[Illustration: Cover page]
[Illustration: “_Luck to you miss,” said the man, “an’ may you never
need a drink as bad’s I do now!_”]
[Illustration: Steeve stooped and slid his hands under her arms, and
lifted her till her face was level with his, and kissed her full on the
lips.]
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BY BLOW AND KISS
The Love Story of a Man with a
Bad Name. (Published serially under
the title _Unstable as Water_).
BY
BOYD CABLE
By manhood blood of birth and brood,
That loves the fight that wins to love;
By breath we drew of woman, too,
That sets the prize aught else above;
By that and this, by blow and kiss,
By Nature beaten to her knees,
The prize that’s wet with blood and sweat
Lies closer to the heart for these.
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
_Printed in 1914_
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BY BLOW AND KISS.
CHAPTER I.
IT was fiercely hot inside the hut, although the click and snap of the
tin roof spoke of its cooling now that the sun was off it. The men
eating their supper at the long deal table sat with shirt sleeves
rolled up and collars open at the throat, and the sweat drops
glistening on their browned faces, brick-red arms, and lean throats. In
spite of the heat they ate hugely, as men do who have spent a long day
in the saddle, and “Blazes,” the cook, was kept busy replenishing the
heaped-up plates.
As they finished, one by one the men pushed their plates back and
loaded their pipes, and the reek of strong tobacco mingled with the
smells of cooked meats and the kerosene lamp on the wall.
“Scottie” Mackellar, slow and deliberate in eating as in most things,
was the last to finish and light his pipe.
He had been down to the station that day, just returning as supper was
served, and although the men waited expectantly for news or orders,
they waited without questions, knowing Scottie and his ways, and that
questions were more likely to delay than hasten his words.
“Whip” Thompson tried gently for a rise.
“What’s it looking like below, Mac?” he asked.
“Dry,” said Scottie, slowly, “vera dry.” As they had all been thinking
and talking of little else but the dry spell that had lain hot and
heavy on the land for months past, this did not convey much fresh
information.
“How d’you think the sheep are makin’ out?” tried Whip Thompson again.
“They micht be better,” said Scottie. “But then again, they micht be
worse.”
“Wot’s the boss sayin’ about it?” asked another man.
“What would he be saying?” countered Scottie.
“If I was ’im,” struck in Jack Ever, a little man with a peaky face,
“_I’d_ be sayin’ something in sulphur-coloured langwidge wi’ purple
trimmin’s.”
Scottie made no reply, and the men began to drift slowly out of doors
to lounge and smoke, or perch themselves on the rail in front of the
hut.
“’E’s a bloomin’ hencyclopeedy, ain’t ’e?” said Ever, disgustedly, when
he had settled himself comfortably.
“You’d have got more if you’d asked less,” said Aleck Gault, with a
light laugh.
A lumbering man, with a heavy jowl and a thick neck, sprawled his arms
on the top rail of the fence and laughed hoarsely.
“It’s ver-r-ra dry,” he mimicked. “Never a spit or a spot o’ rain for
this month o’ Sundays; the sheep eatin’ the skin off’n the country, an’
the seeds below the skin; the paddocks bare as the back of yer hand an’
even the hills gettin’ eaten out, an’ the cattle wi’ as much flesh on
’em as a post an’ rail fence; the sheep droppin’ dead in droves like
flies in a frost, an’ good for nothin’ ’cept to fatten the crows; the
bottoms o’ the tanks dry mud this month back, an’ the river mostly dry
sand. An’ I believe ye, Scottie—it’s dry, ver-r-ra dry.”
“Here’s Scottie comin’ now, Darby,” said Whip Thompson. “Wot’s he goin’
to do wi’ the broom?”
“If you never want to know—just ask him,” grunted Darby.
Scottie approached with the broom under his arm. “I’ll be wantin’ three
o’ ye to go down to the station to-morrow,” he said. “You, Aleck, an’
Ned an’ Jack.”
“Wot to do?” said Jack Ever.
“The boss’ll tell ye that,” said Scottie. “He was speakin’ o’ shiftin’
the sheep out again tae the back paddocks an’ mebbe up into the hills.”
Whip Thompson whistled. “Goin’ to be some graft presently,” he said.
“Handlin’ silly bleatin’ jumbucks over the Pinnacles country an’
through the Whistlin’ Hills’ll be some sport.”
“You an’ Darby’ll stop an’ gie me a hand,” said Scottie. “I’ll be
puttin’ the little hut in some sort o’ shape. And, Steve Knight, ye
micht tak’ a turn up by Split-the-Wind, and push back ony o’ the cattle
beasties ye see intae the hills a bit.”
