Jim returned to the attack and separated them. In doing so he became wedged in a corner against the fence, and the stallion came straight at him.
He had no time to use the lash, so, seizing it short in his hand, he twisted it round and raised the stock.
He struck the now infuriated horse a blow on the forehead, which dazed him for a moment but did not daunt him. The horse stood on his hind legs and commenced to strike at Jim with his fore feet.
Jim Dennis knew he had never been in such a tight fix before, and he commenced to wonder what would happen.
He struck the horse's fore legs again and again with the stock of his whip, but could not beat him off.
He heard the gate opened, but did not see who was there. Presently the stallion was attacked in the rear, and a vigorous lashing from a strong arm made him alter his tactics. He came down on all fours and then kicked furiously. Jim Dennis dodged round him, and, standing back to give himself more room, again plied his lash with effect.
The horse was now beaten, and took his defeat sullenly. He retreated, and received a parting whack as he went.
Jim Dennis then saw it was Constable Doonan who had so timely come to the rescue.
'You were in a tight corner, Jim. I came just in time. That's a brute of a horse. Where did you get him?'
'I didn't get him, he came of his own accord. He doesn't belong to me. I found him with my mob when I was out on the run. The storm gave them a fright, and they galloped into the yard. He commenced to savage my horses, so I had to separate them. We have had a toughish struggle.'
'Curious,' said Doonan. 'I wonder to whom he belongs. Looks like a thoroughbred. I have heard nothing about a horse being lost. He must have broken loose. Can you keep him here until I make inquiries?'
'If we can box him he'll be all right. Perhaps they were bringing him from Sydney or somewhere, and he managed to get away. Come inside, Fred, you are wet through.'
'It will do me good,' laughed Doonan. 'It is a long time since we had such a soaking. What a difference it will make to your place. By the way, how's the young un? I heard from Dr Sheridan he had been very ill.'
'He has had a narrow squeak, but he's pulled through, thanks to Dr Tom. Come in and see him. Willie is very fond of you,' said Jim.
'Oh, did you hear Rodney Shaw has come back from England?' said Doonan, as they went indoors.
'Has he?' said Jim. 'Why, he must have been away six or seven years.'
Rodney Shaw was the wealthiest squatter round Swamp Creek. He inherited the property from his father, and had taken no share in amassing the very large sum of money he found himself in possession of at an early age.
He was only two-and-twenty when he found himself his own master, and soon after his father's death he left his property in the hands of a manager and went to Sydney, where he remained for some time before he took his departure for London. The name of his station was Cudgegong, and it comprised an area of about thirty to forty square miles. In addition to this he held big shares in several mines in the western district, most of which paid good dividends. On his return from England he went straight to Cudgegong, 'to put things in order,' he said, although everything had gone on well during his prolonged absence.
As a lad he was not liked in the district, and as he grew older he became domineering and somewhat vicious in his habits.
He had the usual love of horses which seems bred in all Australians, and before he was of age he owned race horses.
He was a younger man than Jim Dennis by several years, but the two men had not been bad friends, in fact Rodney Shaw got on better with the owner of Wanabeen than with anyone else.
Jim Dennis was surprised to hear of his return, and asked Doonan if he was sure his news was true.
'Certain of it,' said the constable.
'I had it from Dr Tom, and he knows everything that goes on in these parts.'
'There's not much escapes him, I grant you,' laughed Jim; 'but I hardly think he is correct this time.'
'Why not ride over and see?' said Doonan. 'You were always welcome at Cudgegong, I hear.'
'I think I will,' replied Jim, 'as soon as the weather takes up. Perhaps I can be of use to him as he has been away so long.'
Constable Doonan remained at Wanabeen for the night, and had a long talk with Willie. The lad loved to hear of his exploits, and how he had captured bushrangers in Victoria, and Queensland, before he came into New South Wales.
When Doonan described the races he had seen in Melbourne the lad's eyes glistened, and he became quite excited.
'I'd like to ride in a real race,' he said.
'You're just cut out for a jockey,' laughed Doonan.
'Am I? Then I'll be one if dad will let me.'
'Do you hear that, Jim?' said the constable. 'Your boy wants to be a jockey.'
'Does he?' said Jim, as he entered the room. 'That's strange. I was only thinking the other day what a good one he would make.'
'Wait until I am strong and old enough, and I shall ride some winners,' said Willie.
'Hullo, there's the coach coming,' said Jim. 'I forgot it was Ned's day. Ned will be glad of this rain, for he has had a rough time of it lately.'
Ned Glenn pulled up at Wanabeen as usual, and, leaving a couple of passengers to grumble on the top of the coach, came inside for his accustomed chat.
'Mind no one runs away with the mails,' said Doonan, laughing.
'No fear of that near Wanabeen,' said Ned. 'I shouldn't mind if someone would take those two male passengers, though, and leave them somewhere.'
'Not very sociable, are they?' asked Jim.
'Regular bears. They have been growling all the way.'
'Put 'em inside,' said Doonan.
'No such luck. I'm glad they are fairly wet outside, but they must be precious dry inside.'
'I'll give them a quencher,' said Jim, good-naturedly.
'Don't be a fool; it would be wasted on them,' replied Ned. 'I can do with their share.'
Ned Glenn sat down and caught sight of one of the passengers looking at the house, evidently in search of him, and in hopes of a speedy departure.
'You keep calm, my friend,' said Ned, shaking his fist. 'It will do you good to cool in the rain a bit.'
'Any news?' asked Jim, when he had attended to Ned's want.
'Yes. Rodney Shaw has come back to Cudgegong. I don't know whether that can be reckoned as good news or bad, but it's true,' said Ned.
'It is a long time since he went away,' said Jim.
'Nigh on seven or eight years, I should think, maybe not quite so long.'
'He'll find his property all right. Benjamin Nix is a good manager,' said Jim.
'And a good fellow too,' answered Ned. 'Better than his boss, I reckon.'
Turning to Doonan, he said, 'There's likely to be trouble in this district before long, I hear.'
'How's that?'
'Horse thieves about again,' said Ned.
Jim Dennis thought of the strange stallion boxed in his yard, and glanced at Constable Doonan. Was there more rumour and suspicion to surround him?
