BROTHER AND SISTER
We were mates together,
And I shall not forget.
W. H. OGILVIE.
Jim had not wanted to tell Norah. It had been Brownie who had
counselled differently.
"I think she's got enough to bear," the boy had said, sitting on the
edge of the kitchen table, and flicking his boots mechanically with his
whip. He had been riding hard almost all day, but anxiety, not fatigue,
had put the lines into his face. "What's the good of giving her any
more?"
"I do believe it'd be best for her, the poor lamb!" Brownie had said.
"She's there all day, not speaking--it'll wear her out. An' you know,
Master Jim, dear, she'd never forgive us for keepin' anything back from
her about the master."
"No--but we've nothing definite. And it may make her really ill, coming
on top of the other."
"I don't think Miss Norah's the sort to let herself get ill when there
was need of her. It may take her poor mind off the other--she can't help
that now, an' he was only a pony--"
"Only a pony! By George, Brownie--!"
"Any horse is only a pony when compared to your Pa," said Brownie,
unconscious of anything peculiar in her remark. "I don't know that real
anxiety mayn't help her, Master Jim. And any'ow, it don't seem to me
we've the right to keep it from her, them bein', as it were, that
partickler much to each other. Take my tip, an' you tell her."
"What do you think, Wally?"
"I'm with Brownie," said Wally, unexpectedly. "It's awful to see Norah
lying there all day, never saying a word, and this'll rouse her up when
nothing else would." So Jim had yielded to the weight of advice, and
had gone slowly up to tell Norah they could not find David Linton.
"Can't find him?" she echoed, "but isn't he at Killybeg?"
"He left there yesterday morning," Jim answered. "A telegram came for
him last night, and it was important--something about cattle--so I sent
Burton into Cunjee with it--Killybeg's on the telephone now, you know,
and Burton could ring him up from the post office. But the Darrells
were astonished, and said he'd left there quite early, and meant to
come straight home."
"Well?" Norah was white enough now.
"Well, I got worried, and so did Murty; because you know there isn't
any stopping place between here and Killybeg when you come across the
ranges. And Monarch's pretty uncertain--in rough country, especially. So
I got Murty and Wally to go out at daylight this morning, taking the
straight line to the Darrells, and they picked up his tracks pointing
homewards about five miles from the Billabong boundary. Murty made
Monarch's shoes himself, and he could swear to them anywhere. They
followed them awhile, and they came to a place where the ground was
beaten down a lot, as if he'd had trouble with Monarch; I expect
something scared him, and he played the fool. But after that the tracks
led on to some stony rises, and they lost them; the ground was too
hard. They could only tell he'd gone right off the line to Billabong."
"Jim! Do you think--? Oh, he couldn't be hurt! Monarch would never get
rid of him."
"He'd stick to Monarch as long as the girth held and Monarch stood up,"
Jim said, "but it's rough country, and a young horse isn't handy on
those sidings. Of course it may be all right; but if so, why wasn't he
home twenty-four hours ago?"
"Have you done anything?"
"Been out all day," Jim said. "Murty sent Wal. straight home while he
went on looking, and we went back with three of the men. But you know
what that country is, all hills and gullies, and the scrub's so thick
you can scarcely get through it in places. We found one or two hoof
marks, but that was all. If he's not home to-night we're going out at
daybreak with every hand on the place."
"I'm coming."
"I knew you'd want to," Jim said, anxiety in his tone. "But I don't
think you're fit to, old girl."
"Jimmy, I'd go mad if I stayed behind."
"Oh, I know that, too. But you'll have to stay near me, Norah, and if
you're coming you've got to eat now; Brownie says you've touched
nothing all day."
Norah shivered a little. "I'm not hungry."
"No, but you've sense, old chap. You'd be the first to say one of us
couldn't go out without proper food. Try, won't you?"
"I'll try," Norah said, obediently.
"Brownie's got dinner for Wally and me in the breakfast-room," Jim
said. "Wouldn't you come down, old girl? It's only old Wal., you know,
and--and he's so awfully sorry for you, Nor. He's been such a brick. I
think it would cheer him up a bit if you came down."
"All right," Norah said, hesitating a moment. "But I'm bad company,
Jim."
"We're none of us lively," said the boy. "But we've got to help each
other." And Norah looked at him gently, and came.
Dinner was quiet, for the shadow hung upon them all. Wally tried to
talk cheerfully, checked by a lump that would rise in his throat
whenever he looked at Norah, who was "playing the game" manfully,
trying hard to eat and to be, as she would have said, "ordinary." They
talked of the plans for the next day, when a systematic search was to
be made through the scrub near where the tracks had been found.
