RED MICK AND HIS SHEEP DOGS.
When Hugh came home one day with his face, as usual, full of trouble,
Mary began to laugh him out of it.
“Well, Mr. Hugh, which is it to-day—the Doyles or the Donohoes? Have
they been stealing sheep or breaking gates?”
“Oh, it’s all very well for you to laugh,” he said; “you don’t
understand. Some of that gang up the river went into the stud paddock
yesterday to cut down a tree for a bee’s nest, and left the tree
burning; might have set the whole run—forty thousand acres of dry
grass—in a blaze. Then they drove their dray against the gate, knocking
it sideways, and a lot of the stud sheep got out into the other
paddock, and I’ll have to be off at day-break to-morrow to get ’em
back.”
“Why don’t you summon the wretches, and have them put in gaol, or go
and break their gates, and cut down their trees?” she said, with a
cheerful ignorance of details.
“I daren’t—simply daren’t. If I summoned one of them, I’d never have
dry grass but there’d be fires. I’d never have fat sheep but there’d be
dogs among ’em. _They_ ride all over the run; but if a bird belonging
to the station flew over one of their selections they’d summon me for
trespass. There’s no end to the injury a spiteful neighbour can do you
in this sort of country. And your father would blame me.”
“Why?”
“Oh, it’s part of the management of a station to get on with your
neighbours. Never quarrel if you can help it. But since shearing
troubles started we have no friends at all.”
“Well,” she said, “I should like to have a look at those desperate
neighbours I hear so much about. Red Mick Donohoe rode past the other
day on such a beautiful horse, and he opened the gate for us, and asked
if he might come down to hear me sing. Think of that, now.”
“Very well,” he said. “We’ll go for a ride up that way to-morrow
afternoon. We might find Red Mick killing some of our sheep, and you
can go into the box as the lady detective. If you’ll only sing him into
gaol, the station will pay you at the same rate as Patti gets!”
Next afternoon they cantered away up the river towards the mountains.
Poss and Binjie had long ago laid their dearest possessions at her
feet, begging her to ride them—horses so precious that it had hitherto
been deemed sacrilege to put a side-saddle on them. She had the divine
gift of “hands,” and all manner of excitable, pulling horses went
quietly and smoothly under her management. Her English training had
taught her to ride over jumps, and she was very anxious to have a try
at post-and-rail fences.
After much pressing, Hugh had this day allowed her to try Obadiah,
Binjie’s celebrated show jumper, an animal that could be trusted to
jump anything he could see over; so during their ride to the habitat of
the Donohoes they left the regular track, and followed one of the
fences for a mile or two, looking for a suitable place to try the
horse. No good place offered itself, as the timber was thick, and the
country so rugged that she would have had to ride at a stiff
post-and-rail either up or down a steep slope. Loitering along, far off
the track, they crossed a little ridge where stringybark trees, with an
undergrowth of bushes and saplings, formed a regular thicket.
Suddenly Hugh gave a whistle of surprise, and jumped from his horse.
“Hold this horse a minute, please,” he said. “There has been a mob of
sheep driven here.”
“Whereabouts?” said she, staring round her.
“All about here,” he said, pointing to the ground. “Don’t you see the
tracks? Hundreds of ’em. But I can’t see what they were up to. There’s
no place they could get ’em out without cutting the wires, and the
fence is sound enough. Good heavens, I see it now! Well, that’s smart
he continued, leaning against a post and giving it a shake.
“What have they done I don’t understand. How have they got the sheep
through without breaking the fence?”
“They’ve dug up four or five posts,” he said, kicking over some red
earth with his foot, “laid that piece of fence flat on the ground,
driven the sheep over it, and then put the fence up again. No wonder we
are missing sheep! Two or three hundred have gone out here! Here’s a
chance at last—the chance I’ve been waiting for all these years! What a
lucky thing we came here! And now, Miss Grant,” he said, remounting,
“we won’t have any jumping to-day. I’ll have to follow these tracks
till I come on the sheep somewhere, if it’s in Red Mick Donohoe’s own
yard. Do you think you can find your way back to the homestead?”
