THE RIDE HOME
In the gathering of night-gloom o'erhead in
The still, silent change.
GORDON.
"Well, old girl?"
Norah laughed up at the big fellow delightedly.
"Oh, wasn't it lovely, Jimmy?" she said. "I was so excited--and you were
grand! And wasn't Wally's catch a beauty? It's been a lovely match,
hasn't it, Jim?"
"H'm--in spots," said Jim, a little doubtfully, but laughing back at
her. "Rather like the fellow who said his egg was 'excellent--in parts,'
don't you think? Anyhow, we won, and that's the main thing--and I never
DID see a catch to beat that of Wal's."
"We're all immensely proud of you, Jim," Mrs. Anderson said. "And
didn't my old man do well?"
"He did, indeed," Jim agreed heartily. "But I'm not a bit proud of
myself--I think I was asleep most of the time, till old Wal., here, woke
me up with a few well-chosen words. However, it's over now--and Norah, I
want you to get along home."
"Aren't you coming?" Norah asked, a little blankly.
"We'll have to catch you up. I don't quite like the look of the
weather; we're in for a storm, that's certain, and you may possibly
escape it if you get away now. I can't start just yet; the Mulgoa
fellows are insisting on 'shouting' for all hands, and we can't very
well refuse; besides"--he dropped his voice--"you know what Boone is--I
must see that he and Murty leave Cunjee. Cecil will look after you,
won't you, Cecil?"
That gentleman assented without any pleasure. He did not feel impressed
with the prospect of acting as escort to a small girl when he might
have remained in Cunjee. Norah was quick to notice his manner.
"I needn't bother Cecil, Jim," she said, "I can quite easily ride on by
myself."
"Indeed you won't," her brother responded. "Why, it'll be dark before
long--let alone the state of the weather. You don't mind, Cecil, do
you?"
Thus directly questioned, Cecil could do nothing but express his entire
willingness.
"That's all right, then," Jim said. "Hurry on down to the hotel and get
the saddles on, there's a good chap. Goodness knows whether you'll find
any one there, but I fancy that pretty well the whole township is up at
the match. You'll only escape that storm if you're lucky--don't lose a
minute." He made his farewells to Mrs. Anderson, and turned to Norah
again. "Better look after your own girth," he told her--"run after Cecil
and lend him a hand if he wants it."
Cecil had already started; his slim, correctly attired figure was
hastening along the dusty lane. He hated rain, and the hint of the
coming storm had made him hurry when no other consideration would have
done so. There was no one visible about the hotel yard, as he entered,
and he called in vain; then, seeing no help for it, he entered the
stables, where the Billabong horses occupied the stalls at one end.
Bobs whinnied sharply as the door opened, and Cecil looked at the
inquiring head; and then, sourly, towards Brown Betty, standing
peacefully, half asleep, in her stall.
"Wonder if she'd mind?" Cecil muttered, pondering. "Let her, anyhow!"
With which cryptic remarks he moved towards the saddles.
Norah arrived on the scene a few minutes later, coming straight to the
stables. For a moment she could not see Cecil, then, peering into
Betty's stall, she made him out, busily girthing up. Bobs was already
saddled, and Norah went up to him.
"Why, you have been quick, Cecil," she said, cheerfully. "I thought I
was going to help you, but there doesn't seem anything for me to do.
Thanks very much for saddling Bobs." She led the pony out, and then
stopped. "Oh, what a pity," she said. "You've got the wrong saddles on,
Cecil."
Cecil came out, leading the brown mare, and a little flushed.
"I did it on--ah--purpose," he said. "You don't mind, I suppose if I ride
Bobs home?"
Norah looked at him a moment, and then flushed in her turn. To let her
cousin ride Bobs seventeen miles was unthinkable. She had the
profoundest regard for her pony's back; and she knew that even Brown
Betty's seasoned hide was giving way under the unskilled horsemanship
of the city boy. It was very doubtful, moreover, that it would be safe
to mount him on Bobs, who was already excited with the coming storm and
the prospect of home. She knew every turn, and thought of the
high-spirited pony--he went quietly for her, but with a new-chum it
might be a different matter.
Moreover, Norah was distinctly annoyed. She was a sweet-tempered
maiden, but she did not like being treated lightly; and in assuming
that he might coolly appropriate her special property, it seemed to her
that Cecil was treating her very lightly indeed. She had a moment's
swift wish that Jim were there to take her part. It was not quite easy
to oppose any one nearly grown up like Cecil--who in addition was a
guest, and had a special claim on courtesy. She flushed deeply as she
answered him in a low voice.
"I can't let you ride Bobs, I'm afraid, Cecil."
"Oh, can't you?" said Cecil, staring. "Why not?"
"Well, no one rides him but me," said Norah unhappily. "And he's a
queer pony, Cecil. I'm not a bit sure that he'd go nicely with you. You
see, I understand him."
"You evidently think no one can ride but yourself," Cecil said
disagreeably. "I really think I can manage the famous Bobs."
"If you knew him it might be all right," Norah answered. "But I'd
really rather not, Cecil. He's eager and impatient, and quite
unaccustomed to strangers. Dad would be awfully annoyed if you had any
trouble with him."
