RACES AND A WIN.
After the great case was over life at Kuryong went on its old round.
Mary Grant, now undisputed owner, took up the reins of government, and
Hugh was kept there always on one pretext or another.
Considine and his wife stayed a while in the district before starting
for England, and were on the best of terms with the folk at the
homestead, Peggy’s daring attempt to seize the estate having been
forgiven for her husband’s sake.
Mary seemed to take a delicious pleasure in making Hugh come to her for
orders and consultations. She signed without question anything that
Charlie put before her, but Hugh was constantly called in to explain
all sorts of things. The position was difficult in the extreme,
although Peggy tried to give Hugh good advice.
“Sure, the girl’s fond of you, Mr. Hugh!” she said, “Why don’t you ask
her to marry you? See what a good thing it’d be? She’s only waitin’ to
be asked.”
“I’ll manage my own affairs, thank you,” said Hugh. “It isn’t likely
I’m going to ask her now, when I haven’t got a penny.” He was as
miserable as a man could well be, and was on the point of leaving the
station and going back to the buffalo camp in search of solitude, when
an unexpected incident suddenly brought matters to a climax. A year had
slipped by since William Grant’s death, and the glorious Spring came
round again; the river was bank-high with the melting of the
mountain-snows, the English fruit-trees were all blossoming, and the
willows a-bud. One day the mailman left a large handbill, anouncing the
Spring race-meeting at Kiley’s, a festival sacred, as a rule, to the
Doyles and the Donohoes, at which no outsider had any earthly chance of
winning a race.
In William Grant’s time the handbill would have soon reached the
fire-place; he did not countenance running station horses at the local
meetings. Under the new owner things were different. Charlie Gordon was
spoiling for a chance to run Revoke, a back-block purchase, against the
locals, and suggested it in an off-hand sort of way while reading the
circular. Hugh opposed the notion altogether. His opposition apparently
made Miss Grant determined to go on with the scheme, and she gave
Charlie _carte blanche_ in the matter.
When race-day arrived, there was quite a merry party at the homestead.
Carew was making himself very attentive to Ellen Harriott, Mary was
flirting very openly with Charlie Gordon, to Hugh’s intense misery; and
it was whispered about the station that the younger brother would be
deposed in favour of the elder.
Hugh did not want to go to the races, but Mary asked him so directly
that he had no option.
It was a typical Australian Spring day. The sky was blue, the air was
fresh, the breeze made great, long, rippling waves in the grass, and
every soul in the place—Mary in particular—seemed determined to enjoy
it to the utmost.
Revoke, the station champion, came in first in his race, and was
promptly disqualified for short weight, but Mary didn’t care.
“What is the use of worrying over it?” she said. “It doesn’t really
matter.”
“I have been done,” said the bushman. “Red Mick lent me the lead-cloth,
and helped me saddle up, and I believe he took some lead out while we
were saddling. It never dropped out. That I’m sure of.”
“Oh, never mind, Mr. Gordon! Forget it! There’s your brother, Hugh,
thinks we ought not to have come, and now you are turning sulky. Why do
all you Australian people amuse yourselves so sadly?”
“I don’t know what you mean by sadly,” said Charlie, huffed. “I think
you ladies had better go home soon. Things are likely to be a bit
lively later on. They have got a door off its hinges and laid on the
ground, and a fiddler playing jigs, and the men and women are dancing
each other down; it won’t be long till there’ll be a fight, and
somebody will get stretched out.”
Sure enough, they could see an excited crowd of people gathered round a
fiddler, who was playing away for dear life, and the yells and whoops
told them that partisanship was running high. All the young “bloods” of
the ranges were there in their very best finery—cabbage-tree hat
(well-tilted back, and secured by a string under the nose), gaudy
cotton shirt, and tweed trousers of loud pattern, secured round the
waist by flaring red or green sashes. In this garb such as fancied
themselves as dancers were taking their turns on the door. They began
by ambling with a sort of strutting walk once or twice round the
circumscribed platform; then, with head well back and eyes closed,
dashed into the steps of the dance, each introducing varied steps and
innovations of his own, which, if intricate and neatly executed, were
greeted with great applause. So it happened that after Jerry the Swell,
the recognised champion of the Doyles, had gone off with an extremely
self-satisfied air, some adherents of young Red Mick, the opposition
champion, took occasion to criticise Jerry’s performance. “Darnce!”
they said. “Jerry the Swell, darnce! Why, we’ve got an old poley cow
would darnce him blind! Haven’t we, Mick?”
“Yairs,” said young Mick, with withering emphasis. “Darnce! He can’t
darnce. I’ll run, darnce, jump, or fight any man in the district for
two quid.”
Before the challenge could be accepted there was an unexpected
interruption. Hugh had put the big trotting mare in the light trap for
Miss Harriott and Mary to drive home. “Gentle Annie” was used to
racing, and Hugh warned the girls to be careful in starting her, as she
would probably be excited by the crowd, and then turned back to pack up
the racing gear and start the four-in-hand with the children. As they
were putting the racing saddle, bridles, and other gear into the
vehicle, Charlie, who had been fuming ever since his defeat, caught
sight of the missing lead-bag. He picked it up without a word, and with
a fierce gleam in his eye, started over to the group of dancers,
followed hurriedly by Carew. Just as young Mick was repeating his
challenge to run, jump, dance, or fight anybody in the district, Gordon
threw the lead-bag, weighing about six pounds, full in Red Mick’s face.
