CHAPTER VIII

“ ‘Bless you, I’m not fighting—I’m watering the garden!’ ”

CHAPTER VIII

Ah, . . . I rememberThe muster of cattle away outback,The thunder of hoofs and the stock-whip’s crack,The panting breaths on the warm sweet breeze,The tossing horns by Rosella trees,And the whirl of dust, and the hot hide’s reek!

Ah, . . . I remember

The muster of cattle away outback,

The thunder of hoofs and the stock-whip’s crack,

The panting breaths on the warm sweet breeze,

The tossing horns by Rosella trees,

And the whirl of dust, and the hot hide’s reek!

—M. Forrest.

ALL aboard!”

“Are you girls ready? Hurry up.” From the direction of the garden came a faint hail, which might have been taken to mean anything.

“Curious things, girls,” said Jim sapiently. Wally and he were leaning over a fence, five horses ready behind them. “When young Norah’s alone, she gets dressed as quickly as you or me; but now she has Jean, they spend ages in getting togged up. And they don’t look any different, no matter how long they take.”

“No,” agreed the other masculine observer. “They always look jolly nice, anyhow. I never can make out what they do, to keep ’em so long.”

“Oh, tie each other’s hair ribbons, and swap neckties, and things like that,” said Jim, vaguely. “Nobody ever knows what girls are up to. Of course, Norah never seemed quite like a girl until she went to school. But you can see there’s a difference now.”

“Well—a little,” Wally answered. “But she’s up to all sorts of larks yet, thank goodness.”

“Well, I should say so,” said Jim, staring. “They’d have to boil Norah before they made her prim; and that’s a comfort. I rather fancy she must have had a pretty woeful time when she went to school first.”

“Pretty rough on her,” Wally agreed. “She’ll be growing up next, I suppose—worse luck.”

“Norah—oh, rot,” said Jim, firmly. “She’s only a kid yet—and will be for ages. Don’t you go and put ideas like that into her head, Wal.”

“Me?” rejoined his chum. “What do you take me for? But she’ll get ’em put in at school, you’ll see, quick enough.” And Jim glowered, muttering something unkindly about school and its by-paths of learning.

“Well, I wish they’d hurry up, anyhow,” he said. “Wonder what’s keeping them.”

From behind them came a faint snore, and he swung round. Jean and Norah were already mounted, their heads drooping on their horses’ necks, in attitudes of extreme boredom. They gave the impression of having sat there for many hours, and finally succumbed to fatigue and slumber. The boys burst into laughter.

“Well, of all the idiots,” said Jim, ungallantly. “How did you get there?”

“Came round the back of the stables,” laughed Norah, waking up. “You two old gossips were muttering away with your heads over the rail—I believe we could have stolen all the horses without your knowing anything about it. It’s just extraordinary how boys will gossip—Jean and I never get lost in our own eloquence, like you and Wally. What were you being eloquent about?”

“Never you mind,” said her brother, shooting an amused look at his chum. “Matters of State too high for your little minds. But you’re not going to ride Warder, are you, Norah?”

“No,” said Norah, slipping off Wally’s mount. “I knew it was no good trying to be quiet if I got on Bosun, bless him!” She patted the brown pony’s neck, and fished a lump of sugar out of her pocket for him.

Mr. Linton came hurriedly over from the house.

“Sorry to keep you all waiting,” he said, taking Monarch’s bridle. “I had to give Brownie some directions; and Hogg is in tears because something’s wrong with the longest hose—I left him trying to mend it with bicycle solution and strips of rubber cut from one of Brownie’s old goloshes, which she nobly sacrificed on the altar of the garden.”

“There are always excitements in being out of reach of shops,” Jim said. “I hope it’s not the hose I used this morning?”

“Oh, no; your skin’s safe this time!” said his father, laughing. “That was a shorter one. I don’t like the big one being out of order, in case of fire; not that a fire at the house is likely—but it’s as well to be prepared. Stirrups all right, Jean?”

“Yes, thank you,” Jean answered. Nan, staid stock horse though she was supposed to be, was impatient to get away, and Jean was walking her round in a circle, pursued by Wally with anxious inquiries as to whether she were qualifying for the circus ring. Bosun’s eagerness to start had been manifested so strongly that Norah had at length given up trying to restrain him, and was some distance across the paddock, the pony fretting and sidling, and trying to break into a canter.

Mr. Linton and Jim mounted, and they all cantered after Norah. She gave Bosun his head as they came up to her—a liberty he acknowledged by executing two or three tremendous bounds in mid-air.

“Mind him, my girl,” her father cautioned. “Don’t let him get his head down; he’s quite happy enough to buck this morning.”

“I’ll watch him, Daddy,” Norah panted. The big pony was reefing and pulling double. She patted his arched neck. “Steady, you old image—steady!” and Bosun came back to a jerky canter, still longing for unchecked freedom to put his head down, kick up his heels and race across the paddock without any handicap of saddle and bridle and rider. For Jim’s weight he had some respect—but this new featherweight, to whom he was not yet accustomed, was a different matter; it was difficult to realize that she had wrists like steel and a curious comprehension of his moods and high spirits. Yet already Bosun understood that his new rider was not at all afraid of him; and that is the best foundation of friendship between rider and horse.

The gate into the bush paddock was on flat country—the end of the wide plain on which Billabong homestead was built; but within a few chains after entering the paddock the ground began to slope upwards until the flat had given place to a range of low hills, sparsely timbered, and interspersed with green and quiet gullies, where thick bracken grew. A week or so back cattle had been grazing all through the hills; big, scraggy Queensland bullocks, new arrivals from “up north,” and still wild and shy. Now, thanks to the vagaries of Harvey, there were none to be seen. They had scattered into the next paddock, where the grass was shorter and sweeter, and “boxed” thoroughly with the other cattle already running there.

“It’s maddening,” said David Linton, scanning the hills with keen eyes. “I came out here ten days ago, and the bullocks were settling down splendidly—not half as wild as they were when we drafted them into this paddock. Now they won’t want to come back, off the clover they are on now. I’d like Harvey to have the job of mustering them alone on foot!” Jim whistled.