'It's a rum go too,' said Ned. 'Rodney Shaw bought a fine stallion in Sydney, a thoroughbred, and sent him up to Cudgegong. The man in charge of him complains that someone either stole him orlet him loose while he was resting at Potter's. There'll be a deuce of a row at Cudgegong about it.'
'That's queer,' said Jim. 'A strange horse galloped into the yard with my mob yesterday during the storm. I wonder if he belongs to Mr Shaw.'
'You don't say so!' exclaimed Ned.
'Yes, I do; and, what's more, the brute would have made short work of me had not Fred Doonan arrived in time.'
He then explained to Ned what had happened.
'If he's such a savage horse,' said Ned, 'I shouldn't be at all surprised if the man did not let him go through sheer fright and now wants to cast the blame on someone.'
'That's probable,' said Constable Doonan. 'I'm going round by Potter's and will make inquiries. In the meantime, Jim, I would ride over to Cudgegong and let Mr Shaw know about it.'
'I'll go to-morrow,' said Jim.
Doonan took his departure, and soon afterwards Ned, much to the relief of his two passengers, clambered into the box seat and continued his journey.
Next morning it was still raining, but Jim Dennis cared little for this, in fact was glad of it. He saddled Bess and rode over to Cudgegong, a distance of about fifteen miles.
The mare revelled in the good going, and thealready green grass gave way beneath her feet. It was a luxury that had not befallen her for many a day, to gallop on yielding ground.
Midway between the two stations he saw a couple of mounted police, and recognised Sergeant Machinson and another constable he did not know.
'Wonder what brings him round here. Perhaps he has been to pay his respects to Rodney Shaw.'
Then he thought:
'If he has, he'll have heard of the loss of his horse. He's such a suspicious beggar, he might think I had a hand in "lifting" it. If the stallion in my place is the missing one, Machinson would be only too pleased to get me into trouble, though why I don't know. It's sheer spite because of that Potter's affair, and poor spite it is too. They have seen me, so I may as well ride over to them.'
He was passing them with a casual remark about the rain when Sergeant Machinson said,—
'We have just been over to Cudgegong. Mr Shaw has returned from England. He bought a valuable stallion in Sydney, which has been stolen. The man in charge of it says it was taken from Potter's. Have you seen anything of it yet?'
Jim Dennis did not hesitate to tell the story of how he found a stray stallion in his mob, and also said that Constable Doonan arrived at an opportune moment to rescue him.
'I was just riding over to Mr Shaw's to tell him about it,' said Jim. 'I heard from Doonan, and Ned Glenn, that he had lost a thoroughbred stallion.'
A suspicious, sneering smile came over Sergeant Machinson's face. 'Then you do not know who is the owner of this horse? It is not often you find stray thoroughbreds running about the country, I suppose?'
'No, do you?' asked Jim, who was not afraid of half-a-dozen Sergeant Machinsons.
'It is part of my duty to find them when they have been stolen,' said the sergeant.
'So I believe,' replied Jim; 'but if this horse I have is Mr Shaw's, it will save you any trouble in that line.'
'Except to catch the thief,' said the sergeant.
'Always provided the horse was stolen,' said Jim.
'Of course it was stolen; the man says so.'
'Then how did it come to be running about with my mob?' asked Jim.
'That's what I'd like to know,' was the suggestive and uncalled-for reply.
'What do you mean to infer by that?' asked Jim, hotly.
'Anything you please. Don't you think it needs some explanation?'
'I have told you what happened.'
'But you omitted to state how the horse came to be amongst your lot.'
'That is what I should like to find out. Perhaps you can help me,' said Jim.
'I shall do all in my power to apprehend the thief. There is too much of this sort of thing going on round here.'
'Yes, there is,' said Jim; 'and it is partly your fault, because you never catch the thieves. Why don't you try Dalton's gang?'
'That's my business,' said the sergeant, angrily. 'Remember I can make you account for having that horse on your premises.'
'I have accounted for it.'
'Shall you tell that story to Mr Shaw?'
'Certainly; that is what I am going over for.'
'Then we will ride back with you.'
'As you please,' said Jim; 'but I should prefer your room to your company.'
Sergeant Machinson bit his lip, but made no reply. He knew in his heart Jim Dennis's story to be true, yet this only aggravated him the more. Such is the nature of some men, but Jim Dennis was not of them. When they arrived at Cudgegong station they were received, after a brief delay, by Rodney Shaw.
'I am glad to see you back, Mr Shaw,' said Jim, holding out his hand, and looking him straight in the face.
Rodney Shaw took his hand in a half-hearted way and said hesitatingly,—
'I have been away such a long time I have almost forgotten all my old friends, but you are none the less welcome for all that.'
'How he has altered,' thought Jim. 'I should not have recognised him had he been anywhere but at Cudgegong.'
'So you returned with Dennis?' said Shaw to the sergeant.
'Yes. I fancy he has your horse,' said Sergeant Machinson.
'Let me tell you the story,' said Jim, 'or it may be misrepresented.'
He then gave Rodney Shaw an account of what had happened.
'It is very strange,' was his comment. 'I wonder how the horse got into your paddocks. My man says it was stolen.'
'I am as ignorant as yourself,' replied Jim, 'how the horse came there. If he is your horse, you can have him back by sending for him.'
Jim Dennis did not like the tone in which Rodney Shaw spoke; it seemed to imply a doubt about his story.
'Of course I will send for him. One of my men shall return with you.'
'I think you had better send two,' replied Jim, smiling.
'Is the horse as dangerous as that?'
'He was, but Doonan and myself tamed him down. Still, I think it would be safer to have two men.'
'Will you bring him over?'
'If you wish it,' said Jim, 'but I had rather yourown men did it. He might get lost on the way again.' This with a glance at the sergeant.
'Perhaps it would be better to send your own men,' said that worthy guardian of law and order.
Jim Dennis rose to go. He had not received a hospitable reception, and he was not a man to remain where he saw he was not wanted.
'I hope I shall see you again soon,' said Rodney Shaw, who seemed suddenly to think he had been too frigid.
'You may if I am riding this way,' was the quiet answer.
Although Rodney Shaw was wealthy, Jim Dennis considered himself his equal as a man, and so he was.
Dennis waited a short time to see if Rodney Shaw's men would return with him to Wanabeen, and as they did not appear he took his departure.
