The Măluka shot him a swift, questioning glance; but poor Mac looked so unhappy that we assured him “we’d manage somehow.” Perhaps we could tame one of the flash buck-jumpers, the Măluka suggested. But Mac said it “wouldn’t be as bad as that,” and, making full confession, placed old Roper at our service.
By morning, however, a magnificent chestnut “Flash,” well-broken into the side-saddle, had been conjured up from somewhere by the Creek. But two of the pack-horses had strayed, and by the time they were found the morning had slipped away, and it was too late to start until after dinner. 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.