“Steve,” said Scottie next morning, before they started work in the mulga paddocks, “we’re tae camp here for a few days. Ride back t’ the Ridge, will ye, an’ bring Ess back in the buggy. Bring the six b’ eight tent, and tell Blazes to bring the cart wi’ blankets an’ tucker for the men.”
So Steve dropped his axe and flung the saddle back on his horse, and in ten minutes was cantering hard across the flats under the scorching sun. “Wonder why Scottie picked me to come,” he thought. “Won’t the others be mad?” and he chuckled in high spirits.
As he came over the rise of the road to the plateau he saw Ess Lincoln and Blazes at the cook-house door. Steve came down the slope with a rush, lifted his horse and leaped the gate with a ringing whoop, and pulled his horse to its haunches within a couple of yards of the astonished pair.
“Orders, Miss Lincoln,” he said gaily. “Pack up and move. Sling together any things you need for a week’s camp-out, and get ready to come back with me in the buggy. And, Blazes, I’ll help you meantime to load the cart—blankets, tucker, and the rest—and you’re to drive it down.”
“Camp where—what for?” asked Ess in astonishment.
“In the mulga paddocks,” said Steve. “Boss was over this morning, and gave the order. I’ve been expecting it myself for days. It’s rather senseless riding up and down here every day.”
“But I never camped in my life,” said Ess; “I don’t know a thing about it. What do I wear—what do I take—how do I sleep? Couldn’t I stop here?”
Steve laughed out. “You can’t be a real out-backer till you’ve boiled your billy over a camp fire,” he declared. “I suppose it sounds very peremptory and offhand to you, but there’s nothing in it really. You’ll get used to it in no time, and will learn to roll your swag and hit the track for a camping trip with less bother than you have now to get your dinner ready.”
“It’s all very well,” broke in Blazes, angrily. “But here’s me wi’ the spuds peeled, and half the things ready for cookin’, an’——”
“Blazes,” said Steve, gravely, “I’m surprised at you grumbling at a little thing like that. And if Miss Lincoln hears an old battler like you grumbling about going to camp she’ll think it is something serious. I thought you’d have told her she could count on you to pull her through,” he said, reproachfully.