THE LONG QUEST
The creek went down with a broken song,
'Neath the she oaks high;
The waters carried the song along,
And the oaks a sigh.
HENRY LAWSON.
The big black thoroughbred still stood by the rails as they rode away.
He had got rid of the saddle, and the broken bridle trailed from his
head. No one had time to see to him.
Billabong was humming with activity. Men were running down to the
yards, bridle in hand; others leading their horses up to be saddled;
while those who were ready had raced over to the quarters for a
snatched breakfast. Sirdar and the boys' horses had been stabled all
night, so that they were quickly saddled. Jim was riding Nan; Wally, on
Garryowen, was already a speck in the distance.
"You'll be quicker if you take him," Jim had said. Then he and Norah
had cantered away together.
"Monarch wasn't hurt, Jim?"
"He'd been down, I think," Jim said; "His knees look like it. But he's
all right--why, he must have jumped three fences?"
After that for a long time they did not speak. Grim fear was knocking
at both their hearts, for with the return of the black horse without
his rider, their worst dread was practically confirmed. It was fairly
certain that Mr. Linton was helpless, somewhere in the bush, and that
meant that he had been so for nearly two days, since it was almost that
time since he had ridden away from Killybeg.
Two days! They had been days of steady, relentless heat, untempered by
any breeze--when the cattle had sought the shade of the gum trees, and
the dogs about the homestead had crept close in under the tree
lucernes, with open mouths and tongues lolling. The men working on the
run had left their tasks often to go down to the creek or the river for
a drink; in the house, closely shuttered windows and lowered blinds on
the verandahs had only served to make the heat bearable. And he had
been out in it, somewhere, helpless, and perhaps in pain; with nothing
to ease for him the hot hours or to save him from the chill of a
Victorian night, which, even in midsummer, may be sharply cold before
the dawn. The thought gnawed at his children's hearts.
They passed through the Billabong boundary and out into the rough
country beyond, sharply undulating until it rose into the ranges David
Linton had crossed on his way to and from Killybeg. They had been
fairly certain that he had come through them safely on his way home,
and the thought had been a comfort--for to seek a man in those hills was
a hopeless task. But suddenly a sick fear came over Norah.
"Jim," she said, "we don't know where Monarch got rid of Dad, of
course?"
"No; but I expect it was near where they picked up his tracks."
"You don't think it might have been in the ranges?"
Jim looked suddenly aghast; but his face cleared.
"No," he said, decidedly; "I don't. That place where Monarch had been
playing up shows Dad must have been on him--a horse alone doesn't go to
market as he seems to have done there. I guess you can put that notion
out of your head, mate." He smiled at Norah, who answered him with a
grateful look.
Five miles from the boundary they came upon the tracks--to see them gave
Norah a queer sense of comfort, since in a way they brought her in
touch with Dad. Then they separated, beating into the scrub that hemmed
them round everywhere, except when low, stony hills rose naked out of
the green undergrowth.
"We must shout to each other every few minutes to make sure we're not
getting too far apart," Jim said. "Of course, it's not so risky when
you're riding--if you gave old Sirdar his head anywhere I know he'd take
you home. Still, you don't gain anything by going far apart. A
systematic search is what's necessary in a place like this, where you
might ride half a dozen yards from him and not see him. Keep Tait with
you, Norah."
"All right," Norah nodded. "What about coo-eeing, Jim? He might hear a
shout and answer it, even if he couldn't see us."
"Yes, but you can't keep coo-eeing all the time," said Jim,
practically. "I'll tell you what--sing or whistle. You can do that
easily, and it doesn't tire you. And of course, if you find him, fire
the revolver--you're sure you've got it carefully?"
"Yes, it's all right," Norah replied, showing the revolver in its neat
leather case. Jim and her father had taught her its use long ago, and
she understood it quite well. Mr. Linton held the view that all women
in the bush should know how to handle fire arms, since the bush is a
place where no one ever knows exactly what may turn up, from burglars
to tiger snakes. "Fire three times in the air, isn't it, Jim?"
