that a woman should be idle, while men dragged heavy weights about. “White fellow, big-fellow-fool all right,” he said contemptuously, when Mac explained that it was generally so in the white man’s country. A Briton of the Billingsgate type would have appealed to Jackeroo as a man of sound common sense.
By the time the men-folk appeared, he had decided that with a little management I would be quite an ornament to society. “Missus bin help me all right,” he told the Sanguine Scot, with comical self-satisfaction.
Mac roared with delight, and the passage of the Fergusson having swept away the last lingering torch of restraint he called to the Măluka; “Jackeroo reckons he’s tamed the shrew for us.” Mac had been a reader of Shakespeare in his time.
All afternoon we were supposed to be “making a dash” for the Edith, a river twelve miles farther on; but there was nothing very dashing about our pace. The air was stiflingly, swelteringly hot, and the flies maddening in their persistence. The horses developed puffs, and when we were not being half-drowned in torrents of rain we were being parboiled in steamy atmosphere. The track was as tracks usually are “during the Wet,” and for four hours we laboured on, slipping and slithering over the greasy track, varying the monotony now and then with a floundering scramble through a boggy creek crossing. Our appearance was about as dashing as our pace; and draggled, wet through, and perspiring, and out of conceit with primitive travelling—having spent the afternoon combining a minimum rate of travelling with a maximum of discomfort—we arrived at the Edith an hour after sundown to find her a wide eddying stream.
“Won’t be more than a ducking,” Mac said cheerfully. “Couldn’t be much wetter than we are,” and the Măluka taking the reins from my hands, we rode into the stream Mac keeping behind, “to pick her up in case she floats off,” he said, thinking he was putting courage into me.
It wasn’t as bad as it looked; and after a little stumbling and plunging and drifting the horses were clambering out up the opposite bank, and by next sundown—after scrambling through a few more rivers—we found ourselves looking down at the flooded Katherine, flowing below in the valley of a rocky gorge.
Sixty-five miles in three days, against sixty miles an hour of the express trains of the world. “Speed’s the thing,” cries the world, and speeds on, gaining little but speed; and we bush-folk travel our sixty miles and gain all that is worth gaining—excepting speed.
“Hand-over-hand this time!” Mac said, looking up at the telegraph wire that stretched far overhead. “There’s no pulley here. Hand-over-hand, or the horse’s-tail trick.”
But Mine Host of the “Pub” had seen us, and running down the opposite side of the gorge, launched a boat at the river’s brink; then pulling up-stream for a hundred yards or so in the backwash, faced about, and raced down and across the swift-flowing current with long, sweeping strokes; and as we rode down the steep winding track to meet him, Mac became jocular, and reminding us that the gauntlet of the Katherine had yet to be run, also reminded us that the sympathies of the Katherine were with the stockmen; adding with a chuckle, as Mine Host bore down upon us. “You don’t even represent business here; no woman ever does.”
Then the boat grounded, and Mine Host sprang ashore—another burly six-foot bushman—and greeted us with a flashing smile and a laughing “There’s not much of her left.” And then, stepping with quiet unconcern into over two feet of water, pushed the boat against a jutting ledge for my convenience. “Wet feet don’t count,” he laughed with another of his flashing smiles, when remonstrated with, and Mac chuckled in an aside, “Didn’t I tell you a woman doesn’t represent business here?”
Chapter 4
The swim being beyond the horses, they were left hobbled out on the north banks, to wait for the river to fall, and after another swift race down and across stream, Mine Host landed every one safely on the south side of the flood, and soon we were clambering up the steep track that led from the river to the “Pub.”
Coming up from the river, the Katherine Settlement appeared to consist solely of the “Pub” and its accompanying store; but beyond the “Pub,” which, by the way, seemed to be hanging on to its own verandah posts for support, we found an elongated, three-roomed building, nestling under deep verandahs, and half-hidden beneath a grove of lofty scarlet flowering ponchianas.
“The Cottage is always set apart for distinguished visitors,” Mine Host said, bidding us welcome with another smile, but never a hint that he was placing his own private quarters at our disposal. Like all bushmen, he could be delicately reticent when conferring a favour; but a forgotten razor-strop betrayed him later on.
In the meantime we discovered the remainder of the Settlement from the Cottage verandahs, spying out the Police Station as it lurked in ambush just round the first bend in a winding bush track—apparently keeping one eye on the “Pub”; and then we caught a gleam of white roofs away beyond further bends in the track, where the Overland Telegraph “Department” stood on a little rise, aloof from the “Pub” and the Police, shut away from the world, yet attending to its affairs, and, incidentally, to those of the bush-folk: a tiny Settlement, with a tiny permanent population of four men and two women—women who found their own homes all-sufficient, and rarely left them, although the men-folk were here, there, and everywhere.
All around and within the Settlement was bush: and beyond the bush, stretching away and away on every side of it, those hundreds of thousands of square miles that constitute the Never-Never—miles sending out and absorbing again from day to day the floating population of the Katherine.
Before supper the Telegraph Department and the Police Station called on the Cottage to present compliments. Then the Wag came with his welcome. “Didn’t expect you to-day,” he drawled, with unmistakable double meaning in his drawl. “You’re come sooner than we expected. Must have had luck with the rivers”; and Mac became enthusiastic. “Luck!” he cried. “Luck! She’s got the luck of the Auld Yin himself—skinned through everything by the skin of our teeth. No one else’ll get through those rivers under a week.” And they didn’t.
Remembering the telegrams, the Wag shot a swift quizzing glance at him; but it took more than a glance to disconcert Mac once his mind was made up, and he met it unmoved, and entered into a vivid description of the “passage of the Fergusson,” which filled in our time until supper.
After supper the Cottage returned the calls, and then, rain coming down in torrents, the Telegraph, the Police, the Cottage and the “Pub” retired to rest, wondering what the morrow would bring forth.
The morrow brought forth more rain, and the certainty that, as the river was still rising, the swim would be beyond the horses for several days yet; and because of this uncertainty, the Katherine bestirred itself to honour its tethered guests.
The Telegraph and the Police Station issued invitations for dinner, and the “Pub” that had already issued a hint that “the boys could refrain from knocking down cheques as long as a woman was staying in the place” now issued an edict limiting the number of daily drinks per man.
The invitations were accepted with pleasure, and the edict was attended to with a murmur of approval in which, however, there was one dissenting voice: a little bearded bushman “thought the Katherine was overdoing it a bit,” and suggested as an amendment that “drunks could make themselves scarce when she’s about.” But Mine Host easily silenced him by offering to “see what the missus thought about it.”
Then
