They shouted, and as there was no response they shook their horses into a canter. The mules looked up at them uninterestedly as they dashed up; then they resumed feeding. Something in the utter stillness of the place caught at the boys' hearts and stilled their merry voices.
"Hold my horse a minute, Dick." Downes flung his bridle across. "I'm going in."
He ran up to the hut. As he did so old Harry limped out, with a face so ashen that the boy cried out in alarm.
"Harry! What's wrong?"
The old man was looking at Dick.
"Don't let that kid come," he said. "Get him home—quick. They've got Bill and Fox."
"Got them? Who? What do you mean?"
"The blacks. They're there—in their bunks—speared."
"'They're there in their bunks--speared.'""'They're there in their bunks—speared.'"
Downes reeled back.
"Dead?"
"Yes; both dead." The old man's voice broke in a quavering sob. "They couldn't've known, that's the only thing—both of 'em must have bin asleep. The brutes! the brutes! the brutes! Poor old Bill Summers, that never hurt man, woman or child in his life! My God, if I could get my hands on them!"
The other boys were round them now, leaving Dick with the four horses. They stared at each other, white-faced; and Stephens looked into the hut, to stagger back, hiding his eyes.
"They couldn't've suffered," Harry repeated. "That's the only thing. But it's hard on old Bill, to go out without a chance to hit back. And Fox, too—a decent young chap as ever stepped. Got an old mother, and a girl in Geraldton."
"What are we to do?" Downes gasped.
"Get the kid there home, and warn the other out stations. For all we know they're in the timber here now; not that they're likely to attack five or six men together and in daylight. I must take the—the bodies in in the cart. One of you must help me—you're the eldest, Mr. Downes, you'd better stay—and then you'll have to ride with me; 'cause I can't keep a lookout from the cart, and we must go round by the Five Mile and warn 'em there. Mr. Stephens can go to the eastern stations—not likely to be trouble there, but they must get in their cattle. Mr. Macleod can take the little chap home and warn the other huts on his way. Mr. Warner must hear as quick as you can get home to tell him, Mr. Macleod."
"He's over at Mernda," Macleod said, his voice husky. "Won't be home until after dark."
The old soldier's keen face darkened.
"You'll have to go after him, then. The news has got to get to Westown, and he'll do it quickest in the car. Get a fresh horse when you go in. The police and the black trackers'll have to come out from Westown. Ride as hard as you can, every one of you. And keep your eyes skinned all the time—you don't know where the black fiends may be."
"We'd better wait on guard until you—until you start," Macleod said. "You can't keep a watch while you get them——" The words stuck in the boy's throat. "They could rush you from the trees if we left you alone."
"Yes, that's right," Harry said. "Well, take the little chap off for a minute, Mr. Macleod—poor lad, he doesn't know what's up, and he's looking like a ghost—and we'll get a start."
Macleod went over and took two of the horses from Dick, leading him off behind the hut while he told him of the tragedy. Dick stared at him blankly; evident as it had been to him that something was terribly wrong it was impossible to realise that the old man who had been kind to him lay dead in his hut, foully murdered with his sleeping mate.
"I don't think we've anything to be scared about," Macleod said. "I've a revolver, and, besides, I don't think the brutes would attack any of us in broad daylight."
"I'm not scared," Dick said dully. "I say, do you—do you think it—hurt them much?"
"Harry says not," said Macleod, with a gulp—he was only a boy himself. "He says they couldn't have known. Bill must have been very sound asleep or they would never have got in—I don't expect he ever woke, poor old chap."
"That's something," Dick said. His eyes blazed suddenly. "Can't we do anything? Can't we fight?"
"We'll raise the whole country when we get home," Macleod answered savagely. "I only hope the boss will let us go out with our guns, and not wait for the police. But our job is to warn the out stations, and then to get the news to the boss." He wheeled round, and suddenly took off his hat. "Here they are."
The cart came by, its pitiful burden covered with the dead men's blankets; old Harry, tight-lipped, driving, and the white-faced boys following. Downes made two efforts to speak before his voice would come.
"That's all right, Mac," he said. "Get to the huts and home as quick as ever you can. Keep close together, mind, while you're in the timber, and go like smoke!"
Stephens had gone off at a hand gallop already. Macleod nodded, and he and Dick gave their horses their heads, taking the track through the trees where the cart wheels had left their print on the soft grass. They were out of sight in a moment, galloping side by side, with keen eyes searching through the timber on either hand. Once Dick fancied that he saw a shadowy black form, and it was easy enough to think he heard, above the pounding hoofs, the whistle of a spear; but the moment passed and they were racing onward, only checking their speed when they came to another lonely hut. A few words, and they were off again, leaving the amazed and infuriated men to look to their guns and muster their cattle out of harm's way. Another hut, and another; and then, their work half done, they turned their horses towards home. The trees were left behind them now, and they came out upon the wide plain where scattered clumps of timber, easy to dodge in their gallop, gave shade to the lazy bullocks.
"We can get a move on now!" Macleod said, between his teeth. "And every minute we save means more chance of catching those fiends!"
They leaned forward in their saddles to ease the horses, and urged them to racing speed. Mile after mile, trees flashing by them, cattle lumbering, affrighted, out of their way, with no word between them, and only the dull thud of the hoofs to break the silence. Not until they reached the gate of the paddock near the homestead did they draw rein. Macleod, leaning across his horse's dripping neck to open it, glanced at Dick.
"Tired?" he asked. "You've had nothing to eat, poor kid."
"I'm not tired," Dick said; "and I feel as if I never wanted to eat again."
"Same here!" Macleod nodded. "But it isn't sense. We'll have to get something at the house. No use in cracking up just when we're wanted."
They were galloping again, across the last stretch of grass. Suddenly Agility faltered in his stride and half pulled up, limping heavily. Dick was off in a flash.
"He's picked up something," he cried. "Don't wait; I'll lead him in."
Macleod had checked his horse, but at the words he shook his bridle and shot forward. Dick patted Agility's neck, and lifted his forefoot. He whistled softly.
"You poor old beggar!" he said. A scrap of barbed wire was embedded in the frog by two cruel teeth. The horse flinched from the touch. Dick soothed him a moment, and then, with a quick movement, drew out the torturing steel, dodging back as Agility plunged wildly.
"There!" he said. "All over, old chap. Now come and get doctored."
He led him slowly across the grass, Agility on three legs. Near the gate O'Mara, wide-eyed with horror from Macleod's story, met him.
"Barbed wire, is it? I dunno why they have the misfortunate stuff on anny decent place," he said, taking the horse's foot up to examine it. "H'm—'twill be a while before he gets that to the ground. Could ye bathe him now, Master Dick? I'd do it meself, only I must drive Mr. Macleod to Mernda; the browns are ready in the stable, an' 'twill be quicker than riding. And there's not another man about the place; they're all out at some job or other. Sure I'm only in meself ten minutes, and that's why the browns are handy; I drove Mr. Macleay over to Andrews's for the day."
"I'll bathe him, of course," Dick said, taking Agility's bridle. "Don't you worry about him."
