by Zane Grey
“Come, pard. Let’s slope out there,” called Red.
When they rode out on the mud flat again Sterl was amazed to see Friday dragging what evidently was the monster crocodile into shallow water. A long spear sticking in the reptile spoke for itself. A splashing melee distracted Sterl. The two teams were straining on the ropes, plowing through the mud. Between them and the wagon the drovers were yelling and hauling. Sterl observed that this wagon, the one in which he had calked the seams, floated almost flat. Mrs. Slyter stood behind her husband hanging on the seat while he made ready for the waiting teams. Once the wagon was in shallow water they unfastened the ropes and tackles, hitched the two teams and gave Slyter the word to drive out.
Sterl and Red followed the muddy procession up the bank.
Friday said to Sterl and Slyter, “Tinkit more better boss wait alonga sun. Crocs bad!”
“We can’t stop Dann now,” Slyter said, grimly. “Come, all who’re going back.”
“Wal, if you ask me we oughta load our guns,” drawled Red.
CHAPTER 26
FIVE DROVERS CROSSED the river with Sterl and Red. Dann met them like a general greeting a victorious army.
“We’ve time to drove Slyter’s horses across, and carry these loose supplies,” he said. “Tomorrow we will muster the cattle that rushed and drove the mob.”
When next morning the drovers had the big herd lengthened out to perhaps half a mile, at a signal from Dann they opened fire with their guns and charged. The fifty-yard wide belt of cattle headed for the river and piled over the low bank. Across the river crocodiles basked in the sun, their odor thick on the air. The leading cattle took fright and balked. Then it was too late. The pushing, bawling lines behind forced them. Some of them were bogged, to be trampled under. But almost miraculously the mob were driven into the mud before they could attempt a rush back.
The point of least resistance lay to the fore. The leaders had to gravitate that way. From the opposite bank crocodiles slid down and shot across the mud into the shallow water. Released from a wall in front, the mass behind piled frantically into the river. As if by a miracle, thousands of horned heads breasted the channel. In several spot swirling, churning battles ensued, almost at once to be overridden by swimming cattle. As the front line struck bottom, the stench of the crocodiles and their furious attack precipitated a rush that was obscured in flying spray.
“Come on, pard!” yelled Red, from below. “We wanta be close behind that stampede or the crocs will get us!”
All the other drovers were in the mud, some at the heels of the mob, others shooting crippled and smashed cattle. The horse herd, driven in the wake of the mob, excited by the roar, made frantic efforts to get ahead. When they found bottom again, and plunged on into shallow water, Sterl looked up.
A sea of bobbing backs sloped up to a fringe of bobbing horns. The long belt of cattle was moving with amazing speed. Sterl gazed back. Mired cattle dotted the river. Squirming crocodiles attested to the trampling they had received. Only one horse was down, and it had appeared to be struggling to rise.
“Laig broke!” yelled Red, close to Sterl’s ear. “Saddled too! By Gawd, pard, that’s Eric Dann’s hoss! An’ if he ain’t lyin’ there on the mud, my eyes air pore!”
Stanley Dann reached the prostrate man and horse ahead of Bligh and Heald. Sterl and Red got there as the drovers were dismounting, to sink ankle-deep in the mud.
“It’s Eric!” boomed the leader, as he leaned over. “Dead — or — no! He’s still alive.”
“Horse’s front legs broken,” reported Bligh, tensely.
“Shoot it! And help me — two of you.”
They lifted him across Bligh’s saddle. How limp he hung! What a slimy, broken wreck of a man!
“Hazelton, you and Krehl and Heald follow the mob,” ordered the leader, harshly. “That rush will end soon.”
From the height of the bank Sterl looked over bushland and green downs which led to higher and denser bush. In the foreground, the mob of cattle had halted.
“All the stampede is out of them,” said Red.
“Crocodile stampede. New one on us, Red,” rejoined Sterl.
“Cost Dann and Slyter plenty. Hundreds of cattle down, daid an’ dyin’. Sterl, about Dann’s drovers — after this last shuffle, what’s the deal gonna be?”
“You mean if Eric Dann holds up the trek?”
“I shore mean that little thing.”
“Damn serious, pard.”
