Chapter III: Part 3

"Both Murif and his machine were looking in the best of trim. On leaving here he was carrying a fair amount of dunnage, including waterbag, &c. The quartpot strapped underneath the saddle whilst travelling does duty as a storage-room for his tea and sugar. On his back he carries a small knapsack full of provisions. On his belt he has a small pouch for pipe, tobacco, and matches. He smokes very little during the day, and when short of water dispenses with the pipe until such times as he can afford to indulge freely. He converts his lampstand into a rack for his revolver, which article all travellers north of here carry, although it is some years since the natives attacked a white man on the road. However, prevention is better than cure.

"Murif, unlike most cyclists, prefers to travel in loose pyjamas, using clips, rather than the knickers, the former being cool and comfortable for this semi-tropical climate."

* * * *

Myself, writing from Alice Springs, begged for assistance "to give expression to my deep feeling of gratification for the many kindnesses I had been the recipient of on the road. They are thorough white men up this way--the most generous-hearted, the kindliest, the bravest I believe any country in the world could produce. Knowing them, one realises of what noble stuff our pioneers are made."

Now I call at the telegraph station to try and express my thanks to the last of the men--the men out back who know and show what brotherhood is; wheel thoughtfully through the ranges 14 miles, and----

* * * *

As Diamond and I passed into the heart of the land we picked up a great deal of information regarding the most suitable equipment for the journey. Pretty well everyone had something to suggest.

"Ha! yes," said one, "the thing is to keep up your strength, and for that there's nothing like good sleep." So I should have carried an inflatable mattress and pillow--a simple affair, planned on the pneumatic principle, to be pumped in every night at bedtime.

A shot gun or a rifle--"never can tell, you know."

A kodak--"That would have kept your mind occupied."

A tent--"Something light, of course, and easily rigged."

A sextant, quadrant, or theodolite--the suggestors weren't quite sure of the differences between these things; all sounded impressive enough.

A pocket telegraph instrument.

Cyclist's cape and riding suit, with long woollen stockings--for grass-seeds to hold on to, no doubt.

Aluminium water canteen, flint and steel and touch-paper, a medicine chest (the larger the better), snake poison antidotes and brandy (doubtless to make me see 'em), the Bible or a few works of my favorite author, a small "handy" spirit-lamp, a field-glass, much woollen underclothing, rice, oatmeal, cream of tartar, dried this and pressed that; stock, taps and small die-plate; bombs for scattering obnoxious niggers, a recently-invented apparatus for extracting water from damp earth by evaporation and condensation, sponge for gathering up the dew from the tree leaves, a hammock, mosquito curtain.

And many other articles which I cannot bring to mind just now. The reader is entitled to suggest as many more as he pleases.

But it was too late to start collecting _all_ these things at Alice Springs, so I considered, and contented myself with the purchase of--an ounce of quinine, a box of Cockle's pills, and a quart pot.

* * * *

During the time I remained at Alice Springs I bothered my head very little indeed about what there might be in store for me in the country beyond. I had previously been led to cogitate over so very many evil possibilities that I had long resolved not to lay myself out particularly to guard against any at all. Had I devoted my thoughts and actions to making certain of all being safe to the end, then very plainly my wisest plan would have been to turn and cycle back. When advised to arrange against this or that misfortune I returned grateful thanks for the advice, but all the same trusted rather to precautionary measures inventing themselves, or being invented by other than such a powerless atom as myself.

I placed implicit trust on three things--good health, good luck, and a good bicycle. If any of these went wrong, no preparation which I was in a position to make would go far towards the prevention of very nasty happenings.

* * * *

On resuming, after the welcome interval at Alice Springs, a 14-mile cycle walk through the MacDonnell ranges was the first act billed on the day's programme.

The track winds its toilsome way over the lowest rises and through gullies squeezed between the higher of the rough granite and sandstone hills. Much bigger ones--each duly catalogued and named by somebody at sometime, I have no doubt--loomed up in every direction. Many of the gullies are well grassed. Saltbush and mulga are met with occasionally; and everywhere spring up low bushes of the kinds that are fattening and well-beloved of flocks and herds. Rideable stretches of a mile or so may be passed over as hardly worth noticing.

The hills end rather abruptly; and a thickly timbered plain outstretches itself, extending as far eye can reach. Riding on to it one finds everywhere abundance of grass as well as salt and blue bush. There are some open places, but for the greater part of the way to Burt Well (21 miles from the range) the traveller advances within avenues cut through densely-packed and far-extending mulga scrub.

The riding is very fair--a light loamy soil--but a sharp look-out has to be kept for stumps on the roughly-cleared chain-wide track along the telegraph line.

Innumerable small spire-like formations and mounds, the hills of white ants, dot the track, and cumber its sides. None, curiously enough, are known to exist south of the MacDonnell ranges.

Yet what impressed me most during the day's ride was that instead of having entered a desert, I was pursuing a course through country of the best description for stock--only lacking in water.

* * * *

Arriving at a lovely waterhole overhung with gum trees on the Burt Creek (a pad branching from the main track leads to it), I stopped to have a bath and enjoy the cool of the heavy shadow.

It is a law of the overland that a waterhole, unless it be very large or there be others close by, must not be used for soapy-washing. One dips up water with a billycan or pannikin, and, stepping back, should he not have a wash-dish, he washes with one hand. It isn't satisfying, but it has to do.

