Books: Mates at Billabong
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Mary Grant Bruce (1878 1958). >> Mates at Billabong
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"What are y' doin' here alone?" The slow voice was crafty; something in
it brought back that stupid first fear. She pulled herself together.
"My people are coming--you'd better let go. If my brother gets hold of
you--"
"Oh, your brother's comin', is he?"
"Yes; let go my bridle."
"Shut up about your bridle!" said the man, and Norah shrank back as if
she had been stung. He began to lead Bobs off the track.
"What are you doing?" she asked angrily. She kicked Bobs again, and the
pony tried to rear, caught between the sudden blow and that compelling
hand on his rein. The man pulled him down savagely, jerking at his bit
and flinging threats at him and at Norah.
"Y' might as well stop playin' the fool," he told her. "I want that
pony, an' I'm goin' to have it."
TO HAVE BOBS! She tried to speak, but the words died before she could
utter them. Bobs! In her bewildered terror she scarcely realized for a
moment what he meant; then she raised her whip and cut with all her
strength at the hand that held the rein. He gave a sharp yell of pain
as the stinging whalebone caught him, but he did not relinquish his
grasp, and Norah struck at him again and again, half blindly in the
darkness, but always with the strength of desperation. It could not
last long--the struggle was too pitifully unequal. It was only a minute
before he had wrested the whip from her and held her wrists in one
vice-like hand. His voice was thick with rage.
"I'll teach y'," he said, "y' little spitfire! Get off that pony."
He began to drag her off. She clung to the saddle wildly, knowing how
hopeless it was, but somehow feeling that she must not leave that one
poor haven of safety. Then she felt herself going, and in that
sickening moment screamed for help--a child's piteous cry:
"Jim! Jim! Jim!"
There was no Jim to aid her--she knew it, even as she cried. The rough
grasp tightened; she could feel his breath as he dragged her from the
saddle.
Then from the darkness came a tall, stealthy shadow, and suddenly her
wrists were free, as her assailant staggered back in the grip of the
newcomer. She made a violent effort and found herself back in the
saddle; and Bobs was plunging wildly, his bridle free. The necessity of
steadying him in the timber helped her to calm herself. Before her the
men were swaying backwards and forwards, blocking the way to the track;
her enemy's savage voice mingling with a lower one that was somehow
familiar, though she could not tell what he said. Then she saw that the
struggle was ending--the tall man had the other pinned against a tree,
and turned to her. His dark face was close, and she cried out to him,
knowing him for a friend.
"Oh, Lal Chunder, it's you!"
"Him beat," said Lal Chunder, breathlessly. "L'il meesis orright?"
"I'm all right," she said, struggling with--for Norah--an unaccountable
desire to cry. "Oh, don't let him go!"
"No," said the Hindu, decidedly. "Him hurt you? Me kill him."
The last remark was uttered conversationally, and the man against the
tree cried out in fear. Lal Chunder flung at him a flood of rapid
Hindustani, and he collapsed into shivering silence. Probably it was
rather awe-inspiring--the great black-bearded Indian, with his keen,
enraged face and the voice that seemed to cut. But to Norah he was a
very haven of refuge.
"Oh, you mustn't kill him," she said. "The boys will be here--men
coming--quick! Can you hold him?"
"Hold him--yes--tight," said Lal Chunder, tightening his grip as he
spoke, to the manifest discomfort of the man against the tree. Then
came distant voices, and a snatch of a School song, mingled with quick
hoofs; and Norah caught her breath in the sharpness of the relief. She
rode out on the track, calling to Jim.
The boys pulled up, the horses plunging.
"Norah! What on earth--"
Norah explained rapidly, and Jim flung himself off, tossing Garryowen's
rein to Wally, and ran to her.
"Kiddie--you're all right? He didn't hurt you?" The boy's voice was
shaking.
"Only my wrists," said Norah, and then began to shudder as the memory
of the struggle in the trees came back to her. Jim put his arm about
her.
"Thank heaven for that blessed Indian!" said he. "Steady, old
girl--you're all right," and Norah recovered herself.
"Yes, I'm all right, Jimmy," she said, a little shakily. "What about
Lal Chunder?"
"Here's the buggy," said Wally, and in a moment Murty and Boone were on
the scene, when it was the work of a few minutes to tie the prisoner
with halters and hoist him into the buggy, where he lay very
uncomfortable, with his head close to the splashboard. There was much
explanation, and it would probably have gone hard with the prisoner but
for Jim, as Murty and Boone wanted to deal out instant justice.