“What for?”
“To tell them to send Poss and Binjie after me. I don’t expect they’ve
gone home yet. I want a witness with me when I catch Red Mick with
these sheep, or else fifty of his clan will swear that he has been in
bed for six weeks, or something like that.”
“Then,” she said firmly, gathering up the reins in her daintily gloved
hands as she spoke, “I’m going with you. I’m just as good a witness as
Poss or Binjie.”
“No, no, no,” said Hugh, “that won’t do. There may be a row. It’s a
rough sort of place, and a rough lot of people. Now look here, Miss
Grant, oblige me and go home. The horse will take you straight back.”
Her eyes glowed with excitement. “Please let me come,” she said. “You
don’t know how much I want to come. I’ll do whatever you tell me!”
He argued and expostulated and entreated. He knew well enough there was
a good deal of risk in the matter, and he tried hard to make her go
back. But she was determined to go with him, and the argument ended in
the only possible manner—she went. She promised to do exactly what she
was told, to keep out of the way if so ordered, and, above all, not to
speak except when spoken to.
So off they went through the scrub on the track of the sheep, plain as
print to the young bushman, though invisible to his companion. They
rode at a walk for the most part, for fear of being heard. Now and
again, when they could see for a good distance ahead, they let the
horses canter; Hugh riding in front, she, like a damosel of old, in
assumed submission a few lengths behind, and thoroughly enjoying the
adventure.
Of course she could not keep silence long, and after a while she drew
alongside, and whispered, “Do you think we shall catch them?”
“I hope so. But it’s a very curious thing; there has been a dog after
these sheep—see, there’s his track,” pointing to foot-prints plainly
marked in wet sand—“but no track of man or horse to be seen. By Jove,
look there!”
They had come to the crest of a small hill, and were looking down a
long valley. To right and left of them towered the blue, rugged peaks;
straight in front the valley opened out, and they got a fairly clear
view for a mile or more. About half a mile ahead, travelling in a
compact mass down the valley, was a mob of some two or three hundred
sheep. At their heels trotted two sheep-dogs of the small wiry breed
common in the mountains. Hugh looked about to see who was in charge of
them; but no one was visible. The dogs were taking the sheep along
without word or sign from anyone, hurrying them at a good sharp pace,
each keeping on his own flank of the mob, or occasionally dropping
behind to hurry up the laggards.
It was a marvellous exhibition of sagacity. They came to a place where
it was necessary to turn sharply to the right to cross a small creek;
one of the dogs shot forward, and sent the leading sheep scurrying down
the bank, while the other fell back a few yards and prevented the mob
turning back. After a moment’s hesitation the sheep plunged into the
shallow water, splashed across the creek, and set off again in their
compact march down the valley, urged and directed by their silent
custodians—who paused to lap a few mouthfuls of water, and then hurried
on with an air of importance.
“Look at that,” said Hugh, in open admiration. “Isn’t that wonderful?
Those are Red Mick’s dogs. I knew they were good dogs, but this is
simply marvellous, isn’t it? What are we to do now? If I take the sheep
from them they’ll run home, and I can’t prosecute Red Mick because they
picked up a mob of sheep.”
“Oh, but he must be near them somewhere,” said Mary, to whom the whole
affair appeared uncanny. “They wouldn’t drive sheep by themselves,
surely?”
“Oh, of course, he started them. Once he got the sheep out of the
paddock, he started the dogs for home, and rode off. You see his plan.
If anyone finds the dogs with them, of course he had nothing to do with
it. Sheep-dogs will often go into a paddock, and bring a mob of sheep
up to the yard on their own account. It’s an instinct with them. Look
at those two now, forcing the sheep over that bad crossing. Isn’t it
wonderful?”
“Well,” she said, triumphantly, “what about the fence? They couldn’t
dig up that.”