My waterproof served as a basin. A hole, begun with the boot-heel and finished off by hand, was scooped out in the easily-shifted soil, the waterproof spread out over and then pressed down into it, and--there it was.

By the time I had had my refresher and a smoke I found it very easy to persuade myself that the place was quite secluded and comfortable enough to remain the night at, and I acted accordingly; stocked a supply of firewood in reserve against the chilliness of coming wee small hours; pulled up by their roots (which I then shook free of earth) a quantity of the plentiful 18in.-high dry grass, and arranged my (low-) downy couch in systematic 4 x 6 and side-banked fashion in the lee of the sheltering bush to which I had close-tethered Diamond.

I hung up the lining of my wash basin to dry, lit a fire and brewed a quartpot of tea; but not being very hungry did not broach my precious cargo of bush bread and goat's mutton. I had with me a piece of old newspaper, and I read it. There was a little writing to be done, and I did it. A torn garment called, through the rent, for thread, and I gave it some. Then I overhauled the bicycle, and, finding everything as it should be, broke short a piece of stick and discordantly accompanied myself in an "impromptu"--"Across the Continent in Pyjamas"--by thrumming on the front wheel spokes. Smoked. Stood up and looked around at the scrub; sat down and scribbled a little more--and felt lonely as I could wish till bed time.

* * * *

Before sundown I had watched awhile the diamond sparrows flocking for their evening drink in clustering clouds of dear little twittering atoms. And note, I had begun to tell myself in meditative strain--note how considerate Nature provides for these, even these smallest of her trusting creatures. But a couple of hawks came along, and, swooping low down, pounced greedily upon the thirsting little creatures. I saw no good reason why I should interfere. I gave Nature credit for knowing its business, and guessed the hawks were peckish. Yet, against my reasoning instincts, I threw a lump of wood at one of the murderous, darting birds of prey. The whizzing missile frightened him away alright--and killed about a dozen sparrows.

How very like many great human schemes and systems!

* * * *

But now bedtime. The sun was down, and the stillness was intense. A dim sense of unreality pervaded everything, including even thought-consciousness, the _Ego_. Perhaps it was only through sharp contrast with the past few nights spent talkatively with new acquaintances in Alice Springs; but the solitude made itself felt more oppressively than I can recall it ever to have done o' nights the other side of that reposeful _ultima thule_.

All which trifling details of how I spent one afternoon and fixed my camp I give now, to save, to some extent, vain repetition later on.

So far as "tucker" was concerned, before my own good stock had quite run out I was so lucky as to come upon a traveller (whose business was his own), with his two black-boys, somewhere between the Burt and Tea-tree well. He re-loaded me with all the eatables I desired, and made me welcome to them with the magnificent generosity of the bush.

* * * *

Flat, almost level country extends to a Government well--Connor's--about 23 miles northward from the Burt watercourse. Covering this well, as also those others to be seen still further north, very fine-meshed nettings are hinged to one side, preventing wild dogs, iguanas, and birds from falling in. It is, as all the others are, walled round substantially with upright hardwood posts, sunk touching one another; and it is of course, equipped with windlass, buckets, and a line of troughs. The water is as good as anybody could desire.

* * * *

The feelings of surprise engendered by the sight of such good grazing country, the interest and curiosity excited by the ever-present countless ant-hills, the mild astonishment as I looked through the straight and level avenues lined sharply through the mulga (avenues extending so far that their turning points were lost in the haze of distance)--these were the deeper impressions.

But after the first day out from the ranges these feelings in part gave place to intermittently-recurring sensations of a kind entirely new to me. The high hills behind had, as it seemed, shut me off from the whole world of animation. Up to the MacDonnell, if one doesn't get bushed, one expects to meet with people every other day or so; but here, amid the myriads of ant hills and the thick, impenetrable scrub, it is as if one had strayed into a wonderland whose every inhabitant had died and had had erected to him or her a lasting monument.

And I was cycling through the silent burial-ground!

A ghostly suggestiveness, a little creeping of the flesh, an uneasy expectation of meeting with--one seldom questions at such moments what--urged me quickly on a little way, or, again, would prompt me suddenly to stop, dismount, lean over on the bicycle, and with craned neck peer into the gloomy scrub and rather hoarsely invite what might be therein to "come out." Then, recollecting it to be rather early for that sort of "business" yet awhile, I'd laugh shamefacedly, then philosophise a little, as, sitting beneath a shady bush or mulga tree, if not short of water, I'd smoke a quiet pipe. For I was in no hurry, and by no means did I dislike these new sensations.

* * * *

Hann's Range is 15 miles from Connor's Well. Soon after leaving the well dreary open country is met with--nothing to be seen for many miles but spinifex. Bad riding ground; for where there is much spinifex there almost always will be found very loose or sandy soil or ranges. I look longingly for signs of a mulga thicket, as there I knew the ground will be much firmer.

As it approaches Hann's Range the road improves to very good, and once again the mulga scrub shows up. The range is but a very low one, and is soon left behind. After a run of 7 miles, over fair quartz-pebbly track, another well (Ryan's). After Ryan's another fair stretch of 14 miles, leading into a gap known as Prowse's, where it passes through a low hill of granite--Mount Boothby. The sand thence becomes heavier, and so lasts to a watercourse--the Woodforde. Here are camping places--soakages and waterholes--and at one of these (a crossing of the creek) I spend a night.