“Jolly for the bullocks—to say nothing of Harvey,” he said, laughing.

“Jollity for Harvey isn’t part of my idea,” his father responded. “But the bullocks would be dying of senile decay before he completed the job, I’m afraid; and I’d rather fatten them while they’re young.”

“I expect you would,” Jim agreed. “Well, I don’t believe there’s a hoof left in this paddock, anyhow, Dad.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Mr. Linton answered. “We’ll scatter a bit and ride round. Jean had better keep fairly close to me; the rest of you know where the slip-rails are, and we can all meet there. Be as quick as you can, all of you.”

So they scattered into the timber, Jim taking a line to the extreme left, with Norah nearest to him, then Wally, and, on the right, Mr. Linton and Jean. Jean had not quite the appearance of having been “born in the saddle,” as had the others, who had certainly ridden almost as soon as they had walked; nevertheless, she could be depended upon to give a very good account of herself on Nan, who combined a cheerful spirit with great common sense, after the manner of stock horses, and was quite capable of correcting any mistakes made by a rider unversed in the ways of cattle. Jean’s experience had been chiefly gained after sheep in far-off New Zealand, and to muster cattle is very different work.

But, like many other silent people, Jean was observant, and even since coming to Billabong she had picked up a good few points about cattle and their ways—not a difficult matter where station matters, and the stock generally, entered largely into the life of every day. She was, moreover, greatly afraid of making mistakes, and not at all above asking questions where she needed guidance—two excellent characteristics in a “new chum.” The man of the Bush is nearly always tolerant to beginners, and kind in “showing ’em how.” The one individual for whom he has no time and no mercy is the ignoramus who is cocksure.

Jean was not exactly a beginner—she had ridden by her father’s side in New Zealand much too often for that. Her blue eyes were alight with keenness as they trotted through the timber—now swinging into a canter where the going was clearer, or pulling up when a stretch of crab-holey ground threatened risk to horses’ legs. It was very pleasant in the chequered shadows of the trees, and in the deep gullies where the night-dews still spangled fern and tussock, and the wild convolvuli nodded blue and white bells as if in greeting. Pleasant to give a good horse his head—to let him swing in and out amid the timber, dodging low-hanging limbs by instinct, and skirting the rough barked trunks closely. Pleasant to smell the sweet bush scents; to catch the strong beat of wings overhead where black swans sailed southwards towards the reed-fringed lagoon; or the shrill scream of parrakeets, swooping into a wild cherry tree in a green, flashing, chattering crowd. Pleasant, too, to think of school—very far away, with shuttered windows and great empty classrooms, with dust lying thick on the desks that were symbols of hated toil! Quite possibly the caretaker did not permit dust to linger at all. But it was undeniably cheering to picture it.

A white blur in a deep gully caught Jean’s eye as they rode, and she called to Mr. Linton.

“Is that a bullock lying down?”

“Good girl!” said her host, approvingly. “Yes, it’s a beast down, and I should say he can’t get up. Perhaps you’d better not come down, lassie; just keep straight along this ridge, and I’ll catch you up presently.” He turned his big black’s head down into the gully.

It was ten minutes before he rejoined her—by which time Jean had come to a standstill, partly because she was uncertain as to which way to go, and partly because of a queer sound that might have been a stock-whip crack, but sounded somehow different. She looked inquiringly at Mr. Linton as he rode up. His face was grave and angry.

“Poor brute! I had to put him out of his misery,” he said. “He’d been caught in a little landslip and fallen, and his leg was broken. Come on, Jean, we’re not far from the slip-rails, and the others will be waiting.”

Norah and Jim and Wally were sitting on a log near the rails, letting their horses have a mouthful of grass. They mounted as the late-comers rode up.

“We didn’t find a hoof,” Jim said. A glance at his father’s face had told him that something was wrong, and he brought Garryowen beside Monarch as they rode into the next paddock, over the rails that Harvey had flung down the day before. “Did I hear a shot?” he asked, dropping his voice.

Mr. Linton nodded.

“Yes,” he said, curtly. “A beast down in a gully—leg broken. I was very glad I’d brought my revolver; it’s always best to bring it in country like this, when you never know if it will be necessary to put an injured beast out of pain. The sickening part of it is, that the job should have been done a week ago.”

“A week!” Jim whistled.

“I should say so. The poor brute must have lain there in agony for a good many days—the ground about him was ploughed up with his struggles, and the leg was in a fearful state. He was nearly dead; the bullet only hastened things a very little.”

“And Harvey’s been out here every day,” uttered Jim.

“Yes—with nothing to do but ride round and see that those cattle were all right. Of course he couldn’t have helped the accident, but he could have saved that poor helpless brute days of agony. It’s quite near one of the tracks, too; there can be no excuse for missing it.”

“I don’t think Mr. Harvey ever did much riding round,” Jim said. “Going to sleep under a log is more his form.”

“Or if he did see it he wouldn’t bother his head about it,” his father answered. “Well, I’m not likely to see Harvey again, thank goodness, and that is fortunate for him!” In which, as it happened, David Linton was very far from the truth.

There were plenty of cattle to be seen in the paddock they had now entered. The ground was gently undulating, with clumps of trees here and there, and in two or three places a blue flash that spoke of water. Bullocks were feeding in every direction—some quiet and half fat, while others were raking, long-horned fellows, gaunt and shy, who threw up their heads and their heels and lumbered off at a gallop at sight of the intruders. This had generally the effect of making the quieter bullocks gallop too, and Mr. Linton groaned at the spectacle of so much good beef deteriorating by unseemly and violent exercise.

“I had cherished foolish hopes of cutting them out here and coaxing them back to their own home,” he said. “But there’s not a chance of that—it will have to be a general muster.”

“Where do we take them, Mr. Linton?” Jean asked. It was evident that she did not share any of her host’s troubles—her face was eager and merry, her eyes dancing as they met Norah’s, who, needless to say, was equally cheerful over the prospect before them. Mr. Linton laughed as he looked from one to the other.

