It was an immense affair, weighing over half a ton, and provided by a thoughtful Government for the transit of travellers “stuck up” by the river when in flood. An army of roughriders might have launched it, but as bushmen generally travel in single file, it lay a silent reproach to the wisdom of Governments.
Some jester had chalked on its sides “H.M.S. Immovable”; and after tugging valiantly at it for nearly half an hour, the Măluka and Mac and Jackeroo proved the truth of the bushman’s irony.
There was no choice but a camp on the wrong side of the river, and after “dratting things” in general, and the Cullen in particular, Mac bowed to the inevitable and began to unpack the team, stacking packbags and saddles up on the rocks off the wet grass.
By the time the billy was boiling he was trying hard to be cheerful, but without much success. “Oh, well,” he said, as we settled down round the fire, “this is the Land of Plenty of Time, that’s one comfort. Another whole week starts next Sunday”; then relapsing altogether he added gloomily; “We’ll be spending it here, too, by the look of things.”
“Unless the missus feels equal to the horse’s-tail trick” the Măluka suggested.
The missus felt equal to anything but the tail trick and said so; and conversation flagged for a while as each tried to hit upon some way out of the difficulty.
Suddenly Mac gave his thigh a prodigious slap. “I’ve struck it!” he shouted, and pointing to a thick wire rope just visible in the moonlight as it stretched across the river from flood bank to flood bank, added hesitatingly: “We send mail-bags—and—valuables over on that when the river’s up.”
It was impossible to mistake his meaning, or the Măluka’s exclamation of relief, or that neither man doubted for moment that the woman was willing to be flung across a deep, swirling river on a swaying wire; and as many a man has appeared brave because he has lacked the courage to own to his cowardice, so I said airily that “anything better than going back,” and found the men exchanging glances.
“No one’s going back,” the Măluka said quietly: and then I learned that the Wet does not “do things by half.” Once they began to move the flood waters must have come down the valleys in tidal waves, the Măluka explained. “The Cullen we’ve just left will probably be a roaring torrent by now.”
“We’re stuck between two rivers: that’s what’s happened,” Mac added savagely. “Might have guessed that miserable little Cullen was up to her old sneaking ways.” And to explain Mac’s former “dratting,” the Măluka said: “It’s a way the rivers have up here. They entice travellers over with smiles and promises, and before they can get back, call down the flood waters and shut them in.”