HOW WALLY RODE A RACE
Already the cloud was growing in the western sky--so high that it
threatened to obscure the sun that still blazed fiercely down. At first
a dull brown, there was a curious light behind it; at the edges it
trailed away into ragged wisps like floating mist. There was something
mysteriously threatening in its dense heaviness.
There were other men running for their horses, as Wally raced towards
Shannon. The news of a grass fire had spread quickly, and every man
wanted to be on his own property, for the whole countryside was covered
with long, dry grass, and no one could say where a fire might or might
not end. Boone and Shanahan passed Wally, leading several horses--his
own amongst them. They hailed him quickly.
“We've got Marshal, Mr. Wally.”
“Give him to Murty,” Wally answered as he ran. “I'm riding Shannon.” He
raced on.
“That means he's going across country,” said Dave Boone. “For two pins
I'd go too.”
“Don't you--you'd never get your horse over them fences,” Shanahan said.
“An' it'll take Mr. Wally all his time to get across them wired paddocks
of Maclennan's. Hope he don't break Shannon's laigs.”
“Not he; Mr. Wally's no fool,” said Boone. “Git up, y' ol' sardine!” He
kicked the horse he was leading, and they trotted up to Norah and Tommy.
Shannon, standing with drooping head, showed little interest as Wally
flung the saddle on his back. He had won his race handsomely, and it was
a scorching day; possibly the big chestnut felt that no more should be
required of him; in which case he was soon to be rudely awakened. Wally
swung into the saddle with a quick movement, and turned him, not towards
the gate, but in the opposite direction, which further puzzled Shannon.
But he was a stock horse first and a hurdle racer as an afterthought;
and a good stock horse knows his rider's mind, if that rider is a good
man. He made one tentative movement towards his paddock mates, now
moving away towards the gate; then, feeling the touch of Wally's hand
on the bit, and the light pressure of his knee, he decided that some new
game was on foot, and cantered easily away.
They crossed the racing track, going westward over the big paddock, away
from the buggies and the crowd. A belt of timber checked their swift
progress a moment; then they came out into clear ground in sight of
the boundary fence, a stiff three-railer. Wally peered at it anxiously,
unable, for an instant, to see if there were a wire on top; but it was
clear, and he shook up his horse, putting him straight at the middle of
a panel. Shannon pricked his ears and flew it daintily--this was work he
loved, and hot though the day might be, he was ready for any amount of
it. Also Wally was lighter than Murty, his usual rider; and although he
loved Murty, and respected him greatly, this new man had a seat like a
feather and a hand gentle as silk upon his tender mouth. Shannon broke
into the gallop that he felt sure his rider wanted.
They were in a wide paddock, bare, save for a few clumps of timber,
in the shade of which sheep were thickly clustered. It was good, sound
going, with a few little rises; and, knowing that he would have to
slacken speed presently, Wally let the chestnut have his head across the
clear grass. They took the next fence and the next before he drew rein.
He was in country he did not know--all big farms, with many stubble
fields with newly erected stacks, and with good homesteads, where now
and then a woman peered curiously from a verandah at him. There were
no men in sight; every man in the neighbourhood was at the races on New
Year's day.
He found himself in a paddock where rough ground, thickly strewn with
fallen timber, sloped down abruptly to a creek. Checking Shannon, he
rode more steadily down to the water, and trotted along the bank for
a hundred yards, looking for a good place to ford--the banks shelved
abruptly down, and the water was unusually deep. But the only promising
fords were too thickly snagged to be tempting; and presently, with a
shrug, Wally gave up the quest, and choosing a place where the fall of
the bank was a shade less abrupt, he put the horse at it.
Shannon hesitated, drawing back. Water was the one thing to which he had
not been schooled on Billabong, and this place was mysterious and deep.
But Wally's hand was firm, and he spoke sharply--so that the chestnut
repented of the error of his ways, and plunged obediently downwards.
The bank gave under them, and they slithered down among its remnants and
landed in the water with a profound splash, almost hidden for a moment
by the spray that drenched Wally's thin silk coat and shirt. Shannon
floundered violently, and nearly lost his footing--and then, deciding
that this was an excellent entertainment on a hot day, he thrust his
thirsty nose into the water. Wally checked him after one mouthful.
“I'm sorry, old chap,” he said regretfully. “I'd like it as much as you.
But I can't let you have a drink just now.”
He pressed him on across the muddy stream, floundering over sunken logs,
slipping into holes, dodging half-concealed snags; and so they came to a
bank which scarcely seemed a possible place, so steep was it. But Wally
looked at the smoke-cloud, and grew desperate, and for the first
time touched Shannon with the spur; and the chestnut answered gamely,
springing at the bank and climbing almost like a cat. Twice it broke
under him; the third time he made some footing, and Wally suddenly flung
himself from his back, scrambling up ahead of him, and hauling at the
bridle. Shannon followed, floundering and snorting; desperately relieved
to find himself on firm ground again. Wally swung into the saddle and
they galloped forward.