A very large burr has put in an appearance; and after it come burrs of all sizes and of several different varieties.

* * * *

Much of the cycling hereabout is equivalent to cross-country riding. Wherever the ground is soft the loose sand blows in and fills up the two narrow parallel riding spaces which are sole indications of wheeled vehicles having travelled this way at some time long gone by.

Between these clearly defined pads a ridge is formed on which grows spinifex or a tussocky grass; so no choice is left to the cyclist but to sheer off to the side. As spare horses are brought along when once a year supplies are carted up to the telegraph stations on the Transcontinental, the sides for some distance out from the track are very badly cut about. One then perforce must ride as best he may, or walk, through scrub and spinifex and over fallen timber.

From time to time, since leaving Connor's Well, many kangaroos had been seen in the occasional open spaces.

At Ryan's Well, and from there northwards, there grows a small pale-green leaved plant, bearing a ripe and tasty berry, in appearance not unlike the gooseberries of down south gardens. I tested one, and liked its flavour well. Then I experimented with a couple, then four; and as there were no signs of ill effects, I fell upon them tooth and nail. Their taste recalled rock-melons. The more I ate of them the more I relished their peculiar "twang."

* * * *

Beyond Hann's Range tracks of naked feet had frequently been observed. Where the ground is hard the cyclist may not heed these footprints much; but in the slowing sand one feels so very powerless to "manoeuvre," that, for a little while at least, the sense of being alone is rather agreeable.

Near a turn in the track a black head and shoulder disappeared behind a bush. Surely, I thought, the time for an adventure has come; so, dismounting, I walked back to the turning point and, completely hidden, peeped along the track.

There was a curious sight. Half-a-dozen natives, now in full view, were making a minute examination of the wheel marks. All were gesticulating wildly. No "animal" like this had they ever seen before. I would have given--what _could_ I have given them?--for their thoughts. Again and again they ran along the track for a few yards--they who had been tracking all manner of walking and crawling things all their lives. Next they appeared to be comparing notes of the strange "beast" itself--so I judged from the movements of their arms and bodies.

And thus they were still engaged when I turned Diamond once again, and wheeled northward.

* * * *

From the Woodforde to the Tea-tree Well the track was fair--a light loam. The mulga scrub in places is extraordinarily dense. A matter of wonderment to me was how the explorers could have forced a passage for themselves and their animals through those miles upon miles of closely packed trees and undergrowth. One ceases to marvel at the creeping progress they made. You need to be in some such place as this (about the Tea-tree Well) before you realise how brave and venturesome and determined the first explorers were--how terribly hard and dangerous their work.

Now the track is plain enough to Barrow's Creek; anyone may follow it--a fact with which, needless to say, I was not acquainted until I had passed over it. But as the stumps have never been grubbed, and as the ants' dwelling-places, if ever interfered with, have been rebuilt or are in various stages of re-construction--what with one threatening wheel-smasher and the other--the visiting cyclist may easily fancy himself touring in a skittle alley studded with ninety-nine thousand pins.

* * * *

The ant hills, ever prominent features in the landscape right through Palmerston, are formed of hard dry clay, or of sand mixed with a cementing solution secreted by the insect. It calls for a very forcible kick to knock the top off even a small one. When broken into, the structure is seen to be cellular, and the dirty-white inhabitants are discovered moving hurriedly over the particles of dry grass or wood which every cell contains.

The cyclist must exercise much caution amongst those pinnacled hillocks and mulga remnants; but on good patches the sensation of sweeping around and in and out through the many obstacles is rather enjoyable. You have some of the delights of cycling and of skating into the bargain.

* * * *

The Tea-tree Well is about 50 yards away from the bank of a pretty wide but not deep creek, on the bank of which flourish the inevitable giant gum-trees. Out from that side of the watercourse farthest from the well, and into the bed of it, grows the bushy nigger-harboring scrub from which the well derives its name. Blacks might be in there by the dozen, and a person camping near this well be never a whit the wiser. The general aspect of the place and its surrounding are wild and likely-looking enough for anything in the way of adventure.

Although it was early in the afternoon I felt drowsy, and planned a sleep at this celebrated spot. First a reconnoitre: tracks of naked feet in plenty; but, then, you can find them almost anywhere. So I comforted myself, and (to my disgust afterwards, of course) argued with myself that there was need of courage; then drew a bucket of the excellent water from the well, and made my "camp."

* * * *

The burrs had, for the last two days, been very troublesome; wherefore I improvised a burr-dissuader, which proved a very successful affair. Finding an old tin matchbox near the well, I prized off the top and bottom pieces, and, with a pair of small folding scissors, shaped one end of each to correspond with the convex outside of the tyres. These pieces of tin I fastened on the bicycle between the forks with the small studs which at one time had held in place the front and back wheel mud-guards. Each piece was so adjusted as to nearly touch the tyre. A cover with central bead would need a corresponding cut in the tin.

A prickle seldom punctures at once; a few revolutions of the wheel must be made before the thorn gets through into the air tube. The object, then, was to remove the thing before those revolutions were made.