"I'd have worried ten minutes ago, but it don't seem to matter much now," the old groom said. "Poor old Bill Summers! Well, I hope them murdherin' fiends will find it the worst day's work ever they did. Masther Dick, will ye keep a lookout, an' the first man that comes in, send him over to Andrews's for Mr. Macleay—he'd betther be home. There'll be guns and cartridges wanting out of the store."
"All right," Dick nodded. "Better let me help you put the browns in."
The light buggy was still in the yard, and the horses harnessed. They put them back, and O'Mara drove out just as Macleod came running over.
"Good man!" he said, swinging himself up. "You all right, Dick? Mind you get something to eat. Let 'em go, O'Mara!" The buggy dashed away down the hill, the browns resenting the unaccustomed touch of the whip.
Dick bathed Agility and rubbed him down, finally putting him into loose box and giving him a feed. He glanced into the other boxes; they were empty, until he came to the last one, where Conqueror's iron-grey head poked over the half-door. Dick patted the long nose as he passed.
"You'd better take a rest while you can," he said. "I guess you'll be wanted pretty soon." But just how soon he did not dream.
The day had gone slowly for Merle Warner.
From her room she had watched the boys ride off in the early morning, sore and resentful that she was not one of the party. It was her favourite ride: of all the station jobs there was none Merle loved like going out to the Ten-Mile. Bill Summers and she were great friends; he always expected to see her when the ration cart went out. And just because her father was not going, she also must remain at home, since long rides were only permitted her under his wing.
She had begged that the rule might, for this once, be relaxed, but her father had been adamant.
"Don't be stupid, Merle," he had said sharply, at last. "Apart from the fact that I wouldn't let you go without me, you might have the sense to realise that the boys really wouldn't want you. Boys don't want a little girl always hanging round." Then—a little sorry for her quick flush, "You can come with us to Mernda in the car, if you like."
"I wouldn't go a yard to Mernda!" Merle had flashed.
"Very well, then, stay at home," Mr. Warner had responded cheerfully. "After all, it's the best place for you. Run off to bed, I'm busy." He had turned to his writing-table and forgotten all about her.
The memory did not tend to make Merle amiable at the breakfast-table, which seemed curiously empty without the cheery presence of the four boys. She hurried through her breakfast, and then retreated with a book to her nest in the big pine tree in the garden, turning a deaf ear to occasional calling of her name. From her hiding-place she watched the car drive off after a while, her father at the wheel. She did not descend until the luncheon gong boomed out its summons; and then strolled in, rather hoping that her absence had caused anxiety. It was rather crushing to learn from Mrs. Macleay that Yet On, the Chinese gardener, had seen her climb the tree and had mentioned the fact to the first person he had heard calling her.
Lunch, with Bobby and the twinses, had been both dull and irritating; Bobby, who was mourning Dick's absence, was in a provoking mood, and the twinses insisted on emptying their soup into a vase, and howled dismally when nanna, returning after a short absence, checked this interesting diversion. The pudding, too, was one Merle did not happen to like; she refused to eat any, and, pushing her chair impatiently away, left the table. Bobby pursued her, presently demanding that she should play with him; she locked herself in her room to avoid him, declining to come out until the sound of little voices, dying away in the distance, told her that nanna had taken the children for their afternoon walk.
She opened her door and strolled out upon the verandah. It was a glorious afternoon; the sun, shining through the trailing masses of tecoma on the posts, was enough to charm away even bad temper. A sudden thought came to her, and she turned back into her room, to emerge presently dressed for riding. Olaf was in the stable, she knew. Why should she not take him out? Mrs. Macleay was the only person likely to interfere with her, and she was safely in the kitchen. Merle ran across to the stable yard, almost cheerfully.
She called O'Mara, but received no answer; and then remembered that she had seen him go out, driving Mr. Macleay. Well, it did not matter. It was easy enough to saddle Olaf without help. She mounted and rode down towards the lake, looking out for the children. They were playing with nanna near the bank, and she trotted along to them.
"Where's you goin', Merle?" demanded Bobby.
"I'm going to meet the boys," Merle said. "You can tell Mrs. Macleay, nanna, if she asks for me."
The black nurse looked uneasy.
"Boss, him be cross this pfeller if you go far," she protested. "Mine thinkit baal you go all by you'se'f, Missy Merle."
"Oh, rubbish, nanna," Merle said.
"Dad'll be jolly wild wiv you—an' so'll mummy," said Bobby warningly.
"I don't care. I'm not going far, anyhow. The boys'll be home soon. I'm sure to meet them in the Middle Plain."
"Boss him say baal you go out on yarraman (horse) 'less he go longa you," said nanna. "Mine thinkit better you get off."
She put out a hand to the bridle. But Merle was too quick for her; a touch of her heel, and Olaf sprang aside. She cantered off along the track, turning to laugh at them. Bobby's woeful little face touched her a little.
"Never mind, old chap," she called to him. "I'll bring Dick home, and we'll have a game."
She cantered across the first two paddocks. The boys should be home soon now, she thought; better fun not to meet them too near the home stead, in the smaller paddocks, where they could not have a good gallop. Out on the plain they might put up a hare, and a racing spin over the grass would be some compensation for the disappointment of her day. Olaf was very fresh; she gave him his head when she had shut the last gate, and soon was far out in the open. Once she thought she caught sight of the boys in a clump of trees, and rode away from the track to see; but, though she beat through the trees, thinking they were hiding from her, she found only a big shorthorn bullock, which lumbered off at her approach. There was still no sign of the boys as she emerged again upon the plain; she stared ahead fruitlessly. Had she glanced back she might have seen two racing figures making for the homestead: Dick and Macleod, getting the last ounce they could out of their horses. But it did not occur to Merle to look back. She touched Olaf impatiently, and again cantered forward.
The green line of the timber ahead beckoned her. She knew well that she would never have been allowed to enter it alone; but she was in the reckless, defiant mood that considers it as well to be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. After all, she thought, she must certainly meet the boys very soon; every moment she paused, thinking she heard their voices. It would be cooler to wait in the shade, even if she only went just within the edge of the belt of trees. But once there, she strayed further and further in, tempted by the leafy green alleys that she loved. Olaf loved them as much as she; he paced along, daintily arching his beautiful neck. The sunlight, filtering through the gum leaves, made dappled patterns on the black satin of his skin. Once or twice he pricked his ears questioningly, as though listening to some sound Merle could not hear—surely, she thought, the boys' horses coming through the trees from the Ten-Mile. So she went slowly on.
*****
Dick came across to the homestead from the stables, feeling suddenly very tired. He had not eaten since breakfast; and morning, with its early start and the fun and laughter of the ride out, seemed to belong to another age altogether. Then, cruelty and murder had been things that people talked about, without realising their existence; now they had suddenly come close enough to be touched, and the whole world was altered. His heart was heavy for the old man who had been kind to him; dead now, and without the chance of striking a blow in his own defence. Dick's fists clenched in helpless anger.
