NOON
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 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.