“Pretty sympathizers you are for a worried man,” he said. “I believe you’re in league with Harvey—are you sure you didn’t bribe him to leave down the rails? Does it matter at all to you that I drafted out these bullocks very carefully not long ago—and that now I’ve the job all over again?”

“It would matter to me horribly if I were at school and heard about it in a letter,” said Norah, laughing. “I would be awfully worried and cross over it—to think of you having such a time! And I would tell Jean all about it, and she’d be cross and worried, too. But as it is—when we’re both here, and can relieve you of quite half your anxiety by helping——!” Whereat Jim and Wally became a prey to great laughter, in which Jean and Norah joined after a fruitless attempt to ignore them haughtily.

“Since it’s no use to expect decent sympathy from you, you can certainly do all the helping you like,” said Mr. Linton, smiling broadly. “We’ll muster all the cattle down towards the far end of the paddock, and take them out through the gate there—we might have a pretty hard job if we tried to take them through the Bush Paddock. Wally, my lad, just canter back and put up those slip-rails, will you? Jean, you can’t get bushed in this paddock, because there isn’t enough timber; we can’t get out of sight of each other for any length of time. Now we’ll each take a line and get hold of the bullocks in front of us, and hope as hard as we can that they’ll go quietly. I believe much is said to be done by hoping, though I don’t know what happens if the cattle are hoping to stay where they are!”

It was soon distressingly evident that such was indeed the high ambition of the bullocks. They were very contented on the short, sweet clover and rye grass; they saw no reason whatever to justify being driven towards some unknown region. For a good many weeks they had been on the roads, these long-horned Queenslanders, travelling through regions that were all unknown. Most of them had been very comfortless—bare roads where scarcely a picking could be obtained, or through runs where fierce stockmen and unpleasant dogs were jealously indignant if they took so much as a bite of grass or failed to cover each day the prescribed number of miles for travelling stock. Now they had come at last into a peaceful haven, where clover grew thickly, and a creek flowed for their special benefit. Was it to be expected that they should tamely leave it? On the whole, the bullocks thought that it was not, and that whoever was so weak as to expect it must be taught by painful experience the futility of so hoping.

The half-fat cattle went readily enough. The tracks were familiar to them—the crack of a stock-whip was sufficient to start them lazily along the way towards the gate. They had grown philosophic as they attained weight; it was known to them now that when mounted people, with dogs, express an inclination for bullocks to move in a particular direction, it is as well to be acquiescent and move. But the Queenslanders had learned no such lesson, or, if they had learned it, it had been forgotten since they had exchanged the roads for Billabong. Tracks meant nothing to them; they galloped madly hither and thither, made off for the farthest corners of the paddock, with tails wildly streaming in the air, and dodged back with a persistence calculated to reduce the most patient drover to wrath and evil words. Their spirits infected some of the staider cattle, and they also fled to the four winds, with a lumbering agility wonderful in such mountains of beef. It was quite too hot a day for such pranks, and their owner groaned as they fled.

“You can see the condition simply evaporating from them,” he declared.

The heat did not seem to affect the Oueenslanders at all. But the horses were soon sweating and the riders almost as hot, while the dogs became almost useless, and sneaked off to the creek to wallow luxuriously in the fern-fringed pools. Wally looked after them eagerly.

“Lucky brutes,” he uttered, “wish I could follow their example.”

He was tailing behind a dozen bullocks—eight of the quieter section and four of the “stores.” For once they seemed inclined to go quietly, and Wally began to breathe more freely, with visions of handing them over to augment the little mob he could see Jim bringing alone, away to the right. Then came a sudden descent before him, where a little hill ran down into a grassy hollow. The Oueenslanders began to trot down it; then the slope proved too much for them, and the trot broke into a canter and merged to a stretching gallop, striking across the plain. There was no chance of catching them—Wally could only bring up the rear, sending the spurs into old Warder in his fruitless hope of heading them before they should reach Jim’s mob, and upset their serenity.

The cattle had all the best of it. Here and there one dropped out of the chase, panting, or broke back to try to reach the open country they were leaving; but the leaders made for Jim’s little mob, even as the swallows homeward fly. They scattered it hither and thither; heels flew up, and hoofs pounded, as they tore in different directions, and not one the right one. Jim’s eloquence failed him. He could only give Garryowen his head in somewhat vague pursuit, since it could not be definitely said which beast to pursue.

“Hard to know which has most call on a fellow’s time,” Jim muttered grimly as he galloped.

Further across the paddock, Jean was having troubles of her own. The width from fence to fence was all too great for five to guard; although Mr. Linton had said she could not get lost—which she knew very well—it was lonely enough in the wide space, catching only an occasional glimpse of fellow-musterers to right and left across the undulating ground. The bullocks had no sense of chivalry; they treated her with scorn and derision, and her hopes of being of definite use in the muster faded swiftly.

It seemed easy enough to bring along the bullocks directly in front, but when Jean came to put the instruction into practice it was not nearly so simple. Some went quite calmly, insomuch that swift affection kindled for them in her breast; others merely looked at her, walked a few steps, and began feeding again. Pressed more closely and shouted at very energetically, they departed in divers ways, making it quite impossible to pursue them all. She could only hope that they came in the path of the other musterers and meet their due fate. Finally, a big spotted brute, with a great raking pair of horns, doubled when, in her ignorance, she failed to “keep wide” near him, and slipping past her, made for the open paddock behind her. Jean dug her heels into Nan with all her energy, wishing to her heart that they were spurred—a wish slightly unfair to the brown mare, who was only too ready to do her best. They fled in hot pursuit.

The bullock had made all possible use of his start, and he redoubled his speed as the hoofs pounded in the rear. A rise ahead prevented his seeing any fence. He pictured safety in the way he was going, could he but outstrip pursuit—safety and peace, and good grass, away from worrying humans and the rattle of stock-whip cracks. So he topped the rise and raced on; and behind him came the brown mare, entirely beyond Jean’s control now. Nan knew precisely what should be the duty of any self-respecting stock horse, and she was very certain that no featherweight upon her back should prevent her from doing it. She swung outward just at the right moment—a movement which very nearly disposed of Jean, who felt the saddle fleeting from under her, and only saved herself by grabbing at the pommel. It taught her caution. She realized that she could not at all tell what this determined steed was going to do. Therefore she sat very tightly and kept a hand close to the kindly pommel as they raced past the bullock. And it was as well she did.