The great bell of the station crashed out suddenly, in such thunderous clamour that he jumped and then stood still. What Mr. Warner called its "tinkle"—the daily summons to dinner—had seemed to Dick violent enough; but this was a new sound altogether, a resonant, brazen din that clanged furiously, sending its strident clashing far out across the paddocks. The squatter's words came back to him—"It can make a very tolerable din in the hands of an active person." Well, that was no exaggeration—surely its wild clamour must reach every man working out on the run.
He went across to the high stand from which the bell hung. It was swaying back and forth in a kind of mad dance, and below stood Mrs. Macleay, her muscles swelling under her thin blouse as she tugged at the rope.
"I'd nearly forgot the bell," she panted. "'Tis two years since we had to ring it—and then 'twas for a bush fire. Go in, laddie—there's food waiting for ye in the dining-room, and Mr. Macleod said ye were to eat."
Dick turned away heavily. The black girls were gathered round, staring and chattering. At the moment even their friendly ebony faces were horrible to him, and he brushed past them as quickly as he could. The food in the dining-room seemed to choke him at first; he gulped down a cup of strong tea, and then found it easier to swallow. The clanging of the bell never ceased; he felt as though it were beating inside his head, paralysing him. And he was suddenly terribly lonely. A great longing for companionship came over him, and he went out again.
Mrs. Macleay had given the bell rope to a black girl, and was speaking hurriedly to nanna, who had run to the house with the children when the bell began to ring. Her kind face was white.
"Think what you're saying, nanna! Miss Merle gone out on her pony! Where?"
Bobby piped up.
"Merle's gone to meet Dick and the boys," he said. "Out over the Miggle Plain towards the Ten-Mile. We tole her dad would be jolly angwy, but she would go."
"That Missy Merle bad pfeller, mine thinkit," said the black gin, stolidly. "Ball she let me stop her—she kicking yarraman, all same jump away quick."
"Bobby!" Mrs. Macleay's voice was a wail. "Are you sure she went towards the Ten-Mile?"
Bobby nodded decidedly.
"Dead certain. She was awful cwoss 'cause dad wouldn't let her go wiv 'em this morning. She said she'd meet 'em comin' home." His eye fell on Dick, and he sprang to meet him with a gay little shout. "Oh, Dick! Didn't you meet Merle?"
Over the fair head Dick's eyes met the Scotchwoman's, and there was dread in both.
"How long ago, Bobby?"
"Since Merle went? Oh, ages!" said Bobby airily. "Didn't you see her?"
Dick shook his head.
Mrs. Macleay gripped his shoulder suddenly, pulling him aside.
"Can you go after her?" Her voice was thick. "I can't ride, and there's not a man on the place. Is there a horse in? Mr. Macleod said yours was lame."
"Conqueror's in the stable," Dick said. "Of course I'll go; most likely I'll catch her up before she gets to the timber. Anyhow, she'll never go into the timber by herself, and no black fellow would go near her in the open on Olaf."
"Are you fit to go, child?" The woman wrung her hands. "You look dead beat now. But what am I to do?"
Dick forced a laugh.
"Don't you worry; I'm all right," he said. "Ten to one she'll have turned back and I'll meet her coming home. I'd better scoot, hadn't I?" Turning, he ran, pursued by an indignant wail from Bobby.
Conqueror was fresh and impatient, and to saddle a horse of seventeen hands is not an easy task for a boy of thirteen, even if that horse be inclined to stand still. Dick was struggling with him when Mrs. Macleay appeared.
"I'll hold him," she said, briefly. She helped to saddle the great horse, and then gave Dick an awkward leg-up. Still holding the bridle she took something from her pocket.
"Is this any good to you?"
It was a small automatic pistol, and Dick's heart leaped at the sight of it.
"I can't hit a haystack," he admitted. "But I know how to use it—we've been practising every evening—and at least I can fire it off. Is it loaded?"
She nodded.
"Yes—but I can't find any more cartridges."
"Well, I mightn't need even these, but I'd better take it," Dick said. He slipped it into his pocket. "Can you open the gate, Mrs. Macleay?"
"Ay," she said. "And there's black girls ahead at the next two gates for ye. Ride fast, laddie, and God keep ye!"
Dick needed no telling. Conqueror was already reefing and dancing with impatience. He went through the gate in a flash and settled into his stride across the next two paddocks, in a way that would have been impossible but for Mrs. Macleay's forethought in sending the gins ahead to open the gates. The wide Middle Plain spread before him, and he gave his head a little shake, taking the bit in his teeth. This featherweight on his back was as nothing; and the stretching plain, with its soft grass, was a galloping ground that he loved.
Dick had never ridden such a horse. On his father's station, while at odd times he might ride anything, as occasion demanded, his favourite mount was his pony, Tinker; here, he had ridden Agility, a horse full of fire and speed, but not big. Conqueror's huge bulk beneath him made him feel like an insect on an elephant. There seemed miles of great neck before him—iron-grey in colour, and hard as iron; and to pull at the huge head was like pulling at the side of a mountain. The massive hoofs seemed to fling themselves out, pounding the grass with earth-shaking thuds. Dick tried to get the horse in hand once, but realised that he had no chance whatever, Conqueror merely shook his head and galloped on.
Well, after all, to gallop was all Dick wanted. Luckily, the great horse kept to the faint wheel track, and that, presumably, was the line that Merle had taken. He ceased to try to steady Conqueror or to guide him, realising that all his energies would be needed for sitting still on the mighty, plunging bulk beneath him. Leaning forward, he scanned the plain eagerly for a glimpse of a little figure on a black pony; but there was nothing save open grass and blue sky, except for the scattered clumps of trees to right and left. She would not be in one of those, he thought, or if she were, the noise of thundering hoofs would make her show herself. He could do nothing but gallop ahead towards the long-blurred line of timber.
But he was cruelly tired. Each great bound under him seemed to shake him from head to foot. The spring had gone out of him; between hard riding and shock, his nerves had tightened almost to breaking point. Yesterday, riding out to revolver practice with the jackeroos, he had fancied himself almost a man; to-day he knew himself for a little boy, and a tired one at that. The thought of his mother came to him, and a sob rose in his throat.
Yet, when the line of timber grew near, and he knew that he must enter it, with all its stealthy peril, something of the clean pluck that was his inheritance came back to him. He sat erect, and tried to steady Conqueror; and to his surprise the mighty horse gave to the light fingers on his bit, and the stretching gallop steadied to the slow canter that his master declared was the easiest pace in the world. With the slackening of the pounding gallop relief came to Dick's overtaxed senses. Had it gone on, he had known that he must fall; now, that fear left him, and with it some of his weariness. He reined Conqueror to a walk as they reached the trees, peering into their dark recesses.
Nothing seemed stirring there. The wheel tracks lay before him, faint, yet clear enough; he was not bushman enough to say if other hoof-prints had stirred the soft grass. With a sudden impulse he coo'ee'd loudly, wondering immediately if he had done the wrong thing. There was no answer. He took his courage in both hands and rode into the forest.