When experimenting with the puncture preventative I found that the part of the tyre immediately over the valve bulged out further from the rim than any other portion of it, and so touched the tin. This was remedied by deflating the air tube, loosening the valve and shoving it well in and back from the rim; then properly bedding the outer cover and inflating slightly before again screwing the valve up. A final tightening was given when the tyre had been fully inflated, and I had the cover an equal distance all around from the thenceforward ever-ready and effective appliance.

Then, having tested it on the burrs about the "camp," I debated whether it was an ejector or a dissuader, an interceptor or an arrester, a burr-catcher or a burr-guard--and, so debating, to sleep.

* * * *

But not for long--soon I had company. Dingoes--the howling nuisances of the bush--began their unearthly wailings in the scrub. A revolver-shot scatters or quietens them for a while; but soon they collect again, and emphasize their piteous, dismal cries.

An early start from the Tea-tree; and soon Central Mount Stuart is sighted, rising slowly into distinctness, until, at about 20 miles on, the track is within about 3 miles of it.

A gum creek, the Hanson, runs between the track and the mountain, and between the creek and the track is a belt of mulga.

The mount itself rises out of the heart of a vast stretch of level country.

For myself, with memories of printed and spoken descriptions, I expected to see a solitary peak; instead there is a short range, consisting of three or four hills, the highest of which--this Central Mount Stuart--rises 2500ft. above sea level. Its formation is among its peculiarities, but its layers of red and bluish rock give little foothold for vegetation. And, above all, it is affirmed that it is only 2½ miles out from the exact centre of the continent of Australia. But on this point there is room for doubt.

Central Mount _Stuart_, too? Yet I remember to have read in one of Stuart's diaries:--

"There is a high mount about two miles and a half, which I hoped would have been in the centre; but on it to-morrow I will raise a cairn of stones and plant the flag there, and will name it Mount Sturt, after my excellent and esteemed commander of the expedition in 1844 and '45, Captain Sturt, as a mark of gratitude for the great kindness I received from him during that journey."

The hill must always be an object of surpassing interest to each fresh observer. One cannot but feel saddened by the crowding thoughts of hardships undergone by those intrepid ones who first penetrated here.

* * * *

But it was an exceedingly warm forenoon; and, although Mount Stuart is a sight well worth travelling many a mile to see, I notice the short Philistinish sentence in my note book--"Would have preferred a brewery."

Some day there may be a Central Mount Stuart Hotel.

* * * *

The road from the Tea-tree had been fair and level, and so it continued to the Hanson Well--a total of 33 miles.

At the Hanson a blackfellow was bending over and drinking from the troughs. He was somewhat startled on turning and seeing me dismount; but, though he had with him a few implements of the chase and an iguana, he did not look particularly wild.

My waterbag was empty. Leaning the bicycle against something, I stepped over towards the well and began--"Here, 'Hanson,' lend a hand to----"

But he had very civilly started walking after me to lend the hand before I had asked it of him.

The bucket was soon landed, and not another word was spoken until I had drunk deeply of the sparkling liquor. Then I found that the naked one was capable of "yabbering" fairly well.

"'Nother white pfella walk longa track?" he said, inquisitively.

"No more--which way blackpfella sit down?"

"By and bye more blackfellow come."

Then, indicating a direction by a hand-wave he added vaguely--"Longa scrub."

Then I went to the machine. Lighting my pipe, I overhauled the parts, spinning wheels and performing other simple operations.

"Hanson" had approached cautiously; but at length his curiosity got the better of him, and he came near. He sat down on his haunches and eyed it quizzically, and for several minutes in silence. At length--

"My word, good pfella nanto that one!" ("Nanto"=horse.)

I jumped into the saddle and exhibited my nanto's paces. Then laid it down.

He quizzed it again.

"Him no wantit feed? No walk-about?"

"Ah, wait," I said; and took out the air pump, and set to work.

"Hanson" rose from his haunches and bent over the inflating tube.

"My word," he cried, slapping his legs in prodigious glee--"My word, him grow fat all right, _my_ word!"

I gave him half a stick of tobacco. Never yet have I heard a blackfellow say "Thank you." "Hanson" received the tobacco in silence, and just as if he didn't know he was on the point of asking for it. Yet he may have been thinking of something else because, as I handed it to him, he said--

"White pfella him big one clevah. What him think, him do?"

I thought I had heard the same thing somewhere before.

"Yes," I coincided, and felt for the moment that it devolved upon me to say or do something towards proving myself worthy of a share in the flattering opinion. "Awfully clevah. I-er have known--"

I was about to speak of a scientific American's flying machine; but the bicycle was quite far enough in that direction.

"Have known-er eccentric bodies of them stand bolt upright on their heads. Say 'Nansen'--I mean 'Hanson'--" as the thought struck me--"did _you_ ever have a try at standing on your head?"

But "Hanson" didn't savee. He giggled; repeated to himself vacantly a few times "Head? Head?" and finally put a poser to me.

"Which way?"

It was but a Christian duty that I should instruct and edify the poor benighted heathen. No one besides us two were near to witness the good deed; so as he sat on his haunches and continued gazing up into my face expectantly, I slung my satchel on the handle-bars, emptied into it a few things from my pockets, levelled off a little sandy space on the ground, and showed "Hanson" by a single object lesson how the "clevah" thing was done.