The next two fences were log ones, and the chestnut took them almost in
his stride. Then Wally's lips tightened, for he saw a homestead that
he knew must be Maclennan's, the most prosperous farmer about; and
Maclennan had strong views on the subject of inflammable fences in a
country so liable to grass fires, and all his property was wire-fenced.
The first fence stretched before him, taut and well-strung; he looked up
and down its length in search of a gate, but there was none in sight.
“I could put my coat on the top wire for you to jump if it was a thick
one, old chap,” he told Shannon. “But a scrap of wet silk wouldn't be
much good to you. We'll have to chance a post.”
He drew rein, trotting up to the fence, where he let the horse put his
nose over a post--and set his lips again when he saw that the top wire
was barbed.
“Just you remember to pick up all your toes well, old man,” he said.
He trotted back a little way, and, turning, came hard at the fence,
putting Shannon directly at the post. This also was new to the chestnut;
but once, when a foal, he had been badly pricked on barbed wire, and,
ever since, one glance at its hideous spikes had been enough for him.
Refusing was out of the question--Wally was leaning forward, keeping
him absolutely straight, lifting him at the post with a little shout of
encouragement. He flew over it as if it had been a hurdle. Wally patted
his neck with a big sigh of relief.
“Eh, but I was scared for your legs, old man!” he said.
They galloped across a wide stubble field, while Wally's keen eyes
searched the fence for a gate. He caught sight of one presently, a
stiff, four-railed gate, considerably higher than the fence. High as it
was, Wally preferred it to barbed wire; and by this time he had a queer
feeling that no jump would prove too much for the big, honest chestnut,
who was doing so gamely everything that he was asked. Nor did Shannon
disappoint him; he rose at the gate cheerfully, and barely tipped it
with one hind foot as he cleared it. Wally fancied there was something
of apology in the little shake of his head as he galloped on.
“If I'd time to take you back over that you wouldn't lay a toe on it
again, I believe. Never mind, there's sure to be another.”
There was, and the chestnut flew it with never a touch. Maclennan's
paddocks were wide and well cleared--such galloping ground as Wally
dared not waste--and he took full advantage of them, leaving one after
another behind swiftly, to the beat of Shannon's sweeping stride. Fence
after fence the chestnut cleared, taking them cleanly, with his keen
ears pricked; never faltering or flagging as he galloped. Wally sat him
lightly, leaning forward to ease him, cheering him on with voice and
touch. Before him the cloud grew dense and yet more dense; he could feel
its hot breath now, although a bush-covered paddock ahead blocked the
fire itself from his immediate view. He had to choose between picking
his way through the trees or galloping round them; and chose the latter,
since Shannon showed no sign of fatigue. He put the last wire fence
behind him with a sigh of relief. A small farm with easy enough fences
remained to be crossed, and then he swung round the timber at top speed.
Once round it, he should come within view of the Rainhams' house.
He came into the open country, and pulled up with a shout of dismay.
Before him was the long line of timber marking the creek, but between
lay nothing but a rolling cloud of smoke, lit with flashes of flame. A
hot gust of wind blew it aside for a moment, and through it he caught
a glimpse of Creek Cottage, burning fiercely. Wally uttered a smothered
groan, and thrust Shannon forward, over the last fence, and up a little
lane that led near the Rainhams' back gate.
The paddock was nearly all on fire. It had started somewhere back in
the bush country, and had swept across like a wall, burning everything
before it. As Wally reached the gate, it was rolling away across the
paddocks, a sheet of flame, licking up the dry grass; leaving behind it
bare and blackened ground, with here and there a fence post, or a
tree burning, and, in the midst of its track, Creek Cottage wrapped in
flames.
The boy slipped from his saddle and flung Shannon's bridle over the
gate-post. Then, as a thought struck him, he turned back and released
him, buckling the reins into one stirrup.
“I don't dare to tie you up, old man,” he said. “The beastly fire might
swing round. Go home, if you like. I can't take you across that hot
ground.” He gave the chestnut's neck a hasty pat; then, putting one hand
on the gate, he vaulted it cleanly and ran across the burnt ground.
The grass was yet smouldering; it broke away under his feet, crackling
and falling into black powder. He ran desperately, not feeling the
burning breath of the fire, in blind hope of being able to save
something. The house itself, he knew, was doomed; no fire-brigade could
have checked the flames which had laid hold of the flimsy weatherboard.
The fire had divided round it, checked a little by Tommy's
flower-garden, which was almost uninjured yet, and by Bob's rows of
green vegetables which lay singed and ruined; then, unable to wait,
it had swept on its way through the long dry grass, which carried it
swiftly forward, leaving the burning cottage and the green garden in the
midst of a blackened waste.
