One lurid summer, in 1873, I was crossing over from Saint George’s
Bridge, on the Balonne, to Mitchell, on the Maranoa. I had been to a
rush at Malawal, N.S.W., but as it proved a rank duffer, got up by the
local storekeepers in a last effort to keep the township in existence,
I made back again by ‘The Bridge,’ on chance of getting a job of
droving with some of the mobs of sheep or cattle always passing
through the Border town, bound south from the Central and Gulf
stations.
Queenslanders will remember that summer, on certain days of which men
were stricken down in dozens, and birds fell dead off the trees in the
fierce heat.
There is no drearier track in Australia than the one I speak of—all
pine-scrub, too thick for a dog to bark in, and the rest sand and
ant-hills.
There was nothing doing just then in ‘The Bridge,’ so I pushed on for
the Maranoa. It was only the beginning of summer, and I reckoned on
finding water twenty-five miles along the track, at a hole in the
Wullumgudgeree Creek, known of aforetime.
It was a dismal ride, with nothing but walls of close-set scrub on
each side, and sand, heavy underfoot, and glaring ahead. Even the
horses seemed to feel its influence as they ploughed along, heads
bent down, coats black with sweat, and big clusters of flies swarming
thickly at their leather eye-guards. Even one’s own close-knit veil
was but poor protection, for the pests gathered on it in such numbers
as to almost obscure the sight. The flies and mosquitoes were a
caution that summer. However, shogging steadily on, with a pull at the
water-bag now and then, I at length reached the creek, dry as a bone
where it crossed the road. But, following it down through the scrub, I
found the hole, pretty muddy and fast diminishing. Nor was it improved
by the dog and the pack-horse rushing into it and rolling before I
could stop them.
The sun was setting, a big red ball, over the tops of the pines as I
hobbled out, pitched the tent on one side of the round open space, lit
a fire, and slung the billy. There was not bad picking for the horses,
and as I belled the pack I fervently trusted they would not stray far
in such a God-forsaken spot.
After supper—damper, mutton and sardines, washed down by tea, boiled,
skimmed and strained three times before coming to table—I felt pretty
comfortable, and lay down with my head on one of the swags to enjoy a
smoke and fight the mosquitoes, who were beginning to sample freely.
The sun had set, but the moon, big, yellow and hot-looking, hung in a
hazy sky.
But for the buzzing of the insects and the snoring of the dog, fast
asleep in a deep hole scratched in the sand, everything was very
quiet. The thick scrub into which the horses had retreated deadened
the sound of the bell.
Presently, however, evidently compassionating my lonely state, a
little bird, after partaking of the remnants of my supper, came and
perched on the ridge-pole of the tent, and piped forth at short
intervals in a shrill monotone. ‘Sweet, pretty creature! Pretty,
sweet, little creature!’ He was company of a sort, spite of his
egoism. But there was other toward.
The flies had, ere this, gone to roost, but the mosquitoes were
troublesome. They had also taken anticipatory possession of the tent.
Burning some old rags, I cleared them out of that, fixed up the
netting, and was preparing to turn in, when I heard the sound of hoofs
coming thump, thump, down the dry creek bed. The dog, awaking, barked
loudly, and in a minute or two a man and a woman rode into the bright
firelight. They each had a big swag in front of them; and at a glance
I saw that their horses were not only well-bred, but had come far and
fast.
‘Water!’ exclaimed the man.