THE TEN-MILE HUT.
A week went by, and the Lesters found themselves dropping so completely
into the life of the western station that it might almost have seemed
to be their own home. They applied insistently for work, and got it;
Dick and his father were constantly out on the run with Mr. Warner and
his men, while Mrs. Lester lent a willing hand within the house, plying
a busy needle at Mrs. Warner's perennially overflowing mending basket,
and, by way of recreation, embroidering linen smocks for the twinses.
"They'd be happier in sugar bags!" said their father, looking at the
dainty garments.
"But I wouldn't get any fun out of sugar bags," protested Mrs. Lester.
"It's mere selfishness!"
The twinses adored her, and constantly impeded her work by climbing
over her and piling themselves upon her; at which times the matter
would generally end by the disappearance of all three into the garden,
where, under a big tree, she would tell them stories of fairies and
leprechauns until their big eyes grew round with delight. Merle often
formed a third listener. She and Mrs. Lester had become great friends,
albeit the friendship on Merle's side was a silent one. Speech was
never easy to her; her father was the one person to whom she could talk
without constraint; and yet he knew less of her heart than did this
woman who had known her but a few weeks.
"I'm really sorry for her," Mrs. Lester said to her husband. "She's
just like a chestnut burr; quite sound inside that hard, prickly
exterior. It's very bad luck to be born with a shell like that!" So
she was unceasing in her efforts to be friends with Merle, and had the
satisfaction of seeing the prickles visibly decrease.
As for Dick, nothing troubled him. He bathed at daybreak each morning
in the lake with the jackeroos, and added to his learning in the matter
of fancy diving, for the Perth boy was a swimmer of note. With them,
too, he rode and shot and fished and played tennis, since Mr. Warner
gave them a few slack days after their time in camp--"to put on
condition," said he. In the long blue days there were expeditions to
the out stations, mustering of the cattle, marking and branding clean
skins, picnics in the scrub and by the lagoons, and motor runs wherever
the roads would allow the big car to go. Dick took lessons in driving
from Mr. Warner, and, though his allegiance to horses never wavered,
was obliged to admit that there was more in motoring when you happened
to be the man at the wheel. There were no dull moments, largely
because there were no empty ones; no day was half long enough for all
that he wanted to pack into it.
The jackeroos took kindly to the new-comer; he was "only a kid, but a
decent kid," Downes said; and he brought a breath of the outer world,
with his cheery stories of life at school. He was keen to learn, too,
and enjoyed everything so intensely that it was rather fun to have him
with them. So they made him one of them, both in the work and play of
the long clear days, and in the star-lit nights when they fished in the
lagoon, or went 'possum hunting in the belt of scrub that fringed the
creek, or came back from a visit to another station, racing through the
long grass with all the nameless thrill and leap of the blood that
catches alike horses and riders in a night gallop. Afterwards, when
galloping days are over, it is the night rides that come back to us
most clearly; memories of scented darkness, with only the clear stars
overhead; memories of the moonlight, when the ring-barked gums stood
ghost-like, throwing long shadows across the track--shadows over which
the racing horses plunged, half-shying, too excited to be more than
half afraid. They come back to us, and with them come the sounds of
the night: the long howl of a dingo in the ranges, a mopoke's weird
cry, or a fox's bark; mingled with the tinkle of a bell on a working
bullock, grazing fitfully, the creak of saddle leather and the jingle
of bit and stirrup-iron; and over all the hot scents of the dew-wet
bush. Dick Lester, being a very ordinary boy, did not talk of these
things; did not even frame them into thoughts. But a night ride left
him glowing, in mind and body; so that his mother, seeing his shining
eyes, understood. The child in Dick was fast giving way to the manhood
stirring in him; and Mrs. Lester--bring an ordinary mother--found
herself looking ahead, proud and yet regretful, clinging to her baby,
and yet eager for all that she hoped for him.
Dick came in one night with the jackeroos to find the elders discussing
plans.
"We're going to be civilised to-morrow," Mr. Warner told him. "That
is, we're going to put on our best clothes and take the car and go
calling--the Harrisons at Mernda have asked us all over. Means
starting at eleven and not home until dark."