Nan swung in sharply, and headed the bullock off. For a moment it seemed as if he would race away diagonally across the paddock. Then he propped uncertainly in his gallop for a moment, and immediately the brown mare propped too, turning “on a sixpence” in a way that would certainly have disposed of Jean but for her timely grip. As it was, she went forward upon Nan’s neck, losing both stirrups as she went—and had barely wriggled back into the saddle with a violent effort when the bullock was ready for further action. He uttered a low bellow, moving his head uncertainly.

“Shoo! Shoo!” cried Jean, wildly. “Get along! Oh, I wish I was a man, or a dog, or a stock-whip!”

Something in the shrill voice checked the bullock, or else the sight of the brown mare, eager to do battle again, made him realize the vanity of bovine wishes. He turned sharply, and raced back along the way he had come, with Jean in hot pursuit—atop of Nan, clinging for dear life, with both feet out of the stirrups—Jean, oblivious of all save the joy of conquest, and uttering spasmodic and breathless shouts of “Shoo!” The bullock raced as though the end of the world were approaching for him. Ahead was a group of other cattle; he shot into the midst of them and pulled up, uttering an indignant bellow.

Nan slackened, visibly uneasy at the dangling stirrups, which had, indeed, acted as flails, beating her with great ardour throughout the race. Jean managed to pull her up, and to get her feet in again. Pride rested on her crimson brow.

“Oh, I hope Norah saw!” she uttered.

Then, from some unseen part of the paddock she saw a riderless horse top a ridge and race towards her.

“Oh!” said Jean, “oh! it’s Bosun!” Her voice was a little wail of distress. She dug her heel into Nan, and cantered out to meet the runaway, her heart in her mouth.

It was not Bosun, however, but Warder, Wally’s mount. He came to a standstill as the brown mare and her rider appeared across his path, and looked considerably ashamed of himself, since it is no part of the duty of a stock horse to run from his rider, should misfortune overtake that luckless wight. Then from the same direction came Jim, galloping, with a broad grin on his face. He changed his course and came round when he saw the two horses close together.

“Good girl, Jean!” he sang out. “I’ll catch him.” And Jean swelled with joy at the carelessly given word of praise.

Warder stood quietly enough while Jim came gently on Garryowen, speaking soothing words until he was near enough to grasp his rein.

“Thought I’d have a lovely chase after him,” Jim said.

“Is Wally hurt? Warder didn’t buck with him, did he?” Jean asked anxiously.

“Not he—Warder’s no buckjumper,” returned Jim. “No—the silly old mule—it was all his fault!”

“Whose—Wally’s?” Jean asked, as he paused.

Jim laughed.

“No, Warder’s,” he said. “Put his foot into a crab-hole and turned a somersault—neatest thing you ever saw! Wal. shot about a hundred yards; luckily he landed on a soft spot, for he’s not hurt. There he is, lazy beggar; he ought to be coming to meet us.”

Wally held no such view. He was stretched at full length on the grass, his felt hat pulled over his face. As they rode up he came slowly into a sitting position.

“Bless you, Jimmy! Much trouble?”

“Don’t bless me,” Jim said. “Jean had him nearly caught.” At which Jean flushed with embarrassment and pride, and said something entirely incoherent.

“Come along, you lazy rubbish! I say!” said Jim, in sudden alarm, “you’re not hurt, really, are you, old man?”

“Not a bit,” grinned his chum, jumping up. “Merely lazy, as you truthfully remark, and besides, you were so busy that there didn’t seem any need for me to be more than ornamental.” He dodged a flick from Jim’s stock-whip, and swung himself into the saddle.

Far across the paddock they could see Norah in hot pursuit of a bullock. Bosun was hardly trained after stock yet; so far he lacked the amazing instinct that comes to horses, making them understand precisely what a bullock will do next—often some time before the bullock himself knows. The brown pony was only too willing to gallop; that was simple; but he was weak in the delicate science of checking and heading a beast, of propping and swinging so as to anticipate every froward impulse in his bovine brain. It made Norah’s task no easy one, for the bullock was a big, determined Queenslander, with a set desire for peace and freedom. There was no chance of using a stock-whip, since Bosun was far too excited to permit such a liberty. She could only gallop and try to head him, and shout—her clear voice came ringing across the grass. Finally determination in the pursuer proved stronger than the same quality in the pursued, and the bullock gave in. He turned and trotted sulkily back, with Bosun dancing behind him.

So they galloped and shouted and raced through the long hot morning until they were all hoarse and tired, with tempers just a little frayed at the edges. Even Jean and Norah were of opinion that there may be less fun in mustering than they had dreamed. Bosun was a distinctly tiring proposition in such work as this, his lack of training, coupled with his excitability, making him anything but easy to ride. Many times a bullock got away from Norah because she had been unable to turn her pony—since Bosun saw no reason why he should not sail on to the end of the paddock when once he got going. On one occasion he did actually get out of hand, and bolted a long way, scattering the cattle in his mad career. Altogether it was a strenuous morning, and they were all very thankful when persistent effort succeeded in getting all the bullocks together and through the gate, and so across the next paddock to a set of yards built for just such emergencies, to save driving stock the long distance back to the homestead.

“Eh, but I’m thirsty,” said Wally, slipping Warder’s bridle over a post and turning to take Bosun. “Norah, you look jolly tired.”

“I’m all right,” Norah answered. “I only want tea, and buckets of it. But this fellow makes your arms ache; he’s been trying to bolt all the time. I’d have been more use riding an old cow, I believe.”

“Don’t you talk rubbish,” said Jim, leading Nan and Garryowen up to the fence. “But I tell you what, old girl, you’re going to ride my neddy after lunch. He’s quite a stock horse now, and won’t be nearly so hard on your arms.”

