MIDNIGHT
When the north wind moans thro’ the blind creek courses,
And revels with harsh, hot sand,
I loose the horses, the wild red horses,
I loose the horses, the mad red horses,
And terror is on the land!
—_Marie E. J. Pitt._
DUSK fell, and the stars came out to ride in a blue-black sky, before
the sound of horses’ feet, galloping, floated to the quiet house at
Billabong. Mrs. Brown came out on the verandah, one hand at her ear,
listening.
“Here they are—an’ thank goodness!” she uttered. “I’m never easy in me
mind when they’re out on them young horses—not as anything ever
happens, but who’s to say it isn’t goin’ to? It’s always a relief, like,
to see them come scrimmagin’ in!”
Hogg, a dim figure in the gloom of a big clump of hydrangea, merely
grunted. Norah considered that a serious realization of the claims of
his name had induced Hogg to practise grunting. It was a fine art with
him, and capable of innumerable shades of expression.
Just now he was hunting snails—his dour face occasionally revealed in
an almost startling manner by gleams from the tiny lantern he carried.
“Watter will always bring them,” he remarked.
“Eh?” asked Brownie, sharply.
“Ay. The place was free a week back—an’ noo they’re crawlin’ all
through it—rapacious beasts!”
“What on earth are you saying, man?” demanded Brownie, bristling.
“Tes the snails, Mistress Broon. Whiles, ’a wes thinkin’ there wes none;
but sin’ ’a’ve been soakin’ this pairt o’ the gairden they’ve made ma
life a burrden. ’A ken fine there’s nae gairdener wull get to heaven gin
he has to deal much in life wi’ snails!” said Hogg, desperately.
“Nasty beasts!” said Brownie sympathetically. She shuddered as a
crunching sound came from under Hogg’s boot, and fled indoors; and the
Scotchman worked on, pondering upon the peculiar and painful
susceptibilities of women. “It makes ma heart glad to scrunch ’em!” he
reflected, demolishing half a dozen of his enemies with a massive boot.
The riders trotted into the stable yard, tired, but cheerful.
“Coming home was the best part of the day,” said Norah, happily,
slipping off and beginning to unbuckle Bosun’s breastplate, leaving
Garryowen to Jim. Garryowen had carried her like a bird; but Norah had a
fancy for letting her own property go.
“I think you can put Bosun in the stable to-night,” her father said;
“Monarch and Garryowen, too; they deserve a bit of hard feed.”
“And don’t Nan and Warder?” protested Jean.
“Yes—but they aren’t used to it,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “These
three are pampered babies, and the others are matter-of-fact old
stagers.”
“Nan’s a dear!” said Jean, indignantly. She caressed the brown mare’s
long nose.
“I’ll slip over after tea and feed them,” Jim said. “They’re a bit hot
now.”
“Very well,” his father answered, leading Monarch into the dark recesses
of the stable and returning for Bosun. “Better leave the others in the
yard, too, until you come over; then you can give them some chaff, just
to set Jean’s mind at rest.” He pulled that lady’s hair gently. “Make
haste, we’ve kept poor Brownie unconscionably late.”
Brownie showed no signs of having been delayed. She met them smilingly,
and called Wally “poor dear!” when he simulated extreme fatigue. Tea was
a mighty meal, and before it was over Norah and Jean felt their eyelids
drooping. It was still very hot in the house. Outside, a wind began to
blow fitfully from the west.
“Go to bed, both of you!” ordered Mr. Linton, as they rose from the
table and went out through the long windows upon the verandah. “You’re
both knocked up. What’s that light moving?”
“That’s Hogg, snail hunting,” Jim answered.
“I’ll be fined for working him overtime some day,” said his father.
“Most of them are only too glad to knock off, but Hogg’s a demon to
work.”
“This isn’t work, it’s sport!” grinned Jim.
“I should think Hogg’s dreams would be haunted by the screams of
slaughtered snails!” Wally said. “Wonder how many of their scalps he’s
entitled to wear at his saddle bow—slain in gentle and joyous combat!
He’s a mighty hunter.” He yawned, cavernously. “Jim, if you want me to
help you feed those horses before I go to sleep you’d better hurry.”
“Come on,” Jim said, swinging himself over the low railing of the
verandah. “Then I’ll race you to bed, if you like. Good-night, kids!”
“Kid yourself,” said Norah, in great scorn. “Jean, first into the bath
gets it!” Uttering this mystic prediction, she kissed her father
hastily, and fled upstairs, with Jean toiling in her wake. Sounds of
much splashing kept the bathrooms lively for some time. Then Billabong,
clean, refreshed and profoundly sleepy, tumbled into bed and became
oblivious of the world.
* * * * *
Norah woke from a confused dream of Hogg, mounted on an immense
Queensland bullock, and chasing a battalion of snails down Mount
Kosciusko. Variety was lent to the vision by the fact that Kosciusko had
become an active volcano, and was in wild eruption behind the Scotchman,
who was silhouetted blackly against a background of burning lava. _And
the snails were screaming._
For a moment she did not think she could be awake. The ridiculous dream
had been vivid, and still the glow filled her room. Then again came the
sound she had dreamed, and Norah was suddenly broad awake, and, flinging
herself out of bed, fled to the window. She uttered a cry, and tugged at
Jean frantically.
“Whatever’s the matter?” asked Jean sleepily.
“Quick, tell Jim! Call him! Oh, hurry, Jean, the stables are on fire.
