Considering ourselves homeless, the Măluka decided that we should “go bush” for awhile during Johnny’s absence beginning with a short tour of inspection through some of the southern country of the run; intending, if all were well there, to prepare for a general horse-muster along the north of the Roper. Nothing could be done with the cattle until “after the Wet.”

Only Dan and the inevitable black “boy” were to be with us on this preliminary walk-about; but all hands were to turn out for the muster, to the Quiet Stockman’s dismay.

“Thought they mostly sat about and sewed,” he said in the quarters. Little did the Sanguine Scot guess what he was doing when he “culled” needlework from the “mob” at Pine Creek.

The walk-about was looked upon as a reprieve, and when a traveller, expressing sympathy, suggested that “it might sicken her a bit of camp life,” Jack clung to that hope desperately.

Most of the nigger world turned up to see the “missus mount,” that still being something worth seeing. Apart from the mystery of the side-saddle, and the joke of seeing her in an enormous mushroom hat, there was the interest of the mounting itself; Jackeroo having spread a report that the Măluka held out his hands, while the missus ran up them and sat herself upon the horse’s back.

“They reckon you have escaped from a ‘Wild West Show,’” Dan said, tickled at the look of wonder on some of the faces as I settled myself in the saddle. We learned later that Jackeroo had tried to run up Jimmy’s hands to illustrate the performance in camp, and, failing, had naturally blamed Jimmy, causing report to add that the Măluka was a very Samson in strength.

“A dress rehearsal for the cattle-musters later on,” Dan called the walk-about, looking with approval on my cartridge belt and revolver; and after a few small mobs of cattle had been rounded up and looked over, he suggested “rehearsing that part of the performance where the missus gets lost, and catches cows and milks ’em.”

“Now’s your chance, missus,” he shouted, as a scared, frightened beast broke from the mob in hand, and went crashing through the undergrowth. “There’s one all by herself to practice on.” Dan’s system of education, being founded on object-lessons, was mightily convincing; and for that trip, anyway, he had a very humble pupil to instruct in the “ways of telling the signs of water at hand.”

All day as we zigzagged through scrub and timber, visiting water-holes and following up cattle-pads, the solitude of the bush seemed only a pleasant seclusion; and the deep forest glades, shady pathways leading to the outside world; but at night, when the camp had been fixed up in the silent depths of a dark Leichhardt-pine forest, the seclusion had become an isolation that made itself felt, and the shady pathways, miles of dark treacherous forest between us and our fellow-men.

There is no isolation so weird in its feeling of cut-offness as that of a night camp in the heart of the bush. The flickering camp-fires draw all that is human and tangible into its charmed circle, and without, all is undefinable darkness and uncertainty. Yet it was in this night camp among the dark pines, with even the stars shut out, that we learnt that out-bush “Houselessness” need not mean “Homelessness”—a discovery that destroyed all hope that “this would sicken her a bit.”

As we were only to be out one night, and there was little chance of rain, we had nothing with us but a little tucker, a bluey each, and a couple of mosquito nets. The simplicity of our camp added intensely to the isolation; and as I stood among the dry rustling leaves, looking up at the dark broad-leaved canopy above us, with my “swag” at my feet, the Măluka called me a “poor homeless little coon.”

A woman with a swag sounds homeless enough to Australian ears, but Dan, with his habit of looking deep into the heart of things, “didn’t exactly see where the homelessness came in.”

We had finished supper, and the Măluka stretching himself luxuriously in the firelight, made a nest in the warm leaves for me to settle down in. “You’re right, Dan,” he said, after a short silence, “when I come to think of it; I don’t exactly see myself where the homelessness comes in. A bite and a sup and a faithful dog, and a guidwife by a glowing hearth, and what more is needed to make a home. Eh, Tiddle’ums?”

Tiddle’ums having for some time given the whole of her heart to the Măluka, nestled closer to him and Dan gave an appreciative chuckle, and pulled Sool’em’s ears. The conversation promised to suit him exactly.

“Never got farther than the dog myself,” he said. “Did I, Sool’em, old girl?” But Sool’em becoming effusive there was a pause until she could be persuaded that “nobody wanted none of her licking tricks.” As she subsided Dan went on with his thoughts uninterrupted: “I’ve seen others at the guidwife business, though, and it didn’t seem too bad, but I never struck it in a camp before. There was Mrs. Bob now. You’ve heard me tell of her? I don’t know how it was, but while she was out at the “Downs” things seemed different. She never interfered and we went on just the same, but everything seemed different somehow.”

The Măluka suggested that perhaps he had “got farther than the dog” without knowing it, and the idea appearing to Dan, he “reckoned it must have been that.” But his whimsical mood had slipped away, as it usually did when his thoughts strayed to Mrs. Bob; and he went on earnestly, “She was the right sort if ever there was one. I know ’em, and she was one of ’em. When you were all right you told her yarns, and she’d enjoy ’em more’n you would yourself, which is saying something; but when you were off the track a bit you told her other things, and she’d heave you on again. See her with the sick travellers!” And then he stopped unexpectedly as his voice became thick and husky.

