The Great Trek

by Zane Grey

  “Gosh, air we huntin’ Injuns?” Red whispered very low.

  Sterl was concerned with the black man’s posture. He was a part of that bushland. As he lifted his hand with the gesture of an Indian, Sterl heard the lovely call of a thrush near at hand. Leslie put her lips right on Sterl’s ear. “It is the lyre bird!” Then it seemed to Sterl that his tingling ears caught the songs of other birds, intermingled with that of the thrush. Suddenly a bursting cur-ra-wong, cur-ra-wong shot through Sterl. Could that, too, be the lyre bird? The note was repeated again and again, so full of wild melody that it made Sterl ache. It was followed by caw, caw, caw, the most dismal and raucous note of a crow, so striking in contrast with the sweet, deep-bellied cur-ra-wong.

  “Don’t you understand, boys?” whispered Leslie, bending her head between them. “The lyre bird is a mocker. He can imitate any sound.”

  That information added immeasurably to the zest of the moment. Sterl could not believe his ears. The beloved song of his Arizona mockingbirds was here transcended. But that sweet concatenation of various bird notes was disrupted by the bawling of a cow.

  Red let out a stifled— “Aw!”—most eloquent of his regret to have the lovely concert broken.

  Leslie squeezed Sterl’s hand. “Not a cow, you tenderfeet! It’s our lyre bird!”

  But that marvelous imitation was not repeated. From off in the woods, quite a distance, sounded a mournful, rich note, like the dong of a bell.

  “Another, lyre bird. Oh, but we’re lucky,” whispered Leslie. “Boys, would you like to try to see one? A chance in a thousand! And none, if you make the slightest noise.”

  After such injunction as that, and inspired to superhuman effort, Sterl and Red succeeded in following their guides with noiseless stealth. Daylight came into the forest while they were proceeding a very short distance in what seemed a long time.

  The aborigine sank down on one knee to become a black statue, as if modeled by a great sculptor. Leslie softly dragged Sterl to his knees, and Red bent over them. Leslie’s grip on Sterl’s hand precluded need for her to point. Sterl knew that she saw the object of their search, and he marveled at the feeling she roused in him.

  Across a little leafy glade he noticed low foliage move and part to admit a dark, brown bird, half the size of a grown henturkey. It had a sleek, delicate head. As the bird stepped daintily out from under the foliage, its extraordinary tail stood up erect and exquisite. It described the perfect shape of a lyre. Long, slender fern-like feathers, broad, dark, velvety brown, barred in shiny white or gray, with graceful, curling tips that bowed and dipped as the lyre bird moved. It was the epitome of the loveliness of the wild in Nature. Sterl, who from boyhood had always loved to watch birds, sustained a lasting reward for that lifelong habit.

  The lyre bird pecked under the leaves, sent them scattering, and devoured a luckless grub or insect. Then with gorgeous tail swaying with an unbelievable grace it ran out of sight under the foliage. The watchers waited a moment, tense and hopeful, but the bird did not reappear or sing again.

  “Now, what do you say?” Leslie asked, rising with Sterl’s hand still in hers.

  “Lovely beyond compare,” responded Sterl feelingly. “To hear that lyre bird, then see him, gave me an exhilarating sense of happiness. Leslie, if Australia holds no more for me than acquaintance with its beautiful birds and strange creatures, I shall be repaid for…for all it cost me to come.”

  “Oh, Sterl! What a sweet and eloquent tribute! Thank you! And now, Red, what do you say?”

  “Leslie, you mean to tell me that dog-gone lyre bird bawled like a cow?”

  “It did, Red, honest and true. It can imitate the ringing stroke of an axe. I’ve heard that.”

  “Wal, I pass. I give up. I’m gonna go back on the old sagebrush mockers of Texas. Never love them less, mind you,’ cause mockin’birds have sung to me all my life. But for wonder, for music, wal, yore lyre bird has our mockers skinned to a frazzle.”

  “That must mean something,” returned Leslie, giggling. “Come. We’ll be late. And Dad will row. Let’s run.”