Steve Knight looked up from the stockwhip he was plaiting. “Stay out or
get back at night?” he asked.
“Get back,” said Scottie, and moved slowly away.
The men watched him go to the old hut that stood a couple of hundred
yards from the big one, untwist the bit of fencing wire that held the
door, and pass in with his broom.
“Put the little hut in shape,” said Darby. “What d’you suppose....”
He interrupted himself. “An’ what’s wrong wi’ Blazes? He looks mad over
suthin’.”
The cook had bounced from the door, dashed out a basin of greasy water,
and flung himself inside again with violent anger and indignation in
every motion, and then the men could hear him rattling and slamming
dishes about as if they were his personal enemies.
They were all too well accustomed to the blazes of anger that had
earned him his name to pay much attention to it, and just at present
they were much more concerned over what Scottie was going to do with
the small hut. But it appeared there was a connection between the two
things.
“’As he tole you?” Blazes demanded, coming over to them. “’As he tole
you ’e’s bringin’ them blighted sheep up ’ere?”
“Yes,” said Darby. “But I dunno why it should worry you, Blazes. You
don’t ’ave to cook for the sheep.”
“Cook for the sheep, you mutton-’ead” retorted Blazes. “Don’t I ’ave to
cook for the shepherds though? Don’t I know wot it means too? Men
comin’ in all hours day an’ night, and wantin’ feedin’. An’ makin’ up
tucker for you an’ the rest to take out on the ’ills. An’ extry ’ands
’ere from down below....”
“Wot’s Scottie doin’ wi’ the old hut?” put in Whip Thompson.
“Do,” said Blazes, angrily. “’Ow do I know wot ’e’s goin’ to do? I
asked ’im civil as you please wot ’e wanted the broom for. ‘Tae sweep’
’e says.’
“Perhaps the boss is goin’ to move in here while the sheep are up,”
suggested Steve Knight.
Scottie emerged again, and as he passed them he halted a moment. “If
there’s ony o’ ye has some o’ the weeklies wi’ picturs in them,” he
said, “mebbe ye’ll lat me hae them tae put on the walls. I want the
place tae look as nice as it will.” He paused a moment, and then went
on slowly, “I’m movin’ in there, an’ I’m bringin’ ma niece up tae stop
wi’ me.”
He moved off before the men could reply, and he left them staring in
amazement.
“That’s it, is it?” exploded Blazes. “Bring ’is sheep first, then ’is
nieces, then Lord knows wot. ’Is niece’ll be some ’alf-baked jackeroo
new-chum I suppose. Men’s hut isn’t good enough for ’im evidently. Must
’ave a separate ’ouse. Well if ’e expecks me to carry ’is meals over to
’im——”
One or two of the men were laughing, and Blazes stopped and glared at
them.
“Isn’t a niece the same as a nephy?” said Darby the Bull, hesitatingly.
“Only a woman instead o’ a man?”
“He said niece, didn’t he?” said Aleck Gault.
“He said niece right enough, and a niece is a woman right enough,” said
Steve Knight. “Fancy Scottie with a niece!”
“Wonder what she’s like,” said Whip Thompson; “young or old, pretty or
ugly.”
“Pretty,” snorted Blazes; “she would be pretty, bein’ a niece o’ his,
wouldn’t she? She’ll be some long-nosed Scotchman, wi’ eyes like a
boiled Murray codfish, an’ teeth stickin’ out like tombstones, an’ a
face that’d turn a tin o’ condensed milk sour. Nice sort o’ fancy
flamin’ trick bringin’ a woman up ’ere to Thunder Ridge. That’s the
finish, that is—the dead finish.”
“Oh, I dunno,” said Whip Thompson, vaguely. “Mebbe she won’t be too
bad.”
“Wot’s ’e want ’er here for?” demanded Blazes, resentfully. “Why
couldn’t ’e keep ’er down at the station below?”
“P’raps he’ll get ’er to cook for him,” said Darby the Bull, grinning.
“You know you could never make burgoo to his liking.”
“First time he had it,” said Aleck Gault, “Scottie wondered if it was a
plate of porridge or a grindstone. Said it was thick enough to jump on
without dinting it. And next time when it was thin enough to wash your
face in he wasn’t pleased. I don’t wonder at him bringing someone to
cook for him.”
“Well, she can cook for ’im an’ you too, for all o’ me,” snapped
Blazes. “I’m done wi’ this job. Sheep here’s bad enough, but a
woman—that’s the finish, that is,” and he stumped off.
He had threatened to throw up his job too often for the men to believe
it, and now their minds were on something more interesting.
“D’you s’pose we’ll ’ave to wear jackets when she’s knockin’ about?”
said Whip Thompson, glancing at his bare arms.