Camp-fire conversations have a trick of coming to an abrupt end without embarrassing any one. As Dan sat looking into the fire, with his thoughts far away in the past, the Măluka began to croon contentedly at “Home, Sweet Home,” and, curled up in the warm, sweet nest of leaves, I listened to the crooning, and, watching the varying expression of Dan’s face, wondered if Mrs. Bob had any idea of the bright memories she had left behind her in the bush. Then as the Măluka crooned on, everything but the crooning became vague and indistinct, and, beginning also to see into the heart of things, I learned that when a woman finds love and comradeship out-bush, little else is needed to make even the glowing circle of a camp fire her home-circle.

Without any warning the Măluka’s mood changed, “There is nae luck aboot her house, there is nae luck at a’,” he shouted lustily, and Dan, waking from his reverie with a start, rose to the tempting bait.

“Noluckaboutherhouse!” he said. “It was Mrs. Bob that had no luck. She struck a good, comfortable, well-furnished house first go off, and never got an ounce of educating. She was chained to that house as surely as ever a dog was chained to its kennel. But it’ll never come to that with the missus. Something’s bound to happen to Johnny, just to keep her from ever having a house. Poor Johnny, though,” he added, warming up to the subject. “It’s hard luck for him. He’s a decent little chap. We’ll miss him”; and he shook his head sorrowfully, and looked round for applause.

The Măluka said it seemed a pity that Johnny had been allowed to go to his fate; but Dan was in his best form.

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” he said tragically. “He’d have got fever if he’d stayed on, or a tree would have fallen on him. He’s doomed if the missus keeps him to his contract.”

“Oh, well! He’ll die in a good cause,” I said cheerfully and Dan’s gravity deserted him.

“You’re the dead finish!” he chuckled, and without further ceremony, beyond the taking off his boots, rolled into his mosquito net for the night.

We heard nothing further from him until that strange rustling hour of the night—that hour half-way between midnight and dawn, when all nature stirs in its sleep, and murmurs drowsily in answer to some mysterious call.

Nearly all bushmen who sleep with the warm earth for a bed will tell of this strange wakening moment, of that faint touch of half-consciousness, that whispering stir, strangely enough, only perceptible to the sleeping children of the bush—one of the mysteries of nature that no man can fathom, one of the delicate threads with which the Wizard of Never-Never weaves his spells. “Is all well my children?” comes the cry from the watchman of the night; and with a gentle stirring the answer floats back “All is well.”

Softly the pine forest rustled with the call and the answer; and as the camp roused to its dim half-consciousness, Dan murmured sleepily, “Sool’em, old girl” then after a vigorous rustling among the leaves (Sool’em’s tail returning thanks for the attention), everything slipped back into unconsciousness until the dawn. As the first grey streak of dawn filtered through the pines, a long-drawn out cry of “Day-li-ght”—Dan’s camp reveille—rolled out of his net, and Dan rolled out after it, with even less ceremony than he had rolled in.

On our way back to the homestead, Dan suggesting that the “missus might like to have a look at the dining-room,” we turned into the towering timber that borders the Reach, and for the next two hours rode on through soft, luxurious shade; and all the while the fathomless spring-fed Reach lay sleeping on our left.

The Reach always slept; for nearly twelve miles it lay, a swaying garland of heliotrope and purple water-lilies, gleaming through a graceful fringe of palms and rushes and scented shrubs, touched here and there with shafts of sunlight, and murmuring and rustling with an attendant host of gorgeous butterflies and flitting birds and insects.

Dan looked on the scene with approving eyes. “Not a bad place to ride through, is it?” he said. But gradually as we rode on a vague depression settled down upon us, and when Dan finally decided he “could do with a bit more sunshine,” we followed him into the blistering noontide glare with almost a sigh of relief.

It is always so. These wondrous waterways have little part in that mystical holding power of the Never-Never. They are only pleasant places to ride through and—leave behind; for their purring slumberous beauty is vaguely suggestive of the beauty of a sleeping tiger:—a sleeping tiger with deadly fangs and talons hidden under a wonder of soft allurement; and when exiles in the towns sit and dream their dreams are all of stretches of scorched grass and quivering sun-flecked shade.

In the honest sunlight Dan’s spirits rose, and as I investigated various byways he asked “where the sense came in tying-up a dog that was doing no harm running loose.” “It waren’t as though she’d taken to chivying cattle,” he added, as, a mob of inquisitive steers trotting after us, I hurried Roper in among the riders; and then he wondered “how she’ll shape at her first muster.”

The rest of the morning he filled in with tales of cattle-musters tales of stampedes and of cattle rushing over camps and “mincing chaps into saw-dust” until I was secretly pleased that the coming muster was for horses.

But Jack’s reprieve was to last a little longer. When all was ready for the muster, word came in that outside blacks were in all along the river, and the Măluka deciding that the risks were too great for the missus in long-grass country, the plans were altered, and I was left at the homestead in the Dandy’s care.

