Knowing nothing of the wild, scared cattle of the fenceless runs of the Never-Never, I was prepared for anything rather than the roar of delight that greeted that example of town “common sense.”
“Missus! missus!” the Măluka cried, as soon as he could speak, “you’ll need a deal of educating”; and while Mac gasped, “Oh I say! Look here!” Dan, with tears in his eyes, chuckled: “She’ll have a drouth on by the time she runs one down.” Dan always called a thirst a drouth. “Oh Lord!” he said, picturing the scene in his mind’s eye, “ ‘I’ll catch a cow and milk it,’ she says.”
Then, dancing with fun, the hazel eyes looked round the company, and as Dan rose, preparatory to turning in, we felt we were about to hear their verdict. When it came it was characteristic of the man in uniqueness of wording:
“She’s the dead finish!” he said, wiping his eyes on his shirt sleeve. “Reckoned she was the minute I heard her talking about slap-up dampers”; and in some indescribable way we knew he had paid the woman who was just entering his life the highest compliment in his power. Then he added, “Told the chaps the little ’uns were generally all right.” It is the helplessness of little women that makes them appear “all right” in the eyes of bushmen, helplessness being foreign to snorters.
At breakfast Dan expressed surprise because there was no milk, and the pleasantry being well received, he considered the moment ripe for one of his pet theories.
“She’ll do for this place!” he said, wagging his head wisely. “I’ve been forty years out-bush, and I’ve known eight or ten women in that time, so I ought to know something about it. Anyway, the ones that could see jokes suited best. There was Mrs. Bob out Victoria way. She’d see a joke a mile off; sighted ’em as soon as they got within cooee. Never knew her miss one, and never knew anybody suit the bush like she did.” And, as we packed up and set out for the last lap of our journey he was still ambling about his theory. “Yes,” he said, “you can dodge most things out bush; but you can’t dodge jokes for long. They’ll run you down sooner or later”; adding with a chuckle, “Never heard of one running Mrs. Bob down, though. She always tripped ’em up before they could get to her.” Then finding the missus had thrown away a “good cup of tea just because a few flies had got into it,” he became grave. “Never heard of Mrs. Bob getting up to those tricks,” he said, and doubted whether “the missus’ld do after all,” until reassured by the Măluka that “she’ll be fishing them out with the indifference of a Stoic in a week or two”; and I was.
When within a few miles of the homestead, the buckboard took a sharp turn round a patch of scrub, and before any one realised what was happening we were in the midst of a mob of pack horses, and face to face with the Quiet Stockman a strong, erect, young Scot, who carried his six foot two of bone and muscle with the lithe ease of a bushman.
“Hallo” Mac shouted, pulling up. Then, with the air of a showman introducing some rare exhibit, added: “This is the missus, Jack.”
Jack touched his hat and moved uneasily in his saddle, answering Mac’s questions in monosyllables. Then the Măluka came up, and Mac, taking pity on the embarrassed bushman, suggested “getting along,” and we left him sitting rigidly on his horse, trying to collect his scattered senses.
“That was unrehearsed,” Mac chuckled, as we drove on. “He’s clearing out! Reckon he didn’t set out exactly hoping to meet us, though. Tam’s a lady’s man in comparison,” but loyal to his comrade above his amusement, he added warmly: “You can’t beat Jack by much, though, when it comes to sticking to a pal,” unconscious that he was prophesying of the years to come, when the missus had become one of those pals.