“There’s your lead, you thief!” he said. “Dance on that!”
Red Mick staggered back a pace or two, picked up an empty bottle from
the ground, and made a dash at Gordon. The latter let out a vicious
drive with his left that caught Mick under the ear and sent him down
like a bullock. In a second the whole crowd surged together in one
confused _melée_, everybody hitting at everybody amid a Babel of shouts
and curses. The combat swayed out on to the race-course, where half a
dozen men fell over the ropes and pulled as many more down with them,
and those that were down fought on the ground, while the others walked
on them and fought over their heads. Carew, who was quite in his
element, hit every head he saw, and knocked his knuckles to pieces on
Black Andy Kelly’s teeth. The fight he put up, and the terrific force
of his hitting, are traditions among the mountain men to this day.
Charlie Gordon was simply mad with the lust of fighting, and was locked
in a death-grip with Red Mick; they swayed and struggled on the ground,
while the crowd punched at them indiscriminately. In the middle of all
this business, the two ladies and Alick, the eldest of the children,
had started Gentle Annie for home, straight down the centre of the
course. The big mare, hearing the yelling, and recognising that she was
once more on a race-track, suddenly caught hold of the bit, and came
sweeping up the straight full-stretch, her great legs flying to and fro
like pistons. Alick, who was sitting bodkin between the ladies, simply
remarked, “Let her head go!” as she went thundering into the crowd,
hurling Doyles and Donohoes into the air, trampling Kellys under
foot—and so out the other side, and away at a 2.30 gait for at least
half a mile before the terrified girls could pull her up, and come back
to see what damage had been done.
That ended the fight. The course was covered with wounded and disabled
men. Some had been struck by the mare’s hoofs; others had been run over
by the wheels; and a great demand for whisky set in, under cover of
which Gordon and Carew retired to the four-in-hand.
No one was seriously hurt, except “Omadhaun” Doyle, who had been struck
on the head by the big mare’s hoof. He lay very still, breathing
stertorously, and Jerry the Swell took the trouble to come over to the
four-in-hand, and inform them that he thought “Omadhaun” had got
percussion of the brain, and that things looked very “omnibus” for him.
However, as soon as he could swallow whisky he was pronounced out of
danger, and the Kuryong party was allowed to depart in peace for home,
glad enough to get away. But the two girls were afraid to drive the big
mare, as she was thoroughly roused after her dash in among the Doyles
and Donohoes, and was inclined to show a lot of temper. A hurried
consultation was held, with the result that Ellen Harriott and Alick
were received into the four-in-hand, while Hugh was entrusted with the
task of driving his employer home in the sulky.
Now, a sulky is a vehicle built to accommodate two people only, and
those two people have to sit fairly close together. For a few miles
they spun along in silence, Hugh being well occupied with steadying the
mare. From time to time he looked out of the corner of his eye at his
companion; she looked steadily, almost stolidly, in front of her. Then
she began to tap on the floor of the sulky with her foot. At last she
turned on him.
“Well, we didn’t win,” she said. “I suppose you are glad.”
“Why should I be glad, Miss Grant?”
“Oh! you said we oughn’t to go and race among those people. And you
were right. It served them just right that the mare ran over them. I
hope that none of them are going to die.”
“They wouldn’t be much missed,” said Hugh wearily. “They have started
stealing the sheep again.”
“Can’t you catch them?” she said, with pretended asperity. “If you went
out and hid in a fallen tree, don’t you think you could catch them?”
Hugh looked at her to see if she were in earnest, but she looked
straight in front again and said nothing, still keeping up the slight
tapping of her foot. He flushed a little, and spoke very quietly.
“I think I’ll have to resign from your employment, Miss Grant. I don’t
care about stopping any longer; and I will go out back and take up one
of those twenty-thousand-acre leases in Queensland. You might put Poss
or Binjie on in my place. They would be glad of a billet, and they
might catch Red Mick for you.”
“Do you really want to go?” she said, looking straight at him for the
first time. “Why do you want to go?”
“Why?” he burst out. “Because I can’t bear being with you and near you
all day long, when I care for you, and you don’t care for me. I can’t
eat, or sleep, or rest here now, and it’s time I was away. You might
give me a good character as a station-manager,” he went on grimly,
“even though I can’t catch Red Mick for you. I’ll get you to make out
my cheque, and then I’ll be off up North.”
She was looking down now. The sun had gone, and the stars were peeping
out, and in the dusk he could catch no glimpse of her face. There was
silence for a few moments, then he went on talking, half to himself.
“It’s best for me, anyhow. It’s time I made a start for myself. I
couldn’t stay on here as manager all my life.”
Then she spoke, very low and quietly.
“You wouldn’t care to stay on—for anything else, then?”
“How do you mean for anything else, Miss Grant? You don’t want me for
anything except as manager, do you?”
“Well,” she said, “you haven’t asked me yet whether I do or not!”