“Oh, Red Mick did; but who’s to prove it? He’ll swear he never was near
the fence, and that his dogs picked up these sheep and brought them
home on their own account. The jury would find that I dug up my own
fence, and they’d acquit Red Mick, and give him a testimonial. No, I’ll
tell you what we’ll do. We’ll cut across the range, and sneak up as
near Red Mick’s as we can. Then we’ll hide and watch his house; and
when the dogs come up, if he takes the sheep from them, or starts to
drive them anywhere, we’ve got him. Once he takes charge of those sheep
he’s done. Of course there may be a bit of trouble when we spring up
and accuse him. Are you afraid?”
“No,” she replied. “I’m not afraid—with you. I like it. Come on.”
No sooner said than done. They set their horses in motion, and went at
a steady trot for a mile or so, crossing the valley at right angles,
over a sharp rise and down a small hill, till Hugh again pulled up.
“There’s Red Mick’s homestead,” he said, pointing to a speck far away
down a gully. “The sheep will come up the creek, because it is the
smoothest track. Now, we must tie our horses up here, sneak down the
creek bed, and get as near the house as we can.”
They tied their horses up in a clump of trees, and made the rest of the
journey on foot, hurrying silently for half a mile down the bed of the
creek, hidden by its steep banks. Here and there, to escape
observation, they had to walk in the water, and Hugh, looking round,
saw his companion wading after him, with face firm-set and eyes ablaze.
It was a man-hunt, the most exciting of all hunting.
He laughed silently at the girl’s flushed and excited face. As he
reached out to help her over some fallen timber, she took his hand with
a firm grip that set his nerves tingling. They pushed on until almost
abreast of Red Mick’s dwelling; then Hugh, standing on a projecting
stump, peered over the high bank to see how the land lay, while his
companion sat down and watched his movements with wide open eyes.
He saw the cottage drowsing in the bright afternoon sunlight. It was a
picturesque little building, made of heavy red-gum slabs, with a bark
roof; the windows were merely square holes cut in the slabs, fitted
with heavy wooden covers that now hung open, giving a view of the
interior. In one room could be seen a rough dresser covered with plates
and dishes, and a saddle hung from a tie-beam; in the other there was a
rough plank bed with blue blankets. The door was shut, and there was no
sign of life about the place. There was no garden in front of the
house, merely the bare earth and a dust-heap where ashes were thrown
out, on which a few hens were enjoying the afternoon sun and fluffing
the dust over themselves.
At the back was a fair-sized garden, with fine, healthy-looking trees;
and about a quarter of a mile away was the straggling collection of
bark-roofed sheds and corkscrew-looking fences that served Red Mick as
shearing-sheds for his sheep, and drafting and branding-yards for his
cattle and horses. After a hurried survey Hugh dropped lightly down
into shelter, and whispered, “There’s no one moving at all. There’s a
newly-fallen tree about a hundred yards down the creek; we’ll get among
its branches and watch.”
They crept along the creek until opposite the fallen tree; there Hugh
scaled the bank and pulled Mary up after him. Silent as shadows, they
stole through a little patch of young timber, and ensconced themselves
among the fragrant branches. The grass was long where the tree had
fallen, and this, with the green boughs, made a splendid couch and
hiding-place.
They settled close together and peered out like squirrels, first up at
the house, then down the valley for the arrival of the sheep. Both were
shaking with excitement—she at the unwonted sensation of attacking a
criminal in his lair, and he with anxiety lest some unlucky chance
should bring his plan to nought, and make him a failure in the eyes of
the woman he loved.
“There is no one about,” he whispered. “I expect Red Mick has told the
family to keep indoors, so that they can swear they saw nothing. You
aren’t afraid, are you?”
She pressed his arm in answer, gave a low laugh, and pointed down the
flat. There, far away among the trees, they saw the white phalanx of
the approaching sheep, and the little lean dogs hunting them straight
towards the house.