“You’ll have to wash your shirt oftener,” said Aleck Gault, laughing.
“I haven’t seen a woman for more’an hour or two in months since I was a
kiddie,” said Darby the Bull. “It’ll seem odd-like allus havin’ one
about the place.”
“Seems to me it’s going to be a blame nuisance,” growled Ned Gunliffe.
“Give ’er a chawnce, mates,” said Jack Ever. “She may be all right, an’
anyways she’s a woman. There’s plenty places where the men ’ud give
their ears to have a woman round all the time.”
“They’re some as could give longer ears—an’ that’s asses,” said Ned.
“Hush, children,” said Aleck Gault, reprovingly. “I’m afraid, Steve,
our Happy Home is to be broken with strife and dissension. Just the
bare word of a woman, you see, and the quarrels break out.”
“Paradise invaded,” scoffed Steve Knight. “Look at the Paradise around
you, and glance at us, the angels who fear a woman will disturb us.”
“It’ll please you, I suppose, Fly-by-Night. Save you some moonlight
trips if you’ve a girl to spark right at home here,” said Ned Gunliffe.
“You’re right, Ned,” said Knight, good-humouredly. “First thing I want
to know is whether she can sew and darn. If she can, I’m going to spend
all my spare time courting her while she sews patches on my breeches
and darns my socks.”
“Why not marry her an’ done with it while you’re at it?” said Gunliffe.
“You’d only have to ask ’er you know. Was there ever a woman yet could
resist Fly-by-Night when he rode up a-courting?” He spoke with a hint
of a sneer in his tones, and, remembering an old tale of an episode in
which Knight and he and a girl had been concerned, the men guessed at a
hidden edge to the words. But if there was, Steve Knight ignored it.
“No chance, Ned,” he said lightly. “You see, my trouble with the girls
is that the good ’uns find me out, and the bad ’uns I find out, and,
either way, marryin’ is off.”
“Couldn’t ye choose a middlin’ one?” said Whip Thompson, banteringly.
“No,” said Steve; “a middling girl would be like a horse that would
always trot—too slow for me if I want to go fast, and a nuisance to
have to hold in if I want to walk.”
“I knew a gal once——” said Darby the Bull, and paused.
“And a safe way to know her too, Darby,” cut in Steve. “But when you
marry her you must know her for always.”
“I asked ’er to marry me—I was half drunk at the time—an’ she said if I
meant it I was a fool, an’ if I didn’t I was a rogue, and either ways
she was better without me. I allus remembered that though I never knew
just what she meant.”
“Did you still mean it when you sobered?” said Steve, chuckling.
“I did,” said Darby, solemnly.
“Then she was right, only there was a pair of you,” said Steve. “You
were a fool to ask her, and she was another not to say yes.”
Darby the Bull looked puzzled. “D’you think every man that marries is a
fool then?” said Whip Thompson.
“I wish I could think so,” said Steve, gravely, but with his eyes
twinkling, “but I’m afraid not, worse luck for him.”
“You’d think women was man-eaters t’ hear you,” said Jack Ever.
“Most of them are,” said Steve.
“Huh,” grunted Jack, “if we believe all we see an’ ’ear you ain’t
scared enough of ’em to keep away from ’em.”
“No,” said Steve, lightly; “but I’m scared enough to keep outside the
cage they’re in. When you’re married you’re inside the bars, and can’t
get away if you want to.”
“D’you ever tell your girls all these things you think o’ them?” asked
Thompson.
“I do,” said Steve, promptly, “and a lot more I don’t think of them.
And, mostly, they don’t believe I mean what I really think of them, and
do believe the lies I tell them. That sounds a bit mixed, but I mean
they usually believe the lies and disbelieve the truth.”
“Rot,” said Gunliffe. “I reckon a woman can spot a lie quicker ’n a
man.”
“Yes, when she wants to,” said Steve, “but—she doesn’t always want to.”
“If I felt like you, Fly-by-Night,” said Darby the Bull, “I’d run a
mile if I saw a pretty girl comin’.”
“If you were like me,” said Steve, laughingly, rising and stretching
himself, “you’d run many miles—to meet her. Be glad you’re not like me.”
“I am,” said Darby, so simply and earnestly that the others roared with
laughter, and Steve Knight winced in the darkness, though his laugh
rang as loud as any.
Aleck Gault rose to his feet. “Well, it’s time we turned in,” he said.
“Perhaps we’ll dream of the bright eyes of Scottie’s niece.”
“Let’s hope they’re not what Blazes supposed—eyes like a boiled cod and
teeth like tombstones, wasn’t it?” said Knight. “Though, perhaps for
the peace of Thunder Ridge, it’ll be best if the prediction’s right.”
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