“Serious? If Bligh an’ Hood an’ the others stick it out, I’d say it’ll be a damn sight more than any Americans would do. ‘Cept a couple of dumb-haid, lovesick suckers like us!”
When the cowboys arrived, the cattle had begun to lie down, too exhausted even to bawl. The horses had scattered off to the left toward camp. Sterl and Red helped muster them and drove them within sight of the wagons.
“What held up Stanley Dann?” inquired Bligh, as the drovers collected again. Bligh was a young man, under thirty, gray-eyed and still-faced, a man on whom the other drovers leaned.
“Eric’s injured. Legs broken I think,” replied Sterl.
Bligh exchanged apprehensive glances with his intimates. He turned back to Sterl: “If the boss’s brother is unable to travel, it’ll precipitate a most serious situation.”
“We appreciate that. Let’s hope it’s not so bad he cannot be moved in a wagon.”
“Yes. You hope so, but you don’t believe it,” said Bligh, brusquely.
“Righto.”
“Hazelton, we think you and Krehl are wonderful drovers, and what is more, right good cobbers,” said Bligh, feelingly.
“Thanks, Bligh,” returned Sterl, heartily. “Red and I sure return the compliment.”
“For us this trek seems to have run into a forlorn hope.”
“Well, Bligh, I’m bound to agree with you. But it’s not a lost cause yet.”
The drover shook his shaggy head, and ran skinned, dirty fingers through his scant beard. “Friends, it’s different with you cowboys, on account of the girls — if you’ll excuse my saying so.”
Neither Beryl nor Leslie put in an appearance at supper. Dann seemed for once an unapproachable figure. Slyter conversed in low tones with his wife, and once Sterl saw him throw up his hands in a singular gesture for him. Red stayed in the tent. The seven young drovers remained in a group at the other side of camp, where Bligh appeared to be haranguing them.
Suddenly Bligh, leading Derrick, Hood and Heald, rose and started toward Stanley Dann’s shelter. Pale despite their tan, resolute despite their fear! It did not seem a coincidence that Beryl and Leslie appeared from nowhere; that Slyter came out, his hair ruffled, his gaze fixed; that Red emerged from his tent, his lean hawklike head poised; that Friday hove in sight, lending to the scene the stark reality of the aborigine.
Under Dann’s shelter it was still light. Mrs. Slyter stood beside the stretcher where Eric Dann lay, his head and shoulders propped up on pillows, fully conscious and ghastly pale. His legs were covered with a blanket. Stanley Dann sat with bowed head. The drovers halted just outside of the shelter. Bligh took a further step.
“Mr. Dann, is it true Eric is injured?” burst out Bligh, as if forced.
Dann rose to his full height to stare at his visitors. He stalked out then like a man who faced death.
“Bligh, I grieve to inform you that he is,” he said.
“We are — very sorry for him — and you,” rejoined Bligh huskily.
“I’m sure of that, Bligh.”
“Will it be possible to move him? In a wagon, you know, to carry on our trek?”
“No! Even with proper setting of the bones he may be a cripple for life. To move him now — over rough ground — would be inhuman.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Stay here until he is mended enough to travel.”
“That would take weeks, sir. Perhaps more...”
“Yes. Weeks. There is no alternative.”
&
nbsp; Bligh made a gesture of inexpressible regret. He choked. He cleared his throat. “Mr. Dann, we — we feared this very thing...We talked it over. We can’t we won’t — go on with this wild-goose trek. You started all right. Then Ormiston and your brother...No sense in crying over spilled milk! We’ve stuck to the breaking point. We four have decided to trek back home.”
“Bligh — you too!” boomed the leader. Sterl saw him change as if he had shriveled up inside.
“Yes, me!” rang out Bligh. “You ask too much of young men. We built our hopes on your promises. Hood has a wife and child. Derrick is sick of this...We are going home.”
“Bligh, I have exacted too much of you all,” returned Dann. “I’m sorry. If I had it to do over again...You are welcome to go, and God speed you...Take two teams for Ormiston’s wagon. It is half full of food supplies. Bill will give you a box of tea. And if you can muster the cattle that rushed up the river — you are welcome to them.”
“Boss — that is big and fine — of you,” returned Bligh, haltingly. “Honestly, sir...”
“Don’t thank me, Bligh. I am in your debt.”
