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 Măluka 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 3
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 Măluka, “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 Măluka agreed with him; for in the Territory it is not the number of miles that counts, but what is met with in those miles.
During the first afternoon we met so many amiable-looking watercourses, that the Sanguine Scot grew more and hopeful about crossing the Fergusson that night. “We’ll just do it if we push on,” he said, after a critical look at the Cullen, then little more than a sweet, shady stream. “Our luck’s dead in. She’s only just moving. Yesterday’s rain hasn’t come down the valleys yet.”
We pushed on in the moonlight; but when we reached the Fergusson, two hours later, we found our luck was “dead out,” for “she” was up and running a banker.
Mac’s hopes sank below zero. “Now we’ve done it,” he said ruefully, looking down at the swirling torrent, “It’s a case of ‘wait-a-while’ after all.”
But the Măluka’s hopes always died hard. “There’s still the Government yacht,” he said, going to a huge iron punt that lay far above high-water mark. Mac called it a forlorn hope, and it looked it, as it lay deeply sunk in the muddy bank.
It was an immense affair, weighing over half a ton, and provided by a thoughtful Government for the transit of travellers “stuck up” by the river when in flood. An army of roughriders might have launched it, but as bushmen generally travel in single file, it lay a silent reproach to the wisdom of Governments.
Some jester had chalked on its sides “H.M.S. Immovable”; and after tugging valiantly at it for nearly half an hour, the Măluka and Mac and Jackeroo proved the truth of the bushman’s irony.
There was no choice but a camp on the wrong side of the river, and after “dratting things” in general, and the Cullen in particular, Mac bowed to the inevitable and began to unpack the team, stacking packbags and saddles up on the rocks off the wet grass.
By the time the billy was boiling he was trying hard to be cheerful, but without much success. “Oh, well,” he said, as we settled down round the fire, “this is the Land of Plenty of Time, that’s one comfort. Another whole week starts next Sunday”; then relapsing altogether he added gloomily; “We’ll be spending it here, too, by the look of things.”
“Unless the missus feels equal to the horse’s-tail trick” the Măluka suggested.
The missus felt equal to anything but the tail trick and said so; and conversation flagged for a while as each tried to hit upon some way out of the difficulty.
Suddenly Mac gave his thigh a prodigious slap. “I’ve struck it!” he shouted, and pointing to a thick wire rope just visible in the moonlight as it stretched across the river from flood bank to flood bank, added hesitatingly: “We send mail-bags—and—valuables over on that when the river’s up.”
It was impossible to mistake his meaning, or the Măluka’s exclamation of relief, or that neither man doubted for moment that the woman was willing to be flung across a deep, swirling river on a swaying wire; and as many a man has appeared brave because he has lacked the courage to own to his cowardice, so I said airily that “anything better than going back,” and found the men exchanging glances.
“No one’s going back,” the Măluka said quietly: and then I learned that the Wet does not “do things by half.” Once they began to move the flood waters must have come down the valleys in tidal waves, the Măluka explained. “The Cullen we’ve just left will probably be a roaring torrent by now.”
“We’re stuck between two rivers: that’s what’s happened,” Mac added savagely. “Might have guessed that miserable little Cullen was up to her old sneaking ways.” And to explain Mac’s former “dratting,” the Măluka said: “It’s a way the rivers have up here. They entice travellers over with smiles and promises, and before they can get back, call down the flood waters and shut them in.”
“I’m glad I thought of the wire,” Mac added cheerfully,