As he rode back he thought of the strange change that had taken place in Rodney Shaw.
'I suppose living in England has done it,' thought Jim; 'but I had no idea it would make such an alteration in a man. He looks so much older, and speaks differently. There's something about him I can't make out. He has such a shifty look, and might have done some great wrong, he has that half-frightened glance as though he feared detection. It is quite evident he does not mean us to be on our old footing. That will not trouble me, I'm as good as he any day. Strange how a few years can alter a man. He never was a friendly fellow, but he seems a regular bear now.'
'If he prefers such men as Machinson, he's welcome to him. I'll get even with the sergeant one of these days. They say he is none too straight, and is not above accepting a tip now and again. If he letsme alone I'll let him alone, but I'm hanged if he shall meddle in my affairs without any cause. Doonan ought to be in his place, he's a man anyway.'
The rain was still coming down, but it did not interfere with Jim's meditations. He wished it would keep on for a fortnight, but there were already signs of a break in the sky.
The reins hung loosely on the mare's neck, for he knew he could trust her not to stumble over any of the numerous rabbit holes, and she would make straight for Wanabeen.
In due course he arrived home.
'Two men have been here,' said Sal.
'What did they come for? Who were they?'
'I have not seen them before, but they said they had come for the horse they had lost a few days ago, and that had been seen on your run,' said Sal.
Jim stared; he could hardly believe what she said. Then it dawned upon him that the men who had stolen Mr Shaw's horse must have lost him again and tracked him on to Wanabeen; they were clever at such work, and only one set of men could do it, Abe Dalton's gang.
'Did they take it away?'
'Yes, and it went quietly enough,' said Sal. 'I think you took it all out of him.'
Jim smiled. He thought it very probable such was the case.
'How long have they been gone?'
'A couple of hours, or more.'
'I must go after them,' said Jim.
'Be careful, dad,' said Willie; 'they may belong to Dalton's gang.'
'I have something here that will settle half-a-dozen of Dalton's men,' he said, as he took a six-chambered revolver out of a cupboard and loaded it, putting more cartridges in his pouch. It was an old-fashioned weapon, or would be considered so now, but it was apt to be dangerous when handled by Jim Dennis. He kissed the boy and went out, saying he would return as speedily as possible.
'Poor old dad, he's always in trouble over something,' said Willie. 'I wonder why it is, when he is so good to you, and me, and everybody.'
'There's men about here as hate him 'cause he's honest,' said Sal; 'but don't you be feared for him, Willie, he's a good man and he'll come to no harm.'
'I wish I were a man,' said the lad. 'You'd see what I'd do.'
'What would you do?' she asked, smiling.
'Stick up for him. Back Dr Tom up when he stuck up for him, and Fred Doonan too. They're fond of dad, aren't they, Sal?'
'Yes, very fond of him.'
'And Fred Doonan's fond of someone else here,' said the lad.
'You, Willie? He's very fond of you,' she said.
'And he's fond of you, Sal. He said you are a real good sort, a regular white woman, even if you had dark blood in you. Oh, yes, he's fond of you, Sal.'
The half-caste's eyes gleamed with pleasurable pride, and her whole face changed. She was a comely woman, a very comely woman, with a heart and nature that would love fiercely, half savagely, if such a sentiment were roused within her.
'He said that about me?' she asked in a low voice. She could hardly believe it, so few, very few men had been kind to her, and none of her own sex. The black gins had hated her because of their ugliness and her good looks—they were not so very unlike their white sisters after all. Even in this almost deserted land there was love and hate, sorrow and joy, comedy and tragedy.
'Yes, he said that and more.'
'More! More, Willie?'
'He said you were like a mother to me, and you have been, Sal. I never had a real mother that I knew of; dad says she died when I was a baby.'
The woman stroked the child's hair and said,—
'I will always be your mother. I love you, and your father has been kinder to me than any man in the world.'
'Good-bye,' shouted Jim, and they sent him an answering cry.
'Two hours' start or more. Which way must I go?' thought Jim. 'If it is Dalton's men who have taken him, I know their ropes as well as they do themselves. They'll make for Barker's Creek. I'll chance it.'
Barker's Creek was a small hamlet consisting of half-a-dozen shanties, all occupied by the membersof the gang of which Abe Dalton was the head. They were a lawless, licentious lot, blacks and whites living together, regardless of law or order. There were about two dozen white men, and double that number of gins,—old and young,—and black fellows, camped around the wooden structures in humpies.
These blacks were part of King Charlie's tribe, but the old chief had cast them off; savage that he was, he had an instinctive feeling that his people were better than Dalton's men. He cursed them as they threw in their lot with the white men, and his sentence of excommunication was heard by those of the tribe who remained with him, and they carried the tidings into many places far distant. Even these blacks, uncouth and savage, had their laws, and rendered obedience to their old king.
It was a dangerous place was Barker's Creek, and its tenants ought to have been rooted out, but Abe Dalton was a cunning man and had contrived to keep Sergeant Machinson from meddling in his affairs.
Jim Dennis had no intention of riding alone into Barker's Creek. He wanted to catch his men before they arrived there.
He had a fresh horse under him, and he made the most of his mount.
He rode over the plain at a great pace, from time to time pulling up and dismounting to look for tracks. His practised eye soon found them, and sure enough there were three horses going in the direction of Barker's Creek.
'It's all right,' he muttered. 'I only hope I shall come up with them. I feel in a fighting humour, and they will have to stand and deliver, "hands up"; they are used to the sounds, they will know what they mean. It will put me in a bit of a hole if they reach Barker's Creek first. Machinson will swear I had a hand in sending the horse there, and that my ride over to Cudgegong was a ruse to deceive them and get the horse away; any cock-and-bull story would serve his purpose so long as it got me into a hole.'
He galloped on at a fast pace, and towards evening saw his men in the distance. They were in no hurry, and evidently did not fear pursuit. The horse was with them and going quietly.
'I have tamed him at anyrate,' said Jim. 'I'll tame them before I have done with them.'
He rode away to the left, for he knew a track by which he thought he could get ahead, and there wait until they came past.
The country near Barker's Creek was covered with scrub, and there was a considerable amount of shelter, much of it never having been cleared or touched in any way, but just left in its wild condition. He knew it would be a near thing between them, as the round would take him several miles out of his way. It was, however, the only course to pursue, so he sent his horse along at his best pace and hoped for success.