“Well, I don’t like shirking,” Norah said, looking doubtfully at Bosun. “He’s such a beauty, too, Jimmy—only he doesn’t understand yet.”

“Of course he doesn’t—you can’t expect it,” said her brother. “You wouldn’t care for it if he went like an old sheep, naturally. He’ll be all right after a little regular work with the cattle. Anyhow, you want a rest.”

“And you’re sure you’re not too heavy for Bosun?” said Bosun’s owner, doubtfully, looking at Jim’s long figure.

“I thought that had something to do with it,” Jim grinned. “Don’t you worry, my child; I won’t squash your pretty pet!” To which Norah responded by turning up an already tilted nose, and proceeding to unpack the lunch valise, which had bumped somewhat cruelly on Warder’s saddle all the morning, considerably to the detriment of the hard-boiled eggs.

Lunch was simple; they boiled the billy at a little fire in a green hollow where there was no grass dry enough to risk burning, and drank great quantities of tea in the shade of a big she-oak tree. At first Norah and Jean declared that they were too hot to eat; but they revived considerably after the first fragrant cup, and found Brownie’s sandwiches very good. Then Jim emptied the inconsiderable remains of the tea over the fire and stamped it out carefully, separating the embers; and the two boys took the horses for the drink that could not be allowed them until they had cooled down. After which the girls professed themselves ready to start; but Mr. Linton ordered half an hour’s “smoke-oh,” with a keen eye on two faces that were quite too sun-kissed to look pale, but were certainly a little weary. So they all lay flat in the shade, and all but the squatter went to sleep almost immediately, while he sat propped against the she-oak trunk and smoked lazily. The half-hour had stretched almost to an hour before he woke them.

“Come on, you sleepy-heads!” he said, smiling at them. “Time to get busy.”

“Ugh-h—I’m stiff!” uttered Wally, wriggling, with an agonized countenance. “I think I’ve been tied in a tight knot, judging by my feelings.” A small twig caught him neatly on the back of the neck, and, forgetting his stiffness, he sprang up and gave chase to Jim, who was already at the horses.

“Oh, I’m so hideously hot!” Norah grumbled.

“Or hotly hideous?” called out Jim, who looked provokingly cool.

“Both, I think. All the same, that was a nice sleep. Don’t you feel better, Jean?”

“Heaps,” said Jean, who was busy in removing burrs and fragments of grass from her divided skirt. “At least, I will feel heaps better after I’ve got over feeling as horrible as I do just now.” She pushed the hair away from her eyes. “If only one could have a bathe!”

“We’ll have one to-night, in the lagoon,” Norah told her.

“You won’t have much chance of anything to-night except supper and bed, if we’re not quick,” said Mr. Linton. “Come along—you’ve rubbed that pony long enough, Jim. Get in behind those bullocks.”

He took his place at the drafting gate at the end of the race—the narrow lane, high fenced, connecting the big yard, where the cattle had been put, with two smaller yards. The boys whistled to the dogs and slipped in through the fence, urging the bullocks down the race. There Mr. Linton, with a quick turn of the gate, directed their further progress—the Queenslanders into one yard, the older bullocks into the other. Norah and Jean, debarred by the distinction of sex from active participation in these joys, took up a commanding position on the cap of the fence, occasionally emitting a warning yell when a bullock turned back at the very moment when he should have been entering the race.

Drafting cattle is far more pleasant work after a shower of rain. Even mud is better to work in than dust, which rises, and chokes and blinds you, and annoys the bullocks, and makes the entrance to the race puzzlingly obscure. Luckily these yards were not very often used, and had a thin carpet of grass, otherwise the job would have been a more difficult and lengthy one. As it was, when the cattle were finally divided into their respective mobs, and the boys came out of the yard, their features were somewhat indefinite, thanks to the coating of dust that covered each cheerful countenance.

Mr. Linton rammed home into its socket the peg that secured the drafting gate, and rejoined his assistants. They mounted—Norah this time on Garryowen—and Jim let out the Queensland cattle, which immediately made off in the direction of water. Withdrawn from the creek, not without difficulty, they were hustled into the Far Plain and driven along the way they had come that morning, with no chance of nibbling the sweet green clover that was provokingly soft under their feet.

Near the slip-rails Mr. Linton turned to Norah.

“We won’t have any more trouble,” he said, “they’re tired, and will go through into the Bush Paddock quietly. You and Jean can cut back if you like, and let out the others.”

“All right, Daddy,” said Norah, happily. “And bring them along into this paddock?”

“Yes, it will save time. You’ll find they’ll be only too ready to come.”

So Jean and Norah cantered back over the springy turf. The sun was setting, and the trees sent long shadows far across the paddock. A little breeze had sprung up from the west, swelling gradually to a cool wind, that fanned their hot faces—it was quite easy to forget the heat and burden of the day.

The big yard gate swung open—it was one of Mr. Linton’s “notions” that there should be no gate on Billabong that should not open easily, without forcing a rider to dismount. The cattle came out gladly, stringing across towards the clover of their own home, Jean and Norah behind them, happy in the certainty of really being able to render service. Just as the last slow beast had wandered through the open gateway, the three masculine workers came cantering back.

“Well done!” said Mr. Linton, with approval. “Did they give you any bother?”

“Not a bit, Dad.”

“That’s right. But I’m afraid it’s going to be too dark for that bathe, Jean.”

“Can’t be helped,” said that lady, philosophically. “There are tubs!”

“And there’s tea!” said Wally, thankfully. “I don’t know which I want more at this moment.”

“I do, then,” said Norah, surveying him with critical eyes. “There isn’t a doubt!”

“Your face, my thane, is as a book, where menMay read strange matters,”

“Your face, my thane, is as a book, where men

May read strange matters,”

quoted Mr. Linton, smiling. “Not fair to jibe at you, Wally, old man, when you earned your stripes in a good cause.”

Wally put his hand up to his face, where little runners of perspiration had made streaks in the grimy surface.