  With lithe and long stride the girl slipped through the woods and vanished. The black followed. Red broke into his clumsy, cowboy-booted gait, and as he broke through brush ahead of Sterl, there suddenly came a crash and a thump. Red tumbled head over heels, as a half-grown kangaroo or a wallaby bounded away into the woods. He came up with a gun in his hand and fire in his blue eyes.

  “Pard! Thet son-of-a-gun walloped me one with his hoof or his tail. It shore hurts. I’ll bore him for thet.”

  Sterl laughed heartily and held his irate friend. “We better look before we leap. Next time it might be a big tiger snake.”

  “By golly, yes. Go ahaid, pard. My eyes air shore pore.”

  Their arrival at the house at sunrise was greeted by a terrific uproar from Leslie’s kookaburra, Jack, and six others of his kind, all laughing together in a fiendish din.

  They went in to breakfast; Roland and Larry were leaving, sober as judges. Bill Williams, the cook, was banging pots and pans with unnecessary force. Slyter looked as if he were going to a funeral, and his wife was weeping. Leslie’s smile vanished. She served the cowboys, who made short work of that meal.

  “Boss, what’s the order for today?” Sterl queried shortly.

  “Drake’s mustering for the trek,” Slyter replied gruffly.

  Leslie followed them out. “I’ll catch up somewhere. I’d go with you now, but Mum…. Ride King and Jester, won’t you?”

  Sterl found difficulty in expressing his sympathy. The girl was brave, although deeply affected by her mother’s grief. It really was a terrible thing to do—this forsaking a comfortable home in a beautiful valley to ride out into the unknown and forbidding wilderness.

  “Shore we’ll ride King an’ Jester,” said Red hastily. “Now, Leslie, don’t you shenanigan on us the last minnit!”

  “What’s that?” she murmured wistfully.

  “Wal, thet’s backin’ out. Leavin’ me an’ Sterl to go alone. ’Cause, Leslie, I reckon now we’d never go but for you.”

  “Red, I’ll never shenanigan…on the trek…or anything.”

  The, cowboys turned away and hurried down the hill. “Kinda tough, at thet,” Red soliloquized. “Shore is a game kid. Wonder if Beryl is, too? Must be,’ cause she’s givin’ up a lot more.”

  After rolling the beds and tent, which they loaded in Roland’s wagon, there was apparently no more to do save make for the horses. They saw Roland coming from the barn, leading the harnessed teams. “Roland is going to hitch up,” said Sterl. “Looks like an early start.”

  “Shore. Slyter wants to hit the trail pronto. Wal, chaps, canteens, slickers, rifles. Thet’s about all, pard. Heah, take yore own, an’ let’s rustle.”

  At the paddock they found Larry, leading out King and Jester. All the other horses were gone, except Larry’s and Leslie’s Duke which stood saddled, waiting.

  “Howdy, Larry. You’re sure moving,” said Sterl. “Sorry we’re late. Leslie took us to hear a lyre bird. And we saw one. I wouldn’t have missed that for anything.”

  “ ’Mawnin’, Larry,” added Red. “Wait for us. We don’t want to get lost out there.”

  “We’ll all be lost in a few weeks.”

  “Yeah? Wal, misery loves company.”

  King surprised Sterl with his willingness to be saddled and bridled. He knew he was leaving the paddock, and he liked it. Sterl tied on the slicker and canteen and slipped into his worn leather chaps, conscious of a quickening of his pulse. Red, who was in the act of donning his, let out a telltale groan. Then Sterl took up his rifle and walked around in front of the horse. “Are you gun shy, King?” The black knew a gun and, showing no fear, stood without a quiver while Sterl shoved the rifle into the saddle sheath.

  “Say, air you a mud hen, thet you go duckin’ jest ’cause I’ve got a gun?” Red was complaining to his horse.

  In another moment they were in the saddles, and, join
ing Larry, they rode out into the open valley.

  “Larry, air you leavin’ any girl behind?” Red drawled. “From the sick look you got, I’ve a hunch you air.”

  “Fact is, Red, I’m leaving two.”