The front verandah, and one side, were yet untouched, nor had the front
rooms caught. Wally raced through the garden and tried the front door.
It was locked. He sprang to the nearest window and smashed it with quick
blows from a hoe standing near; then, flinging up the sash, dived in.
The room was full of smoke, the heat stifling. It was Tommy's room. He
gathered up her little personal belongings from the dressing-table and
flung them on the quilt, following them with armfuls of clothes hastily
swept from shelves. A trunk, covered with a bright Navajo blanket, stood
near the window. He thrust it through to the verandah, and scrambled
out after it with the quilt and blankets bundled round the things he had
saved. Dragging them across the lawn, he thrust them under some green
bushes, and returned for the trunk.
“I don't believe you'll catch there,” he said, choking. “Wonder if I can
try another room?”
He had opened the door from Tommy's room into the hall, but the rush of
flame and smoke were so appalling that he had to shut it again quickly,
realizing that the draught only helped the fire. To break in by another
window was the only way. He smashed his way in to the other front
room, and hurriedly gathered up all he could. There was no time to save
anything heavy. His quick mind guided him to the things he knew Bob and
Tommy valued most--things that had been Aunt Margaret's in the past,
that spoke of their old happy life in France. He spread an embroidered
cloth on the floor and pitched his treasure trove into it--working
feverishly, choking and gasping, until the flames began to crackle
through the wall, and the ceiling above him split across. Then he
plunged through the window, and staggered across the lawn with his
burden--falling beside it at last, spent and breathless, his throat
parched with smoke, and his eyes almost sightless. But he picked himself
up presently and went back. All the rooms were blazing now. The side
verandah had not yet caught, and on it he saw an old oaken chest that
did double duty as a seat and as a wardrobe for Bob's spare clothes. The
sight brought fresh energy back to Wally.
“By Jove, there's old Bob's box!” he uttered. “I'll have to get that.”
He dragged it across the verandah and on to the path. It was cruelly
heavy. He had to stop and rest again and again; but still he struggled
on, a few yards at a time, until it, too, was in comparative safety.
Then there was nothing else that he could do but sit on the grass and
watch the gay little home that they had all loved as it fell into ruins.
The flames made mercifully short work of it; they roared and crackled
and spat wreathing fiery tongues round the chimneys and up and down
the verandah posts; shooting out of the broken windows and turning the
white-painted iron of the roof into a twisted and blackened mass. It
fell in presently with a deafening roar, bringing one chimney with it;
and soon all that Wally had to look at was a smouldering heap of coals,
in the midst of which one chimney stood, tottering and solitary,
with the kitchen stove a glowing mass of red-hot iron, and strangely
contorted masses of metal that once were beds. The boy uttered a groan.
“And they were so proud of it,” he said. “Poor souls--how are they going
to stick it?”
He got up presently and made his way round to the back. All the sheds
and buildings were burned; he turned with a shudder from where Bob's
beloved Kelpie had died at his post chained in helplessness. The metal
parts of the buggy, writhed into knots and tangles, lay in the ashes of
the big shed; beyond, the pigsty smouldered.
“They've gone, too, I suppose,” Wally said. “By George, where are all
his stock? They can't all be burned, surely.”
There was nothing visible in the bare, black paddocks. He cast a wild
look round, and then made for the creek at a staggering run. The fire
had died away for lack of material as it neared the banks, for great
willows overhung them, a camping-ground for the stock all through the
summer heat, and the ground was always beaten hard and bare. Wally
uttered a shout of relief as he came to the trees. Below in the wide,
shallow pools, all the stock had taken refuge--carthorses and cows,
sheep and pigs, all huddled together, wild-eyed and panting, but safe.
They stared up at Wally, dumbly bewildered.
“Poor brutes,” said Wally. “Well, you chose a good spot, anyhow. I say,
what a jolly good thing Bob let his pigs out. Poor old chap--he's
not broke yet.” He leaned against the gnarled trunk of a willow for a
moment. “Well, I suppose I'd better get up to the gate and tell them--it
won't do for Tommy to come on the ruins all of a sudden.”
But he realized, as he made his slow way up from the creek, that he was
too late. There was a little knot of horses beside the garden gate. His
eye caught the light linen habit coats that Tommy and Norah wore. They
were looking silently at the blackened heap of ashes, with the tottering
chimney standing gaunt in its midst, Bob's face grey under its coating
of smoky dust. Norah was holding Tommy's hand tightly. They did not hear
Wally as he came slowly across the black powder that had been grass.
“I suppose the stock have gone, too,” Bob said heavily.
“No, they haven't, old man,” Wally said. “I believe every head is safe;
they're in the creek.”