“I’m used to ingratitude,” he declared. “I’ve a good mind to make a non-washing vow, like those Indian Johnnies and keep off soap and water for seven years!”

“Then you’ll certainly have your meals out in the back yard!” Norah assured him. They shook their tired horses out of a walk and cantered home across the paddocks through the gathering dusk.

CHAPTER IX

There’s rest and peace and plenty here, and eggs and milk to spare;The scenery is calm and sane, and wholesome is the air;The folk are kind, the cows behave like cousins unto me—But, please the Lord, on Monday morn I’m leaving Arcady.

There’s rest and peace and plenty here, and eggs and milk to spare;

The scenery is calm and sane, and wholesome is the air;

The folk are kind, the cows behave like cousins unto me—

But, please the Lord, on Monday morn I’m leaving Arcady.

—Victor J. Daley.

AS she had predicted, Mrs. Brown had not found idleness during the morning hours. The individual who is popularly supposed to supply mischief for unoccupied hands could never be said to number Brownie among his clients. Jim was wont to say that she was a tiringly busy person—with a twinkle in his eye. Her huge form moved with a quite amazing lightness, and she was rarely to be seen sitting still. On the infrequent occasions that she subsided into a chair she produced wool and needles from some unseen receptacle about her person, and knitted as though her life depended on it.

There had, however, been no time during this long, hot morning for such gentle arts as knitting. Brownie was short-handed, the races having taken away some of her helpers; in addition, it was baking day, and that in itself was sufficient for any ordinary woman. The bread had gone into the great brick oven comparatively early. By the time it came out there were other things ready to go in—mammoth cakes and pies, and kindred delicacies. No oven cooks with the perfection of a brick one. Brownie never allowed its heat to be wasted on the days that it was lit for the bread baking. Then “her hand being in,” she proceeded to compound lesser matters—little cakes, cream puffs, rolls, whatever might be calculated to appeal to the healthy appetites that would return to her that evening. “They do take some cookin’ for, they do—bless them,” she mused.

She was outside the kitchen, rooting in the dark recesses of the brick oven with an instrument resembling a fish slice made into a Dutch hoe, when an unfamiliar step sounded on the gravel behind her. At the moment her occupation was quite too engrossing to be relinquished for any step. She did not turn until her explorations had been crowned with success, and she had backed away from the oven door, bearing on her weapon a delicately-browned pie. She deposited it carefully on a little table placed handily, shut the oven door, and faced round.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I thought you’d gone, Harvey.”

“Wasn’t any ’urry,” said Harvey, a short, weedy individual with a crafty face. “Boss said I could ’ave some tucker.”

“He thought you was goin’ to get it hours ago,” said Brownie. “What have you been doin’, hangin’ about like this?”

“Haven’t been doin’ anything,” the man answered sulkily. “Been campin’ on me bed; there’s no points in tearin’ off in this sort of weather. It don’t hurt you, I suppose?”

Brownie stared at the insolent face much as she might have regarded some weird curiosity among the lower animals.

“No,” she said, after prolonged contemplation, during which Harvey had shuffled uneasily. “It don’t hurt me at all; only I happen to be in charge of the place, and it’s my business to see Mr. Linton’s orders carried out. So I think the best thing you can do, an’ the most comferable for all concerned, is to take yourself off as soon as possible.”

“Oh, I’m goin’—don’t you fret,” Harvey said. “Wouldn’t stay on the beastly place, not if I was paid. A nice name I’ll give Linton in the township—an’ the Melbourne registry offices, too! He’ll know all about it when he wants to engage new men.”

“You poor little thing!” said Brownie, pityingly. “Funny now, to see you that full of malice an’ bad temper—and to know how little notice any one’ll take of you! All the districk knows the sort of employer Mr. Linton is—he don’t never need to send to Melbourne for his hands. Why,” said Brownie, becoming oratorical in her emotion, “there’s alwuz men just fallin’ over themselves to get work on Billabong—an’ better men than you’ll ever be! You go an’ talk just as much as you like—it’ll never hurt my boss. But I wouldn’t advise you to get into Master Jim’s way—him bein’ handy with his hands!”

“That pup!” muttered Harvey, malevolently; “why, ’e’s only a kid; I guess I could manage him pretty easy if I wanted to.”

“If you want any tucker off me, I’d advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head,” warned Brownie. “Master Jim ain’t to be discussed by you, not near my kitchen anyhow. If you ask me, I’ll tell you straight I don’t think you’re fit to menshin his name!”

Harvey took a step nearer, almost threateningly. But Brownie had handled too many insolent swagmen in her day to be in the least afraid of this undersized little man, with the rat face.

“Now, don’t you be foolish, Harvey,” she advised. “I’m not likely to be scared of you, or any one like you; and if I was, there’s old Hogg just over the fence in the garden, an’ Lee Wing in the onions, an’ they’d put you into the lagoon as soon as look at you if they caught you givin’ me any cheek. That sort of thing don’t go down on Billabong.”

Harvey’s answering snarl might have signified anything unpleasant. Brownie regarded him reflectively.

“Fact is,” she remarked confidentially, “I’m really a bit sorry for you. I don’t know what kind of a mother you had, but it’s me certain belief that she never spanked you half enough as a boy. You don’t strike me as having had much spanking, an’ I’m not too sure as you wouldn’t be the better for it now. What’s the good of goin’ on like this?—just a useless waster! Whatever on earth do you think you’re goin’ to make of your poor little life?”

“Ah, get out!” said Harvey, not at all impressed by this impassioned oration. “What’s it got to do with you or any one else?”

“Very little,” said Brownie, majestically. “You ain’t likely to be in danger of any one here breakin’ their hearts with worryin’ over you, anyhow. Deary me! I hope Providence is with them turnovers in the oven, or else they’ll be burnt black on me!” She waddled hurriedly into the kitchen and rescued the tarts—not too late. Rising with some difficulty from shutting the stove door, she found Harvey behind her.