"Not good enough," Jim said. He was rather white, in the glow of the
buggy lamps. "He'll be better safe in gaol." He turned to Lal Chunder,
who had drawn close to Norah, and was contemplating his right hand,
which had been nearly shaken off by the four from Billabong. The
Hindu's English was not equal to his sense of friendship, and
conversation with him lacked fluency. It was some time before Jim could
make him understand that they wanted him to return to the station--and
indeed, it was Norah who made it clear at last.
"Me want you," she said, taking the dusky hand in hers. "Come back to
my home." She pointed towards the direction of Billabong. Lal Chunder
capitulated immediately.
"It is an order," he said, gravely; and forthwith climbed into the
buggy, a weird figure between the two stockmen, their faces still
flushed with anger as they looked at the man lying between their feet.
"We'll put him away in the lock-up, an' be out agin in no time, Masther
Jim," said Murty. "Take care of her me boy." And the stockman, who had
known Norah since her babyhood, choked suddenly as he looked at her
pale face. Norah was herself again, however, and she smiled at him
cheerily.
"I'm right as rain, Murty!" she said, in the Bush idiom. "Don't you
worry about me."
"'Tis pluck y' have," said the Irishman. He turned the buggy with some
difficulty, for the track was narrow, and they spun off on the return
journey to Cunjee, while Norah, between the two boys, was once more on
the way to Billabong.
"You're sure you're all right, Nor.?" Jim said, looking at her keenly.
"Yes--truly, Jim." Norah had made up her mind not to say too much. There
was nothing to be gained by harrowing them with unnecessary
details--and, child-like, the memory of her terror was already fading,
now that care and safety had again wrapped her about. "I was a bit
scared, but that's all over."
"Then," said Jim, "can you tell me where is Cecil?" His voice was
dangerously calm.
"Oh, he--he went on," Norah said. "We had a dispute, and he was a bit
put out."
"A dispute? What about?"
"He wanted to ride Bobs."
"DID he?" Jim said. "And because you wouldn't let him, he cleared out
and left you?"
"Well, he was offended," Norah replied slowly, "and I dare say he
thought I would catch him up--instead of which I hung back, hoping you
boys would catch ME up. So it wasn't really his fault."
"He must have known you would be coming through that timber by yourself
in the dark."
"Oh, most likely he reckoned I'd have you with me by that time. He
doesn't understand very well, does he? He didn't mean any harm, Jim."
"I don't know what he meant," Jim said, angrily. "But I know what he
did--and what he'd have been responsible for if Lal Chunder hadn't
happened along in the nick of time. Great overgrown calf! Upon my word,
when I see him--"
"Oh, don't have a row, Jim," Norah pleaded. "He's a guest."
"Guest be hanged! Do you mean to say that's excuse for behaving like a
cad?"
"Ah, he wouldn't mean to. Don't tell him about--about Lal Chunder--and
the man."
"Not tell him?" Jim exclaimed.
"Well, not to-night, anyhow. Promise me you won't have a row
to-night--and if you tackle him when you get home there will be a row.
Wait until Dad comes home." finished Norah, a little wearily.
Behind her, Wally leaned across to his chum. They pulled back a little.
"I say--don't worry her, old man," Wally said. "I guess she's had a bit
of a shock--let's try and keep her mind off it. Do what she asks." And
Jim nodded.
"All right, old woman," he said, coming alongside again. "I won't slay
him to-night--don't bother your little head. We'll let Dad fix him."
Norah's grateful look rewarded him.
"Thanks, Jimmy," she said. "I--I'm feeling like having a little peace.
And he'd never understand, no matter what you said."
"I suppose he wouldn't," Jim agreed. "But he's a worm! However--the
storm's coming, and if we don't want wet jackets we'd better travel."
They tore homewards through the hot night. Presently Wally started a
chorus, and both boys were relieved when Norah joined in. They nodded
at each other cheerfully behind her back. So, singing very lustily, if
not in the most artistic fashion, they reached the Billagong stables
just as the first heavy drops were falling.
Within, Cecil met them, a little nervously.
"I thought you were lost," he said.
"H'm," said Jim, passing him, and struggling with his promise. "Sorry
you and Norah had any difference of opinion."
Cecil flushed.
"Possibly I was--ah--hasty," he said. "I did not consider I asked Norah
much of a favour."
"That's a matter of opinion. At any rate, Cecil, I may as well tell you
straight out that I don't consider it would be at all wise for you to
ride Bobs."
"I'm not likely to hurt him."
"He might very likely hurt you. He's not an easy pony to ride."
Cecil's little laugh was irritating.
"What?" he said. "I don't profess to be a jockey, but--a child's pony?"
Jim very nearly lost his temper.