Eric Dann called piercingly from under the shelter. “Bligh — tell him — tell him!”
“No Eric,” returned Bligh, sorrowfully. “I’ve nothing to tell.”
“Tell me what?” boomed the leader, like an angry lion aroused. “Bligh, what have you to tell me?”
“Nothing, sir. Eric is out of his head.”
“No, I’m not,” yelled Eric, and his attempt to push himself higher on the stretcher ended in a shriek of pain. But he did sit up, and Mrs. Slyter supported him.
“Eric, what could Bligh tell me?” queried Stanley Dann, hoarsely.
There ensued a silence that seemed insupportable to Sterl. Every moment added to the torment of coming terrible disclosures. Eric Dann must have been wrenched by physical pain and mental anguish to a point beyond resistance. “Stanley — we are lost!” he groaned.
“Lost?” echoed the giant, blankly.
“Yes — yes. Lost!” cried Eric wildly. “We’ve been lost all the way! I didn’t know this bushland...I’ve never been on a trek through outback Queensland!”
“Merciful heaven!” boomed the leader, his great arms going aloft. “Your plans? Your assurances? Your map!”
“Lies! All lies!” wailed Eric Dann. “I never was inland — from the coast. I met Ormiston. He talked cattle. He inflamed me about a fabulous range in the Northern Territory — west of the Gulf. Gave me the map we’ve trekked by. I planned with him to persuade you to muster a great mob of cattle...I didn’t know that he was the bushranger Pell. That map is false. I couldn’t confess — I couldn’t — I kept on blindly...We’re lost — Bligh knows that. Ormiston could not corrupt him. Yet he wouldn’t betray me to you. We’re lost — irretrievably lost. And I’m damned — to hell!”
Stanley Dann expelled a great breath and sat down on a pack as if his legs had been chopped from under him.
“Lost! Yea, God has forsaken me,” he whispered.
Bligh was the first to move after a stricken silence. “Mr. Dann, you’ve got to hear that I didn’t know all Eric confessed.”
“Bligh, that is easy to believe, thank heaven,” said Stanley, presently, his voice gaining timbre. “We’ll thresh it all out right now...Somebody light a fire to dispel this hateful gloom. Let me think a moment.” And he paced somberly to and fro outside the shelter. Presently Stanley Dann faced them and the light; once more himself.
“Listen, all of you,” he began, and again his voice had that wonderful deep roll. “I cannot desert my brother. Whoever does stay here with me must carry on with the trek when we are able to continue. I have exacted too much of you all. I grieve that I have been wrong, self-centered, dominating. Beryl, my daughter, will you stay?”
“Dad, I’ll stay!” There was no hesitation in Beryl’s reply, and to Sterl she seemed at last of her father’s blood and spirit. “Don’t despair, Dad. We shall not all betray you!”
A beautiful light warmed his grave visage as he turned to Leslie. “Child, you have been forced into womanhood. I doubt if your parents should influence your decision here.”
“I would not go back to marry a royal duke!” replied Leslie.
“Mrs. Slyter, your girl has indeed grown up on this trek,” went on Dann. “But she will need a mother. Will you stay?”
“Need you ask, Stanley? I don’t believe whatever lies in store for us could be so bad as what we’ve lived through,” rejoined the woman, calmly.
“Slyter?”
“Stanley, I started the race and I’ll make the good fight.”
“Hazelton!” demanded Dann, without a trace of doubt. His exclamation was not a query.
“I am keen to go on,” answered Sterl. “Krehl!”
The cowboy was lighting a cigarette, a little clumsily, because Beryl was hanging onto his arm. He puffed a cloud of smoke which hid his face.
“Wal, boss,” he drawled, “it’s shore a great privilege you’ve given me. Jest a chance to know an’ fight for a man!”
Larry, Rollie, and Benson, almost in unison, hastened to align themselves under Red’s banner.
Bill, the cook, stepped forward and unhesitatingly spoke: “Boss, I’ve had enough. I’m getting old. I’ll go home with Bligh.”
“Bingham, put it up to our black man Friday,” said Dann.
Slyter spoke briefly in that jargon which the black understood.