  “You don’t say? For cripe’s sake, why didn’t you fetch one anyhow?”

  “Tried to. But neither would come.”

  “Dog-gone! Girls are fickle critters.”

  “Did you leave any behind in America?”

  “Wal, I remember about six.”

  “Shut up, you Romeos,” interposed Sterl. “This is a serious moment. None of us will ever experience it again.”

  “Pard, I been sayin’ good bye to places…an’ girls…since I was four weeks old,” declared Red.

  Ahead of them, about a mile out in the widening valley, a herd of grazing horses and beyond them Slyter’s cattle added the last link to the certainty of the trek. Sterl’s heart swelled. He felt for these courageous drovers. It was in him, too, this seeking and finding spirit, this great urge of the true pioneer.

  Waiting this side of the horses were three riders, superbly mounted. Their garb and the trappings of the horses appeared markedly different from those of the Americans. Sterl had made up his mind about these riders of Slyter’s; still he gave a keen scrutiny. Drake was middle-aged, honest and forcible of aspect, strong of build, which, however, did not indicate excessive labor on horse back. The other two, Benson and Heald, were sturdy young men, not out of their teens, and sat their saddles as if used to them. Larry’s introduction was brief, and the space between horses precluded handshaking.

  “Drake, we have Slyter’s orders to report to you,” Sterl added after the greeting.

  “I’ve sent Monkton ahead to let down the bars,” replied Drake. “We fenced the valley ahead, there, where it narrows. I’ll join him. Benson and Heald will drove behind us, one on each side. You boys bring up the rear.”

  “No particular formation?”

  “Just let the mob graze along at a walk. We’ll keep right on till Slyter halts us, probably at Blue Gum.”

  Drake said no more and rode away to the left, accompanied by Heald, while Benson trotted off to the right.

  “Huh! Short an’ sweet. All in the day’s work,” complained Red. “I kinda wish these Australians would show some feelin’. Why, hell, this is wonderful. Larry, air you daid upstairs, too?”

  “I don’t know about upstairs, but I’ve got a pain here,” he replied, putting his hand to his breast.

  “Good-o. So’ve I. Wal, pard?”

  “Red, you ought to be in front. But, no doubt, that’ll come in time. Spread out, boys, to left and right corners. I’ll take the center.”

  “Whoopee!” Red’s stentorian yell pealed out, rolling down the valley, ringing in echo from hill to hill.

  In another moment Sterl was alone. An old, familiar, stinging sensation beset him. How many hours, days, months had he bestrode his horse, along behind a herd of cattle? He lighted a cigarette. King pranced a little and wanted to go. Sterl patted the grand, arched neck and fell at once into his old habit of talking to his horse. “King, we don’t know each other yet. But if you’re as good as you look, we’ll be pards. It’s a long trek across the Never Never to those Kimberleys. Take it easy. I see you’re too well trained to graze with a bridle on. You can unlearn that, King.”

  Sterl stilled the restless horse and sat his saddle motionless, waiting for the tremendous moment that was to be the start. He felt the swelling wave of emotion, daring to sweep over him. Impossible to escape from fact! He was to ride across a whole unknown continent, from which journey, if he survived it, he would never return. The climbing sun, glorious over the bush-land, shone in his face from the east—from over the ranges he had ridden, from over the vast Pacific. Sterl faced the east. And he could not keep back a farewell whisper— “Good bye, Nan…. Good bye!”—which seemed final and irrevocable.

  When he turned back again, prompted by the keen King, the long line of cattle was on the move. The great trek had begun. Red’s mellow cowboy yell pealed across the wide space between them. He was moving. He waved a beckoning hand. Larry, on the other side, had started. Then, King, with a snort, leaped forward. Sterl pulled him from trot to walk. Once at the heels of the horses Sterl let out his answering call.

  Leisurely the bank of horses grazed forward in the wake of the cattle. They were free. They knew it. Piercing whistles split the air; cows bawled lustily. But there was no milling, no crowding close together, no ranging wide of an excited steer, no running wild of any of the Thoroughbreds. It was as if this lazy grazing along had been their custom.

