IT was late in the afternoon of the third day, and in a cloud of thick dust the riders were hurrying along the road towards Atholton. Ahead they could see the scattered roofs of the little township, showing white among the trees; but everything was obscured by the dust that swirled and eddied, now tearing away before them in a cloud sixty feet high, or seeming to stand still all around them, blinding any vision for more than a few yards. Behind a leaden sky glowered through the dust clouds, or was revealed, darkly purple, when they rose for an instant to swirl and scurry, and grow dense again, as the shrieking wind came in a fresh gust.
Three days of gradually mounting heat had worked up to a tempestuous change. All day, riding had been anything but pleasant. Even in early morning the air had been still and heavy, after a night of breathless heat. They had left camp not long after sunrise, intending to rest during the middle of the day; but the weather had tried the horses; they had travelled badly, sweating before they had gone a mile, so that progress was slow. Mr. Linton had cut the noon “spell” ruthlessly short.
“We’ll have to hurry,” he said, glancing uneasily at the sullen sky. “This means a big storm, and it’s very doubtful if we can escape it, even now. As far as I remember there’s no shelter at all between here and Atholton, and there is too much big timber along the track to be safe in a storm. Billy, you travel the slowest—cut along!”
Billy proceeded to “cut,” not unwillingly. He hated storms, even as a cat, and firmly believed that thunder was the noise of innumerable “debbil-debbils,” let loose dangerously near the inhabitants of earth, and at any moment likely to fall on the just and the unjust. He mounted Bung Eye and jogged off along the track, the packhorse toiling in the rear. Ten minutes later saw the rest of the party in pursuit.
From the first it was evident that the ride would be a race with the storm. Mr. Linton made all the haste that was possible for the horses; but the way was long and the heat so breathless that it seemed cruel to urge the poor brutes along. A purple cloud came up out of the west, and spread up and up; then a murky haze obscured the sun, yet brought no lessening of heat. Finally came a low sighing of faraway wind, and long before it struck them they could see distant tree-tops swaying and bending before the fury of the blast. They came to a sharp turn in the road, facing eastwards.
“Thank goodness, there’s Atholton!” uttered Mr. Linton, pointing at the roofs far ahead. “We may get off with dry skins if we gallop.”
They shook up the horses. Even as they did so, the beginning of the storm was upon them in a furious gust of wind that gathered up the loose summer dust of the road and carried it high into the air. It was impossible to see more than a few yards ahead except between the gusts. They rode blindly, trusting to their horses, and fairly sure that on such an afternoon there would be no other obstacles of traffic on the lonely bush track. On either side the thick timber creaked and groaned in the wind, and occasionally a sharp crack told of a limb or a treetop breaking under the strain. Then the horses bounded as a sharp crackle of thunder came out of the west and ran round the sky in a heavy, echoing roll, followed by a vivid flash of lightning. Heavy drops began to fall, splashing into the thick dust underfoot.
“Gad! There’s a house!” said Mr. Linton thankfully. “Make for the gate, Jim.”
A hundred yards ahead a white cottage stood near the track, in the midst of a pleasant orchard. As they clattered up to the road gate, a woman came out upon the verandah and waved to them energetically, beckoning them in. Garryowen propped at the gate, and Jim swung it open. The sky seemed to split with another thunderclap as they rode through, and then came rain, like a curtain, blotting out everything behind them.
The woman rushed down to the little garden gate as they raced to it.