Still no sign from Red Mick. No one stirred about the place; the fowls
still fluttered in the dust, and a dissipated looking pet cockatoo,
perched on the wood-heap repeated several times in a drowsy tone,
“Good-bye, Cockie! Good-bye, Cockie!” Then the door opened, and Red
Mick stepped out.
He was the acknowledged leader of the Doyle-Donohoe faction in all
matters of cunning, and in all raids on other folks’ stock; and not
only did he plan the raids, but took a leading part in executing them.
He was the finest and most fearless bush rider in the district, and
could track like a black fellow. If he left a strange camp at sundown,
and rode about the bush all night, he could at any time go back
straight across country to his starting point, or to any place he had
visited during his wanderings. Such bushmanship is a gift, and not to
be learnt. If once he saw a horse, he would know it again for the rest
of his life—fat or lean, sick or well. Which is also a gift.
In appearance he was a tall, lanky, large-handed, slab-sided cornstalk,
about thirty-five years of age, with a huge red beard that nearly
covered his face, and a brick-dust complexion variegated with large
freckles. His legs were long and straight; he wore tight-fitting white
moleskin trousers, a coloured Crimean shirt, and a battered felt hat.
Miss Grant felt almost sorry for this big, simple-looking bushman, who
came strolling past their hiding-place, his eyes fixed on the sheep,
and his hands mechanically occupied in cutting up tobacco. Behind him
gambolled a half-grown collie pup, evidently a relative of the dogs in
charge of the sheep.
They brought the sheep up to a little corner of land formed by a sharp
bend of the creek, then stopped, squatting on their haunches as
sentinels, and the sheep, fatigued with their long, fast run, settled
in under the trees to get out of the sun. Behind the sheep, Hugh caught
a glimpse of two horsemen coming slowly up the road towards the house.
“Look! Here’s Mick’s nephews,” he whispered, “come to take the sheep
away. By George, we’ll bag the whole lot! Sit quiet: don’t make a
sound.”
The crisis approached. Miss Grant, with strained attention, saw Red
Mick strike a match, and light his pipe. Strolling on towards the
sheep, he passed about thirty yards from where they lay hidden. Already
she was thinking how exciting it would be when they rose out of the
bushes, and faced him in quite the best “We are Hawkshaw, the
detective” style.
But they had to reckon with one thing they had overlooked, and that was
the collie pup. That budding genius, blundering along after his master,
suddenly stopped, turned towards the fallen tree, and sniffed the air.
Then he ran a few steps towards them, and stopped, his ears pricked and
his eyes fixed on the tree; barked sharply, drew back a pace or two,
bristled up the hair on his neck, and growled.
Red Mick turned round; “’Ello, pup,” he drawled, “what’s up?”
The puppy came forward again, quite close to the tree this time, and
barked sharply. “Good pup,” said Mick, “fitch him out, pup!—What is
it—native cat? Goo for ’im!”
Thus encouraged, the puppy darted forward barking, and Red Mick stopped
leisurely, picked up a large stone, and sent it crashing among the
branches. It passed between Hugh and Miss Grant, and came near enough
to stunning one or other of them. They jumped to their feet hurriedly,
and without dignity climbed out of the branches, and advanced on Red
Mick, while the puppy ran yelping behind his master.
It is only reasonable to suppose that Mick was somewhat astonished at
the apparition. He could scarcely have expected his shot to disturb two
such fine birds from such an extraordinary nest; but before they had
extricated themselves from the branches his face had assumed the
stolid, cow-like, unintelligent look which had so often baffled judges
and Crown Prosecutors. He was bland and child-like as Bret Harte’s
Chinee.
He spoke as if he were quite accustomed to unearthing young couples out
of trees. His voice had a sort of “I quite understand how it is” tone,
and he spoke cheerfully.
“Good-day, Misther Hugh! Where’s your horses? Have you had a fall?”
“Fall! No!” snapped Hugh, whose temper was gradually rising as the
absurdity of the situation dawned on him. “We haven’t had a fall. We
ran the tracks of a lot of our sheep from the big paddock, and here
they are now. I’d like to know what this means?”
