Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Pard, I jest happened to heah somethin’,” he whispered, impressively, leaning his falcon-shaped red head to Sterl. “I was after a bucket of water for Beryl, kinda under cover of the bank where the brook was clean. Ormiston with Jack an’ Bedford came along above. I heahed low voices, kinda sharp, before they got to me. Then right above Ormiston spit out: ‘No, I told you. Not till we get to the haidwaters of the Diamantina.’”

  Sterl echoed his last four words. “Red, what do you figure from that?”

  “Wal, it’s plain as print so far. Whatever Ormiston has in mind it’s to come off thar. I figure that those two hombres want to pull off the deal sooner.”

  “You used to have brains. Cain’t you help me figgerin’ what the hell?”

  “I’ll try. Suppose I analyze this. Then you give me your old cowboy American slant.”

  “Hop to it, pard.”

  “Ormiston wants to be a partner of Stanley Dann’s after the trek. Or to get control of a big mob of cattle, and marry Beryl. He is working his deal so that when he threatens to split out from this drive, Dann will give almost anything to keep him. Ormiston’s drovers want a showdown for their labors or a speed-up of the break.”

  “You ain’t calculatin’, anythin’ atall on our idee thet Woolcott was murdered?”

  “That is a stickler, I admit, but I am trying to find a more credible motive for those other Australians.”

  “Pard, listen to a little plain sense from a Texas hombre who’s knowed a thousand bad eggs...Ormiston is a drover, mebbe, a cattleman, mebbe. He’s after cattle, all he can steal!...It’s a cinch he killed Woolcott, or had one of his outfit do it. Woolcott probably bucked. Wanted to go back to Dann. An’ he got Woolcott’s cattle, didn’t he? The gamblin’ debt can be discounted. Ormiston is workin’ to persuade some of Dann’s riders to side with him. I know thet. They jest damn near approached me! Wal, muss thet all up an’ figger. Ormiston has control of three thousand haid. He’ll get hold of more, by hook or crook. An’ he’ll split with Dann at the haidwaters of thet river, take Beryl with him by persuasion or force, an’ light out for some place he is figgerin’ on...Thet, my son, is what Old Dudley Texas says!”

  “All same just another bloody rustler!”

  “All same jest another bloody cow thief, like hundreds we’ve knowed an’ some we’ve hanged.”

  “Stanley Dann will never believe that until too late.”

  “Reckon not. But we might talk Slyter into findin’ out he was alive...Queer dee, ain’t it?”

  “Queer — sure!” returned Sterl.

  “Red, we can’t let it go on — come to a head.”

  “We jest can,” retorted Red. “For the present.

  “Somethin’ will happen one of these days, jest like thet crack of Ormiston’s I heahed today, an’ always there’s the chance Beryl will put us wise to Ormiston. I’m layin’ low, Sterl. We’ve been in some tough places. This is shore the toughest. Let’s not let it get the best of us.”

  “Red Krehl, did I have to come way out here to Australia to appreciate you?” demanded Sterl. “You sense things beyond my powers...But, old timer, I swear I’ll rise to this thing as you have risen. And I’ll take a long hitch in my patience.”

  CHAPTER 11

  THE TREK PLODDED on, day after day. And more and more Sterl felt himself back to the level of the unconscious savage as represented so strikingly in the black man Friday, who had mental processes it was true, but was almost wholly guided by his instincts and his emotions. It was a good thing, he reflected. It made for survival. Thrown against the background of the live and inanimate forces of the earth, man had to go back. He discussed his mood sometimes with his companions of his campfires. Slyter laughed, “We call it ‘gone bush.’ I would say it denoted weak mentality!” Leslie gave proof to his theory by flashing, “Sterl, you make me think. And I don’t want to think!” Stanley Dann said, “Undoubtedly a trek like this would be a throwback for most white men; unless they found their strength in God.” Well, he himself had a job to do — to deal with Ormiston. When that was finished, he could revert to the savage!

  Stanley Dann eventually arrived at the conclusion that any one of several streams they had crossed might have been Cooper Creek, famed in the annals of exploration. But he admitted that he had expected a goodly stream of running water. Long ago, Sterl thought, Dann should have been warned by a sun growing almost imperceptibly hotter that water would grow scarcer. Still, always in the blue distance, mountain ranges lent hope. Through this bush, the endless monotony of which wore so strangely on the trekkers that desert country would have been welcome, they never made an average of five miles a day. Dry camps occurred more and more often; two-day stays at waterholes further added to the delay.

