Battle Cry - Leon Uris [145]
“Best we could do.”
“Drag up the floor, cousins, and set a spell.” Speedy dropped to the bed again.
“Where’s the broad, where’s the broad?” the Injun asked anxiously.
“Ain’t home from work yet. Just take it easy, there’s plenty for all.”
Lighttower unscrewed a bottle, took a swig, and passed it on. “If she ain’t here I got to shove off for Otaki,” he said. “I got a squaw all shacked up for the rest of the leave.”
“Aw, you just got to stay,” Speedy moaned. “I promised old Meg an Injun, she never been laid by an Injun.”
“Had just about everything else though, cousin.”
“Yeah, but she wants an Injun.”
“O.K.,” Lighttower said. “For you fellows, I’ll do it.”
“Now, that’s a real buddy for you.”
“What time does she get in?”
“Now for Chrisake, will you take it easy?”
“Any chance of getting the clap?”
“Damned fine chance.”
“Hell, I don’t want to go to the clap shack.”
“Where’s your spirit of adventure?”
“Meg’s going to be right happy tonight I got her an Injun…” The half-emptied bottle went to Speedy’s lips and he closed his eyes.
Danny, Marion, and L.Q. raced from camp as Speedy and Seabags staggered in.
Their trip north along the Tararua and Ruahine ranges was full of breathtaking sights. In order to make the most of their time, they cancelled their proposed tour to South Island and headed for a place where the trout season was still open. Mile-deep fjords, rushing streams, green mountains, deep-dropping gullies met their eye as the dinky little train labored toward Hawke Bay. The good Lord had obviously left too much of nature’s artwork in New Zealand and too little in some other parts of the world. Sunk in the deep leather chairs of first-class accommodations, they sat with their eyes glued to the panorama of color and shape and splendor that passed by them.
At each stop—Featherton, Carterton, Masterton, Eketahuma, Pahiatua, Woodville, Dannevirke—they rushed from the train, as did the natives of the land, onto the long concrete platforms of the depots. There, lined up along the counter, sat cups of steaming tea and plates of pastry awaiting the arrival of the train. A quick snatch, a sixpence on the counter, and they dashed back to the train. At the next stop the empty cups were returned and fresh ones taken from the waiting counters. It was a refreshing and leisurely custom to travel with tea and sip it in along with the scenery.
They came to Waipukurau, a small town near where the rivers Wiapawa, Makaretu, Tukituki and Mangaonuku flowed. Their streams bulged with brown and rainbow trout and the nearby hills were filled with red deer, fallow, wapiti, virginian, sambur and Himalayan tahr, and chamois. And the game birds in the lagoons and marshes: mallard, shoveller duck, teal, black swan, Canadian geese, Californian quail, pukeko, and chukor. It was March and the air was cool and fresh and sweet.
They put on their packs, shouldered their rifles and, with newly purchased light angling equipment, stepped from the train.
Their accommodation was a small lodge in the hills several miles outside Waipukurau. It was rugged but luxurious and blended with the hills about it. A huge fireplace and a log-paneled wall with a display of mounted heads of fourteen pointers, large quilted comforters over the beds and knitted circular rugs—it was the room of an old hunter’s dream.
The fishing season was drawing to a close so there were few guests present. The deerstalking parties and gamebird hunters worked out of camps and used Mr. Portly’s lodge as their base. A nearby unit of home guard cavalry patronized the bar nightly. The pub in the wilderness was well stocked with Scotch and aged whiskies and brews not available in the crowded cities. This was of no consequence to Marion who did his toasting in sarsaparilla anyway.
A few miles from the lodge, Hale Hendrickson, a combination farmer, hunter, and pioneer, had carved a small farm from the wilds. His wife, daughter, and small son held forth and awaited the return of the elder son from the Middle East. Two other sons had died in battle.