There is scarcely any twilight in the colonies, the sun goes down quickly, and day turns into night rapidly.
When Jim Dennis reached the spot he had ridden for he saw it would be almost dark in an hour, but that would serve his purpose.
If he could get hold of the stallion he knew the horse would gallop readily enough alongside his own.
He waited with the best patience he could muster, for he did not know whether they had passed the place. As the time went by he began to be afraid they had beaten him after all, and he had had his ride for nothing.
Presently, however, his quick ears caught the sound of horses' hoofs, and then he knew he had a chance of success. As they drew nearer he made ready to ride straight at them. Peering through the bushes that concealed him, he saw the two men coming along at a careless pace, evidently unaware there was any danger at hand.
When they were about fifty yards away he rushed up at them, and before they could prepare to meet him he covered one man with his revolver and said,—
'Now, you Dalton fellows, give up that horse. There are six shots here, so you have no chance.'
They knew him, and a volley of oaths came from them.
'He's not your horse,' said one of the men.
'That's my business. He is not yours, and you took him out of my yard. Hand him over.'
'You'll suffer for this, Jim Dennis. Abe Dalton is not the man to forget it.'
'You tell Abe Dalton and the whole of your dirty gang that I am not afraid of any of you. Now hand over the horse.'
He rode forward, still keeping his revolver handy.
The horse was handed over, and the man who had spoken before said,—
'We'll be even with you for this.'
'You are a set of cowards,' said Jim. 'There is not a fair fight in you. I am not afraid of half-a-dozen such as you.'
Then he thought, if they have revolvers it may be awkward, but he knew, after a moment's consideration, that had such been the case they would have risked it and used them.
It was Abe Dalton's plan to often send his men out unarmed, so that there was no danger of any shooting, for he knew when it come to murder it was a serious matter.
Jim rode away with his capture, and a volley of abusive language was sent after him.
He was undecided whether to take the horse to Wanabeen, or go to Cudgegong. He could reach the latter place early in the morning, so he made up his mind to go there. He could wait about until some of the hands were out, and as they were generally up early there would not be a long delay.
He reached Cudgegong about two o'clock, and as there was no one to be seen he tied the horse securely and, having hitched up his own somedistance away from the other, he went to see if there was a chair on the verandah he could rest in.
It was no uncommon thing for a stranger to sleep on the verandah at one of the stations, and in the morning be provided with a breakfast and then sent on his way.
He stepped quietly along the boards and soon found a comfortable seat.
He was tired, for he had been in the saddle many hours, and, although he was a man who could do with but little sleep, he commenced to feel drowsy.
How long he had been asleep he did not know, but he awoke with a start and listened.
There was a peculiar sound inside the room near which he sat.
He thought it was a man moaning, but was not sure. Then he heard someone moving about, and footsteps approached the window of the room which led on to the verandah.
He remained perfectly quiet and waited expectantly for some explanation of what he had heard.
He had not long to wait. The doors were pushed open and someone looked out.
In the dim light he saw it was Rodney Shaw, and he seemed to be listening intently. Then he went inside, leaving the windows open.
'He must have heard me step on to the verandah,' thought Jim.
He heard him moving about the room again, and, although he had no desire to spy upon him, he thought it better to remain in his present position.
'Perhaps he has been indulging too freely,' said Jim to himself. 'He could take more than his share before he went away.'
'Curse the thing!'
Jim heard these words distinctly, and then came the sound of a man stumbling over a chair.
It was strange behaviour on the part of Rodney Shaw, and Jim Dennis could not understand it.
In a short time all was quiet, and he decided to slip off the verandah and go round to the horses.
He was passing the open window when he heard a cry of surprise, almost of terror, from within, which caused him to stop.
Looking into the room, he saw Rodney Shaw sitting on his bed, in his pyjamas, and glancing at him with wide, staring eyes.
'Who the devil are you?' said Shaw in a wild tone of voice.
'It's only me, Jim Dennis.'
'What are you doing there? Why are you spying about on my verandah? I'll have you locked up,' said Shaw.
Jim laughed, and made excuses for him.
'He's not himself, he's been drinking,' he thought.
'I brought your horse back, and I camped in a chair on the verandah to wait until some of the hands were about.'
'I don't believe it. It's a—' began Shaw.
'Stop,' said Jim. 'Even if you have been on a "jag," I allow no man to call me that.'
He spoke in a resolute tone, and Rodney Shaw, pulling himself together, thought better of what he was about to say, and went out to him.
'You took me by surprise,' he said in an apologetic way. 'I have been absent so long that I am not accustomed to the change again.'
'How haggard and worn he looks,' thought Jim. 'I wonder what ails him.'
'Have you been on a "jag"?' asked Jim, smiling.
Rodney Shaw looked at him. He evidently did not understand what he meant.
Jim thought this strange.
'Surely you have not forgotten what a "jag" means. You have been on one or two in your time at Swamp Creek.'
Rodney Shaw laughed.
'You think I have been drinking. Well, I own up I did have a drop too much—first with Machinson, then after he left. It soon got hold of me. I am not as strong as I was.'
'I thought there was something of that kind,' said Jim. 'Let me tell you why I came here with the horse at this hour.'
'All right. Sit down.'
They seated themselves in a couple of chairs, and Jim commenced his story.
Rodney Shaw did not appear to take much interest in it, he seemed to be thinking of other things.
'It was Dalton's gang stole your horse,' said Jim; 'and if I were you I would insist upon Machinson "going" for them. They are a bad lot, and ought to be cleared out of Barker's Creek. They are a danger to the whole district.'
'You and Machinson don't seem to hit it,' said Shaw.
'No; but it is not my fault. He does not act on the square, and he has accused me of things I have never been mixed up in,' said Jim. 'You ought to be able to convince him that it is his duty to clear Dalton's gang out.'
'Why me in particular?'
'Because you are the biggest owner about here, and have more influence than any of us. You have only to mention the matter to the P.M. and he'll soon see that Sergeant Machinson carries out his duties or he'll know the reason why.'
'The P.M.?' questioned Shaw.
Jim laughed.
