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 Măluka 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.
Chapter 3
Bush chivalry demanding that a woman’s discomfiture should be ignored, Mac kept his eyes on the horizon for the first quarter of a mile, and talked volubly of the prospects of the Wet and the resources of the Territory; but when Flash was released, and after a short tussle settled down into a free, swinging amble, he offered congratulations in his own whimsical way.
“He’s like the rest of us,” he said, with a sly, sidelong look at the Măluka, “perfectly reconciled to his fate.”
Although it was only sixty-five miles to the Katherine it took us exactly three days to travel the distance. Mac called it a “tip-top record for the Wet,” and the Măluka agreed with him; for in the Territory it is not the number of miles that counts, but what is met with in those miles.
During the first afternoon we met so many amiable-looking watercourses, that the Sanguine Scot grew more and hopeful about crossing the Fergusson that night. “We’ll just do it if we push on,” he said, after a critical look at the Cullen, then little more than a sweet, shady stream. “Our luck’s dead in. She’s only just moving. Yesterday’s rain hasn’t come down the valleys yet.”
We pushed on in the moonlight; but when we reached the Fergusson, two hours later, we found our luck was “dead out,” for “she” was up and running a banker.
Mac’s hopes sank below zero. “Now we’ve done it,” he said ruefully, looking down at the swirling torrent, “It’s a case of ‘wait-a-while’ after all.”
But the Măluka’s hopes always died hard. “There’s still the Government yacht,” he said, going to a huge iron punt that lay far above high-water mark. Mac called it a forlorn hope, and it looked it, as it lay deeply sunk in the muddy bank.