Friday leaned on his long spear and regarded the speakers with his huge, unfathomable eyes. Then he swerved them to Sterl and Red, to Beryl, to Leslie, and tapped his broad black breast with a slender black hand: “Imm no fadder, no mudder, no brudder, no gin, no lubra,” he said, in slow, laborious dignity. “Tinkit go bush alonga white fella cowboy pards!”
At another time Sterl would have shouted his gladness, but here he only hugged the black man. And Red clapped him on the back.
Suddenly a heavy gunshot boomed hollowly under the shelter, paralysing speech and action. The odor of burnt powder permeated the air. There followed a queer, faint tapping sound — a shuddering quiver of hand or foot of a man in his death throes. Sterl had heard that too often to be deceived. Stanley Dann broke out of his rigidity to wave a shaking hand, “Go in — somebody — see!” he whispered.
Benson and Bligh went slowly and hesitatingly under the shelter. Sterl saw them over Eric Dann on the stretcher. They straightened up. Bligh drew a blanket up over the man’s face. That pale blot vanished under the dark covering. The drovers stalked out. Bligh accosted the leader in hushed voice: “Prepare for a shock, sir.”
Benson added gruffly: “He blew out his brains!”
Red Krehl was the first to speak, as he drew Beryl away from that dark shelter. “Pard,” he ejaculated, “he’s paid! By Gawd, he’s shot himself — only good thing he’s done on this trek! Squares him with me!”
CHAPTER 27
NO MAN EVER again looked upon the face of Eric Dann. The agony of his last moment after the confession of the deceit which plunged his brother and the drovers into tragic catastrophe was cloaked in the blanket thrown over him. An hour after the deed which was great in proportion to his weakness, he lay in his grave. Sterl helped dig it by the light of a torch which Friday held.
They were called to a late supper. Bill, actuated by a strange sentiment at variance with his abandonment of the trek, excelled himself on this last meal. The leader did not attend it.
No orders to guard the mob were issued that night. But Sterl heard Bligh tell his men they would share their last watch. The girls, wide-eyed and sleepless, haunted the bright fire. They did not want to be alone. Sterl and Red sought their own tent.
“Hard lines, pard,” said Red, with a sigh, as he lay down. “It’s turrible to worry over the other people. But mebbe this steel trap on our gizzards will loosen now that Eric at last made a clean job of it. You never can tell about what a man will do...An’ as for a woman — didn’t yore heart jest flop over
when Beryl answered for her dad?”
“Red, it sure did!”
“Bingham, we break camp at once,” said Stanley Dann as he met Slyter at breakfast. “What do you say to trekking west along this river?”
“I say good-o,” replied the drover. “Why not divide the load on the second dray? There’s room on the wagons. That dray is worn out. Leave it here.”
“I agree,” returned the leader. Already the tremendous incentive of starting a new trek, in the right direction, had seized upon them all.
“My wife can drive my wagon. So can Leslie, where it’s not overrough. We’ll be shy of drovers, Stanley.”
“Plenty bad black fella close up,” Friday broke in.
Rollie tramped up to report that the mob was still resting, but that the larger herd of horses had been scattered.
“We found one horse speared and cut up. Abo work,” added Rollie.
“Could these savages prefer horseflesh to beef?” queried Dann, incredulous.
“Some tribes do, I’ve been told. Bligh heard blacks early this morning,” asserted Slyter. “We cannot get away any too soon now.”
Bligh and his three dissenters drove a string of horses across the river. Bill, the cook, had slipped down the bank, under cover of the brush, to straddle one of those horses. He did not say good-by nor look back but followed the drovers down the path, and into the river.
“Queer deal that,” spoke up the ever vigilant Red, who sat by the fire oiling his rifle. “Bligh was sweet on Beryl at first. You’d reckon he’d say good-by an’ good luck to her, if not the old man.”
“Red, I’ll bet you two-bits Bligh comes back.”
“Gosh, I hope he does. I jest feel sorry for him, as I shore do for the other geezers who got turribly stuck on Beryl Dann...”
“Uh — oh!” warned Sterl, too late.
Beryl had passed Red, to hear the last of his scornful remark to Sterl.
“You’re sorry for whom, Red Krehl?”
“Beryl, I was sorry for Bligh,” drawled Red, coolly. “Me an’ Sterl air gamblin’ on his sayin’ good-by to you. I’m bettin’ thet if he’s smart he won’t try. Sterl bets he will.”