"You won't be convinced," he said, "and I've no desire to convince you
with Bobs. But take my advice and let Norah alone about her pony.
You've a very good mare to ride."
"That old crock!" said Cecil, scornfully.
Jim stared.
"Crock!" he said. "Well, you won't find many hacks to beat old Betty,
even if in your mighty judgment she is a crock. And, anyhow, Bobs is
Norah's, and no one else has any say about him. There's the bell;
ready, chaps?"
The meal was scarcely lively. Cecil maintained an offended silence, and
Jim was too angry to talk, while Norah was silent and a little pale.
However, Cecil retired to his room immediately he had finished; and the
boys set themselves to the task of diverting Norah, fearful lest the
evening's adventure should have any bad effect on her. They succeeded
so well that by bedtime Norah had forgotten all her troubles, and was
weak with laughter. When Wally set out "to blither," as he said, he did
not do things by halves.
Jim came into Norah's room and switched on her light.
"Sure you're all right, kiddie?"
"Rather!" said Norah. "I've laughed too much to be anything else."
"Then go to sleep laughing," said Jim, practically. "I'm quite close if
you want anything."
"Oh, I won't want anything, thanks," Norah answered. "Good-night,
Jimmy."
"Good-night, little chap."
Norah tumbled hastily into bed and slept dreamlessly. She did not know
that Jim dragged a sofa and some rugs along the corridor, and slept
close to her door.
"Kid might dream and wake up scared," he said to Wally, a little
apologetically, before mounting guard. It was Jim's way.
CHAPTER XVI
A CHILD'S PONY
With the spirit of fire and of dew
To show the road home to them all.
KENDALL.
It was quite early next morning when Cecil awoke. One of his grievances
against the country was the way in which the birds acted as alarum
clocks every day, rousing him from his well-earned slumbers fully an
hour before even the earliest milk cart rattling along the suburban
street fulfilled a similar purpose at home. Generally, he managed to
turn over and go to sleep again. This morning, however, he was
unusually wakeful.
He lay turning in his mind his anger against his cousins. Little causes
for annoyance, simple enough in themselves, had been brooded over until
they made up a very substantial total; and now, last night's happenings
capped everything. In his own heart of hearts he knew that he had small
justification for his childish outbursts of anger; only it was not
Cecil's nature to admit any such thing, and if justification were not
evident, his mind was quite equal to manufacturing it. At the end of
half an hour's gloomy pondering he had worked himself up into a fine
state of ill usage, and into the firm belief that Norah and the boys
had no intention but to insult and humiliate him.
To some natures there is a certain comfort in nursing a grievance, and
reasoning themselves into a plaintive state of martyrdom. When Cecil
finally rolled angrily out of bed, he was almost cheerful in the
contemplation of his own unhappiness. They were determined to sneer at
him and lessen his pride, were they? Well, they should see.
Just what they were likely to see, Cecil did not know himself, but the
reflection was soothing. Meanwhile, the birds were maddeningly active,
and an unusual restlessness was upon him. He dressed slowly, putting on
flannels, for the day promised heat, and went downstairs.
Sarah and Mary were busy in the hall, and lifted astonished eyebrows at
seeing the boy down before the others; as a rule Cecil strolled into
the dining-room barely in time for breakfast, or was late altogether.
He took no notice of them, but wandered out to the back, where Brownie
was found instructing a new kitchen assistant in the gentle art of
cleaning a stove. She, too, showed amazement at the apparition, but
recovered sufficiently to offer him tea and scones, to which Cecil did
justice.
"Be you all going out early?" Brownie asked.
"Not that I know of." Cecil's tone did not encourage conversation.
"Seein' you so unusual early, I thought there was some plan on," said
Brownie. "Master Jim's great on makin' plans, ain't he? (Meriar, elbow
grease is one of the necessariest things in gettin' a shine on a
stove--don't let me catch you merely strokin' it again!) An' Miss
Norah's always ready to back him up--wunnerfull mates them two has alwuz
been, an' Master Jim has ever and alwuz looked after her, from the
d'rekly-minute he could walk!"
"Ah?" said Cecil.
"Well may you say so," said Brownie, inspired by her subject. "As
loving-kind a pair as could be, have them two been; and as proud of
each other--! Well, any one who reads may run! An', Master Jim never
mindin' her being on'y a girl; not that that has 'ampered Miss Norah
much, I will say, seein' how she rides an' all. I'm sure it's a picture
to see her on that there Bobs, an' the dumb beast knows every single
word she says to him. They'll fret for each other cruel, Bobs an' her,
when she goes to school."