The benighted one took very kindly to my humble Christian endeavour.

"Well, 'Hanson,'" said I, taking up my satchel and replacing the articles, "do you think you could manage it? Tell you what; suppose you stand alonga upside down, then this other fat--one stick of tobacco I give it. Savee?"

"Hanson" saveed.

"Me do it all right, I think," he said, scrambling from his squat, and valorously stepping over to the small clear space.

There he went down on all fours, and jambing his head on the ground sought to invert himself. He was far from succeeding the first time he tried, or the second, but needed not the slightest word of encouragement from me to try and try and try again.

"Here 'Hanson,'" said I at last, compassionately, "knock off. You'll be suffocating yourself. Besides, I want to ask you which way track go."

But he had taken it very much to heart, this feat of standing on his head, and was bent on its achievement.

"Which way track go?" I said again.

"Me do it this time all right, I think;" and was "this time" just as near success as before.

"Don't you hear?" I called out. "I want to ask you about the road." But _he_ only wanted to stand on his confounded head.

I rather regretted having put him up to the wrinkle; the track from the well might be in any direction.

"Me give it you that fellow stick of tobacco all the same you stand up," I said.

Again he only muttered a choking "Me do it all right," and again another try.

But it was all of no avail. He couldn't stand on his head and I couldn't stop him from trying. His face might long since have grown purple; but I was unable to see. His ulster would hang downwards and get in the way.

"What infernal nonsense," I said impatiently to myself. Here was I, in the heart of a continent, miles from any other white man, my sole companion an unknown black, myself ignorant of the track, and paying for the freak of a moment in this absurd way.

"Hanson" was still struggling. I gave him up as hopeless, got into the saddle, and wheeled away.

I wonder if "Hanson" has done it yet, and if upon the strength of it he's been raised in rank in his tribe!

* * * *

Those aborigines are a perverse lot. Bushmen and those who have long lived at the telegraph stations or at Port Darwin agree that you can never rely upon astonishing them. Take a tribesman from the inlands, as the native police have sometimes had occasion to do, show him the "mighty ocean," and he regards it stolidly; and so with many of the marvels of civilisation. But do some fantastic trick or show him some simple, gaudy thing, and he is transported.

But their laughter is mostly a giggle, especially in the presence of white men. I never heard from any of them a boisterous outburst, nor ever heard one with a bass voice--unless he also had a bad cold.

My "Hanson" was not wholly uncivilised. He wore, as I said, an "ulster." Now, a blackfellow's full dress away from settlements consists of an "ulster"--not universally so called--and a waist band, which are worn low down in front. The "ulster" measures about 10 inches by 6, and is suspended from the band. Of course where white men are stationed and the blacks are permitted to congregate, the "nager," or clothes-line, is drawn lower down and higher up on the part of the females, and those of the males who can procure them wear bifurcated garments.

* * * *

Eight miles from the Hanson Well, and we are at the Stirling horse-breeding station. Fair road for most of the spin, though there are three sandhills near the end of it. And in the short spin, too, we say good-bye to that salt bush--here a strongly-growing patch--which has been for so many miles, so many hundred miles, our sole companion.

A wide, fertile and picturesque creek-flat, studded with gums, was ridden over before the Stirling Creek itself, and afterwards the station, came into view. Following up the watercourse I had arrived within a couple of hundred yards of a not imposing little row of buildings (for all that, there was a pleasure in sighting them) without being able to detect a soul, when suddenly out of the creek started up, as if by magic, about fifty of the best specimens of Australia's hirsute savages I have ever had the opportunity of picking up broken pieces of volapuk from--a handsome, murderous-looking set of able-bodied cut-throats, who came racing towards me.

"Hello, my beauties," I said, and pressed as quickly as convenient to an open door.

Resting the bicycle against a verandah post, I looked inside and asked hungrily "Anybody home?" but there came no reply.

Wheeling sharply and addressing the crowd of sable ungarmented savages, now volubly "yabbering" and deeply interested in a discussion of the bicycle--"Which way boss walk, sit, run, tumble down, or jump up?" I enquired anxiously.

One only, so far as I could make out, laid claim to be a linguist.

"Him go after bullock. Not long him come back. You wait?"

This was a re-assuring start, anyhow.

Wait? Rather! Though I badly wanted to push on to Barrow's Creek I would have waited a week, could it have been so arranged, to see this man--for the bare sake of having one good look at him, for the possibility of a hand shake from him.

For I had heard of him, though never previous to my passing Oodnadatta. And I had heard of his lion courage from those who must themselves be brave men. I knew of the spear marks he bore, and how it was he came to bear them; yet fearlessly as ever remaining here by himself for months at a stretch, a kindly master to a horde of athletic treacherous savages, with not the slightest chance of anybody coming to his assistance should he ever be in need of aid!

When, after a couple of hours "wait," I saw him riding up, I felt no pang of disappointment; he looked in full the hero I had pictured him. I managed an indifferent-sounding "Good day--a bit hot?" and looked away over to where stood his horse; but I watched him with a leaping, boyish happiness through the corners of my eyes, and there came again and again to my mind the expressive deliberate words of more than one quiet-spoken old bushman--"Ah! But it is _he_ who is the grand man!"