"Oh," said Dick, his face falling involuntarily Calls--in best
clothes--did not appeal to him; always they seemed to him waste of
time, and here in the free western life, with so many new things to do
daily, to go calling was little short of sacrilege. Moreover, the
ration cart, escorted by the jackeroos, was to go to the out-stations
next day, and he had hoped to accompany it. Good manners came to his
aid--but his "That will be jolly!" was like flat sodawater.
Mr. Warner laughed.
"Yes, you look as if you thought so!" he said, at which Dick reddened,
grinning. "Well, we meant to give you your choice, old man; there's
room for you in the car, if you're hankering after society, but if you
have such queer taste as to want to stay and take rations out to old
Bill Summers, I've no doubt Downes and Stephens and M'Leod will be glad
of your company."
"Oh truly?" Dick brightened visibly. "I'd rather stay, if you don't
mind."
"I suspected as much," Mr. Warner said, turning to Mrs. Lester. "No
use to offer him flesh-pots; old Agility and a job on the run have them
beaten every time! All right, then, Dick; you four can get away early.
Send your tucker by the cart, Downes, and you can pick it up in time to
lunch at the Ten-Mile."
"I don't fancy we need take any, sir," Downes said, smiling. "Last
time we were out with Dick, old Bill made us promise we'd have dinner
with him next visit; and Billy Fox was in from his camp three days ago,
so we sent him word we'd be there on Thursday."
"Oh, that's all right," said the squatter. "You won't miss the
flesh-pots so much after all, Dick, for Bill is safe to have got a wild
turkey."
Dick laughed. Damper and corned beef were to him better than any feast
which had to be eaten in "best clothes," and inside four walls; it
puzzled him to imagine why people should drive south in a cushioned
motor-car when they could mount good horses and ride north over the
saltbush plains and into the forests of whispering gums. However, it
was merciful that no such sacrifice was expected of him. He had been
once to the Ten-Mile, and had instantly made friends with old Bill
Summers, who, having watched him helping to bring in an unruly bullock,
had decided that there was something useful in "the Melbourne kid," and
had shown his favour by spinning him long yarns of the bush. It would
have troubled Dick to be unable to fulfil his promise to go to see him
again.
Later, Mr. Warner talked to the jackeroos in the office.
"Fox reported that the scare had died away; I don't think it ever
existed, except in old Bill's imagination," he said. "Still, there's
never any harm in being on the safe side, and, though a revolver is a
nuisance to carry, it's better to be sorry you have one than sorry you
haven't. So you'll each take one; you needn't say anything about it to
Dick. Not that he's at all likely to be scared, but he'd probably want
to carry one himself, and then the scare would be on my side!"
"I don't think he'd do any harm with it," Macleod said. "We've been
teaching him to use one."
"I daresay not--still, he's only a kid, and kids and guns are best
apart, especially on a horse that may buck. Tell Bill he can come in
with the cart for a couple of days if he likes; a spell at the
homestead won't hurt him, and I want to talk to him about his cattle."
He went on with other directions, concise and curt, and the lads nodded
comprehendingly.
Dawn found them in the lagoon; an alarum clock near Macleod's bed had
shrilled its clamorous summons ten minutes before, and he had dragged
the others out, awakening them by the simple process of first hauling
them, bed clothes and all, to the floor, and then dividing the contents
of the water jug impartially between them. He fled, pausing on his way
to collect Dick; and the drenched and injured Downes and Stephens
pursued them, and took their revenge by ducking Macleod very thoroughly
in a muddy corner near the bank, so that it took him some time to get
clean. They they dived and swam, and skylarked like four healthy young
porpoises, getting back to the homestead with gigantic appetites for
the gigantic breakfast which Mrs. Macleay had ready for them. It was
quickly disposed of, and they clattered down the verandah and out to
the stable yard. As they passed Mrs. Lester's window she called Dick
softly.
He went in to her room. She was in a dressing-gown, looking very
little and sweet.
"I just wanted to say good morning to you, Dickie," she said. Her eyes
dwelt on him restfully--tall and bronzed and eager-eyed, in his soft
shirt, breeches and leggings. "Take care of yourself, old man."
"Rather," Dick answered. "You, too, mummie. Have a good day."