  Suddenly Sterl’s emotions reached a bursting climax, and his transfigured sight took in the scene.

  It was bright, glittering, green-gold, with the many-colored mob of cattle and band of horses moving as if to rhythm. Only slow, puffing clouds of dust arose in spots. Flocks of blackbirds wheeled and circled; hawks soared above, dark spots against the blue sky; from the wooded slopes pealed the mellow cur-ra-wong, cur-ra-wong of magpies; the songs of other birds filled the air. Something majestic attended the slow beginning of this trek.

  Sterl looked back down the valley. It was filled with a rich, thick, amber light. Fleecy, white clouds sailed above the green line of bush. The gold of wattles and the scarlet of eucalyptus stood out vividly even in the brilliance of the sun-drenched foliage. A faint and failing column of smoke rose above the forsaken farm house that seemed to have gone to sleep among the wattles on the slope. A glancing gleam of tranquil, reed-bordered pond caught Sterl’s sight. All this color, all this pastoral beauty, this land of flowers and grass and blossoming trees, this land of milk and honey, so it seemed, was being abandoned for the chimera of the pioneer who, with strange vision, saw into the future. But this was the luxuriant season after full rains. Sterl could not picture what drought and heat might do to this paradise. Stanley Dann knew; Slyter knew. And they were leaving it for a far richer, far greater country, where they alone would be kings of vast ranges.

  Chapter Six

  Sterl espied the white, canvas-covered dray, driven by Bill Williams, climbing the hill road toward Downsville. And behind him rolled Jones, driving one of the wagons which soon passed out of sight, as if by magic. Three wagons appeared miles ahead, moving along, close together. But there was no sign of Leslie. She had gone on with the wagons. Sterl looked in vain for her, but he recognized eight of her Thoroughbreds. That pleased him, proving what a cowboy gift he possessed. He calculated, too, that the mob was traveling over two miles an hour. The long grass, reaching to their knees, made this progress possible. Already they had been seven hours on the trek. Only in the creek bottoms of Texas was there such verdure as grew prodigally on these downs.

  Long since King had satisfied his appetite. He was full, lazy, drowsy. But there were the other horses ahead. He kept on without word or touch from his rider. No stragglers to round up! No drags lagging behind the herd! Sterl sat his saddle, dreamy, content, lulled by sensorial perceptions into the unthinking mood that was the open’s chief charm.

  He knew not how time passed, but sooner or later he awakened to westering sun, to the long halloo of his comrade, of halted cattle and horses. Stirring to see—a huge, dead gum tree, bleached and gnarled, marking a sunset-flushed stream—outcropping rock and jungle beyond—and to the right lanes of open country leading into the bush.

  First camp! Sterl sighted it with singular joy. Cattle and horses made for the creek and spread along its low bank for a mile. When they had drunk their fill, some of the cattle fell again to grazing while many of them lay down to rest. The horses trooped back to their grazing. In Sterl’s judgment both would require little night guarding on such pasture as that.

  He let King quench his thirst, then rode down the creek into camp. Pungent wood smoke brought back other camp scenes. But no campsite he could remember had possessed such an imposing landmark as the great, dead, blue gum tree. On its spreading branches Sterl espi
ed herons, parrots, a hawk perched on a top-most tip, kookaburras low down, and other birds he could not name.

  The wagons were spaced conveniently, though not close together. Locating his own, Sterl dismounted to strip King and let him go. Then he hauled tent and beds out of the wagon and had begun unrolling them when Leslie approached like a slender boy rider in worn garb.

  “Well, so here you are? I wondered if you’d ever catch up,” Sterl said.

  “I hadn’t the heart to leave Mum today,” she replied, her pretty face showing traces of recent sorrow. “I…would have been all right, but for her.”

  “Why, you’re all right anyhow, Leslie. Don’t look back…don’t think back! Our first camp’s a dandy. Where’s Friday and your dad?”

  “Both over there. Friday walked all the way, sometimes leading Duke. I rode a little. Mum came out of it all at once. Dad is just fine. He and Drake just had a pull at a bottle. And here come Red and Larry.”