“You’ll have to be off, Harvey, you know,” she said, firmly. “I ain’t got time to talk to you, even if I wanted to, which I don’t; an’ Mr. Linton’d be annoyed if he came home an’ found you still encumberin’ the place. Take my advice an’ try an’ get another good job, an’ stick to it this time. You’re young yet, you know, an’ there’s no reason why you shouldn’t turn over a new leaf an’ do well.” (“Only, his face is agin it!” she murmured to herself.)

“Aw, don’t go preachin’,” Harvey muttered. “There ain’t no chance for a poor beggar of a workin’ bloke in this country——”

“Don’t you talk that kind of silly nonsense to me,” returned Brownie, warmly. “If ever a country was God’s own country for a man not afraid to use his hands, an’ with pluck to tackle the land, it’s Australia! I got three sons on the land—an’ if I had thirty-three I’d put ’em all there! But unless the Angel Gabriel came along an’ took you by the back of the neck an’ shoved you, you’d never work—an’ I think even Gabriel ’ud have his hands full. There, I ain’t got time for you. Your tucker’s here; I got it ready early this morning.”

“Can’t I stop an’ have dinner?” he whined.

Brownie hesitated.

“No, you can’t,” she said at length. “Dinner’s not for an hour, and Mr. Linton left pertikler directions that I was to have your tucker ready so’s not to keep you from makin’ a start. He wanted you to get off the place, an’ I won’t take the responsibility of keepin’ you when you ought to have been gone hours ago. There’s enough tucker there for three meals—the meat’ll only go bad on you, in this weather, if you don’t use it.” She thrust the parcel of food—a generous bundle—into his hands. “I’ll give you a bottle of milk, too, if you like,” she added.

“Milk be darned!” said Harvey, savagely. “I’ll let the districk know you turned me out without a meal!”

“The districk’ll be interested,” responded Brownie, with great composure. “Now, be off, or I’ll call the men—an’ Hogg’s temper’s none too good these warm days!”

Harvey’s snarl was not a pleasant addition to an unpleasant countenance.

“Mark my words, I’ll——” he began.

“Mark my words, you’ll find the hose turned on you if you don’t go out of here politely!” said Brownie, her good-tempered old face flushing. “Get along with you, an’ don’t be a silly young man!” She turned her back upon him decisively, and opened the oven door with a snap. Harvey stood still for a moment, his evil features working furiously. Then he shambled out of the kitchen and across the yard, pursued hotly by Puck, the Irish terrier, who barked at his heels in extreme wrath.

“Wonderful how that blessed dog hates vermin!” uttered Brownie. She watched Harvey until he was out of sight—seeing him pick up his swag outside the gate and shuffle away down the track. Even the swag was typical of him—badly rolled and lumpy, with ends sticking out of the straps in various places. Puck came back presently, apparently disheartened by this species of quarry, that was not even sporting enough to show fight; and presently a bend in the tree-fringed track hid the shambling figure.

“A good riddance!” uttered Brownie, turning from the window. “Wonder if he favoured his pa or his ma?” Ruminating on this important point, she returned to cleaner matters.

Harvey, however, did not go far.

It was very hot, and his swag, although it contained little enough, was heavy upon his weedy shoulders. Even the bundle of food bothered him. It took up his free hand, and made it hard to keep away the flies that buzzed persistently about his face and crawled into the corners of his eyes in maddening fashion. He tried balancing it upon his stick across his shoulders, but the pressure of the stick hurt him, and the parcel kept slipping about, and nearly fell more than once. He abused it with peevish anger, including the heat, and Mr. Linton and Billabong generally in his condemnation. Finally, he stopped and kicked the dust reflectively.

“Blessed if I start in this darned heat!” he uttered.

He looked about him. To return to the house was clearly unsafe. He scowled, remembering Brownie’s determined face, and her evident resolve to rid Billabong of his presence. Ahead, there was very little cover for a few miles, and Harvey was rapidly sure that he did not intend to walk so far in the heat. Clumps of box trees were scattered about, but a man sheltering in their shade was easily visible from the house, and he had no mind to be visible. Where could a lone wayfarer dispose of his unobtrusive presence?

Looking back, a little to the west of the stables, a thick clump of low-growing trees caught his eye—lemon gums, planted by Mr. Linton as shade in a little paddock where a few horses could be turned out when it was necessary to keep them close at hand. They grew in a corner, hedged in on two sides by a close-growing barrier of hawthorn. It was a tempting place, cool and shady. A man might lie there unseen of any one, although it was but a few chains’ distance from the stables.

Harvey glanced round. No one was in sight. Behind him the homestead slumbered peacefully, its red roofs peeping from the mass of orchard green. That abominable dog had retreated, much to his relief. Puck always caused him to feel uneasy sensations in the calves of his legs when he rent the air behind him with yelps. It occurred vividly to Harvey that it would have been gratifying to have been able to kill Puck before he went away. Then he left the track, and hurried across the long grass to the little clump of trees.

He reached it unseen, and flung himself on the grass, dropping his swag and bundle thankfully, and tucking himself as far back into the shade of the hedge as the hawthorn spikes would allow. It was the only green thing; the lemon gums looked dry and parched, and the long grass of the little paddock was quite hard and yellow. Still, it was a good nook for a lazy man; the trees hid him from the stables and the house, and the hedge from any other point of view. He stretched out luxuriously—and then jumped up with a nervous start, as an old kerosene tin, nearly hidden under the hedge, rattled and banged as his boot caught it. Harvey told the kerosene tin just what he thought of it, flinging it further away in childish anger. Then he lay down again, and went to sleep, his mean little face half hidden under his battered hat.

When he awoke it was long past the usual dinner hour, and he was hungry. He unpacked Brownie’s parcel, abusing her in a muttered snarl as he did so, and fell to work eagerly on the provisions. Then he dived into the recesses of his swag, and produced a whisky bottle which he had already visited several times during the morning, and washed the meal down with the raw spirit. He tried to sleep again, but sleep would not come, so he propped himself against the trunk of a lemon gum and smoked cigarettes during the hot afternoon, occasionally seeking solace from the bottle. After a time the latter gave out, which annoyed him greatly; he flung it into the hedge, and continued to smoke.