“It’s a ill wind that blows nobody any good,” the Măluka said, drawing attention to Jack’s sudden interest in the proceedings.

Apart from sterling worth of character, the Dandy was all contrast to the Quiet Stockman: quick, alert, and sociable, and brimming over with quiet tact and thoughtfulness, and the Măluka knew I was in good hands. But the Dandy had his work to attend to; and after watching till the bush had swallowed up the last of the pack-team, I went to the wood-heap for company and consolation. Had the Darwin ladies seen me then, they would have been justified in saying, “I told you so.”

There was plenty of company at the wood-heap, but the consolation was doubtful in character. Goggle-Eye and three other old black fellows were gossiping there, and after a peculiar grin of welcome, they expressed great fear lest the homestead should be attacked by “outside” blacks during the Măluka’s absence. “Might it,” they said, and offered to sleep in the garden near me, as no doubt “missus would be frightened fellow” to sleep alone.

“Me big mob frightened fellow longa wild black fellow,” Goggle-Eye said, rather overdoing the part; and the other old rascals giggled nervously, and said “My word!” But sly, watchful glances made me sure they were only probing to find if fear had kept the missus at the homestead. Of course, if it had, a little harmless bullying for tobacco could be safely indulged in when the Dandy was busy at the yards.

Fortunately, Dan’s system of education provided for all emergencies; and remembering his counsel to “die rather than own to a black fellow that you were frightened of anything,” I refused their offer of protection, and declared so emphatically that there was nothing in heaven or earth that I was afraid to tackle single-handed, that I almost believed it myself.

There was no doubt they believed it, for they murmured in admiration “My word! Missus big mob cheeky fellow all right.” But in their admiration they forgot that they were supposed to be quaking with fear themselves, and took no precautions against the pretended attack. “Putting themselves away properly,” the Dandy said when I told him about it.

“It was a try-on all right,” he added. “Evidence was against you, but they struck an unexpected snag. You’ll have to keep it up, though”; and deciding “there was nothing in the yarn,” the Dandy slept in the Quarters, and I in the House, leaving the doors and windows open as usual.

When this was reported at dawn by Billy Muck, who had taken no part in the intimidation scheme, a wholesome awe crept into the old men’s admiration; for a black fellow is fairly logical in these matters.

To him, the man who crouches behind barred doors is a coward, and may be attacked without much risk, while he who relies only on his own strength appears as a Goliath defying the armies of a nation, and is best left alone, lest he develop into a Samson annihilating Philistines. Fortunately for my reputation, only the Dandy knew that we considered open doors easier to get out of than closed ones, and that my revolver was to be fired to call him from the Quarters if anything alarming occurred.

“You’ll have to live up to your reputation now,” the Dandy said, and, brave in the knowledge that he was within cooee, I ordered the old men about most unmercifully, leaving little doubt in their minds that “missus was big mob cheeky fellow.”

They were most deferential all day, and at sundown I completed my revenge by offering these rulers of a nation the insult of a woman’s protection. “If you are still afraid of the wild blacks, you may sleep near me to-night,” I said, and apologised for not having made the offer for the night before.

“You’ve got ’em on toast,” the Dandy chuckled as the offer was refused with a certain amount of dignity.

The lubras secretly enjoyed the discomfiture of their lords and masters, and taking me into their confidence, made it very plain that a lubra’s life at times is anything but a happy one; particularly if “me boy all day krowl (growl).” As for the lords and masters themselves, the insult rankled so that they spent the next few days telling great and valiant tales of marvellous personal daring, hoping to wipe the stain of cowardice from their characters. Fortunately for themselves, Billy Muck and Jimmy had been absent from the wood-heap, and, therefore, not having committed themselves on the subject of wild blacks, bragged excessively. Had they been present, knowing the old fellows well, I venture to think there would have been no intimidation scheme floated.

As the Dandy put it, “altogether the time passed pleasantly,” and when the Măluka returned we were all on the best of terms, having reached the phase of friendship when pet names are permissible. The missus had become “Gadgerrie” to the old men and certain privileged lubras. What it means I do not know, excepting that it seemed to imply fellowship. Perhaps it meant “old pal” or “mate,” or, judging from the tone of voice that accompanied it, “old girl,” but more probably, like “Măluka,” untranslatable. The Măluka was always “Măluka ” to the old men, and to some of us who imitated them.

Dan came in the day after the Măluka, and, hearing of our “affairs,” took all the credit of it to himself.

“Just shows what a bit of educating’ll do,” he said. “The Dandy would have had a gay old time of it if I hadn’t put you up to their capers”; and I had humbly to acknowledge the truth of all he said.

“I don’t say you’re not promising well,” he added, satisfied with my humility. “If Johnny’ll only stay away long enough, we’ll have you educated up to doing without a house.”

Within a week it seemed as though Johnny was aiding and abetting Dan in his scheme of education; for he sent in word that his “cross-cut saw,” or something equally important, had doubled up on him, and he was going back to Katherine to “see about it straight off.”