Kaloona Homestead lies distant from Surprise fifteen Queensland miles, and the traveller by that road learns a Queensland mile is a mile and anything you wish beyond. The red track runs all the way—over outcrops of rock, across grassy levels and through dry creek beds, nearly to the gateway of the homestead. Kaloona Homestead stands among timber on one of the big holes of the river.
All the traffic of the neighbourhood takes this direction, and keeps safe the roadway from the teeth of the waiting bush. Once a week the mine buggy journeys to outlying shafts. Out of the distance crawl a pair of horses, an ancient four-wheeled carriage, two men seated up there in collarless shirts and khaki trousers, a swinging waterbottle and a following of dust. Once a month Mr. Carroll, timekeeper, armed with revolver and sustained with thoughts of a peg at the farther end, bumps along in the back seat of the buggy with the pay for the smaller mines. Along this path the horse-driver bullies a groaning load to the mine furnaces, and wins the plain by ready tongue and a generous hand. His dogs shuffle in the shade of the waggon. The copper gougers come in from labours in the far places, and follow the red way to store and hotel; and the kangaroo shooter, astride his shabby beast, arrives with empty provision bags from lonely hunting grounds. But commonly you travel all day under a greedy sun, and meet none of these things. The plain rolls away, and no wayfarer appears, unless there leap up a kangaroo startled in his bed chamber.
Power took the homeward road with never a thought to its emptiness. He was no apprentice to the bush. He could read the signs of the way, be the time day or night. Now a moon was in the middle of the sky, the path was well trodden, a fair mount carried him, and the night cooled—the journey would be done in the turning of his thoughts. He rode with loose rein, idle spur, and seat easy in the saddle. Yet a clever horse might not have got the better of him.
The mare carried him at a fast walk, asking neither check nor spur. Single tents, tents in twos and threes, and rickety lean-tos rose up among the gullies on both hands, and quickly a score of them had fallen behind. In none burned a light, and no greeting arrived other than the quick bark of curs. A bend of the road and the base of the hill cut off the camp. From now forward the journey would prove a lonely business. The creak of a saddle and the brief pad of hoofs in the dust were to be the song of voyage.
Afoot or on horseback, Power was a wide-awake man. He saw most of what was worth seeing. He could see, realize and do on the instant. But he had his moments of reflection. He was aware of the tents, the lean-tos and the rubbish on the ground. But he had fallen into thought before going far on the way. Were he devout lover, now was the scene and now the hour to delight in the virtues of his lady.
He loosened his feet in the stirrups to the tips of his toes, and lifted his hat from his head. A vague breeze moved across his cheek, and he turned gratefully to it; but it was dead as soon as it was born. Still, the night was cooling, and the plain was wide and free after the verandah at Surprise. The moon had taken station in the middle of the sky, frighting all but a few stars which gleamed wanly here and there. She was a lamp to all that great red country—by day full of majesty, now touched to beauty by her genius. The walk of the mare soothed him strangely.
Power was a man of fair learning and experience. He was a bushman born, but the South had given him education of some width. He had had a share of travel. He could remember other lands and fair cities. Men, now forgotten, had rubbed shoulders with him; and one or two women had passed in and out of his life with a few laughs and sighs. Seldom he called them to mind. Maud Neville only had brought him to captivity. Her brain was mate for his brain, her heart was mate for his heart: there would be bonds to bind them when passion had passed away.
His thoughts went back to her, where he had seen her last following the old man towards the house. He found himself thinking very tenderly of her. Soon now she would come across to brighten the old homestead, and life would never be quite the same again. He must pull his habits into shape. He must remember freedom would have to go in harness, and the curb might chafe at first. He must be abroad at dawn and home by nightfall, and give up this riding over the country as the humour took him. The cattle camp must see him less, the hearth must see him more; others could do the rough work, and they would do it as well as he.
There came to mind the first time he had seen Maud Neville, a day or two after the coach had brought her from the South. He had not discovered her charm in the beginning. He put a high price on beauty always, and here was a girl but poorly favoured. But that she made the old man's home bright there was no denying, and now he walked in willing captivity. He loved her, and she loved him almost too well. She read him to the last word, while her own face was covered with a veil which he had not the skill to pluck aside. She had said a little while ago that he had much to learn in the art of loving, and perhaps she had spoken the truth. His affection only had his spare time, and was shabby exchange for a spiritual love like her own. Yet she seemed content. Well, she should teach him in the days to come, and she would find him a ready student. Just now he was on the way home, and to-morrow was bringing a long day with cattle. There were other things for a man to do besides making love.
He tumbled back to everyday matters when the mare whinnied loudly. He looked about him. He found he had been carried into the plains. Behind, and on the left hand, ranges filled the horizon; ahead ran the dark belt of timber which followed the river. Power guessed at it rather than saw it. Pelican Pool was four miles away in a straight line; but the road bent in a little distance, and met the river several miles lower down.