagement with Leslie, the Americans mounted the shadowy aisle leading up to the house.

They found her waiting with Friday. “Aren’t you ashamed? You’re late.... Come. Don’t talk. Don’t make the slightest sound.”

They followed Friday, a shadow in the gray gloom. The east was brightening. Presently, Friday glided noiselessly into the bush. Gradually it grew lighter. Soft mist hung low under the pale-trunked trees. They came to a glade that led down into a ravine where water tinkled. It opened out wide upon a scene of veiled enchantment. Small trees, pyramid shape, pointed up to the brightening sky, and shone as white as if covered by frost. Great fern trees spread long, lacy, exquisite leaves from a symmetrical head almost to the ground. Huge eucalyptus sent marblelike pillars aloft. Their fragrance attacked Sterl’s nostrils with an acute, strangling sensation. A bell-like note struck lingeringly upon his ear. Friday halted. As he lifted his hand with the gesture of an Indian, Sterl heard the lovely call of a thrush near at hand. Leslie put her lips right on Sterl’s ear. “It is the lyrebird!” Then it seemed to Sterl that his tingling ears caught the songs of other birds, intermingled with that of the thrush. Suddenly a bursting cur-ra-wong, cur-ra-wong shot through Sterl. Could that, too, be the lyrebird? The note was repeated again and again, so full of wild melody that it made Sterl ache. It was followed by caw, caw, caw, the most dismal and raucous note of a crow.

“Don’t you understand, boys?” whispered Leslie, bending her head between them. “The lyrebird is a mocker. He can imitate any sound.”

That sweet concatenation of various bird notes was disrupted by what seemed to be the bawling of a cow.

From off in the woods sounded a mournful, rich note, like the dong of a bell.

“Another! Oh, but we’re lucky!” whispered Leslie.

Across a little leafy glade, Sterl noticed low foliage move and part to admit a dark brown bird, half the size of a hen turkey. It had a sleek, delicate head. As it stepped daintily out from under the foliage, its tail, erect and exquisite, described the perfect shape of a lyre. Long, slender fernlike feathers rose and spread from the two central feathers—broad, dark velvety brown, barred in shiny white or gray, with graceful curling tips that bowed and dipped as it passed out of sight into the bush.

“Wal,” said Red, “yore lyrebird has our mockers skinned to a frazzle.”

“That must mean something!” returned Leslie, giggling. “Come. We’ll be late and Dad will row. Let’s run.”

When they went into breakfast, Roland and Larry were leaving, sober as judges. Bill Williams, the cook, was banging pots and pans with unnecessary force. Slyter looked as if he were going to a funeral, and his wife was weeping. Leslie’s smile vanished. She served the cowboys, who made short work of that meal.

“Boss, what’s the order for today?” queried Sterl, shortly.

“Drake’s mustering for the trek,” replied Slyter, gruffly.

Leslie followed them out. “I’ll catch up somewhere. I’d go with you now, but Mum.... Ride King and Jester, won’t you?”

Sterl found difficulty in expressing his sympathy. The girl was brave, though deeply affected by her mother’s grief. It really was a terrible thing to do—this forsaking a comfortable home in a beautiful valley, to ride out into the unknown and forbidding wilderness.

King surprised Sterl with his willingness to be saddled and bridled. He knew he was leaving the paddock, and liked it. Sterl tied on the slicker and canteen, and slipped into his worn leather chaps, conscious of a quickening of his pulse. He took up his rifle and walked around in front of the horse. “Are you gun shy, King?” The black apparently knew a rifle and, showing no fear, stood without a quiver while Sterl shoved it into the saddle sheath.

“Say, air you a mud hen, thet you go duckin’ jest ’cause I’ve got a gun?” Red was complaining to his horse.

In another moment they were in the unfamiliar English saddles. Joining Larry, they rode out into the open valley. Ahead of them, about a mile out in the widening valley, a herd of grazing horses, and beyond them Slyter’s cattle, added the last link to the certainty of the trek.

Waiting this side of the horses were three riders, superbly mounted. Their garb, and the trappings of the horses, appeared markedly different from those of the Americans. Sterl had made up his mind about these riders of Slyter’s; still he gave each a keen scrutiny. Drake was middle-aged, honest and forcible of aspect, strong of build. The other two, Benson and Heald, were sturdy young men not out of their teens, and sat their saddles as if used to them.

“Drake, we have Slyter’s orders to report to you,” added Sterl, after the introductions.

“I’ve sent Monkton on ahead to let down the bars,” replied Drake. “We fenced the valley ahead there where it narrows. I’ll join him. You men bring up the rear.”

“No particular formation?”

“Just let the mob graze along at a walk. We’ll keep right on till Slyter halts us, probably at Blue Gum.”

Drake said no more, and rode away to the left, accompanied by Heald, while Benson trotted off to the right.

“Huh! Short an’ sweet. All in the day’s work,” complained Red.

“Red, you ought to be in front,” said Sterl, “but, no doubt, that’ll come in time.”

In another moment Sterl was alone. He lighted a cigarette. King pranced a little and wanted to go. Sterl patted the arched neck, and fell at once into his old habit of talking to his horse. “King, we don’t know each other yet. But if you’re as good as you look, we’ll be pards. Take it easy. I see you’re too well trained to graze with a bridle on. You can unlearn that, King.”

He was to ride across a whole unknown continent, from which journey, even if he survived it, he would never return. Sterl faced the east. And he could not keep back a farewell whisper: “Good-by, Nan.... Good-by!” which seemed final and irrevocable.

When he turned back again, prompted by the keen King, the long line of cattle was on the move. The great trek had begun. The valley was filled with a rich, thick, amber light. Fleecy white clouds sailed above the green line of bush. The gold of wattles and the scarlet of eucalyptus stood out vividly even in the brilliance of the sun-drenched foliage. A faint and failing column of smoke rose above the forsaken farmhouse, that seemed to have gone to sleep among the wattles. A glancing gleam of tranquil, reed-bordered pond caught Sterl’s sight. All this pastoral beauty, this land of flowers and grass and blossoming trees, this land of milk and honey, was being abandoned for the chimera of the pioneer!