'Surely you have not forgotten Adye Dauntsey, the police magistrate at Barragong. He's stood your friend more than once when you have been in a scrape. Don't you recollect when he made it up between yourself and your father after that row in Swamp Creek?'
Rodney Shaw seemed uneasy, but Jim Dennis did not notice it. He was laughing to himself over the thought of the row in which he had taken a hand himself.
'So old—?'
'Dauntsey,' said Jim.
'Yes, Dauntsey. Is he there still, eh? Queer beggar and a rum name. How does he spell his Christian name?'
'Adye,' said Jim, spelling it out.
Shaw scribbled it on the back of the rest of his chair with a pencil he had near him.
'You don't mean to forget it,' said Jim. 'You must have a deuced bad memory.'
'I have. I met with a nasty accident in England. I was riding in a hurdle race and came a cropper on my head, and my memory has not been the same since.'
'I'm sorry for that,' said Jim. 'That accounts for it. I thought you seemed curiously forgetful about things around here.'
Rodney Shaw gave a sigh of relief.
'Yes, that explains it, as you say. If you remind me of people I knew, and places I have been to with you, and what we formerly did together, I shall recall it all, and not forget it again, but the spill seemed to knock a lot of old memories out of my head.'
'I have heard of such things before,' said Jim. 'I once knew a steeplechase rider who almost entirely lost his memory through an accident.'
'My case exactly,' said Rodney Shaw. 'What was that row at Swamp Creek? I forget it.'
'We were on a bender at old John Slade's pub,' said Jim, 'and you kissed his daughter, and he went for you hot and strong, although I don't think the girl had any objections.'
'You were fairly powerful in those days, and you fired Joe out of the bar, and a regular free fight took place, in which a lot of damage was done. Your old man was very angry about it, but Adye Dauntsey smoothed it over. I took your part, of course, and should have got into trouble, only they couldn't very well drag me into it and leave you out.'
Rodney Shaw laughed as he replied,—
'I recollect it quite well. We had some rare sprees in those days. You were always ready to stand by me.'
'I hope I shall always be ready to help a pal in trouble,' said Jim.
'I am sure you will. I am afraid I treated you rather off-handed the other day.'
'I didn't like your manner, I confess,' said Jim. 'I thought you were glad to get rid of me.'
'Not at all. You misunderstood me. I hope we shall be as good friends as ever.'
'I hope so,' said Jim. 'It will not be my fault if we are not.'
'I don't think I will meddle with Dalton's gang. No good will come out of it, and I have my horse again, thanks to you,' said Shaw.
'As you please,' replied Jim.
'But it would be for the good of the district if they were bundled out, neck and crop, and you are the proper man to see it done.'
'Sergeant Machinson has the matter in hand, and I will tell him all about your capture of the horse from Dalton's men. He is bound to take action then.'
'He will not; you see if he does,' replied Jim.
'You don't mean to say he stands in with a lot like that?'
'I won't go as far as that,' said Jim; 'but it looks like it. He never lifts a hand against them.'
'Well, I'll think the matter over. There is a good deal in what you say. Wait until I put some decent clothes on, and we'll go round and have a look at the horse. It would be rather a joke if he did not belong to me, after all this trouble.'
'There's not much fear of that,' answered Jim. 'Thoroughbred stallions are scarce in these parts.'
They went round to the back of the house to where Jim had fastened up the horses.
The hands were about, and Rodney Shaw called to a man who was crossing the yard.
'This is Alec Beg, the man who brought the horse as far as Potter's,' said Shaw.
Jim Dennis looked him over and did not like him.
'A shifty customer, I'll bet,' he thought.
'We have found the stallion,' said Shaw.
'Have you?' exclaimed the man in evident surprise. 'Where is he?'
'Over there,' said Jim, pointing to the horse.
'Where the deuce did he come from?'
'I made the thieves give him up,' said Jim, looking straight at him.
'Then you knew who stole him?'
'Dalton's gang.'
'Who may they be?' asked Alec Beg.
'You'll find out before you have been long in this district,' said Jim. 'I'd advise you to keep out of their way, they'll do you no good.'
'I'm not likely to mix up with a lot like that.'
Jim had his doubts on that head, but made no remark.
'You'll have to be careful with this horse,' said Jim. 'He's got a devil of a temper, but I have tamed him down a bit. He had one of the biggesthidings he'll ever get, and it has done him good. He looks a well-bred horse.'
'He's by Fisherman out of Mermaid, and his name is Seahorse.'
'That's something like blood,' said Jim, enthusiastically. 'I'd like to send a couple of mares to him, if you will allow me.'
'With pleasure. It is the least I can do after all the trouble you have taken,' replied Shaw.
'I have some very well-bred mares,' said Jim, 'and I'll bring a couple over some day.'
Alec Beg was standing by, and muttered,—
'He's a blooming fool to let a man like him get hold of that blood. He's one of those prying sort of fellows. Hang me if I like him.'
It was not feasible that Alec Beg would like Jim Dennis, because the latter was an honest man.
When Jim Dennis took his departure, Alec Beg said to Rodney Shaw,—
'I don't think you are wise to let him get hold of the Fisherman blood. You ought to keep it yourself about here.'
'A couple of mares will not matter much, and, besides, he got the horse back for me,' replied Shaw.
'That constable who came with Sergeant Machinson says he's a bad lot, and not to be trusted. He may have been in with Dalton's gang over this affair.'
'Don't be a fool and talk rubbish,' said Shaw. 'If he were one of the gang we should not have recovered the horse.'
He went inside, leaving Beg grumbling in the yard.
'I must keep in with Jim Dennis,' Rodney Shaw said to himself. 'He'll be useful to me. I am sorry my memory is so bad,' and he laughed curiously. 'So Adye Dauntsey is police magistrate at—what the deuce is the name of the place?—oh, here it is, and he picked up a piece of paper—Barragong. I wonder if the worthy P.M. will think I have altered much during the last eight or nine years. Probably he will, most people about here think me changed, even Benjamin Nix, my manager, says he would hardly have known me. The worthy Nix has not altered much, I'll be bound. So far as I can judge, he has managed things all right at Cudgegong—what a name to give a place! but it is suitable.'