Everything there was very quiet. Not even a bird seemed awake among the trees. So still was it that when a long trail of bark came fluttering down Conqueror jumped, and Dick felt himself turn cold. He realised that he was very badly afraid, and the knowledge brought with it an angry disgust of himself that did more to steady him than anything else could have done. He tried to keep himself from thinking of the hut ... of what had lain in it that the men had not let him see; but the thought came over him like a wave. The utter stillness of the bush was like a cold hand upon his heart. He rode on, deeper and deeper into the green silence.
Then, ahead, something crashed over some dry sticks; and Conqueror flung up his head and whinnied loudly. He thought he heard a cry. Then came galloping hoofs, and suddenly, down a long aisle of the trees, Olaf came into view, riderless and mad with fear. Conqueror plunged aside shivering with some sense more keen than Dick's; and the black pony flashed past them, his head low, his eyes glazed with terror, and right through his neck a long spear that hit the trees as he galloped. A moment and he was gone, and the silence of the bush was more profound than ever.
"Merle! Merle!"
Dick's cry shrilled through the forest. He took Conqueror by the head, and sent him at a sharp trot down the open space whence Olaf had come, glancing keenly from side to side, peering into the scrub. Again and again he shouted, as much in the hope that the blacks, hearing, might imagine that he was not the only new-comer as to warn Merle herself. But indeed, though he rode on desperately, he had but little hope. Surely, when the black pony lost his rider it was because the spears had found her first.
The glade ended in a dense thicket so overgrown with creepers that to force a way through would have been difficult. Dick pulled up, thinking hard. Someone was near, he felt—and there came a queer, pricking sensation in his skin as he wondered what it felt like to be speared. Then he saw an opening on his right hand, and pushing through, found himself on the edge of a long gully, fringed with ferns and thick with sarsaparilla and clematis. Here was where Olaf had come; the pony's hoof marks were clearly visible among crushed flowers and leaves in the rich soil. And then his heart gave a great bound, and stood still.
Merle was running desperately towards him, dodging in and out of the trees that grew on the bank of the gully. She was hatless, and there was a long smear of mud on her face that looked like blood. And behind her, running swiftly and silently, were half a dozen men—slender black figures with horrible patterns on their bodies in black and red, and in their hands bundles of spears. Dick saw one flash in the air past Merle, burying its point in a tree.
He shouted, sending Conqueror forward. Something hard knocked against his side with the sudden movement, and he gasped with relief as he remembered Mrs. Macleay's pistol. There was no aiming, with Merle between him and the racing black figures; he fired twice in the air, shouting with mingled joy and excitement when he saw them pause and dodge behind cover. Then he was beside Merle, and she was clinging to his stirrup. He found himself praying desperately.
"Oh, God! keep Conqueror steady!"
The great horse stood like a rock. Dick kicked his feet out of the stirrup and slid to his back behind the saddle.
"Jump up!" he said sharply. "You've got to be in front."
Somehow, with his help, she managed it. Her boot caught him in the face as she gained the saddle and almost knocked him off. She gathered up the reins, and Dick caught her belt with one hand. The blacks showed again on both sides of the gully. He fired wildly among them, and thought he saw one man drop. But there was no time to see anything. Conqueror was off, and they were tearing up the long glade. A spear whistled by them, and Dick flung his arms around Merle, sheltering her as best he could.
"Lie down on his neck," he gasped. "He'll take us home if they don't hit him."
Right ahead a knot of blacks showed, fiercely barring the way, and a flight of spears came whirring through the air. Dick fired his last shot, with a feeling of numb despair. Conqueror would never face them, and once he turned, wheeling back among the trees, what chance had they? For the bush was alive with blacks. He could see their fierce forms slipping in and out among the timber; could hear their guttural shouts. He forced Merle down yet further, vainly trying to shield her with his body.
A spear caught the tip of Conqueror's ear, and another grazed his flank. He plunged so violently that his riders were almost unseated; and then, mad with pain and terror, the great horse charged forward, pounding the glade with outstretched neck and nostrils flecked with foam. The blacks stood for an instant, and then wavered and fled, and Conqueror swept by them, shaking the earth in the might of his stride. A few spears flew harmlessly past, and then Dick felt a sudden red-hot pain in his shoulder; but it did not seem to matter—nothing mattered save the wild exultation of that race with Death. He shouted triumphantly, "Good old Conqueror!" and heard a sound from Merle that was half laugh, half sob.
"Then, mad with pain and terror, the great horse charged forward.""Then, mad with pain and terror,the great horse charged forward."
The plain danced before their tired eyes. They were out of the timber, and galloping towards home, with no hideous lurking dangers ahead—only the long stretch of thick grass over which the wheel-tracks made a pathway. Conqueror was settling down to a steady gallop—the reins were loose on his neck, for Merle had no strength left to guide him; she could only cling to the pommel, her breath coming in short gasps. The pain in Dick's shoulder suddenly flashed into burning life; he put up one hand, and could feel the haft of a spear. There was blood on his hand when he took it away; he looked at it curiously, as if wondering if it could be really his own. Then a sick faintness came over him, and he could only cling to Merle's belt and struggle for self-command.
Ahead, a blur showed on the grass—the ration cart, which had come out of the trees at a different angle, and was now jogging slowly homeward, with Downes riding beside it. He turned at the sound of the galloping hoofs; and then shouted in horror, as Conqueror came up, drew level, and then thudded past. It was as though neither horse nor riders saw them.
"Harry—it's the kids! And did you see Dick's shoulder? There's a spear in it!"
"Keep as close as you can without racing them," the old man cried. "The boy may fall off any minute."
Downes set off in pursuit. Conqueror was still galloping hard, but without his first terror—only with his smarting ear and flank, and the memory of the yelling black figures to spur him on. The reins flapped on his neck; he missed the light touch of a hand on his bit, the sensitive pressure of the knees—all that makes horse and rider seem as one. This dead weight on his back, that neither spoke, nor moved, nor guided him—what was it? Something was all wrong; there was nothing to do but gallop forward, since ahead lay home and his stable, and behind was the yelling, hideous terror of the scrub.
A clump of trees was before him. He rounded them in his gallop, and then shied violently at a new horror—the black pony, lying dead across the track, with the cruel spear still sticking in his neck. The sudden movement was too much for Dick. The sick faintness had been creeping steadily over him, and the quick wrench, twisting the spear in his wound, brought an agony beyond endurance. Consciousness slipped from him as his fingers loosed their hold. He had a sudden vision of the earth rushing up to meet him. Then he was falling—falling—through an eternity of space, and the world was blotted out in blackness.
It was night, and everything was very dark. Somewhere, a million miles away, was a pinpoint of light. He kept his eyes fixed upon it, because it seemed the one thing in the world where there was any hope. Someone was swinging him backwards and forwards through space, sometimes bringing him near the light and then drawing him steadily back until it seemed that he would never reach it. He could not put out a hand to touch it, even when it drew near, and he knew that the pain that wrapped him round would be gone if he could but grasp it. There were sharp cords holding him tightly, cutting into him; and all the time the ceaseless swinging, swinging. He tried to cry out, but no sound would come.