"I don't fancy Uncle David would be given any need for annoyance,"
Cecil replied. "I'm a bit sick of this old mare, and I don't think it
would hurt you to lend me Bobs. It's uncommonly selfish of you to want
to keep him always."
Norah's flush deepened.
"I'm awfully sorry you think that," she said. "And I'll speak to Dad
about your riding him, if you like--another time."
"Another time? Then what's the matter with my riding him now? I
suppose," said Cecil with a sneer, "you want to show off in Cunjee."
Norah stared at him blankly for a moment. Rudeness had been always so
far from her that she did not for a moment comprehend that this boy was
being deliberately rude. Then she walked round Bobs without replying,
and unbuckled the girth.
"Please let me have my saddle," she said. Her voice was quite final.
Cecil was pale with anger. He flung round without a word, tugging at
the buckle until Betty, who was patient but girth-galled, pulled away
in protest. As it yielded Norah laid his saddle on the mare's withers,
and slipped her own away. Their eyes met for a moment as she did so--the
child's steady and a little scornful, the young man's shifty. Then
Norah lifted her saddle across to Bobs, and girthed him up in silence.
The pony was restless and excited, and objected to the second saddling
out in the space of the yard, when he was keen to get away. It seemed
unreasonable to Bobs, and he ran round and generally behaved in a
frivolous manner, while Norah struggled with the girth. When it was
done, she took her head, somewhat dishevelled, from under the saddle
flap. She laughed a little.
Cecil, every line of his back showing offended dignity, was riding out
of the yard. As he came to the gate he dug his heel into Betty, who
broke into a canter at once. Norah's escort disappeared round a turn in
the street without looking back.
"Well, if he isn't a donkey!" was her comment. "He's awfully
unpleasant--I wish he wouldn't make things so uncomfortable." She
mounted Bobs, and subdued that excitable steed's impatience while she
settled her habit. "Jim will be so angry if he finds out. I must get
away before he comes."
She rode into the street. Some distance away a crowd was moving slowly
in her direction. Cheers and snatches of triumphant choruses were
wafted to her. In the midst she could see some figures in white
flannels. Norah rounded the corner of the street, seeing ahead of her a
fast-receding speck--Brown Betty and her rider. It was evident that she
was not to have the benefit of Cecil's presence on the ride home; and
Norah could not help laughing again, although she was annoyed at the
whole occurrence. For all his airs, he was such a baby, this cousin of
hers.
"I'll tell Dad all about it," she reflected. "The he can say whether he
thinks Cecil can ride Bobs. Only I won't tell him he cleared out and
left me, 'cause there would be a row straight away." Thus pondering in
the Australian manner, she took the road home.
Jim's storm was coming up slowly, and though the sun had not yet set,
already it was growing dusk; and still it was very hot. She let Bobs
canter slowly, not wishing to appear to be hurrying after Cecil. Norah
never bore malice, but she had her pride! Often she glanced back over
her shoulder, hoping to see the boys. She knew they would not let the
grass grow under their horses' hoofs, once they were able to take the
road home. But the track lay bare behind her, and ahead Cecil had quite
disappeared. By the time she was five miles out of Cunjee she seemed
the only person in the whole landscape, and the only sound that met her
ear was the steady beat of the cantering hoofs, mingled with the creak
of the saddle leather.
The metalled road ended, and she struck into the bush track. It was
very lonely now; trees overhung the path, and the eerie light of the
coming storm threw strange shadows, at which Bobs shied constantly.
Once or twice there was a distant roll of thunder. There was just light
enough left to see the way. The road wound in and out among the trees.
By day it was Norah's favourite part of the journey; but now she could
not help wishing that it were possible to look further ahead, or to
watch the road over which she had passed, to catch the first glimpse of
Jim and Wally. There was a pleasant security in feeling that they were
coming. Norah was not a nervous girl; but she had rarely been allowed
to ride any but short distances alone. If Dad and Jim were not
available, it was an understood thing that Billy must act as her
escort. Certainly she had never been in the dark alone, and so far from
home. She was not afraid--she would have laughed at the very notion.
Still, it was a little queer. She knew she would be glad when she was
out of the timber.
There came a bend in the track, and Bobs swung round it sharply. Then a
dark figure loomed up suddenly in the gloom, and the pony shied
violently, and propped. Norah struck her heel into him, her heart
giving a great bound. He struggled and plunged. A hand was on his
bridle, and a rough voice threatened him savagely. In the gloom Norah
could just make out a brutal-looking man, young, but with something in
his face that made her shudder. Her heart stood still for a moment,
after that first wild leap. Then she realized that he was asking her
for money, and she commanded her voice to answer.
"I haven't any."
It was true. When she rode with her father or brother it never occurred
to Norah to carry money, and she wore nothing of value at all to tempt
any thief. Her hunting-crop was silver mounted; she remembered it
suddenly, glad that it was dark and that the man would not be likely to
notice the gift that had been Jim's.
"I don't believe y'," he said.
"Well, you can, then," Norah answered. She was beginning to recover
herself, a little ashamed of that first moment of unreasoning terror.
If she had no money he would surely let her go. She scarcely knew the
meaning of fear--how should she, in the free, simple life that had
always been guarded, yet had left her only a little child in mind? "I
haven't so much as a penny," she went on. "Let go my bridle."
"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.