They turned sharply, and cried out at the sight of him--blackened and
ragged, his eyes red-rimmed in his grimy face, his hands, cut by the
broken window glass, smeared with dried blood. His coat and shirt, burnt
in a score of places, hung in singed fragments round him. There were
great holes burnt in his panama hat, even in his riding breeches. Jim
flung himself from his horse, and ran to him.
“Wal, old man! Are you hurt?”
“Not me,” said Wally briefly. “Only a bit singed. I say, you two, you
don't know how sorry I am. Tommy, I wish I could have got here in time.”
“You seem to have got here in time to try, anyhow,” said Tommy, and her
lip trembled. “Are you sure you're not hurt, Wally?” She slipped from
her saddle, and came to him. “Were you in the fire?”
“No, I'm truly all right,” Wally assured her. He suddenly realized that
he had not known how tired he was; something in his head began to whirl
round, and a darkness came before his aching eyes. He felt Jim catch
him; and then he was sitting on the ground, propped against the fence,
and blinking up at them all, while indignantly assuring them that he had
never been better.
“Did you meet the fire? It was away from here before I got here.”
“It crossed the road in front of us,” Mr. Linton said. “There were a
good many men about by that time--we got it stopped before it reached
Elston's.” His pitying eyes went back to the brother and sister. Anxiety
for Wally had drawn them from their own disaster for a moment; now they
had moved away together, and stood looking at the ashes of their home,
where so many hopes were ashes, too. David Linton went over to them, and
put a hand on a shoulder of each.
“You're not to be down-hearted,” he said firmly. “It's bad enough, and
bitter enough--but it might be worse. The stock are safe, and the land
is there--one good shower will turn the paddocks green again. Why,
there's even most of your garden left, Tommy. And we'll build the house
and sheds better than before.”
“You're jolly good, Mr. Linton,” Bob said, with dry lips. “But we owe
you enough already.”
“If you talk that sort of nonsense, I'll be really annoyed,” David
Linton said. “Why, hard luck comes to all of us--we got burned out
ourselves once, didn't we, Norah?”
“Rather--and had to live in tents,” said Norah. “No, you'll have to come
back to us at Billabong until we build up the cottage again--oh, and,
Tommy darling, I've been lonesome for you!” She put a hand on Bob's arm.
“You won't worry, Bob? One bit of bad luck isn't going to beat you!”
“I suppose it won't,” Bob said slowly. “There's the insurance money,
anyhow. But it was the jolliest little home--and our very own. And I was
so jolly proud of being independent.”
“Well, you're that still,” Jim said. “This is a country where everybody
helps everybody else--because you and Tommy come to stay with us, and
run your stock for a while on Billabong until your own grass grows, that
isn't going to make you less independent. Wouldn't you do the same for
us, if we were in the same box?”
“That goes without saying--and I'm as grateful as I can be,” Bob said.
“But the cases are different. I'm deep enough in your debt, as it is.
I--” His lip quivered, and he turned away, staring at the ruins.
“I don't see any good arguing about it, at all events,” said Norah,
practically. “We're all hot and tired, and I vote we just get home and
have tea. We'll all feel better after a tub, and then we can begin to
make plans. Come on, Tommy dear, it's just lovely to think we're going
to have you.”
Bob stood with one hand on the scorched gate.
“I wish I could have got here in time to get out a few things,” he
muttered.
“Oh, I did that,” said Wally, brightening. “I forgot, in the shock of
finding all Noah's Ark turned out in the creek. Come along, Tommy, and
see my little lot of salvage!”
He dragged himself up from the ground and seized Tommy's hand. They
trooped across the lawn.
“I saved the cuckoo clock and that set of Swiss bears,” said Wally. “And
lots of oddments from goodness knows where--the sort of thing you can't
buy in Cunjee. I expect I've hauled out all the things you wouldn't have
saved, Tommy, but you'll just have to let me down lightly--I'd have made
a shot for the beloved cake tins, only I hadn't time.”
“Oh, Wally, you dear old idiot,” said Tommy. “And that's how you nearly
killed yourself.” They came in sight of Wally's heap of loot, and she
stopped in amazement.
“Bob--just look!”
“By Jupiter!” said Bob, “you saved my old box! You old brick. How did
you manage it? Why, it weighs a ton!”
Tommy was on her knees by the bundles. “Look!” she said. “Look, Bobby!
My silver things--and all Aunt Margaret's, and my little jewel box. And
my clothes! How did you do it, Wally?” Suddenly her voice broke. She put
her head down on the bundle in a passion of sobs.
“That's the best thing she could do,” said David Linton gently. He
turned to Norah. “Let her cry--and bring her along presently, and we'll
take her home. Come along, boys, we'll get the horses and go and see
Wally's Noah's Ark.”