'Jim Dennis is a man to be trusted, and he will stick to a pal, he says, and I know he will keep his word. It's deuced slow here after London. I think in a few years I'll sell out and go back again. And if I do return, that lady friend of mine will probably find me out and create a scene. I hate scenes. Perhaps I am better off here, and in time I may settle down into a respectable married man.'
He laughed again, but there was no mirth in the sound. It was an ugly laugh, a laugh that betrayed the baseness of the man, the treachery lurking within. It was not a good laugh to hear.
Dr Tom Sheridan sat in his den concocting cooling drinks for himself, and mixtures of quite a different prescription for his patients.
On board ship, when he acted as medical adviser to the skipper, his officers, the crew, and the passengers—the last-named lot he considered of little account—he had been in the habit of dosing them with the same compound for all manner of complaints.
'It saves a heap of trouble, and it's always handy,' said Dr Tom, as he filled a bottle from his regular tap. 'If it does no good, there is the blessed and everlasting consolation that it can do no harm.'
Passengers annoyed Dr Tom, as they have continued to annoy ships' doctors ever since, for the doctor had a soul above medicine. He considered himself a poet, a truly dramatic poet, and he was sore with the world because his efforts had not been appreciated. He had cast his poems upon the mess-room table, in the hopes of them bearing fruit, and they had been neglected in the most aggravating fashion.
The skipper put the finishing touch to one of Dr Tom's efforts. The worthy medico had, after much toil and brain work, composed a poem which he believed would appeal to the skipper's heart.
It was a wild, weird thing, a concoction of fiery skies, blistering sun, howling winds, dashing waves, heaving billows, snow-flecked seahorses, and what not, and in the midst of this poetic chaos was a good ship, commanded by a worthy skipper with a fiery beard. That was where Dr Tom blundered. He had no tact, even if his poetic ship had, and the skipper's hair being of a bright, flaming colour, he resented this personal allusion.
When the poem was solemnly presented to him by his 'boy,' he read the first few stanzas with pride, but arriving at the fiery beard period, he flew into a rage, hurled himself into Dr Tom's cabin, and said,—
'Did you write this ... d——d insulting thing?'
The doctor was mortally offended, nay, he was more than that, he was hurt. He had expended many hours on the composition of that poem, and had neglected the groans of many patients in order to finish it off.
'That, sir, is an effort that has cost me dear,' he said.
'By the Lord, if there are any more such efforts, it will cost you untold wealth!' yelled the frantic skipper with the fiery beard, and he flung the offending poem into a mass of half-empty drug bottles.
Dr Tom picked it up carefully, smoothed it out, and caressed it as though it had been a pet kitten.
When he arrived in Sydney he secured the shipping reporter of theMorning Lightand took him into his cabin.
'Read that,' said Dr Tom, in a solemn manner, handing the rejected of the skipper to the worthy press man.
The shipping reporter of theMorning Lightblinked and looked uneasy. He had read Dr Tom's poems before, or pretended to, and the effect was not pleasing.
But the doctor kept good whisky in his den, and the man who chronicled the doings of ships on their voyages from far countries dearly loved a drop of the real stingo, which money could not then purchase in Sydney, and of which very little is to be had even unto this day.
The poem was duly read.
'It is one of your best efforts,' said the scribe. This opinion was diplomatic, and committed him to nothing.
The doctor smiled, and there was a pleasant jingle of glasses, and a soothing odour penetrated the stuffy little medicine box.
'Ah!' sighed Dr Tom, 'I knewyouwould appreciate it.'
A sound of liquid flowing into a glass was balm to the shipping reporter of theMorning Light.
'Try this. It's a drop of the best.'
The man of letters—ships' letters, sipped it with the air of a connoisseur.
'Splendid stuff, doctor, splendid,' he said.
'That poem has cost me many hours' deep thought,' said Dr Tom.
'No doubt. It is an elegant composition.'
'I wonder if theMorning Lightwould publish it,' mildly suggested the doctor. 'Here, try another; it will do you no harm.'
'I'll ask our sub; he's not a bad sort. He might cram it into the weekly,' said the reporter.
The doctor looked crestfallen.
'The weekly,' he said sorrowfully. 'Surely it is worthy of a place in the daily.'
'It is, doctor. Upon my word, it is; but you know what they are in the office. They're death on poems. It would be risking my place to suggest it for the daily.'
Dr Tom jingled the glasses, and there was something in them when the sound ceased.
'Try your best,' said Dr Tom. 'I'll give you a couple of real good startling pars about this voyage if you'll get it in the daily.'
'And you'll not tell the other fellows?'
'No. I'll not breathe a word to 'em,' said Dr Tom.
'Then I'll risk it. Now for the news.'
The doctor related a couple of rather spicy incidents that had occurred during the voyage from London, and the shipping reporter chuckled over them.
'I reckon these will get that poem in, doc.' The whisky had made him familiar in his speech. Sure enough Dr Tom succeeded in his object, and when his skipper read the poem in theMorning Lightnext morning, he went about Sydney saying things, and, encountering the happy doctor, vowed he would not take him back in his ship.
'I have no ambition to sail again in your old tub,' said Dr Tom. 'My fortune is made.' So Dr Tom remained in Sydney, found his fortune was not made, and eventually came to Swamp Creek.
As Dr Tom sat meditating over his fortunes, or what remained of them, he thought of many things.
He thought of the first mate on the ship he had left in Sydney, and who had cleared out at the same time as himself. He had never liked that mate, he was a bad lot, and Dr Tom had at one time serious thoughts of dosing him and giving him to the sharks.
He also thought of the days he had spent wandering about Sydney, almost penniless, until a friendly hand had helped him to Swamp Creek and a monotonous existence, and yet it was an existence he did not dislike. He had not an enemy in the place, so far as he knew, and everyone was kind to him.
True, he did a lot of work, and got very few fees, and had even on one occasion to borrow money from Jim Dennis to purchase drugs to supply to sick people.
'When all my accounts are settled,' said Dr Tom to Jim Dennis, 'I mean to buy a station and throw this job up.'
'Don't let the folk around here know that or you'll never be paid. They would not lose you for anything, old man.'
It was very hot after the rain, and Dr Tom had very little else to do but kill time.
Having bottled up his medicines, he commenced to smoke and think.
What a life his had been. One of those men who with a little exertion might have made a name for themselves, he had been contented to drift carelessly and aimlessly through life.
