Then
after dinner a terrific thunderstorm broke over the settlement, and as
the rain fell in torrents, Mac thought it looked "like a case of
to-morrow all right."
Naturally I felt impatient at the delay, but was told by the Creek that
"there was no hurry!" "To-morrow's still untouched," Mac explained. "This
is the Land of Plenty of Time; Plenty of Time and Wait a While. You'll be
doing a bit of waiting before you've done with it."
"If this rain goes on, she'll be doing a bit of waiting at the Fergusson;
unless she learns the horse's-tail trick," the Creek put in. On inquiry,
it proved that the "horse's-tail trick" meant swimming a horse through
the flood, and hanging on to its tail until it fought a way across; and I
felt I would prefer "waiting a bit."
The rain did go on, and, roaring over the roof, made conversation
difficult. The bushmen called it a "bit of a storm"; but every square
inch of the heavens seemed occupied by lightning and thunder-bolts.
"Nothing to what we can do sometimes," every one agreed. "WE do things
in style up here - often run half-a-dozen storms at once. You see, when
you are weather-bound, you might as well have something worth looking
at."
The storm lasted nearly three hours, and when it cleared Mac went over to
the Telegraph, where some confidential chatting must have taken place,
for when he returned he told us that the Dandy was starting out for the
homestead next day to "fix things up a bit." The Head Stockman however,
waited back for orders.
The morning dawned bright and clear, and Mac advised "making a dash for
the Fergusson." "We might just get through before this rain comes down
the valley," he said.
The Creek was most enthusiastic with its help, bustling about with
packbags and surcingles, and generally "mixing things."
When the time came to say good-bye it showed signs of breaking down; but
mastering its grief with a mightily audible effort, it wished us "good
luck," and stood watching as we rode out of the little settlement.
Every time we looked back it raised its hat, and as we rode at the head
of our orderly little cavalcade of pack horses, with Jackeroo the black
"boy" bringing up the rear, we flattered ourselves on the dignity of our
departure. Mac called it "style," and the Maluka was hoping that the
Creek was properly impressed, when Flash, unexpectedly heading off for
his late home, an exciting scrimmage ensued and the procession was broken
into fragments.
The Creek flew to the rescue, and, when order was finally restored, the
woman who had defied the Sanguine Scot and his telegrams, entered the
forest that fringes the Never-Never, sitting meekly upon a led horse.