As long as the whisky lasted Harvey had no complaint to make about his day, which was, indeed, a picnic of the kind his soul most desired. He considered that a man not compelled to work, and supplied with food, whisky and cigarettes, has very little more to ask in this troublesome world. It was regrettable that, even to obtain these, it had been necessary to perform something even faintly resembling work. Still, work did not exist on his present horizon; his cheque would last a little while, and beyond that he did not trouble to think—at least, while the whisky yet remained to him.

But when the bottle ran dry his contented mood rapidly fell away from him. He had been dreaming gentle, whisky-assisted day-dreams of suddenly rising to fame and fortune—the means he most favoured consisted in buying a horse out of a costermonger’s barrow, for, say, 2s.11d.and training it in secret until he won the Melbourne Cup with it. It made him very happy, but he could not dream it unassisted; and the bottle was empty, leaving him not quite sober, yet a very long way from drunk—an unpleasant position. Instead of such joyous visions, cheerless spectres came to him—work, and policemen, and bosses; all three equally distasteful. He went over and over the recital of his woes—of Mr. Linton, bloated capitalist and slave-driver, rolling in wealth and grinding the poor beneath his large boot; of himself, Harvey, toiling heavily for a pittance, his lot unredeemed by kindness or fair treatment. Put in that way, it made quite a pathetic case. Harvey grew sorrier for himself with every minute and more and more convinced of the injustice of his lot. That Mr. Linton worked harder than any man he employed, and that he himself had not made the smallest effort to earn his wages, mattered to him not at all. The squatter represented the hated class that owned money, while he had none; and the fact was sufficient condemnation in Harvey’s eyes. He passed from the stage of whining to that of showing his teeth—somewhat hampered by the fact that no one was near to be impressed by the exhibition.

He had worked himself into a sullen fury by the time the sun suddenly dipped behind the western pines, and he realized that it was late—that he should have been on the track long ago. It made another item in his list of grievances. Harvey hated walking—the fourteen miles to Cunjee seemed a hundred as he sat on the grass and thought about it. Still, he did not dare to remain until the others should come home—willing enough to hurt them, could he find a secret chance, he was as little anxious to face Mr. Linton and Jim as he was to meet Murty and the stockmen, whose criticisms, he felt, would be pointed.

He lit a cigarette, letting the match drop carelessly, and a little trail of fire sprang up in the grass in quick answer. Harvey put it out with a casual blow from his hat; even he knew a man must not play tricks with matches in summer. And then the whisky, working on his own evil mind, put a thought into him, and he bit off the end of his cigarette in sudden excitement.

It was a mad thought, but he toyed with it as he sat there, smoking fiercely, until it did not seem so mad after all. Other men had been punished for oppressing the poor. Other squatters had known what it meant to offend the working man—had seen their sheep go unshorn, their lambs undocked, their bullocks left untended. Other swagmen had done what was in his brain to do—had left a fire carefully smouldering near a station boundary so that it should get away into the long grass. It had always seemed to him a particularly smart thing to do—the sort of thing to serve a squatter jolly well right, and prove to him that he was not going to ride rough-shod over every one. There would be exquisite enjoyment in administering just such a lesson to Billabong’s owner. Yet, how to do it?

He was not devoid of cunning. Risk to his own skin was the only thing that really mattered to him. He turned over in his mind various plans, and rejected all of them because he could not quite see his way out. Once started in the long, dry grass, a fire would travel like a flash. There would be no time for the man who lit it to make his escape, for the alarm would have been given before he had gone half a mile. He could not even plead an escaped spark from a camp fire. He had no billy, and with the thermometer at 110 degrees in the shade, there was no possible excuse for a man to light a fire, unless he wanted to brew tea. And short shrift would be given to the “swaggie” careless with pipe and matches in such weather, with the grass like a yellow crop over the sun-baked district. It was really very difficult to be an incendiary, with a due regard for your skin.

Then the old kerosene tin he had kicked away earlier in the afternoon caught his eye, and he gave a low, triumphant whistle. There was an old trick; he had heard of it in Gippsland, if a man wanted to light his cut scrub before the law allowed him to burn it. You put a candle, alight, under a tin, and then rode away, leaving the little sheltered flame to burn slowly down until it came to the tinder-like grass. By that time you were probably inspecting cattle at a farm ten miles off, so that no one could say you had been near your own property to start the fire. It was a very happy way of proving an alibi, and, whatever the neighbours might think, particularly if your burn had spread to their paddocks and involved them in loss, the police could say nothing to you.

“Why not?”

Harvey asked himself the question quite cheerfully. He had a candle. It had occurred to him that the one in his room might be useful, so he had packed it in his swag. The tin appeared to have been put there by a thoughtful Fate. Everything was playing into his hands. Already it was almost sunset. The candle was nearly new, and it would burn long enough to let him get a long distance away. Even if the cracks of the old tin should show a faint glow, no one would notice it behind the clump of gum trees. And once burned to the grass—well, the grass would do the rest.

He took out the candle, and made a little hole in the ground to act as a socket, pressing it tightly into position. Round it he cut the tall tops of the grass, so that the blaze should not come too soon, laying them round the base—a carefully-prepared little mat of tinder. Then he rolled up his swag and made quite ready to start.

He lit the candle. The flame burned steadily in the still, hot air. Then, gently, he inverted the kerosene tin over it, peeping through a hole in the side to make sure that the little yellow flame was still alight. It seemed a little weak—perhaps there was not enough air. So he slipped a stick under one edge, tilting it very slightly, yet enough to admit a breath. He nodded, pleased with his improvement.

“I guess that’ll about fix you, Mr. David Linton!” he muttered.

There was a hole in the hawthorn hedge near him. He pushed his swag through and crawled after it. No one was in sight. He cast a hurried look round. Then he rose and almost ran from the spot—from the rusty kerosene tin and the little yellow flame. The twilight shrouded him—a mean figure, slinking in the shadow of the hedge.

Back to Index Next