Part 6

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.