" And having by this tucked himself in to his satisfaction, he lay
down, "reckoning this ought to just about finish off her education, if
she doesn't get finished off herself by niggers before morning."
A cheerful nightcap; but such was our faith in Sool'em and Brown as
danger signals, that the camp was asleep in a few minutes. Perhaps also
because nigger alarms were by no means the exception: the bush-folk would
get little sleep if they lay awake whenever they were camped near
doubtful company. We sleep wherever we are, for it is easy to grow
accustomed even to nigger alarms, and beside, the bush-folk know that
when a man has clean hands and heart he has little to fear from even his
"bad fellow black fellows." But the Red Lilies were beyond our
boundaries, and Monkey was a notorious exception, and shrill cries
approaching the camp at dawn brought us all to our elbows, to find only
the flying foxes returning to the pine forest, fanning inwards this time.
After giving the horses another drink, and breakfasting on damper and
"Lot's wife," we moved on again, past the glory of the lagoons, to further
brumby encounters, carrying a water-bag on a pack-horse by way of
precaution against further "drouths." But such was the influence of
"Lot's wife" that long before mid-day the bag was empty, and Dan was
recommending bloater-paste as a "grand thing for breakfast during the Wet
seeing it keeps you dry all day long."
Further damper and "Lot's wife" for dinner, and an afternoon of thirst,
set us all dreading supper, and about sundown three very thirsty, forlorn
white folk were standing by the duck-under below "Knock-up camp," waiting
for the Quiet Stockman, and hoping against hope that his meat had not
"turned on him"; and when he and his "boys" came jangling down the
opposite bank, and splashing and plunging over the "duckunder" below,
driving a great mob of horses before them we assailed him with questions.
But although Jack's meat was "chucked out days ago" he was merciful to us
and shouted out: "Will a dozen boiled duck do instead? Got fourteen at
one shot this morning, and boiled 'em right off," he explained as we
seized upon his tucker-bags. "Kept a dozen of 'em in case of accidents."
Besides a shot-gun, Jack had much sense.
A dozen cold boiled duck "did" very nicely after four meals of damper and
bloater-paste; and a goodly show they made set out in our mixing dish.
Dan, gloating over them, offered to "do the carving." "I'm real good at
the poultry carving trick, when there's a bird apiece," he chuckled,
spearing bird after bird with a two-pronged fork, and passing round one
apiece as we sat expectantly around the mixing dish, all among the
tucker-bags and camp baggage. And so excellent a sauce is hunger that we
received and enjoyed our "bird apiece" unabashed and unblushingly - the
men-folk returning for further helpings, and the "boys" managing all that
were left.
All agreed that "you couldn't beat cold boiled duck by much"; but in the
morning grilled fish was accepted as "just the thing for breakfast"; then
finding ourselves face to face with Lot's wife, and not too much of that,
we beat a hasty retreat to the homestead; a further opportune "catch" of
duck giving us heart for further brumby encounters and another night's
camp out-bush. Then the following morning as we rode towards the
homestead Dan "reckoned" that from an educational point of view the trip
had been a pronounced success.
CHAPTER XXI
Just before mid-day - five days after we had left the homestead - we rode
through the Southern slip rails to find the Dandy at work "cleaning out a
soakage" on the brink of the billabong, with Cheon enthusiastically
encouraging him. The billabong, we heard, had threatened to "peter out"
in our absence, and riding across the now dusty wind-swept enclosure we
realised that November was with us, and that the "dry" was preparing for
its final fling - "just showing what it could do when it tried."
With the South-east Trades to back it up it was fighting desperately
against the steadily advancing North-west monsoon, drying up, as it
fought, every drop of moisture left from last Wet. There was not a blade
of green grass within sight of the homestead, and everywhere dust
whirled, and eddied, and danced, hurled all ways at once in the fight, or
gathered itself into towering centrifugal columns, to speed hither and
thither, obedient to the will of the elements.
Half the heavens seemed part of the Dry, and half part of the Wet: dusty
blue to the south-east, and dark banks of clouds to the north-west, with
a fierce beating sun at the zenith. Already the air was oppressive with
electric disturbances, and Dan, fearing he would not get finished unless
things were kept humming, went out-bush next morning, and the homestead
became once more the hub of our universe - the south-east being branded
from that centre. Every few days a mob was brought in, and branded, and
disbanded, hours were spent on the stockyard fence; pack-teams were
packed, unpacked, and repacked; and every day grew hotter and hotter, and
every night more and more electric, and as the days went by we waited for
the Fizzer, hungry for mail-matter, with a six weeks' hunger.
When the Fizzer came in he came with his usual lusty shouting, but varied
his greeting into a triumphant: "Broken the record this time, missus.
Two bags as big as a house and a few et-cet-eras!" And presently he
staggered towards us bent with the weight of a mighty mail.