Then a hand came on his brow, so cool, so gentle, that the formless blackness wavered and melted, and the light grew stronger. The utter helplessness was still there; but the sense of being gripped by something mercilessly cruel faded, and it was as though something infinitely pitiful was holding him quietly. He gasped, "Don't let me swing!" and the soft touch held him closer until he was still and quiet. The light came nearer. Pain was there yet, but pain was as nothing compared to the relief of stillness. Nothing mattered, if only those soft hands would hold him—would keep him from swinging into space again.
Gradually the darkness melted. Things took shape in a kind of dim twilight; he looked long at a strange silver ball, floating in space, before he knew that it was but the knob on his bed-post. The window of his room came out of the dimness; through it he could see gum leaves on boughs that fluttered softly in the breeze. These things he saw because they were in front of him; to turn his head was a task much too hard to be thought of, no matter what might be there. It troubled him that he could not, because he felt something beside him that he wanted desperately to see—something soft that nestled close to his cheek. If it moved, he grew afraid, and cried to it to come back, and it always came quickly and gently, so that he was not afraid any more. Still nestling to it, he drifted into sleep.
"You can get up." The doctor was bending over Mrs. Lester, whispering, "He's asleep."
"He might wake if I moved." Her lips formed the words almost without sound. She could not bear him to cry to her again, in his agony, for the help that only the touch of her lips against his cheek had seemed able to give.
"He won't—yet. The medicine has taken effect." The doctor's face was almost as ghastly as her own; together they had fought death in the little room for thirty-six hours.
He helped her to her feet gently. John Lester slipped an arm about her, putting her into a chair. Her eyes asked the question that her lips could not frame.
"Good, as far as it goes," the doctor answered. "That the sleep has come at all is a big thing; now, we can only hope that it will last long enough to rest him. He wants it, poor little chap."
"You want it, too," her husband said gently. "Come and lie down while he sleeps."
"I won't leave him." She shrank back pitifully.
"You needn't, dear. Lie down on the sofa. I'll call you if he stirs. I promise, Jean."
She let him put her on the sofa, wrapping a rug about her, and taking off her slippers. The doctor went out, after whispering a few directions, and John Lester sat down beside his son.
He did not know much about the outside world since they had come racing home in the car on Thursday evening, to find Dick's broken body, mercifully unconscious, awaiting them. The car had turned back within five minutes, breaking speed records to bring a doctor from the nearest town, sixty miles away; and since that they had never left the boy's side. To the stupor of unconsciousness had succeeded delirium, when he had struggled with unseen enemies and urged on unseen horses, fighting blindly with pain that robbed him of all sense. The doctor, a young country practitioner, acknowledged his helplessness; the thing was beyond him, and until a surgeon and nurses could arrive from Perth he could only administer narcotics and opiates, that had until now been of little effect. There was injury to the head, that was certain; beyond that he feared that the spine was affected. The spear wound, once relieved of the terror that the barb might have been poisoned, was comparatively simple. But John Lester's face was old and haggard as he stared at his son.
Out in the bush, north of the run, infuriated men were scouring the ranges for the flying blacks, dealing out swift justice without waiting for black trackers and police, whose slower methods were little satisfaction to a district that clamoured for revenge. From fifty miles around men had come to help to hunt down the slayers, until Narrung resembled a huge camp when night brought the hunters home to the head station. In another room lay Merle, ill from shock and exhaustion. She had clung to Conqueror's mane until the grey horse came to a standstill at the gate of the home paddock. Downes and old Harry had found them there, and had had to use force to unclasp her fingers. But the Lesters knew nothing of these things. The world, for them, began and ended round Dick's bed.
The slow hours passed, and still Dick and his mother slept. Now and then Mrs. Warner, as haggard as they, tiptoed to the door, bringing food or offering help; but John Lester would not leave the room. He ate mechanically, knowing that he must eat; but his eyes scarcely wandered from the dark head on the pillow, half hidden in its ice-pack. He prayed, desperately, muttering thanks for every moment of the blessed sleep that meant freedom from pain—-that might bring healing in its wings. All the while he watched for any change—for any shade of colour to creep into the still, white face. But no change came; and the day dragged on to evening.
Mrs. Lester woke with a start, trembling. Her husband was beside her in a flash, holding her, whispering.
"No change—and he has slept all this time! Oh, thank God!" Her pale lips quivered—and then she clung to him, starting up. "John—you are sure it is really sleep?"
"It's really sleep," he told her. "Now you go—get a bath and some food. No, you must do it, Jean—remember, this isn't going to be a short business, and you will need all your strength. I'll call you if he moves." Mrs. Warner came in answer to his finger on the electric bell, and took her away.
It was an hour later that Dick's eyes opened, and he looked at his mother wearily.
"Mother," he said. The voice was weak, but his eyes were clear.
She kissed him gently.
"Don't worry, old son." The doctor was beside him, raising his head ever so little.
"Take this, lad."
Dick drank obediently and lay without speaking while they busied themselves over him. When he spoke again his voice was steady, but his lips were grey with pain.
"What's up, father? Am I going to die?"
"Not you!" said the doctor hastily. The boy's glance went past him, to his father.
"Am I, father?"
"No, my son, I think not. But you're badly hurt. You have got to help us to get you better, Dick."
Dick pondered that, his fingers closed round his mother's. Then memory came back to him with a flash.
"Did we get in all right? Is Merle hurt?"
"No; only knocked up. You brought her in."
"I?" said Dick. There was a sorry little ghost of his old smile. "I didn't have any say in it. Conqueror bolted."
"Well, you went out for her, and you brought her back," the doctor said. "And now you mustn't talk any more. Go to sleep, if you can."
But sleep was gone for Dick. He lay in silence, with his eyes closed; so quietly that after a while his father gave way to entreaties and went off to find the rest he so badly needed. Twilight gave place to darkness, and only a shaded lamp lit the little room. The doctor moved in and out, presently coming to whisper that he was going for a walk. Mrs. Lester nodded, glad that he should have the opportunity. Silence brooded everywhere.
It was a little later that she saw that Dick's eyes were open. His fingers moved towards her, on the counterpane. She bent over him swiftly.
"What is it, my son? A drink?"
"No." The word came with difficulty. "If I—if I could hold your hand."
She put her hand in his, and felt hot fingers close round it tightly. So he lay, and then a stifled moan broke from him.
"Is the pain bad, Dick?"
"Pretty stiff," he said. "I'm—I'm sorry, mother." She saw his lips tighten, and he clutched at her fingers desperately. "My aunt!" he gasped presently; and then she heard a whisper, as if to himself—"Buck up, School!"
She bent over him, murmuring broken words of love and pity. It was almost more than she could bear to see the motionless struggle. He lay, unable to stir; and agony gripped him until his hair lay dark on his wet forehead, and great drops of sweat ran down his grey face. And no cry came. He clung to her hand as if it were the one thing left him in the world, and his lips moved in the school call that surely went straight to God as a prayer for courage and endurance—"Buck up, School!"
She slipped her hand away presently.