I’m going—the horses!” She was groping for shoes and flinging on a
coat. Then she tore downstairs, shouting as she went. From the stables,
as she stumbled out upon the verandah, came again the sound of her
dreams, and she caught her breath in a sob. For no one who has ever
heard it can forget the horror of a horse’s scream.
The stables were burning fiercely. One end, the westward end, that held
the buggy house and harness rooms, was a sheet of flame; but the fire
had not yet fairly seized upon the whole, although the door of the loose
boxes showed trails of smoke coming from within. She could hear the
trampling of hoofs, jostling, terrified, and then a long whinny of utter
fear, rising again to a scream. Sobbing, she wrestled with the stiff
bolt of the door.
Across the garden came a shout—Jim’s voice.
“Come away from that, Norah! Come back, dear. They’ll trample over the
top of you.” He was running desperately towards the little figure
against the lit building.
“They’re burning!” said Norah, sobbing. The fastening yielded, and she
flung one door back, unable to see anything for the dense smoke. She
called the horses by name, pushing open the lower door, and had barely
time to jump aside when Monarch and Bosun bolted out, frantic with fear.
Further back, the scream came once more.
“Oh, it’s Garryowen!” Norah gasped, “and his door’s shut; and if I don’t
go in, Jim will.” She took a long breath, a child’s fear fighting
against pity and love. Then she put her arm up, as if to guard her eyes,
and stumbled into the smoke.
Within, it was almost impossible to breathe. Fierce little shoots of
fire came through cracks in the wall that showed a mass of flame beyond;
and the heat was choking and deadly. Already the roof was burning; the
hay in the loft above had caught, and the flames were shooting fifty
feet above the stables. In his box, Jim’s big bay thoroughbred was
rearing and kicking, mad with terror. Even when Norah had managed to
open his door, he would not come out to face the unknown horrors. She
called him, trying to steady her voice—knowing that to venture within
his box in his maddened state was little short of suicide. From outside
she could hear Jim’s voice, shouting for her, sharp with anxiety.
“Oh, I’ll have to leave him!” Norah sobbed. “The fire’s coming through
the roof. Oh, Garry, dear, do come out!”
Above the loose box the ceiling split open for about a yard, and a
shower of burning fragments came down. They struck Garryowen on the
quarter—and the great horse, screaming, plunged through the open door
and out like a whirlwind to the glimpse of star-lit sky that showed
through the further doorway. Behind him Norah staggered feebly, brushing
burning particles from her hair—holding one hand across her mouth in
the vain effort to keep out the choking smoke. Within sight of safety,
consciousness left her; she tripped, falling face downward on the wooden
blocks.
Jean’s terrified voice at his door had awakened Jim almost before Norah
had flown downstairs. The glow in his room did not put the fear into his
heart that flashed there at the stammering words—
“Norah’s gone over!”
“Norah—she mustn’t!” the boy gasped. He flung himself past Jean,
shouting to her to warn the rest of the house, and raced across to the
burning stables. At the gate of the yard Monarch and Bosun almost were
upon him—they swerved in their maddened gallop, missing him by a hair’s
breadth as he ran. But there was no sign of the little sister.
He peered through the smoke wildly, calling to her. For all that he
knew, his own horse was already out, safe in some dark corner of the
yard; that Norah had gone into the burning building did not enter his
head. He searched for her, shouting her name more and more loudly. A
sudden terror came upon him lest the horses should have knocked her down
as they rushed out—he sprang to the open doors, in sick fear of finding
her hurt—senseless. But nothing was visible—nothing but the rolling
clouds of flame-shot smoke. He paused, irresolute.
Then he heard Norah’s voice at Garryowen’s box, and even as he leapt
forward, amazed and despairing, came a clatter of hoofs on the wooden
pavement, as the bay horse bolted out in his last wild dash for safety.
His shoulder just brushed Jim as he plunged through the doorway, but the
touch was enough to send the boy staggering back, almost falling. He
recovered himself with an effort, dashing into the stable.
Beyond him, above Garryowen’s loose box, the roof split gradually, and
the roar of inrushing flames filled his ears. They lit up the dark
interior, for a moment even stronger than the cruel smoke. Then he saw
Norah at his feet. He picked her up, holding her with her face pressed
against him to save her from the burning fragments that filled the
air—staggering out, grim and determined, with his breath coming in
choking gasps. Then his father’s voice rang in his ears, and he saw
Wally’s face dimly and felt their hands as they drew him and his burden
to safety.
He put Norah down on the grass gently, a limp, unconscious figure. A
voice he did not recognize as belonging to him was gasping something
about water, and he heard Wally’s swift feet, that seemed to go and come
all at once——. They were splashing water on Norah’s face, but she did
not move; and suddenly he heard a dry sob break from his father, more
terrible in its agony than any sound could ever be again. Perhaps it was
in answer to it that Norah’s eyes flickered a little and presently they
opened more widely—red-rimmed eyes, half blind—and she smiled at them
faintly. Her smoke-grimed lips moved in words that sounded like “all
right.”
Jim got to his feet and moved over to the fence, his shoulders shaking
as he gripped the pickets.
“I thought she was dead,” he said; “I was jolly well sure she was dead.”
Voices and shouting were coming from the men’s hut. Behind him a long,
thundering crash echoed to the sky as the stable roof fell in. Then his
father’s hand was on his shoulder.
“Steady, old chap,” said David Linton, “she’s all right. Get to the hose
in the garden quickly, Jim. The house has caught.”