"Each of us is to take a revolver," Jim said; "there are five
altogether, and the men who haven't got them will have to use their
stockwhips as signals if they find anything. Three shots to be fired in
the air if help is wanted. And Brownie has flasks ready for every one,
and little packets of food with some chocolate; if he's come to grief
it'll be nearly forty-eight hours since he had anything to eat. Two of
the men are to take the express wagon out as far as it can go, with
everything to make him comfortable, if--if he's hurt. Then they can ride
the horses on to help us search." Jim forced a sorry smile. "Won't he
grin at us if he turns up all right? We'll never hear the end of it!"
Then he got up abruptly and walked to the window, looking out across
the moonlit flats; and they were all silent.
"I keep thinking all the time I hear him coming," Jim said, turning
back into the room. "If you keep still, you can almost swear you can
hear old Monarch's hoofs coming up the track--and half a dozen times
I've been certain I caught the crack of his stockwhip. Of course,
it's--it's all imagination. My word! it's hard to loaf about here and go
to bed comfortably when you want to be hunting out there."
"You couldn't do any good, though?" asked Wally.
"No--it would be madness to go straying round those gullies in the
moonlight; it's not even full moon, and there the timber's so thick
that very little light can get through. There's nothing for it but to
wait until daylight."
"It's hard waiting," Norah said.
"Yes, it is. But you ought to go to bed, old woman; you had precious
little sleep last night, and the big bell is to ring at daylight."
"Then won't you boys go, too?"
"Yes, I guess we'd better," Jim said. "I'll come in and say good-night
to you, Norah." A look passed between them; the boy knew his father
never failed to pay a good-night visit to Norah's room. She smiled at
him gratefully.
It was very lonely and quiet up there, undressing, with her heart like
lead within her. She hurried over her preparations, so that she might
not keep Jim waiting when he came; she knew he needed sleep--"a big boy
outgrowing his strength like that," thought Norah, with the quaint
little touch of motherliness that she always felt towards Jim. Once she
caught sight of something on the end of the couch; the white rug that
had been Jim's Christmas present, with the scarlet B standing out
sharply in the corner--the rug Bobs would never use. Shivering a little,
she put it away in her wardrobe. Just now she could only think of that
most dear one--perhaps lying out there in the cold shadows of the bush
night. She crept into bed.
Jim came in in his shirt sleeves.
"Comfy, little chap?"
"Yes, thanks, old man. Jim--shall I ride Sirdar tomorrow?"
"You needn't have asked," the boy said--"he's yours. And, Norah--I know
Dad wouldn't mind. I'd like you to have Garryowen. He's a bit big, but
he'll suit you quite well. I know he won't make up, but you'd get fond
of him in time, dear."
"Jim!" she said--knowing all that the carelessly spoken words
meant--"Jimmy, boy." And then Jim was frightened, for Norah, who had not
cried at all, broke into a passion of crying. He held her tightly,
stroking her, not knowing what to say; murmuring broken, awkward words
of affection, while she sobbed against him. After a while she grew
quiet, and was desperately ashamed.
"I didn't mean to make an ass of myself," she said, contritely. "I'm
awfully sorry, and you were such a brick to me, Jimmy. I won't ever
forget it; only I couldn't take your horse. I love you for it. But
Sirdar will do for me quite well." And no arguments could shake her
from that decision.
Jim put the light out after some time. Then he came back and sat down
on the bed.
"I wanted to tell you, dear little chap," he said, gently. "I sent Mick
out with Boone to-day, and--and they buried him under that big tree
where he fell, and heaped up stones so that nothing could get at him."
He stopped, his voice uncertain as Norah's hand tightened in his.
"Mick said there couldn't have been any hope for him, kiddie," he went
on, presently. "His back was broken; no one could have done anything."
He would not tell her of other things Mick had seen--the spur wounds
from hip to shoulder and the marks of the stick that Cecil had thrown
down beside the pony he had ridden to his death. "They carved his name
on the tree in great big letters. Some time--whenever you feel you
can--I'll take you out there. At least"--his hand gripped hers almost
painfully--"Dad and I will take you."
Norah put her face against him, not speaking. They stayed so, her
breath coming and going unevenly, while Jim stroked her shoulder.
Presently he slipped to his knees by the bed, one arm across her, not
moving until her head nestled closer, and he knew she was asleep. Then
the big, tired fellow put his own head down and went to sleep as he
knelt, waking, stiff and sore, in the grey half light that just
precedes the dawn. He crept away noiselessly, going out on the balcony
for a breath of the chill air.
Below him, against the stockyard fence, a black shadow stood and
whinnied faintly. Jim's heart came into his throat, and he swung
himself over the edge of the balcony, using his old "fire escape" to
slide to the gravel below. He ran wildly across to the yard.
A moment later the big bell of the station clanged out furiously.
Norah, fastening her habit with swift fingers, ran to open the door in
answer to Jim's voice.
"Hurry all you know, little chap," he said. "I'm off in a few
minutes--breakfast's ready. Wally's going into Cunjee with a telegram to
Melbourne for the black trackers, as hard as he can ride."
"Jim--there's something you know!"
He hesitated.
"I'd better tell you," he said. "Monarch's come home alone, Norah!"