Brownie's enthusiasm was ill-timed, as far as Cecil was concerned;
indeed, she could scarcely have hit upon a subject less palatable to
him. Still, it was useless to interfere with the old woman; so he
gulped down his tea hastily, listening with ill-concealed impatience to
her talk of Norah and Bobs, and then escaped abruptly.
"H'm!" said Brownie, looking after him. "Not a word out of me noble--not
even a thank you! Too much of a fine gentleman for Billabong, like his
ma before him!"
"Young gent don't seem to cotton to Miss Norah," remarked the astute,
if new, Maria, who had been listening with all her ears.
"When you're asked for your opinion about your betters, Meriar, it may
be time to shove in your oar; but until then let me advise you to keep
it in your own head," said Brownie severely. "At present your work is
rubbin' that stove, and if it ain't done in remarkable quick time it'll
have to be blackleaded all over again, bein' as how it'll have got too
dry!" Appalled by which awful possibility, Maria fell to work with
wonderful vigour, dismissing all lesser matters from her mind.
Meanwhile, Cecil strolled across the yard, and thence towards the
stockyards, where a trampling of feet and a light cloud of dust showed
that the men had got in the horses for the day. He selected a clean
place on the top rail carefully, and cast his eye over the little mob
standing in groups about the enclosure--a dozen stock horses; the big
pair of greys that were used in the covered buggy or the express wagon;
the brown ponies that Norah drove; his own mount Betty, and Wally's
mare Nan; and then the aristocrats, Garryowen and, last of all, Bobs.
Norah's pony was standing near an old black horse for which he had a
great affection. They were nearly always to be found together in the
yards or paddocks. Even unbrushed as he was, the sunlight rippled on
his bay coat when he moved, showing the hard masses of muscle in his
arched neck.
"Beauty, ain't he?" It was Mick Shanahan, on his way to another paddock
to bring in some colts. He pulled up beside Cecil, the youngster he was
riding sidling impatiently.
"Yes, he's a nice pony," said Cecil, without enthusiasm.
"Well, I've seen a few, but he beats 'em all," said the horsebreaker.
"A ringer from the time he was a foal--and he's only improved since I
first handled him, four year ago. Worth a pot of money that pony is!"
He laughed. "Not as his particular owner'd sell him, I reckon. Miss
Norah acts more by that chap than by anything else she's got!"
"I suppose so," Cecil said, seeing that he waited for a reply.
"Yes, my word! Take 'em all round, they'd be hard to beat as a pair,"
said Mick, lighting his pipe in apparent ignorance that his horse was
indulging in caracoles that appeared likely to end in a bucking
demonstration. He threw the match away after carefully extinguishing
it, and puffed out a cloud of smoke. "Quiet, y' image, can't y'? Who's
hurtin' y'? Well, I must be goin'--so long." Cecil nodded casually, and
the impatient pupil went off in a series of bounds that struck the city
boy as alarming, although Mick did not appear to notice that his mount
was not walking demurely.
Several other men came to the stockyard, selected each a horse, and
saddled it, and disappeared in various directions. The old black horse,
Bob's mate, was taken by Joe Burton, who harnessed him into a dray that
stood near, loaded up a number of fence rails, and drove off over the
paddock, evidently to a job of repairing some boundary. Cecil watched
them crawl across the plain, until they were only a speck on the grass.
Then he turned his sullen eyes on Bobs, who, left alone, had come
nearer to the fence where he sat, and was sleepily flicking with his
tail at an intrusive fly, which insisted on walking round his hip.
Cecil stared at him for some minutes before his idea came to him.
Then he flushed a little, his hand clenching on the post beside him. At
first the idea was fascinating, but preposterous; he tried to put it
from him, but it came back persistently, and his mind held it with a
kind of half-fearful excitement. They had said he could not ride him--a
child's pony! Would he show them?
Once he entertained the idea at all he could not let it go. It would be
such an easy way of "coming out on top"--of showing them that in one
thing at least their opinion was worthless. That Jim's words were true,
and that he could not master Bobs, he ridiculed loftily. It was
impossible for him to believe that what a child of fourteen did so
easily he might not be able to do. He had never seen Bobs other than
quiet; and though big and well bred and spirited, he was still only a
pony--a child's pony. Visions floated before him of increased respect
paid him by the men, and even by his uncle, when he should have
demonstrated his ability to manage something better than old Brown
Betty, flicking at the flies in her corner of the yard, with
down-drooped head, and then--he wanted to ride Bobs; and all his life
Cecil Linton had done what he wanted.