“Is thim your sheep?” said the bland Mick, surprised. “I wuz wondherin’
whose sheep they wuz, comin’ up the flat. I knew they wuzn’t travellin’
sheep, ’cause of gettin’ no notice, an me bein’ laid up in the house
this two days—”
“Oh, that’s all very fine, Mick Donohoe?” said the young man angrily.
“Your own dogs have brought them here.”
Red Mick laughed gaily. “Ah, thim dogs is always yardin’ up things.
They never see a mob of sheep, but they’ll start to dhrive ’em some
place. When I was travellin’ down the Darlin’, goin’ through Dunloe
Station, in one paddock I missed th’ old slut, and when I see her
again, she had gethered fifteen thousand sheep, and was bringin’ ’em
after me. But, Lord bless your heart, Mr. Hugh,” he added with a
comforting smile, “she wouldn’t hurt a hair of a sheep’s head, nor the
young dog ayther. Them sheep’ll be all right. Sorra sheep ever she bit
in her life. I wonder where they gethered them?”
“I’ll tell you where they gathered them,” said Hugh. “The fence of our
paddock was dug up, and the sheep were run out, and then the fence was
put up again. That’s how they gathered them.”
“The fence wuz dug up! Ah, look at that now. Terrible, ain’t it. An’
who done it, do ye think? Some of them carriers, I expect, puttin’
their horses in unbeknownst to you. I’ll bet ’twas them done it. Or,
perhaps,” he added, with an evident desire to assist in solving the
difficulty, “perhaps the wind blew it down.”
“What!” said Hugh scornfully. “Wind blow down a fence! What next!”
“Well it does blow terrible hard sometimes in these parts,” said Red
Mick, shaking his head dolefully; “look at me crop of onions I
planted—the wind blew ’em out of the ground, and hung ’em on the fence.
But wait now, till we have a look at these sheep.”
“No, we won’t wait,” said Hugh angrily. “We will be off home now, and
send a man for them. And I advise you to be very careful, Mick Donohoe,
for I have my own idea who dug up that fence.”
“Well, you don’t suppose that I done it, do you?” said Red Mick. “I’ve
been in the house this three days. Besides, I wouldn’t steal my
brother-in-law’s sheep, anyhow. Won’t ye come up, and have a dhrink of
tea now, you and the lady? It’s terrible hot.”
“No, thank you,” said Hugh stiffly. “Come along, Miss Grant.” And they
marched off towards the horses.
“It beats all who could have took them posts down, doesn’t it?” said
Mick. “I’d offer a reward, if I was you. Them fellows about here would
steal the eyes out of your head. Good day to ye, Mr. Hugh.”
And the cockatoo added, “Good-bye, Cockie,” in a sepulchral voice, as
they trudged off, smitten hip and thigh.
Hugh was suffering intensely at his defeat, and when Mary Grant said,
“I suppose you will have him put in gaol at once?” he muttered that he
would have to think it over. “It wouldn’t do to prosecute him and fail,
and we have no proof that he dug up the fence.”
“But why did he say that the sheep belonged to his brother-in-law?”
Hugh started. “Did he say that? Well, he—he must have wanted to make
out that he did not know whose sheep they were” but he thought to
himself, “Is Red Mick going to bring up that old scandal?”
Mick, as he watched them go, winked twice to himself, and then stooped
and patted the head of the collie pup. The other dogs, in answer to a
silent wave of his hand, had slunk off quietly. The riders had
disappeared. It had been a narrow escape, and Red Mick knew it; and
even as things had turned out, there was still ample chance of a
conviction.
On the way back to the homestead Hugh began to talk of the chance of a
conviction, and the delight it would be to give Mick seven years, but
his ideas were disturbed by thoughts of Mick’s face as he said, “Why
should I steal my brother-in-law’s sheep?” He looked at the girl
alongside him, and prayed that the old story might never be
resurrected.