"Yes, that's right. Go on then, kiddie, and do take care!" Jim's voice
was strained with anxiety and wretchedness. While Norah was full of
hope, and, indeed, could scarcely realize that they might not find Dad
soon, the boy had the memory of the fruitless search all the previous
day to dispirit him. As he looked at the forbidding wall of green
scrub, his feeling was almost one of despair.
It did not take long for Norah to realize the difficulty of their task.
She beat up and down among the trees, striving to keep an eye in every
direction, since any one of the big stumps, any clump of brushwood, any
old log or little knoll or grassy hollow might hide the one she
sought--unable, perhaps, to see her or call to her even should she pass
in his sight. She remembered Jim's advice, and began to sing; but the
words died in her throat, and ended in something more like a sob.
Whistling was more possible, and mechanically she took up a tune that
Wally used to sing, and whistled it up and down the scrub as she went.
Soon she did not know that she was doing so; but years after she used
to shudder within herself if she heard that foolish little tune.
The men came out a little later, and soon the scrub was alive with
voices and the noise of the searching. It was weary work, with many a
flutter at the heart when a sudden call would bring Norah to attention,
rigid and listening--forgetting for the moment that only the three
signals agreed upon were to give evidence of success. Hour after hour
went by.
They had settled a certain signal to meet for lunch, and when it
finally summoned them the searchers struggled out of the bush one by
one. Jim's heart smote him as he saw Norah's white face, and he begged
her to cease; to stay resting during the hot afternoon, even if she
would not go home. Norah shook her head dully. She could not do it; and
Jim, knowing how he would have felt were he in her place, did not press
her, although he was miserably anxious. They sat down together on an
old log, finding a shred of comfort in each other's nearness.
It was a silent party that gathered round when black Billy had the big
quart pots of tea ready. No one seemed to have anything to say. Norah
thought, with a catch at her heart, of the last time they had picnicked
in the scrub; the happy talk and laughter, the dear foolish jokes and
merriment. This was indeed a strange picnic--each man eating rapidly and
in silence, and everywhere stern preoccupied faces. There was no
waiting afterwards for the usual "smoke oh"; the men sprang up as soon
as the hurried meal was over, and lit their pipes as they strode away.
Soon the temporary camp was deserted--black Billy, the last to leave,
muttering miserably to himself, hurrying back into the bush. The search
went on.
There was no riding in the afternoon; they were in country where the
tangle of dogwood and undergrowth was so thick that to take a horse
through it meant only lost time, and hindered the thoroughness of the
quest. Norah fought her way through, keeping her line just as the men
kept theirs; her white coat stained and torn now, her riding skirt
showing a hundred rents, her boots cut through in many places. She did
not know it; there was only room in her heart for one thought. When,
while waiting for lunch, she had heard Dave Boone say something in an
angry undertone about Bobs, she had wondered dully for a moment what he
meant. She had forgotten even Bobs.
The hours went by, and the sun drooped towards evening. In the dark
heart of the scrub the gloom came early, making each shadow a place of
mystery that gave false hope to the searchers a hundred times.
Gradually it was too dark to look any more; for that day also they must
give it up--the third since Monarch had broken free from his master and
left him lying somewhere in the green fastness about them. There
scarcely seemed a yard of it left unsearched. Despair was written on
most of the faces as the men came one by one to their horses and rode
home, picking up on their way those who were still beating the bush as
far as the Billabong boundary.
Jim and Norah were the last to leave. They came back to the horses
together, Tait at their heels, his head and tail down. Norah was
stumbling blindly as she walked, and Jim's arm was round her. He put
her up, and turned silently to unfasten his own bridle.
"Jim," she said, and stopped. "Jim, do you think we'll find him in--in
time?"
Jim hesitated, trying to bring himself to say what he dared no longer
think. Then he gave way suddenly.
"No," he said, hoarsely, "I don't; I don't believe we ever will!" He
put his head down on the saddle and sobbed terribly--dry, hard sobs that
came from the bottom of his big heart. And Norah had no word of
comfort. She sat still on Sirdar, staring in front of her.