"Just a second, Dick—I want to send a message."
She pressed the bell until she heard someone running to answer it, and then sprang to the door.
"The doctor, quick! Find him—he's in the paddock."
Dick's eyes were looking for her desperately as she ran back to him. He clutched at her hand.
"I thought you'd gone," he gasped, "Don't let me go, mother—mother!"
"I won't, my darling," she said. "Hold tight to me. Oh, Dick, cry out—it may help you."
She saw his head move in the ghost of what had been his old, decided shake.
"Can't do that," he muttered. His voice died away to an anguished whisper. "Buck up!" was all she could hear; and once he carried her hand to his mouth, holding it against his lips as though with it he might hold back the cries to utter which would have been crueller to him than pain itself.
It seemed an eternity before she heard the gate of the yard bang, and quick strides across the verandah. The doctor came in, switching on another light. His eyes dwelt pityingly for a moment on the boy's ravaged face.
"Having a bad time, old man?" he said quietly. "Let's see if we can help you."
He asked a few questions, his hands busy with Dick's arm. There was a prick with a hypodermic needle, and presently it was as though a merciful hand had sponged the lines of agony from Dick's face. His lips relaxed their grim line, and the torment died out of his eyes. Mrs. Lester felt his clutching fingers curl themselves loosely in her palm.
"That's ripping!" he murmured sleepily. "Thanks, ever so!" His eyelids drooped and closed.
Mrs. Lester's head went down on the bed-side. She was shaking with suppressed sobs.
"The trouble is, I haven't enough of the stuff," the doctor told Mr. Warner presently on the verandah. "I'd had a sudden run on my stock—unusual series of cases, and a fool of a maid smashed a bottle in dusting the surgery. I wired Perth for more just before your car came, but I hadn't much to bring up here with me. Brereton will bring some with him, of course, but he can't get here before morning."
"And you haven't enough to keep the boy out of pain?"
The doctor shook his head.
"Not nearly. I've been using it most cautiously all the time; there'd be none left now but for that splendid sleep he had during the day. Now—well, we can only hope that he may sleep again."
In the early dawn John Lester came out on the verandah, staggering as he walked. Mr. Warner, who had sat there throughout the night, jumped up, catching him by the arm, but the father shook him off blindly, dropping into a chair a little way off, his whole frame shaking with tearless, rending sobs. Mr. Warner watched him for a moment, and then hurried away noiselessly. He was back almost instantly, a glass of brandy in his hand.
"Drink this," he said authoritatively
John Lester took the draught at a gulp.
"He's asleep," he said. "It will only be for a moment, of course—the pain will wake him. My God, Warner, it would be easier to see him dead!"
"I know," Robert Warner said.
"If he'd cry out!" the father groaned. "He lies there and holds on to us—I tell you my hand is sore from his poor fingers; and his eyes ask us for help, and we can't do a thing. And he will not give in. Just 'Buck up, School!' when the pain is almost beyond endurance. It's too much strain for him—it would ease him, I believe, if he would scream. We've begged him to let himself go, but he won't."
"And his mother?"
"She just kneels there and holds his hand, and tries to help him through. I don't know how she stands it. It's been ghastly for the last half-hour—poor little son, he asked for pity at last. 'Can't you put me to sleep, doctor?' he said. And there's not a drop of stuff left. It cut the doctor to the heart to tell him."
"And then?"
"He didn't say anything—-only tried to smile. And then I suppose God had pity, for he fell asleep suddenly." He stopped, sitting erect to listen. "There's his mother's voice—he's awake again." He stumbled back into Dick's room, and Mr. Warner heard him speaking, his deep tones wrung with pity and love: "Hold on to me, old son."
The big man went out with hasty strides across the yard, with tears running unheeded down his cheeks. To and fro he paced; and then, as though the yard were not big enough, he opened the gate with a gesture of helpless impatience, and went down the track. Dawn was breaking after the endless night; the trees were black against a sky that began to turn to palest primrose. Half way down the paddock Mr. Warner stopped suddenly, listening to a sound from very far away—only a bushman's ear could have heard the dull whirr. Then, as he looked, far across the dim plain came a flash—the twin lamps of a motor.
He began to run, uttering a great gasp of relief, thankful to be able to help by even so little as opening a gate. The lights grew in size, speeding across the plain to meet him as he ran down the track, until they were great eyes of fire. He swung the gate open as the car came up, slowing down. A keen-eyed man looked out at him from beside the driver. In the tonneau he could see two nurses in uniform.
"This is Narrung Downs? Hullo, is that you, Warner?"
"Don't stop!" Robert Warner uttered, panting. "Room with the light, off the verandah. And for God's sake, Brereton, have something ready to put him to sleep."
Dr. Brereton spoke to the chauffeur, and the car whizzed on. They heard it in the sick room; and the Westown doctor, with a gesture of relief, went out hurriedly. Presently Dick, in the grip of pain, almost beyond endurance, saw a new face by his side—dark eyes that looked into his weary ones with compassion, and a voice with a ring of quiet strength. He felt again the divinely merciful prick on his arm. Agony and fear slowly slipped away from him. His fingers grew limp in his mother's clasp. She put her cheek against his, and, with a little contented sigh, he fell asleep.
"I wish I could give you better hope, Mr. Lester."
"Is there any loophole?"
John Lester's face was white and drawn as he leaned against the fence, staring at Dr. Brereton. There were streaks of grey in his hair that had not been there before the night of Dick's agony.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
"There is always a loophole where the patient has youth and strength on his side. But I would not be justified in telling you to hope. I have known no case of the kind that recovered more than a measure of power. These spinal cases are terribly difficult; I suppose in the future we may find out more about them."
"But the operation was successful?" Mr. Warner put in.
"The operation was entirely successful—so far as it could go. If it had not been the boy could only have lived a few hours—I was only just in time. Indeed, how he lived through what he must have borne is rather a mystery."
"And now—tell me again what the sentence is. I want to get it clearly," said the father.
"He may outlive you both—though these cases sometimes don't last more than a few years. Your boy is so strong that I should not anticipate any change for the worse, however. He should have a fair measure of health and strength—given every possible chance, as he will be, with skilled nursing. But—it would only be false kindness to mince matters, Mr. Lester—he will never walk again."
The world was going black about John Lester. Mr. Warner caught at his arm.
"You can do a great deal for him," the doctor's steady voice went on. "Fill his life with all the interests you can; get hold of nurses who know how much incurable cases can be trained to do. Keep an atmosphere of happiness about him—remember, always, how strongly the mind acts upon the body. He has more pluck than anyone I ever saw, and he will respond." The deep voice was wrung with pity. "I'm sorry for you, Lester, from my heart—I've sons myself."
"I had only one," said John Lester, with dry lips, "and I was too proud of him, I suppose. I was proud of every inch of him, mind and body—his pluck, his strength, his manliness and his clean, straight mind. Even as a baby he was always such a plucky kid. I used to say he was ordinary enough, even to his mother, but in my heart I thought no one ever had a son like him. And now—well, I suppose I've got my punishment for being too proud."