There was no doubt that I was outside the pale of civilization now; he had heard nothing of a cyclist being on the road.

There was no occasion to tell him I was hungry. A welcome feast was soon prepared, and I ate--no, I fear, I gorged.

And what a mine of information is this man himself! What would he not be worth to the interviewer? But he talks with more than the modesty of the bushman, and that is saying much.

The natives now-a-days along the overland track are not, in his view, quite so black as they are painted in the imagination of some residing south of Alice Springs. Articles might be pilfered from a camp left without anyone in charge, but otherwise the natives near the wells and on the road might generally be looked upon by the passer-by as harmless, if properly handled. To east and west, however, are several places in which the natives are "cheeky." "And," added my host, "some 'bad' fellows now and again find their way into the Bonney"--a fresh water well to which I had not yet come.

* * * *

From Stirling to Barrow's Creek is 22 miles. The first eight or nine of these takes the traveller along the Stirling Valley, over well grassed and timbered reek flat sand plains.

Here are many healthy specimens of the celebrated Stuart's Bean tree. This is one of the most beautiful of shade trees. The few I had noted particularly had grown to a height of from 35ft. to 40ft. The pods when ripe split open, and, the bright scarlet beans within being exposed, a very pretty picture indeed is presented. The beans are very hard, and about three-eighths of an inch long. Dusky damsels gather them, bore a hole through each one, and string them into necklaces. Even lying about on the ground those bright-coloured little ornaments served to add another charm to the romantic scenery of Stirling Vale.

Although not given to collecting curios, I took one with me over the Foster range (five miles of barren mountain-top and very stony track, the descent on the north side being particularly steep) and along the further eight miles of stony creeks, cutting through flats between other ranges, which led to Barrow's Creek.

* * * *

At the crossing the creek is wide, and heavily timbered with gums. The telegraph station lies the other side, and is very prettily situated at the foot of a steep hill which marks one side of a gorge in a range bearing away to the east. The buildings are of stone, and everything about the place bears evidence of a very attentive supervision. The whites "in camp" at the time were the station master, two or three assistants a cook and a police trooper. A well-kept and prolific garden is close by, and a low stone wall and headstone mark the burial place of those who were killed when the natives made their oft-told-of attack.

That was in '73, when as yet the natives were unaccustomed to the new institution of the Overland, and when their favorite recreation was the cutting of the wire. They watched a line repairing party file out, northward; and having waited, with their native cunning, until those men were beyond the possibility of recall, on a Sunday evening, when the eight inhabitants of the station were talking together outside the stone wall, they suddenly sprang from ambush and poured in a shower of spears. And yonder are the graves of the station-master and a linesman, who paid for the natives' treachery with their lives, while others paid for it with months of agony from spear wounds and thrusts.

* * * *

There is no place of call in the 160 miles between Barrow's and Tennant's Creeks, and it was certain I would be very hungry before that distance had been travelled, however short a time it might occupy.

Here was a stage in which a sporting rifle or a shot gun would very probably come in handy. But then a gun is of no avail without powder and shot, and the carrying of these, to say nothing of a kangaroo leg or turkey (buzzard), loomed up an altogether swamping difficulty.

Still I knew I could do comfortably for a fair time without food, provided I had plenty of water This latter was promised me in the several wells ahead. The "going" was said to be fair; so, after looking into the matter, I saw no reason why the distance could not be covered without weighting myself with bulky provisions; and I finally resolved on trying to make the run with water only by me.

So before breakfast time on the morning fixed for the departure I gave notice of my intention not to take anything; and, happening to have in my hand at the moment the only article in my possession which I could very well do without--the 3dwt. bean--I handed it over to the resident trooper, who had made out a road plan for me.

"Why not keep it? You know there are thousands to be got about here?" the officer asked wonderingly.

"Then throw it away," I answered; "it's altogether too much of an unnecessary weight for me."

"Three pennyweights!" The trooper ejaculated in his surprise.

But I was not allowed to keep intact my resolution; and out of the multitude of good things pressed upon me. I chose a small piece of cake, rolled it in paper, and hung it to the lamp bracket.

* * * *

Within the first half-mile I overtook a small mob of sheep, with two or three black boys in charge; and, rather than scatter the little flock, rode to one side, in through the scrub, until they had been left behind.

Before another mile had been covered, I noticed that my cake had disappeared. It could not have been long gone; and, as the thought had just entered my mind to eat it up and so be finished with it, I stopped, leaned the bicycle carelessly against a bush, and walked back; but the tracking through the scrub was slow, whereupon I gave up the search and returned.

The bicycle had been blown over by a gust of wind, and was lying on the ground. Worse still a thousand times, the stopper had been jerked out of the neck of the waterbag, and the precious water had drained out. However, it was only 20 miles to a soakage; my spirits were high after my recent good living: so, with a few cursory remarks to the wind and to Diamond, I remounted and rode on.

* * * *

Before many miles had been covered, against a head wind and under a sweltering sun, a sharp thirst reminded me that I had eaten a salt-meat breakfast; and that thirst became sharper still before Taylor Creek was reached. The track, too, was a bit heavy--over flats of light loamy soil and sandy plains for the greater part of the 20 miles.