  In October the expedition at last worked out of that “Always-always-all-same-land,” as Red Krehl named it, to the gradual slope of open grass leading down to what appeared to be a boundless valley to the west with purple mountains to the north. Water would come down out of them. A thread of darker green promised a river or stream. They were three days in reaching it — none too soon to save the cattle.

  The mob got out of hand; its rush dammed the stream. Many of the cattle drowned; others were mired in the mud; a few were trampled to death. The horses fared badly, though not to the point of loss.

  “Make camp for days,” was Stanley Dann’s order, when mob and remuda had been droved out upon the green. The night watch was omitted. Horses and cattle and trekkers rested from nightfall until sunrise.

  Day disclosed the loveliest site for a camp, the freest from flies and insects, the richest in color and music of innumerable birds, the liveliest in game that the drovers had experienced. But ill luck still dogged the trek. Next morning, Larry reported that horses were missing from the remuda.

  “Sterl,” said Slyter, “I suppose that you, being a cowboy, can track a horse?”

  “Used to be pretty good,” said Sterl. He got his rifle, and started.

  But he only lost himself in the deep bush, and continued to be lost for three days. Afterward, he looked back on his adventure with mixed feelings of chagrin and of glory in the experience. The chagrin rose from the fact that in an obscure stretch of jungle he mistook the faint tracks of a band of cassowaries for those of King’s shod hoofs, nor realized it until he came upon a flock of these great, whiskyard, ostrich-like birds staring at him with protruding, solemn eyes.

  The rest, he remembered afterward only in snatches.

  An open space where foliage and a cascade of the stream caught an exquisite, diffused golden light breaking through blue rifts in the green dome overhead. Tiny flying insects, like sparks from a fire, vied with wide-winged butterflies in a fascinated fluttering over a pool that mirrored them, and the great opal-hued branches above, and the network of a huge-leafed vines, and the spears of lacy foliage. Flycatchers, birds, too beautiful to be murderers, were feeding upon the darting, winged insects.

  A splash in a pool, and a movement of something live, distracted Sterl’s attention from the tree tent he was examining. He saw a strange animal slide or crawl out on the bank. It had a squatty body that might have resembled a flat pig, but for the thick fur on its back. It had a long head, which took the shape, when Sterl located the eyes, of an abnormal and monstrous bill of a duck. Sterl stared, disputing his own eyesight. But the thing was an animal and alive. It had front feet with long cruel claws. Its back feet and tail were hidden in the grass. All of a sudden Sterl realized that he was staring at the strangest creature in this strange Australia, perhaps in the world, no less than Leslie’s much-vaunted duck-billed platypus.

  Morning after a cool, wet night on the ground. Light ahead and open sky prepared Sterl for a change in the topography of the bush. And a low hum of falling water was the voice of a waterfall. Out from under giant trees he stepped to the brink of a precipice and to a blue sun-streaked abyss that brought him to a standstill.

  The sun, gloriously red and blazing, appeared again
to be in the wrong place. Sterl had to reconcile himself that this burst of morning light came from the east. Yet no matter how badly a man was lost he dared not deny the sunrise. The abyss at his feet had the extraordinary beauty, if not the colossal dimensions, of the Arizona canyons he had known from boyhood. Up from his right sounded a low, thunderous roar. By craning his neck he saw where the stream leaped off, turning from shining green to lacy white. It fell a thousand feet, struck a ledge of broken wall, cascaded over and through huge rocks, to leap from a second precipice, from which purple depths no murmur arose. Walls opposite where Sterl stood, rust-stained and lichened, dropped down precipitously into shadow. On his own side the sun tipped the ramparts with rose and gold, and blazed the great wall halfway down.