On board ship he had acquired the art of cultivating laziness, and he was an adept at killing time.
The doctor was a visionary dreamer, and happy in a thousand fancies he conjured up in his imagination.
Children loved him, for no one could tell them a yarn suitable to their tender years better than Dr Tom.
The youngsters of Swamp Creek darted in and out of his dwelling in unrestricted freedom.
'Bless their little hearts, they have overturned that medicine chest again,' he would say on looking at the havoc they had made, and then proceed to put matters to rights in his own careless way.
But when there was danger at hand and Dr Tom was called, as he had been to Willie Dennis, to tryand save life or relieve suffering, the best part of the man in him came out, and he strove with might and main to conquer death, and he often succeeded.
He was pottering about as usual, with no coat or waistcoat on, when Constable Doonan came in.
'Busy as usual, Dr Tom,' said the constable in a hearty voice.
'No, my boy, I am not busy. I have been sitting down making up a few prescriptions and picking up a few threads of the past.'
'And how do the threads unravel?' asked Doonan.
'Fairly well, my lad. There's a few tangles, but they are not of much account; there's no occasion for any cutting.'
'No, I'll bet there's not,' said Doonan. 'Jim Dennis is mighty proud of the job you have made of that lad of his.'
'Nice little chap,' said Dr Tom. 'He had a narrow squeak, and I don't mind telling you, if it hadn't been for Sal's care he might have gone before we got there. That woman's a marvel. Wonder who her father was.'
'They give Rodney Shaw's father the credit for it,' said Doonan.
'Eh! You don't say so! Bless me, what a heathenish lot they are about here.'
'Try and convert 'em, doctor.'
'Not I. We ought to import a few pulpit thumpers and let them try their hands.'
'They ought to start on Dalton's gang. I hear there is trouble brewing there.'
'Who's the victim this time?' asked Dr Tom.
'Jim Dennis.'
'Then, by heavens, he'll find one or two to help him!' said Dr Tom, bringing his fist down with such a bang on the table that all the bottles danced.
'What's it about?'
Doonan related how Jim Dennis had taken Seahorse from Dalton's men and restored him to Rodney Shaw.
'Just like Jim. He's the best fellow in the world,' said the doctor. 'We must see him through this. Why does not Machinson clear the whole lot out?'
'That's what I would like to know,' answered Doonan. 'It's not my place to interfere.'
'Something will have to be done soon,' said Dr Tom. 'The gang is a regular pest, and gets worse and worse every week.'
'You go to Barker's Creek sometimes, I think?' questioned the constable.
'Yes. I cannot refuse to attend a sick woman or child even amongst such a crowd, but I have told Abe Dalton I would not go near him or his men if they were dying.'
'You have plenty of pluck,' said Constable Doonan, admiringly.
Dr Tom waved his arm in a gesture of disdain as he replied,—
'There's not much pluck wanted to beard a fellowlike Dalton. I'm going to Barker's Creek to-morrow to see a woman and her child. One of the ruffians came in here to-day to ask me. I gave him a bit of my mind, you may bet. I'll go, and if I see Abe Dalton, I'll tell him in the midst of his gang that if he harms Jim Dennis, or anything belonging to him, I'll make him suffer for it.'
'It will only make matters worse for Jim,' said Doonan.
'Nothing of the kind. Dalton knows as well as I do that I am the only man around here that can help him when there is sickness at Barker's Creek, and such men are terribly afraid of diseases and fevers. If an epidemic broke out at the Creek it would not be an unmitigated evil, but I would do my best for the women and children all the same. As for Dalton and his curs, they ought to die in a heap, like rabbits in a drought.'
Constable Doonan had seldom seen Dr Tom so much in earnest, and he was almost sorry he had mentioned Jim Dennis in connection with the gang, for he knew that he had roused the worthy man.
'Shall I go with you to-morrow, doctor?' he asked.
'No. You would do harm, not good. A constable at Barker's Creek is like a red rag to a bull. They would rush you, Fred, my lad—rush you.'
Barker's Creek was several miles from Swamp Creek, and next morning Dr Tom's black boy, aged about forty, and looking ten years older, hitched the ill-groomed horses to the worse-kept buggy.
It was indeed a remarkable turnout, and so the doctor thought as he examined the 'joins' of the harness to see if it would hold out.
The black boy contemplated the whole thing with ludicrous pride, evidently under the impression he had done his duty by both horses and buggy.
The doctor stowed his bag under the seat, together with a suspicious-looking flask, and clambered into the buggy. His weight caused it to heave over in an alarming manner, and when the start took place Dr Tom appeared to be in danger of being hurled from his seat.
He drove slowly, and it was well on towards noon when he arrived at Barker's Creek, and looked around him with an air of disgust.
'What a hole,' he muttered, 'and what beasts these men are.'
Barker's Creek was not an inviting place byany means. It lay in a hollow and was surrounded by a rough, uncleared bush country. Tall, gaunt trees, branchless until near the tops, towered round the place like huge scaffold poles. Their appearance at night was weird, as they were of a slaty white colour, and resembled huge, gaunt spectres. The shanties in which the men lived and the humpies of the blacks were not visible until the visitor was close on to the spot. It was secluded, cut off from the world, and fittingly so.
Some terrible orgies took place here, and the howls and cries of the black gins, when Dalton's men were amongst them, denoted that scenes of brutality were being enacted.
The blacks were herded together like animals, and their humpies were made of the branches of trees suspended, tent-like, on poles, and their resting-places were on the ground.
Numerous stray curs were prowling around, playing with the naked little black children, who had no more intelligence, if so much, as the dogs.
The men of the gang had better accommodation, but it was poor enough, and the only really decent house in the place was Abe Dalton's. It was before this house that Dr Tom pulled up his horses, and, getting out of the buggy, went up the steps on to the verandah. The house, like all the others, was built on piles, and stood a considerable height from the ground; in fact horses were often sheltered beneath.
'Are you in, Abe Dalton?' shouted Dr Tom.
'Yes; come in,' said a gruff voice.
Dr Tom entered and found Abe Dalton lying on a camp bed, groaning and tossing from side to side.
He was a big, powerful man, with a coarse face that would have been red had not constant exposure to all winds and weather made the skin as brown as parchment. His hair was long, black, and ill-kept, and his big hands and feet denoted the coarse blood in his veins.