On coming opposite the bend, where the Taylor Creek is nearest on the track's eastern side, I rode across to refill the waterbag; but all the soakage water had dried up. Holes had been sunk in the gravel about two feet deep, but only a white gritty clay showed at the bottom of each one.

It was a weary search along that creek's bed; up and down I tramped anxiously, burrowing and scratching, but unavailingly; and after an hour spent in this way, it was a sadder man who returned to pursue an onward course.

Six miles is not far; but it counts for very much when a man has done twenty before it on a hot day, and that is topped up with an anxious search, a sandy road, and a disappointment. That six miles took me to a well sunk in the Taylor, at a point where the creek passes through a range. A bucketful of water was soon hauled up, and, pushing in one of the two stop-bolts which were provided at the sides for that purpose, thus leaving the bucket suspended on top of the well, I leaned over and had gulped down three or four mouthfuls before I made a shocking discovery.

The horrid stuff was almost salt!

I spat out what I could; but what I had swallowed had far from given me relief.

Yet how it glistened! Was it mockery? I laughed a little, and knew the laugh was forced. Yes, this was thirst.

Would the tantalising stuff be better boiled? I made the experiment; it failed.

I tried it with some meat extract (a few capsules of which I had); but--it was salter than ever.

With tea? Perhaps, but I had no tea.

A smoke for consolation--no, I dare not.

I bathed my face and hands, and was a little relieved. Then, filling the waterbag, on the off chance of later on feeling more disposed towards poisoning myself, made all the haste I could for the Wycliffe.

* * * *

An old turn-off track beyond the Taylor Well leads out in an easterly direction to the Frew River and El Kedra--both abandoned stations. The country about there had been stocked at one time, but the natives were uncontrollable and very troublesome, spearing and slaughtering many of the cattle; and the lessees deemed abandonment advisable. From those places, and from another lower down and to the west--Anna's Reservoir--the natives count upon having frightened away the white men, the would-be settlers, and are inclined to "fancy" themselves accordingly. In other words, they are said to be "bad" about those places, and, as somebody significantly expressed it, are "spoiling for a hidin'."

It was dreary "going"; and the thoughts associated with the country were not cheering. It was flounder, flounder through the heavy sand, with the lips parched and the throat dry--and growing drier and drier. I turn back now to my note-book and find the single entry--"This five-mile 'plug' is the killing gait."

Yet no creek showed itself. My legs were beginning to send up signals of distress--and all the time that water "flopped" in the bag and tormented me.

The night came on swiftly. Diamond, we must make a dash for it! On, on!

An ant-hill or a stump overlooked as I tried to make out the timbers of a creek in the far distance, now wrapped in the evening haze, and I was sprawling on the ground, and Diamond had been thrown heavily as well. I limped over, and tried to mount--tried again and again, but each time a numbed knee refused to answer to the call.

I sat down to ponder things. That knee-cap--the swelling startled me for a moment. I might crawl, no more--crawl, and leave Diamond behind. But whither? That could not be thought of.

No sleep that night. And water--!

The bag--! No; it were better not. I tried to sleep.

Yet, that water--was it so _very_ bad? I wasn't so thirsty back at the well; it would be palatable enough now.

I reached for it, and drank it greedily.

"Fool!" The reflection came instantly. "Now look out!"

How hot it was--stifling.

My brain was converted into a busy telephone exchange, and every subscriber was ringing up viciously.

"Hello? hello?"

That was from the leg; a cramp. I attended to it.

Again a vicious ring. The swollen knee called for sympathy--anything else I couldn't give it.

A violent call. The tongue this time. Poor member, poor badly-treated member. But be still. Yet somehow, try as it would, it couldn't get back to its proper place.

Then, in a quiet moment, the brain set to work on its own account. Diamond--was Diamond safe? What were the faithful one's injuries?

But another interrupting call: those muscles again.

A mosquito! Ha, sing away, fasten your sucker where you please--you are but a mere circumstance to-night!

Hot Moisture! on my forehead! Now, what mysterious well within me held yet a drop of water? (Was that a rustle? Niggers, perhaps. Ah, well--)

Ants? Very well; what matter? But--but keep off that knee!

And, oh, for one long deep drink of water!

Dives, has that monster Lazarus relented and begged for you a drop of water yet?

* * * *

It is wearisome to write how _I_ felt and what _I_ said and did--more wearisome perhaps than it is to read. But these unpleasant incidents seem to be regarded as the "most prominent features" of the journey; and they are here set out, not because there is any gratification to be got from the operation, but because by pointing out the pitfalls, they may serve to make easier the path of those who shall follow me.

* * * *

The dawn, if it brought no assuagement of the thirst, brought at any rate more hope; and still stiff and sore and aching, I limped, leading Diamond, towards the Wycliffe, which I knew could not be far away. It was an hour's drag through sand and scrub before the turn-off pad was reached; then a mile down the pad, the waterhole itself.

The Wycliffe is a wide watercourse which, after rain, stretches out unrestrained at many places in its course into a series of shallow swamps and clay-banked waterholes. One of these was filled to overflowing with "the nectar of the gods;" and, literally, rushing to its edge, I drank with rapturous delight.

The cravings of an abnormal thirst having been satisfied, I placed the polluted water-bag to soak, made a pot of tea, further refreshed myself with a wash, and had hardly touched the earth when I fell asleep.