  A bird, so beautiful in appearance and astounding in action that it halted him in his tracks. The spot was open to a little sunlight, carpeted with fine brown needles like those from a pine tree. The bird espied Sterl, but that did not change its strange and playful antics. It was bright with many colors, not quite so large as an American robin or meadow-lark. This fairy creature of the bush skipped and hopped around so friskily that Sterl had to look sharp and long to perceive all its lovely hue; but the most pronounced was a golden yellow. There was brown, too, marked with white, and a lovely sheen of greenish-olive, like that on a hummingbird, and the under part appeared to be gray. Its exquisite daintiness and sprightliness gave the bird some elfin quality, some spirit of the lonely bush. It seemed to Sterl that the lovely creature’s dancing movements were a sort of playing with leaves and twigs. It saw him, assuredly, out of bright dark eyes, and was not afraid. It might have been the incarnation of joy and life in that bushland. Then again he remembered Leslie’s lecture on Australian wild life. It was the golden bowerbird.

  At noon of the third day, Sterl felt his powers waning. He needed a long rest. Gathering a store of wood for several fires, he lay down in an open space near water and almost at once went to sleep.

  He was roused by a voice and a hand shaking his shoulder. A black visage, beaded with sweat, bent over him.

  “Friday!” cried Sterl, in a husky voice, and he struggled to sit up. “You found — me?”

  “Yes, boss. Black fella tinkit boss sit down quick.”

  “No. Boss fool!”

  Friday had his wommera and spears in one hand, a small bag in the other. “Meat,” he said, and opened it for Sterl. Inside were thick strips of beef, cooked and salted, some hard damper, and a quantity of dried fruit. When had meat ever tasted so good!

  “How far camp, Friday?” Sterl asked, between periods of mastication.

  “Close up.” And the black made circles with his finger in the mat of brown needles, to indicate how Sterl had traveled round and round.

  “Horses close up alonga water,” volunteered Friday. “Black fella findum.” This was such a relief to Sterl that it assuaged his mortification.

  So at ten o’clock that night Sterl limped behind Friday into sight of a welcome campfire, where Slyter and his wife, Leslie and Red and Larry, kept a vigil that had only to be seen to realize their anxiety. The moment was more poignant that Sterl would have anticipated. Red, the sharp-eared fox, heard them coming, and as he saw them emerge from the gloom he let out his stentorian, “Whoopee!” Slyter burst out in agitation that surprised Sterl: “It’s Sterl! Bless our black man!” Leslie flew at Sterl, met him before he reached the fire, enveloped him with eager arms, crying out indistinguishable, broken words.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE LATE OCTOBER halt, after Sterl had come safely out of the jungle, seemed more than ordinarily marked by pleasant relations among the trekkers. But there was one exception. Sterl, going to the stream for a bucket of water, encountered Ormiston and Beryl some rods away from the camp. The girl had a hand on Ormiston’s shoulder, who stood leaning against the log and facing Sterl. She had not seen the cowboy.

  “Hazelton,” spoke up Ormiston, “I’d never be afraid of being tracked by you!”

  Sterl passed on without a word, though he flashed a searching glance at the drover. He heard Beryl ask: “Ash, whatever made you say that?” If Ormiston replied to that query Sterl did not hear.

  Back in camp Sterl related the incident to Red. The cowboy swore long and loud. “Thet’s what’s on the — — ‘s mind. He’s gonna slope sooner or later.”

  “Righto. But since he’s secretive and close-mouthed, as we know, why did he make that crack?”

  “Pard, it was a slip.”

  “Yeah? There’s going to be a reason for us to track him!”

  “Beryl had a hand on Ormiston’s shoulder,” added Sterl, casually.

  “Hell, thet ain’t nothin’,” returned the cowboy, gloomily.

  “No? Well, spring it, pard!” shot back Sterl.

  Red appeared bitter ashamed, but he did not avoid Sterl’s gaze. “I’ve seen Beryl in his arms — an’ kissin’ him back to beat hell.”

  “Where?”

  “By thet big tree where you jest met him. You see since the Danns throwed together with Ormiston an’ Hathaway in one camp, Beryl and Ormiston have been thick as hops. I got sore an’ jealous, an’ I sneaked up on them at night. An’ I’m gonna keep on doin’ it.”

  “Red, has Beryl ever kissed you?” asked Sterl, seriously.

  “Want me to kiss an’ tell?”

  “Nonsense! This is different. Red, has she?”

  “Wal, yes, a coupla times,” admitted Red. “Not the devourin’ kind she gave Ormiston. All the same it was enough to make me leave home. Sterl, don’t blame the girl. Hell, you know girls, an’ what this wild livin’ does to them. Ormiston is a handsome cuss.”