He slipped down from the fence and went across to the stables for a
saddle and bridle, entering the harness room a little nervously, but
relieved on finding no men about. Returning, he caught Bobs--who stood
like the gentleman he was--and brought him outside, where his
unaccustomed fingers bungled a little with the saddle. The one he had
chosen in his haste had a breastplate, but this he could not manage at
all; and at last he managed to get the bewildering array of straps off,
and hang it over the fence. He buckled on a pair of spurs he had found
in the harness room. Then he gathered up the reins and clambered into
the saddle. Possibly, had he let Bobs feel the spur, his ride would
have ended there and then, and there would have been no further
developments in Cecil's excursion; and it is certain that he would have
spurred him cheerfully, had not the pony moved off at once. As it was
he sat back and felt exceedingly independent and pleased with himself.
He turned him down the home paddock.
"Phwat are y' doin' on that pony?"
Murty O'Toole had come out of the men's quarters, and was gazing
open-mouthed at the unfamiliar figure on Bobs--"the city feller," for
once not apparelled in exaggerated riding clothes, but in loose
flannels; already the legs of the trousers had worked up from his low
shoes, disclosing a vision of brilliant sock. Cecil took no notice.
"Hallo, there! Shtop a minnit! Who put y' on Bobs?"
"Mind your own business," said Cecil, between his teeth, looking round.
"My business, is it? Sure, 'tis my business, if 'tis anny man's on
Billabong! Did Miss Norah say y' could ride her pony?"
"What's that to you?"
"Be gob!" said Murty, "'tis more to me than it is to you, seein' 'tis
meself knows Miss Norah's feelin's an' disposition about Bobs! Did she
give y' leave? Tell me, or I'll pull y' off, if y' was the Boss' nevvy
ten times over!"
"WILL you?" Cecil spat the words at him bitterly. He shook the reins,
and Bobs, impatient enough already, broke into a canter that carried
him away from the good friend who had intervened on his behalf. They
shot across the paddock.
Murty, left helpless, said a few strong things as he looked after the
retreating pair.
"It's a guinea to a gooseberry he's taken Frinch lave wid him," he
said, "bitther tongued little whipper-snapper that he is! Sure if Bobs
gets rid av him it'll serve him sorry, so 'twill. But phwat'll I do
about it, at all?" He scratched his head reflectively. "If I go over
'twill only worry Miss Norah to hear--an' it's most likely he'll have
enough av it pretty soon, an' the pony'll come home--an I do not care if
he comes home widout him! I'll lave it be f'r awhile." He went slowly
over to the stockyards.
Cecil, cantering over the grass with Bobs' perfect stride beneath him,
was, for the moment, completely satisfied with himself. He had routed
the enemy in the first engagement, and, if he had not left him
speechless, at least he had had the last word. Murty and he had been at
daggers drawn from the very first day, when the grinning Irishman had
pulled him out of the wild raspberry clump in the cutting-out paddock;
and the cheerful friendliness with which Jim and Norah treated the
stockman had always irritated him. He was exceedingly pleased that on
this occasion he had scored at his expense.
Where should he go? There were three gates leading out of the home
paddock--one to the Cunjee road; another to a similar well-cleared plain
to that on which the house stood; and a third into a smaller paddock,
which in its turn led into part of the rougher and steeper part of the
run. Cecil wanted to get out of sight quickly. In his mind there was a
half-formed idea that Murty might saddle a horse and come out in
pursuit; and a hand-to-hand encounter with the justly indignant
Irishman was just at that moment the last thing that the boy wanted. So
he decided upon the bush paddock, and headed in that direction.
Now, a horse that is always ridden by one person is apt to develop
ideas of his own--possibly through acquiring habits insensibly from his
usual rider. Also, he becomes accustomed to that one rider, and is
quite likely to be annoyed by a change--not alone in weight and in style
of riding, but in the absence of the sympathy that always exists
between a horse so managed and the one who cares for him and
understands him. The alien hand on his mouth had irritated Bobs from
the first; it was heavy, and jerky, where Norah's touch was as a
feather; and the light, firm seat in the saddle was changed for a
weight that bumped and shifted continuously. Further, it was not very
usual for Norah to ride in this direction--he had headed naturally for
the second gate before his tender mouth was suddenly wrenched aside
towards the third. Bobs arrived at the gate in something considerably
removed from his usual contented state of mind.
The gate was awkward, and Cecil clumsy at shutting it; he hauled the
pony's mouth roughly in his efforts to bring him into position where he
could send home the catch. The same performance was repeated at the
next gate--the one leading into the bush paddock; and when at length
they turned from it Bobs' mouth was feeling the bit in a manner that
was quite new to him, and as unpleasant as new. He sidled off in a
rough, jerky walk, betraying irritation in every movement, had Cecil
been wise enough to know it.
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