as we lurched, and heaved, and bumped along. “What’ll she say when we get into the long-grass country?”
“Long here!” he ejaculated, when I thought the grass we were driving through was fairly long (it was about three feet). “Just you wait!”
I waited submissively, if bouncing about a buck-board over thirty miles of obstacles can be called waiting, and next day we “got into the long-grass country”, miles of grass, waving level with and above our heads—grass ten feet high and more, shutting out everything but grass.
The Măluka was riding a little behind, at the head of the pack-team, but we could see neither him nor the team, and Mac looked triumphantly round as the staunch little horses pushed on through the forest of grass that swirled and bent and swished and reeled all about the buck-board.
“Didn’t I tell you?” he said. “This is what we call long grass”; and he asked if I could “see any track now.” “It’s as plain as a pikestaff,” he declared, trying to show what he called a “clear break all the way.” “Oh I’m a dead homer all right,” he shouted after further going as we came out at the “King” crossing.
“Now for it! Hang on!” he warned, and we went down the steep bank at a hand gallop; and as the horses rushed into the swift-flowing stream, he said unconcernedly: “I wonder how deep this is,” adding, as the buck-board lifted and swerved when the current struck it: “By George! They’re off their feet,” and leaning over the splashboard, lashed at the undaunted little beasts until they raced up the opposite bank.
“That’s the style!” he shouted in triumph, as they drew up, panting and dripping well over the rise from the crossing. “Close thing, though! Did you get your feet wet?”
“Did you get your feet wet!” That was all, when I was expecting every form of concern imaginable. For a moment I felt indignant at Mac’s recklessness and lack of concern, and said severely, “You shouldn’t take such risks.”
But Mac was blissfully unconscious of the severity. “Risks!” he said. “Why, it wasn’t wide enough for anything to happen, bar a ducking. If you rush it, the horses are pushed across before they know they’re off their feet.”
“Bar a ducking, indeed!” But Mac was out of the buck-board, shouting back, “Hold hard there! It’s a swim,” and continued shouting directions until the horses were across with comparatively dry pack-bags. Then he and the Măluka shook hands and congratulated each other on being the right side of everything.
“No more rivers!” the Măluka said.
“Clear run home, bar a deluge,” Mac added, gathering up the reins. “We’ll strike the front gate to-night.”
All afternoon we followed the telegraph line, and there the track was really well-defined; then at sundown Mac drew up, and with a flourish of hats he and the Măluka bade the missus “Welcome Home!” All around and about was bush, and only bush, that, and the telegraph line, and Mac, touching on one of the slender galvanized iron poles, explained the welcome. “This is the front gate.” he said; “another forty-five miles and we’ll be knocking at the front door.” And they called the Elsey “a nice little place.” Perhaps it was when compared with runs of six million acres.
The camp was pitched just inside the “front gate,” near a wide-spreading sheet of water, “Easter’s Billabong,” and at supper-time the conversation turned on bush cookery.
“Never tasted Johnny cakes!!” Mac said. “Your education hasn’t begun yet. We’ll have some for breakfast; I’m real slap-up at Johnny cakes!” and rummaging in a pack-bag, he produced flour, cream-of-tartar, soda, and a mixing-dish, and set to work at once.
“I’m real slap-up at Johnny cakes! No mistake!” he assured us, as he knelt on the ground, big and burly in front of the mixing-dish, kneading enthusiastically at his mixture. “Look at that!” as air-bubbles appeared all over the light, spongy dough. “Didn’t I tell you I knew a thing or two about cooking?” and cutting off nuggety-looking chunks, he buried them in the hot ashes.
When they were cooked, crisp and brown, he displayed them with just pride. “Well!” he said. “Who’s slap-up at Johnny cakes?” and standing them on end in the mixing-dish he rigged up tents—a deluge being expected—and carried them into his own for safety.
During the night the deluge came, and the billabong, walking up its flood banks, ran about the borders of our camp, sending so many exploring little rivulets through Mac’s tent, that he was obliged to pass most of the night perched on a pyramid of pack bags and saddles.
Unfortunately, in the confusion and darkness, the dish of Johnny cakes became the base of the pyramid, and was consequently missing at breakfast time. After a long hunt Mac recovered it and stood looking dejectedly at the ruins of his cookery—a heap of flat, stodgy-looking slabs. “Must have been sitting on ’em all night,” he said, “and there’s no other bread for breakfast.”
There was no doubt that we must eat them or go without bread of any kind; but as we sat tugging at the gluey guttapercha-like substance, Mac’s sense of humour revived. “Didn’t I tell you I was slap-up at Johnny cakes?” he chuckled, adding with further infinitely more humorous chuckles: “You mightn’t think it; but I really am.” Then he pointed to Jackeroo, who was watching in bewilderment while the Măluka hunted for the crispest crust, not for himself, but the woman. “White fellow big fellow fool all right! eh, Jackeroo?” he asked, and Jackeroo openly agreed with us.
Finding the black soil flats impassable after the deluge, Mac left the track, having decided to stick to the ridges all day; and all that had gone before was smoothness itself in comparison to what was in store.
All day the buck-board rocked and bumped through the timber, and the Măluka, riding behind, from time to time pointed out the advantages of travelling across country, as we bounced about the buck-board like rubber balls: “There’s so little chance of getting stiff with sitting still.”
Every time we tried to answer him we bit our tongues as the buck-board leapt over the tussocks of grass. Once we managed to call back, “You won’t feel the journey in a buck-board.” Then an overhanging bough threatening to wipe us out of our seats, Mac shouted, “Duck!” and as we “ducked” the buck-board skimmed between two trees, with barely an inch to spare.
“I’m a bit of a Jehu all right!” Mac shouted triumphantly. “It takes judgment to do the thing in style”; and the next moment, swinging round a patch of scrub, we flew off at a tangent to avoid a fallen tree, crashing through its branches and grinding over an out-crop of ironstone to miss a big boulder just beyond the tree. It undoubtedly took judgment this “travelling across country along the ridges”; but the keen, alert bushman never hesitated as he swung in and out and about the timber, only once miscalculating the distance between trees, when he was obliged to back out again. Of course we barked trees constantly, but Mac called that “blazing a track for the next travellers,” and everywhere the bush creatures scurried out of our way; and when I expressed fears for the springs, Mac reassured me by saying a buck-board had none, excepting those under the seat.
If Mac was a “bit of a Jehu,” he certainly was a “dead homer,” for after miles of scrub and grass and timber, we came out at our evening camp at the Bitter Springs, to find the Head Stockman there, with his faithful, tawny-coloured shadow, “Old Sool em,” beside him.
Dog and man greeted us sedately, and soon Dan had a billy boiling for us, and a blazing fire, and accepted an invitation to join us at