  “Yes. But I can’t forgive Beryl,” returned Sterl, with passion. “Listen, pard, I can pick a quarrel with Ormiston. Any day. It’d be a fight. And he’d be out of the way, Lord knows, that might save the Danns.”

  “Righto, Sterl,” rejoined Red, cool of voice and dark of brow. “But shore as Gawd made little apples, if either of us bored Ormiston it’d queer us with these drovers. Let him hang himself. I’ll go on spyin’. If Beryl doesn’t give him away, he will himself.”

  Stanley Dann had decided to break camp at dawn next day and continue the trek; and he called a conference at his campfire. All the invited were present except Larry, Cedric and Henley, the latter one of Ormiston’s drovers, who were on guard with the mob. Stanley Dann got up from his table with a paper in his hand, his eagle eyes alight, his goldness, his magnificence and virility, impressively outstanding.

  “Well, here we are, family and partners and drovers,” he began, in his rich resounding voice, “at this pleasant camp, and it is an occasion to thank God, to take stock of the present, and renew hope for the future. We are one hundred and fifty-seven days and nearly six hundred miles on our great trek. Barring the tragic loss of our partner, Woolcott, we have been wonderfully blessed and guided by Providence. We have lost only fourteen horses — a remarkable showing — and two hundred head of cattle, including, of course, those we used for beef. Let me say this company upholds the prestige of Australians as meat eaters!”

  Dann consulted the paper in his hand, and went on: “We have consumed one fourth of our flour. Too much, but it cannot be put down to extravagance or wastefulness. Tea — an abundance left. Also salt and sugar. One fifth of our stock of dried fruits is gone, and this is our worst showing. There is a ton or more of tinned goods left. In view of our good luck so far, I think it well to have everyone present say how he feels about the trek. Now, Sister Emily, will you be the first to speak out?”

  One by one all the women — Miss Dann, a spinster of forty, Mrs. Slyter of the weather-beaten face, Leslie with her wonderful eyes flashing, Beryl whose beauty graced the occasion — expressed their hope for the future, their determination not to turn back. The tall Hathaway had a tribute for their leader. Slyter spoke brief, eloquent words about their progress and the surety of success. Eric Dann said: “It has been far better than I believed possible. I hav
e been wavering on my plan to stick to the old Gulf trek.”

  Stanley Dann let out a roar of approval and called lustily upon Ormiston.

  “Friends, I have not yet recovered from the loss of our partner Woolcott,” he said, in a deep voice. “But still I see our marvelous success — so far. I may be hard put to make a decision when we come to the headwaters of the Diamantina. Yet there should be one voice of warning. It is absolutely certain that this incredible good luck will not last.”

  Red Krehl nudged Sterl as if to confirm the thought that formed in Sterl’s mind.

  “Hazelton, you, being an American trail driver, long versed in this business of cattle and horses and men against the cruel and rugged ranges, you should have something unforgettable and inspiring to say to us novices at the game.”

  “I hope I have,” rang out Sterl. “Stanley Dann, you are the great leader to make this great trek. On to the Kimberleys! No heat, no drought, no flood, no desert — no man can stop us!”

  Of all those who had spoken thus far only Sterl appeared to strike fire from their leader. Then he called to Red:

  “You — cowboy!”

  “Dog-gone-it, boss,” drawled Red, “I had a helluva nifty speech, but I’ve clean forgot it. I’ve the same hunch as my pard heah. We cain’t be licked. The thing’s too big. It means too much to Australia. Fork yore hosses, and ride!”

  Four weeks later Sterl and Red discussing the situation as they rode herd, were divided between a suspicion that Ormiston plotted to go on with Eric and Hathaway, if he could engineer the split with Stanley, in order to get possession of all their stock, or cut off from all his partners and drove on alone to some unknown destination. The former was Red’s opinion, and latter Sterl’s.

  All this time, they had been traversing an increasingly dry country with a blazing brassy sky by day and a pitiless, starlit sky by night. Several series of two — and three-day treks without water marked the approach to the Diamantina River. The cattle did not suffer dangerously from thirst until the last arid spell. Then with two hot dry days and no prospect of relief, the adventurers faced their most serious predicament.