They were gone as soon as they could swallow their tea, and the next men were just as hurried in their movements.
It was this haste and hurry that struck Ess as the dominating tone of the whole picture. In spite of the slow dragging of the tired sheep, the lazily floating dust clouds, the weary, staggering, halting pace of the march, at the back of it all Ess could see the fierce unflagging energy, the remorseless cruel driving haste. It was plain in the whistle and crack of the stockwhips, the yelping rush and snap of the dogs, even in the little spurts the sheep were roused to as whip or dog came on them.
Scottie and Steve came over to the fire at a hard canter and flung themselves from their horses.
“What’s this, lass?” said Scottie, “acting the cook, eh?”
“Acting the good Samaritan,” said Steve. “I don’t know if angels are supposed to serve out hot tea, but if so, you and Blazes can put in an application for an outfit of wings right away.”
“Thank ’er,” murmured Blazes. “It’s ’er notion.”
The two men gulped the tea down. They were caked with red dust from head to toe, the sweat was smearing and streaking their faces, their eyes were red rimmed, and their lips dry and cracking, and bodily weariness was plain in every line of their figures. But they swallowed the scalding tea and leaped for their horses again as if their lives hung on the passing moments.
Then the boss flashed up to them out of the smother and dust of the rear guard.
“They tell me you’ve tea, Miss Lincoln,” he cried. “May I—ah, thank you,” as she handed up a pannikin to him where he sat in his sulky.
“How are they going, Mr. Sinclair?” asked Ess.