"You have his pluck still," the doctor said. "He'll need it, as he never needed it before; and your pride in him, too. You can't let yourself get down, mind; Dick will need every ounce of help you can give him. Don't let him ever feel he is less your son because he can't be the son you've hoped for. You've got to put every personal feeling aside for him and his mother."
"His mother! Oh, my God!" said John Lester desperately. He turned from them and went across the paddock with his head down.
"No—don't go after him. He's got to work it out alone, poor chap!" said the surgeon, pityingly.
"You haven't told the mother yet?"
"No. He wants to tell her himself. But she won't feel it as much."
"She! Why, she adores the boy!"
"Yes, but women are different, which is something to be thankful for," said the doctor. "She has the boy still, and the relief of his being alive is so intense that the other part will be secondary. He'll be her baby again; she'll be able to attend him ceaselessly; to spend her whole life on him. That's always going to help a mother. Lester won't have as much comfort that way, and he has all a father's broken pride and thwarted ambitions. It's a hard sentence for a man with an only son."
From the shadow of a great clump of desert pea a little figure crept—Merle, her lank black hair hanging about her tear-stained face. She caught at her father's coat with shaking fingers.
"Daddy! It isn't true—Dick won't be a cripple! Say it, daddy!"
Robert Warner looked down at her gloomily.
"I wish to God I could," he said. "And I wish I'd never asked them on this unlucky visit." His face hardened as he looked at his daughter. "You'd better go inside, Merle—and remember you're not to talk about it."
She went obediently, not crying, but with her childish face set in a look of horror that was not good to see. The doctor looked after her.
"Poor child!" he said. "She came to me last night, and knelt down in front of me and begged me to make Dick well. Someone has told her it's all her fault."
"And so it is," Robert Warner said heavily.
"No good telling a baby that—and she's little more." The doctor lit a cigarette. "And it was only a bit of childish disobedience."
"Well, its consequences will darken my house as long as I live," Mr. Warner said.
Out in the paddocks Dick Lester's father tramped up and down, trying to realise the thing that had befallen them, and praying for courage to tell his wife. How could he tell her? How to find words to shatter the hopes and the joy that thirteen years had built up so happily? She had always known his love of physical perfection, and from the very first days of Dick's dimpled babyhood she had seconded his efforts to make the boy's body splendidly fit. Together they had trained him, proud of every fresh step of physical achievement and muscular development. And now—the body they had gloried in lay a helpless log for ever. Never to walk, never to ride through the bush and the paddocks that he loved; never to spring to meet them with all his happy soul in his eyes. He groaned aloud in his misery.
"I won't tell her to-day," he said. "To-morrow will do."
Then he saw her coming towards him across the grass, fresh and dainty in her white gown. He went to meet her.
"Mrs. Warner saw you going over here," she said, slipping her hand into his arm. "Dick's asleep, and the nurse bullied me into coming out for some fresh air. He's so well this afternoon, the darling! No pain to speak of, and he's quite merry. The nurse says he's doing splendidly."
"That's something to be thankful for," her husband said. "Are you rested, dear?"
"I? Oh, it's rest just to see Dick out of pain, and to know that he'll be all right soon," she said happily.
He tried to answer, and could not. Suddenly she turned, looking keenly at his face.
"John, there is something wrong!" She went white. "Is it Dick? Tell me quickly!"
"Dick is doing well," he said hastily. For she trembled so that he was afraid she would faint. "But there is something. Sit down on this log." He put her down gently, and stood looking at her, and then in broken words he told her of the doctor's sentence.
She heard him almost in silence, uttering now and then a quick question. The colour died even from her lips, but she took the blow without flinching.
"Are we to tell him?"
"No—not until we must."
"He was asking the nurse this afternoon when he could get up," she said with a pitiful little smile. "I—I do not know how one could ever tell him. Dick—my Dick—a cripple! It doesn't seem the sort of thing that could possibly happen."
Suddenly she stood erect, facing him.
"I don't believe it," she said fiercely. "It may seem so now, and I suppose Dr. Brereton knows as much as most men; but, beloved, we'll never give up hope. He's so young, so strong, so perfect! I don't believe that science won't find the way to cure him. We'll make him as well and strong as we can, and take him to Melbourne—to England, to America, to Germany, if necessary. Thank God, there's money enough! You mustn't believe it, either. We've got to keep happy thoughts all round him; to be certain in our own minds that he'll get well. If we let ourselves despair we make ourselves less able to help him."
"You haven't talked to Brereton," he said sadly.
"No, and, if necessary, I won't talk to him!" she flashed back. "I won't do anything to lessen my faith that Dick will get well. Doctors have made mistakes before; and you know he said himself that they don't understand spinal trouble yet, John!"—she caught at him fiercely—"don't believe it! God never meant our boy to be a cripple all his life!"
"I haven't your pluck," he said. "Warner tells me Brereton's about the best man in Perth; he should know. But there's nothing to be gained, at any rate, by giving way to despair. We'll do all we can to fight the verdict. Brereton did say there was always a loophole where there was youth and strength."
He took her hands, looking at her.
"Well, thank God for you, anyhow," he said. "I wonder if there are any depths you wouldn't draw a man from. I came out wondering how I could ever tell you; picturing your despair as black as my own; and instead, you've given me—well, if not hope, at least something to fight for. And that is always something. Come home, and we'll see if Dick's awake."
He wondered often, in the long, hard days that followed, if there were secret moments when her splendid faith and courage did indeed waver. If there were, she did not show them. To Dr. Brereton she listened calmly, taking in all he said, trying in vain to gather from him a shred of encouragement. At the end she thanked him for saving the boy's life.
"I wish I could have given him health as well as life," the doctor said pityingly.
"That will come—some day," she told him. "Please don't try to make me believe anything else."
He shook his head.
"It would not be fair to let you hope."
"It would not be fair to take hope from me," she said. "That's not going to help Dick. Perhaps, in ten years, if everything fails, I might believe you. But we're never going to cease believing and trying."
"You are a brave woman," he said.
"Brave! Why, I am not brave enough to do without hope," she answered. "If I once believed that Dick would never walk again, I would not know how to face life. But he will walk—I know it!"
The doctor went back to Perth when it was safe to leave Dick to the care of the two nurses—experienced, matter-of-fact women, who settled down to the care of an incurable case with a calm professional certainty as to the future that often goaded their patient's mother to the limit of endurance; a fact which they never suspected. Dick himself gave little trouble. He was very weak; so tired that it was happiness to lie still, now that there was no longer pain to dread. "I'm jolly lazy," he said—"but if I move I know the pain will come back, so I don't try." He did not dream that movement was impossible.