Presently Jim stood up and climbed into the saddle, and the impatient
horses moved off quickly towards home, Tait jogging at their heels.
Once Jim turned towards his sister, saying, "Are you quite knocked up,
old girl?" Norah only shook her head--she did not know that she was
tired. Neither spoke again.
It was perhaps a mile further on that Norah pulled up sharply, and
whistled to Tait. The collie had slipped off into the undergrowth--she
could hear him moving on dry sticks that crackled beneath him. He
whined a little, but did not come.
"Don't wait," Jim said. "He'll catch us up in a minute."
"He always comes if I whistle," Norah answered, her brow puckering. "I
don't understand. Wait a moment, Jim." She had slid off her pony and
followed Tait almost before Jim realized that she was gone.
The dog was nosing along a big log, the ruff on his neck bristling. As
Norah saw him he leaped upon it, and down on the other side. Then she
heard him bark sharply, and flung herself over the log after him. He
was licking something that lay in the shadows, almost invisible at
first, until the dim light showed a white glimmer. It was instinct more
than sight that told Norah it was her father's face.
"Daddy--oh, Dad!"
The wild cry turned Jim to stone for a moment--then he was off his horse
and through the scrub like a madman to where Norah knelt beside the
still form, sobbing and talking incoherently, and screwing blindly at
the cap of the flask she carried. They forced a little of the stimulant
between the set teeth, once a terrified examination had told them that
he still breathed; then Jim struck match after match, trying to see the
extent of his injuries--a hopeless task by the flickering light that
lasted only an instant. He put the box in his pocket at last.
"It's no good," he said, "we can't see. Wonder if the men are out of
hearing." Running to the horses, standing patiently with trailing
bridles, he fired off all his revolver shots in quick succession, and
coo-ed again and again. Then he went back to where Norah sat in the
darkness and held her father's hand.
"Don't wait," she said. "I'm sure they're out of hearing, Jim, darling.
And we couldn't dare to move him by ourselves. Tear in and bring the
men--and send for the doctor."
"I don't like to leave you here alone," he said, anxiously.
"Alone!" Norah said, in amazement. "But I've got Dad!"
"Yes," he said, "but--"
"Oh, do fly, Jimmy!" she said. "Leave me the matches. I'm all right."
She heard him crash back to the horses, and then the swift thud of
Nan's hoofs grew fainter and fainter as he spurred her madly over the
rough ground, galloping off for help. The darkness seemed all at once
to be more complete, and the scrub to come closer, like a curtain round
them--round her and Dad, who was found again. She put her ear close to
his mouth--the breathing was a little more distinct, and so far as she
could tell his head was uninjured. One leg was doubled up beneath him
in an ugly manner. Norah knew she must not try to move it; but even in
the darkness she was sure that it was badly hurt, and the tears were
falling on David Linton's face as Norah crept back after her
examination. It was horrible to see Dad, of all people, helpless and
still.
Perhaps it was the tears that woke him from his stupor. He stirred a
little, and groaned. At the sound, Norah, on her knees beside him,
trembled very exceedingly, with a mixture of joy and fear that almost
took her breath. She spoke softly.
"Dad!"
"Is it--you?" said David Linton, weakly. The darkness hid his face, but
to hear his voice again was wonderful; and Norah's hands shook as she
wrestled with the flask.
"Yes, it's me," she said. "Oh, Dad, dear old Dad, are you much hurt?"
"I don't know." The voice was very faint. Her fears surged back.
"Try to drink some of this--it's weak, and you won't choke," she said.
"Is your head hurt, Daddy? Could I lift it a little?"
"Not hurt," he managed to say. So she groped in the darkness to lift
the heavy head, and together they made a sorry business of the flask,
spilling far more than he drank. Still, some went the right way; and
presently he spoke again, his voice stronger.
"I knew you'd come... mate."
"Tait found you," she said. "And Jim was here, but he's gone for the
men. We'll take care of you, Daddy. Could I move you any way to help?"