Dr Tom looked at him, and it dawned upon him that he had been summoned to Barker's Creek under false pretences. It was not a woman and child who needed his aid, but Abe Dalton himself.
'So it was a lie,' he blurted out.
'What's a lie?'
'That hound you sent to me, said a woman and child were ill.'
'Don't you call my men hounds,' growled Dalton.
'I call them by their proper names. Perhaps curs would be better,' said Dr Tom.
Even Abe Dalton winced at the cutting tones.
'I'm devilish bad, doctor,' he said, 'and I was afraid you would not come if I sent for you to attend me. Now you are here, it is not worth while going back without trying your hand on me,' said Dalton.
'You will get no assistance from me,' said Dr Tom.'I would prefer to kill rather than cure you, and the country would be well rid of you.'
'But I am real bad,' groaned Abe Dalton. 'Can't you see I'm bad?'
'Yes. I never saw a man in a worse state of fever, and other complications. I shall not be at all surprised to hear of your death in a day or two; and, mind you, it will not be an easy death. You will not fall asleep and pass out of the world peacefully. Oh, dear, no. You will struggle and fight and gasp for breath, and eventually choke and go black in the face, but your looks will not matter where you'll go to. It's precious hot at Barker's Creek, but it's a mere trifle to the oven you'll be put into.'
A volley of oaths came from the tormented man, and Dr Tom chuckled to himself.
'I think I have frightened him,' he thought, 'made him a trifle uneasy. He's not as bad as all that, but it will do him good to make him think he is going to peg out.'
'I can cure you, Abe Dalton, but I am not going to try. Not I. I'm not the man to cheat the devil, or anyone else, of his due. You are not a picturesque object now, but this is nothing to what you will be in a day or two. You'll be such a horrible sight that no one will come near you, not even a black gin. And you have a real good, thirsty fever on you, and you'll not be able to get a drop of water. I'll tell you what will happen before the end comes.You'll see things, shadows of your victims, and they'll sit all round you, grinning, and waiting for the end. You are in for a good time, Abe Dalton, and I'll leave you to it,' and Dr Tom moved towards the door.
Abe Dalton was thoroughly frightened and cowed. The perspiration stood in big drops on his grimy forehead, and after lingering there a few moments, started to race down his face like raindrops on a window-pane. He swept them away with his great, horny hand and, turning over with a groan of pain, called out,—
'For God's sake, don't leave me to die, doctor. I ain't fit to die. I daren't die. Come back and I'll do anything for you, give you any money you care to ask for, only come back and save me!'
Dr Tom came back.
'I can't die. I daren't die. I'm afeared,' and the wretched man shuddered and fell back, terror-stricken.
The doctor heard him and stopped. A thought had occurred to him.
'This may be useful in Jim Dennis's case,' he said, and returned to the room.
'So you are afraid to die, Abe Dalton? Don't take God's name in vain, He will not hear you; you have cursed Him all your life, and now you want Him to save you. Stop that shivering, you coward!'
'You'll help me, doctor, you'll help me?' he moaned.
'Yes; I'll help you on one condition,' said the doctor.
'Name it. Any condition you like. I don't care what it is.'
'Swear to me you will not allow any of your gang to injure Jim Dennis, or anything belonging to him.'
Abe Dalton could have howled with rage. He hated Dennis and meant to be even with him.
'You hesitate,' said Dr Tom.
'No, no,' said Dalton. 'I'll swear it. None of my gang shall harm a hair of his head.'
'And not molest anything that is his,' said Dr Tom.
'No. I swear no harm shall come to him or his property,' said Abe Dalton.
'How do I know I can trust you?' asked Dr Tom. 'An oath from such a man is worthless.'
'I'd not dare to take a false oath, when I might die in a couple of days,' groaned Dalton.
Dr Tom thought this probable. Even if Abe Dalton recovered, he might, for once in a way, keep his oath; at anyrate he would risk it, and Jim Dennis would be safe from the gang.
'I am willing to trust you this time,' said Dr Tom. 'I can pull you through; but, mind, if you break your word, I'll never leave you until I have put a halter round your neck. There's evidence enough to hang you on, if it is only hunted up.'
He gave Abe Dalton a draught, and waited untilhe was asleep, then he went outside and breathed more freely.
A cluster of men, members of Dalton's gang, stood round the buggy. They seemed anxious about their leader, for he was the cleverest of them all, and if he went they knew there would be trouble amongst themselves before another chief was elected. It would be a shooting matter probably, and some of them would lose their lives.
The man Dalton had sent to Swamp Creek to tell Dr Tom a woman and child were ill, stepped forward and said,—
'How is he? Will he pull through?'
'Yes,' said Dr Tom, 'with care; but he must be kept quiet. Now, you fellows, first listen to me. I am doctoring Abe Dalton on one condition, a condition he has sworn to fulfil. He has promised that none of his gang shall molest or harm, in any way, Jim Dennis or his belongings. Do you hear that?'
The men looked sullen. None of them had any liking for Jim Dennis, for he was more than a match for them, and they did not like being beaten.
'What do you say to it?' asked Dr Tom. 'Remember Abe Dalton's life rests upon your answer.'
'We'll keep his promise—eh, mates?' said the man who had already spoken.
The others assented moodily.
'That is well,' said Dr Tom. 'Mind, if any harm comes to Dennis through you, I'll not rest until I see you all hanged. You know me, and you know I am not afraid of you.'
They admired Dr Tom and knew his courage. Not many men would care to come alone to Barker's Creek as he had done many times.
'You're a plucky chap, doctor,' said one of the men.
'It does not require much pluck to face a lot of beggars like you,' was the retort.
'Then the police can't have much of it,' laughed one.
'Some of these days you will find they have plenty of pluck,' said Dr Tom. 'If they were put on your track now, they would be only too glad of the job. It's Sergeant Machinson holds them back, and he'll have to answer for it in due time.'
'Machinson,' laughed one man. 'He's a beauty, he is. Ask him how much Abe Dalton has put into his pocket. It's squaring Machinson that keeps us poor, d——n him!'
Dr Tom pricked up his ears.
This was a nice little bit of information that might come in handy and do his friend Constable Doonan a good turn some day.