Gradually his clean youth triumphed over the minor injuries, and his wounds healed quickly. The Westown doctor, who came out twice weekly, professed himself delighted with him; the nurses allowed themselves a touch of pride over his fast-disappearing scars. A faint tinge of colour crept back into his white face. He had no inclination but to lie still; but interest in the outer world awoke once more, and he liked to hear the station talk; the daily stories of work among the cattle—to hear what horses were in use, and how the young ones were shaping in their work. His room, as he grew stronger, became a kind of centre for the household, and everybody drifted there throughout the day—Bobby and the twinses, with queer offerings of flowers and such curiosities as stick insects and blue-tongued lizards; Mr. Warner solemnly asking advice on station matters; Macleay, the storekeeper, with dry Scots stories. Each evening the three jackeroos came to him with the history of the day; tip-toeing at first, with exaggerated caution, and gradually forgetting it, at Dick's quick questions, so that the sickroom would become a Babel of cheery voices, until the nurse on duty would plead over-excitement for her patient, and turn them all out. Dick hated to see them go, although he would be too tired to want them to stay. "Makes you nearly forget you're lying on your back," he would say.
But there were long hours when he did not seem to want to talk; lying quietly, his eyes always on the patch of sky outside his window, where the gum leaves made a wavering pattern against the blue. Hours when he wanted nothing, he said; neither reading nor stories, nor any of the hundred devices with which they sought to make his day less long. What did he think of? his mother wondered wretchedly, watching the still face against the white pillows. Were there fears in his brave heart? Unknown terrors of the future, that he would not tell even to her? She would ask him if he were in pain, and he would shake his head with a little smile—the smile that never failed for her. But if there were times when Mrs. Lester's own courage wavered, it was in those quiet hours when something beyond her knowledge seemed to be drawing Dick away from her into a silence where she might not enter.
One shadow haunted the verandah outside the room—Merle, white-faced and wretched, haunted by self-reproach too agonising for a child's mind. Whatever bitterness might have been in Dick's mother vanished at the dumb misery in her eyes. She put her arm about the little girl, holding her tightly, while Merle clung to her, shaken with dry sobs.
"I wish I was dead!" she had gasped.
"You mustn't say that," Mrs. Lester said. "Dick would hate to hear you. And you must help us to get him well!"
"But they say he'll never be well!"
"Hush!" The mother's hand was across her mouth. "I don't believe that. You must come to see him when he is stronger, and help to cheer him up."
Curiously, it became apparent after a time that Dick liked to have Merle in the room. She never talked much, and it did not seem that she knew how to smile; but a queer sympathy sprang up between them, for which words were not necessary. She developed an instinct, almost uncanny, for knowing what he wanted. At all times he was slow to voice any need—his sturdy independence was one of the hardest sacrifices he had to make on the altar of his helplessness, and it died hard. Merle divined needs almost before they shaped themselves in his mind. He would find a book, a fresh handkerchief, a piece of fruit, within reach of his hand, put there with a silence that wished to avoid thanks. She saw him feeling awkwardly for his watch, and presently a little clock from her own room was placed at an angle where he could always see it. If the blind flapped, or the door creaked, or the light fell too strongly on his eyes, it was Merle who saw it first, and went quietly to mend matters. "I think she sits there just trying to imagine what Dick may want, so that she may do it for him," Mrs. Lester said to her husband.
"That child's a born nurse, if only she had a decent bedside manner," said one nurse to the other.
But Dick liked her manner. It was "not fussy," he said. She did things quietly, and he soon learned that she hated to be thanked by anything but a glance and a nod. A silent comprehension drew them together, until, after his mother and father, he preferred Merle to any other attendant.
So the weeks went by; and at last one day the Westown doctor declared his part of the work done.
"I can't do any more for him," he said to Mr. Lester. "He has a clean bill of health now, except for the one big thing."
"And that is no better?"
The other man shook his head.
"It can't be any better, Mr. Lester. I wish I could think otherwise."
"What about moving him?" the father asked. "We can't quarter ourselves at Narrung for ever—even if we wished. And I want to get the boy to Melbourne."
"It's a brute of a journey," the doctor said. "Still, it must be faced some time, and the hot weather will make it worse, the longer you wait." He thought deeply. "The train is vile; and the drive to it, even in the Warners' big car, would be a strain."
"My own idea," John Lester said, "was to get a motor ambulance from Perth, and do the whole journey by road. Do you think it's workable?"
"It's your best plan, I believe," the doctor said, with relief. "Brereton would fix it up for you."
"We can make the stages what we choose, according to Dick's strength," said Mr. Lester. "I should take tents, and, if necessary, we could camp on the road. Dick would be better off in the ambulance than in some of the wayside hotels. If it took us a fortnight or more it would be easier for him than that jolting, grinding train."
"There's no risk to the boy," the doctor said. "Only weariness, and you want to spare him as much of that as you can."
A week later Mrs. Lester sat on the verandah outside Dick's room. Her husband had been reading to Dick; the boy had fallen asleep under the spell of the low, deep voice, and now the father sat watching him. She looked wearily across the garden to the wide paddocks beyond. Two months ago they had driven over them for the first time, radiant in the happiness, still a new thing, of being all together; to-night she looked at them for the last time, and there was bitterness in her soul. They were to take Dick away in the morning, the wreck of what he had been; that had been Fate's gift to them at Narrung, the sorry end of the visit that had promised such brightness. Before them lay new happiness or despair—which?
A soft step roused her. Merle stood there, with a kind of trembling determination in her face.
"Mrs. Lester," she said, "will you take me with you?"
"Take you, Merle? My dear child, how could we?"
Merle suddenly slipped to the floor beside her, catching at her skirt.
"I'll slave for you," she said wildly. "I'll do any mortal thing I can. If you leave me here I'll go mad. I 'spect you must hate me, but Dick doesn't, though I don't know why he doesn't. Nobody can hate me like I do myself."
"Nobody hates you at all, Merle."
"People must. D'you think I don't know what I've done?" the child stammered. "Wouldn't you let me come, just for a bit, to work for you—to help you to look after Dick? I'd never be any trouble. I can do my own hair and everything. I'd just be legs for Dick!"
"Legs?" queried Mrs. Lester, puzzled.
"Yes. It's all my fault he can't use his. If I came I could just be there to hand him things and run his errands. He doesn't mind telling me to do things, but he won't ask you, 'cause he hates you to get tired. Oh, couldn't I come, just as Dick's legs?"
Mr. Lester appeared in the doorway.
"Take care—Dick is awake."
They heard Dick's voice, "Mother."
"Yes, sonnie." Mrs. Lester put Merle aside and went in.
"Don't let that poor kiddie cry," he said. "I say, couldn't we take her?"
"You want her, Dick?" said his mother, amazed.
"Oh, she's not a bad kid," Dick said. "I give you an awful lot of work now, and she'd save you a bit. And she wants to come ever so. Might as well let her, don't you think?"
Mrs. Lester looked at her husband uncertainly.
"If you want her I expect you can have her, old son," he said. "I'll see what her father and mother say."
He went out, leaving Dick and his wife alone. A small, sobbing figure crept after him.
Dick looked at his mother steadily.
"I say, mother—am I getting better?"
"Why, of course you are, old man," she said brightly.
"When am I going to sit up?" It was the question she had long dreaded, and she was ready for it.
"When your back strengthens sufficiently. You must give it time, beloved."
"It's not the spear wound? Nurse says that's all right."