"Better not," he said. "Just--be there." His hand closed on hers, and he
seemed to slip off into unconsciousness again, for when she spoke to
him he did not answer. So Norah sat and held his hand; and the night
crept on.
"Coo-ee!" Far off a shout. She slipped her hand away gently, and ran a
little way before answering, lest the cry should startle him. Then she
shouted with all her strength; and soon the beat of hoofs came nearer
and out of the darkness Jim came back, Murty galloping with him.
"He's spoken," said Norah; "but he's gone off again. And he's had some
whisky."
"Did he know you?"
"Yes; but he's terribly weak." They were all beside Mr. Linton now, and
Murty struck a match, and carefully shading it, scanned the fallen
man's face by its glimmer. Norah saw his own change as he looked. Then
the match went out, and for a moment it was darker than ever.
"They're bringing things," Jim said. He took off his coat and spread it
over his father, and Murty did the same. "And the doctor's coming--it's
wonderful luck--he came out from Cunjee with Wally." Jim put his hand on
Norah's. "Were you all right, old kiddie?"
"Quite right," said she. Then they waited silently until a rattle of
wheels came as the express wagon clattered up. Murty went out to the
track to bring the doctor in.
Dr. Anderson cast a glance at Norah by the light of the lanterns they
had brought, and spoke to Jim.
"Take her away," he said. "I don't want you, either. Murty and Boone
will help me." So the two who were only children wandered off into the
scrub together, sitting on a log, silently, in sick anxiety, while the
doctor was busy. A groan came to them once, and Norah shuddered and put
her face into her hands, while Jim, who had himself shivered at the
sound, put his arm round her, and tried to whisper something, only his
voice would not come. Then--ages later, it seemed--the doctor's voice:
"Are you two there?"
They hurried to him.
"We'll get him home," the doctor said. "A risk, moving him; but it's
worse to leave him lying under that log. The men are getting some of
the dogwood down, so that we can carry him out better. He's badly
knocked about, but his head's all right. The leg is the worst; it's
fractured in two places. You'll have a patient for a good while,
Norah."
"Then--then he won't die?"
"Die?" said the doctor. "Not a bit of it! He'll--ah, you poor child!"
For Norah had turned and clung to Jim, and was sobbing, while the big
fellow who bent over her and patted her was himself unable to speak.
Little Dr. Anderson patted them both, and choked himself, though he hid
it professionally with a cough. He remarked afterwards that he had not
known that young Norah Linton could cry.
It was only for a minute, though. The men came back carrying a
stretcher, and Norah and Jim sprang to help. Very gently they lifted
David Linton's unconscious form, and the four bore him slowly to the
wagon, Norah backing in front with two lanterns to light every step.
"Chancy work through them dorgwood spikes," said Dave Boone. But they
came out safely, and got him into the wagon, where a mattress was in
readiness. The doctor heaved a sigh of relief when the business was
done. So they took him home, the grey horses pulled into a slow walk,
while Jim and Norah rode ahead to find the smoothest track.
It was past midnight when the lights of the homestead came into view;
but everywhere Billabong was up. The men were round the open gate of
the yard, from Andy Ferguson, the tears running unheeded down his old
face, to Lee Wing, for once without his wide benevolent smile, and in
the background Lal Chunder's dark face. Beyond them was Mrs. Brown,
with the pale-faced girls behind her. There were a score of willing
hands to bring David Linton into his home.
A little later Jim came out to where Norah waited in the hall, a little
huddled figure in one corner of a leather armchair.
"He's quite comfortable," he said; "hasn't spoken, but the doctor says
it's a natural sleep, and Brownie and he are going to sit with him. Old
kiddie, are you awfully tired?"
"I'm not tired one bit!" said Norah, with no idea that she was not
speaking the exact truth.
"H'm!" said Jim, looking at her. He went into the dining-room,
returning a minute later with a glass of wine.
"You're to have this," he said authoritatively, "and then I'm going to
put you to--"
He broke off, looking at her with a little smile on his tired face.
Norah had put her head down on the arm of the big chair, and was fast
asleep.