* * * *

It may have been reality, or it may have been fancy; certainly I heard a rustle, and sat up quickly.

Three blackfellows were walking towards where I lay. At the instant of seeing them they were scarcely half a dozen yards off. I did not move--where was I to move, and why?

"What name you wantem?" I asked.

As none of them had on anything more than what looked like a piece of old clothes line with the frayed ends knotted together in front, with boomerangs thrust through it at the sides, and as each carried a woomera, or throwing stick, and a spear, they appeared to be quite respectable wild savages.

It is at such moments that a self-respecting person should, in a twinkling, live his life over again--he should look down through the corridors of his years, and renounce all his wickednesses.

Also the armed and treacherous natives; these denizens of the wildest tract of the Australian continent, descendants of those (or maybe the men themselves) who have murdered settler and traveller in cold blood--these formidable fellows, I say, should have raised a whoop, and casting their spears at my prostrate form, should then have robbed me of the few trinkets I possessed, and my revolver, and have left another carcase to tell silently of the infamy of the black people.

But things go wrong. For my own part, instead of looking back through any corridors, I observed that the feet of my visitors were much larger than were those of the natives south of the Alice. And, instead of a war-whoop and a deadly lunge, one of the three stretched out a hand and whined the single word "Baccy?"

And this is the romance of our Dark Continent!

These undraped fellows, carrying spears and boomerangs, roaming about an unfenced wilderness, romantic enough in contour and general setting, capable enough, one would judge, of eating uncooked rattlesnakes for choice--whining "Baccy?"

It was exasperating. Besides, I wasn't going through the country loaded up with tobacco for free distribution among blackfellow-strangers.

It, at the instant, occurred to me that those three strapping fellows might, if they chose, possess themselves of all the tobacco I had, and the bicycle into the bargain, I was certainly too weak to--

Then it flashed through my mind--"What would the fearless fellow back at the Stirling do?" I made up my mind for him at once.

"You fellows, get!"

Then I turned over, as if dead certain they would "get!"

And after "yabbering" to or about the bicycle they disappeared--whither I did not know.

By the generality of those white men with whom I conversed on such matters before reaching Alice Springs, it is--or was--an accepted belief that, from that place onward, natives are nearly always about at watering places along the overland track, although the traveller may not catch sight of even one. They are ever so much more sharp of sight and hearing than the whites, and, being treacherous themselves, they are very suspicious of strangers, and so they hide if they do not clear out on learning of a strangers coming.

Some of them believe or pretend to believe the whites have robbed them of their choicest hunting grounds, and, naturally, these work themselves up into revengeful passions when dwelling on their wrongs.

It is always best, or so I heard, when the traveller is alone, or there are only two together, to keep moving--not to linger long at one spot. And I must say that I have noted a spicy and suggestive _soupçon_ of restlessness at night-time in the manners of those few travellers with whom I camped beyond the Alice. The revolver was invariably seen to before turning in.

And, on principle, a revolver should be carried. If whites ceased to carry the weapon, then the natives, observing its absence would grow braggishly bold and presuming.

* * * *

Seventeen miles of bad travelling ground--red loam and sand plains--brings the traveller to the Devonport Ranges. A couple of miles before passing through them, a creek, the Sutherland, was crossed. The white sand in the channel was piled up in strange formations. How terrific and eddying the current of water must be which at wide intervals comes tearing down! As it stood, the bed suggested a reproduction, in the solid, of a narrow strip of wild-surging tempestuous ocean--a series of waves and billows, small mountains high.

Through the range though, it is good riding.

A mile or two beyond the Sutherland, on a flat among the low hills, huge, smooth boulder-like masses of granite threaten to block the way; but the track winds in among them, and out again.

The boulders lie thickly around in every direction, singly or piled one upon another. They are of all shapes--round and oval predominating--and run from scores to hundreds of tons in weight. Some are so perched as almost to tempt the passer-by to bring a crowbar with him next time he comes and tip them over.

These are "The Devil's Marbles," and a very novel and rather fantastic appearance they present. The solitary traveller may easily conjure up images of giant hobgoblins coming along in play hours to practice the game of "Catch"--surely, by the way, the devil's own favorite game.

I was about to sit in the shade of a large boulder, when from the further side of it came out an animal uncanny and weird as its surroundings. In form it resembled an iguana, but was five or six times larger than any one of that species I could remember to have seen, and, while I stood and looked in mild astonishment, it rose on its two long hind feet, and so walked a short distance; then as suddenly "flopped" down again, and disappeared.

The 36 miles from the Wycliffe to the Bonney Creek is nearly all bad country for cycling over. I was riding at the moment of first sighting the Creek, and a little while afterwards was able to discern the well away out from the farther bank. To the left of the crossing and not far from it, a small column of smoke was rising; and by the fire--two standing, the others sitting or lying down--were half-a-dozen bandicoot-hunters.

I had reached the Creek's bank before observing the blackfellows, and had been on the point of dismounting; but their unexpected presence (I had noticed no fresh tracks), induced me to keep going, and I spurred Diamond cruelly on to make him cross the pebbly bed, past which there promised to be a stretch of good hard level road on which I could--well, manoeuvre, should the occasion for doing so arise; although it would have taken much forcible persuasion to induce me leave the water once I reached it.