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To Francis Well, the next 20 miles, is mostly through sand. Here are some niggers who keep the troughs full of water on the chance of passing teamsters supplying them with tobacco or small lots of flour. The mail passes every three weeks, once going down to Oodnadatta, the next time returning to Alice Springs; and the mail horses for the change are running here.
The well, sunk at the junction of the Francis Creek and the Hugh, contains beautiful fresh water. Black cockatoos flutter among the branches of giant gums which mark the meeting of the waters—flutter and squawk incessantly. And now and again, too, one catches sight of the gaudier galah or the gay ring-necked parrot.
At one of these wells the bucket was too heavy for me to land unaided from the deep bottom. Here was another annoyance, if nothing worse. I was desperately thirsty. The water glittered tantalizingly in sight. Ha! An empty bucket at the surface. I half-filled it with stones, and it obligingly went down and gave me all the assistance I wanted in weighing its companion up. Afterwards, at shallower wells, I tied the cord I carried to my billy-can, and so supplied my modest wants.
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By climbing the higher of the hills which are to be seen after you pass Francis Well, the remarkable column known as Chambers' Pillar rises afar off in the midst of sandhills to the west. It looks like a mighty furnace-stack built upon a hill top: the hill about 100 feet high, the Pillar another hundred. But the soft desert sandstone of which it is composed is fast wearing away. This still majestic landmark, a solitary sentinel guarding the heart of a continent—its days are numbered in the book of Time.
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Camels do nearly all the carrying in this country; and at Francis Well a caravan was camped. A white man was in charge. I do not know how the stranger fares at the hands of an Afghan, but the few white men I met along the road at halting places between Oodnadatta and Alice Springs were without exception most generously hospitable and most kindly-dispositioned. All did what they could—by more or less clear directions anent the route; by supplying me with food and inviting me to "spell" with them if they were "spelling"—to make my journey a partly enjoyable as well as a successful one. I gratefully admit how largely I am indebted to one and all of them.
From Hergott to Alice Springs the population is grouped under three generic headings—"Whites," "Afghans," and "Blackfellows." The loftier Afghan sometimes scornfully denies that he is of our color. I have heard it asked of a Jemadar—"What name fellow drive so-and-so's camels along to Birdsville? Whitefellow?" and I have heard him answer: "No, not whitefellow. Afghan-man boss go las' time." Beyond the MacDonnell Ranges the Afghan and his camel disappear, and are neither seen nor heard of more. There is a no-man's land; then, further northward, the vacant place is filled by Chinamen.