"Oh, yes." She kissed him, her hand lingering wistfully on his
arm--she could feel the hard muscles under the shirt sleeve. "I'd
rather be going with you, Dick."
"Then why ever don't you come?" Dick ejaculated.
"Because it wouldn't be manners," she said, and laughed. "Never mind,
I'll hear all about your adventures to-night." She kissed him again
suddenly. "Now go on; you mustn't keep the others waiting." From her
window she watched him racing across to the stables. Presently they
all came out, and went down the paddock helter-skelter, Agility reefing
and plunging in the lead. She watched them until the trees swallowed
them up.
Early as they were the ration cart had been earlier still. Drawn by
two stout mules, and driven by old Harry, it had set out more than an
hour before, for it had to visit a number of camps and huts, and the
tracks between them were rough and sandy. And, whatever may happen,
the ration cart must not fail. To the men in the lonely huts on the
out stations it is the one link with civilisation, and the food it
brings does not count so much in their longing for its monthly visit as
its cargo of mental "tucker"--news, letters, papers, the sound of a
fresh voice, the chance of a little new companionship for men who have
lived together so long that there is often little between them but
silence.
"I don't know how these fellows stick it," said Downes, as they rode
along. "Most of 'em come in to the homestead about once in three
months; between those times all they see is the ration cart once a
month, and an occasional visit from the boss or some of us. You'd want
to be awfully keen on your mate to be able to live with another fellow
like that."
"Do they ever fight?" queried Dick.
"Oh, sometimes. Not often, though. Of course there are plenty of
stories of fellows who have gone off their heads and murdered their
mate, but we haven't had them going in for those capers on this
station. Now and then a man comes in and asks for his cheque--says he
can't stand Bill or Jim, or whoever he is, any more. Then the boss has
to hustle to get Bill or Jim another mate."
"Like the old story of two mates who couldn't agree about the bird,"
said Stephen.
"What's that?" asked Dick.
"Oh, it's a chestnut. They were going back to their hut one night and
one man said, 'There's a magpie up in that tree.' The other chap said
nothing till a long while after, and then he said, 'That wasn't a
magpie--it was a crow.' The first man didn't answer; but next morning
his mate saw him rolling up his swag. He said, 'Where y' goin' Bill?'
The other fellow slung his swag up on his shoulder. 'Too much bloomin'
argument about this camp,' he said--and went."
The boys laughed.
"Well, if you once began to argue, I guess you'd go mad," observed
Downes. "Most of 'em know that, and they hold their tongues rather
than start any subject that may lead to a quarrel."
"There's one old man at the Three Crows. Well, who prefers to live
alone--won't have a mate," Stephens told Dick. "He says it's better to
be a hatter than to have the wrong man with him and that he doesn't
believe the right one exists. So he goes on being a hatter, and he
seems to like it all right."
"He writes poetry in his spare time," said Macleod with a grin. "I
camped in his hut one night and he showed me stacks of it. Awful rum
stuff. There was one poem that I thought was to his girl. It began:
"Ader, she can't be licked by much,
And I have often told her such,
She has the neatest little head,
From horns to hoofs she is clean bred!"
at which point I recognised that Ada was a cow!"
There was a howl from the boys.
"I believe you made it up yourself," Downes accused him. "It sounds
like the drivel you'd write!" Which led to retaliation on the part of
the injured Macleod, and they wrestled until their horses ended the
matter by going off in opposite directions--the combatants, refusing to
separate, being left on the ground still wrestling. The horses were
restored by Dick and Stephens, weak with laughter, and they resumed
progress.
They crossed a belt of timber fringing a creek that in summer dwindled
to a few muddy waterholes, and struck across a sandy plain, where
saltbush and spinifex grew among outcrops of ironstone. The grass was
harsh and scanty, and the breeze brought with it loose particles of
sand.
"Glad we haven't much of this country," Macleod said. "And it gets
worse the further you go in this direction--no water, except native
wells, and you can't always rely on them; and no grass except dry
sticks."
"Can stock live on it at all?" Dick asked.
"They'll eat the salt bush sometimes--in a bad year. But it isn't a
white man's country, this sort of stuff, unless you can get gold out of
it. I think it must have been intended for that," Macleod said.
"Further out in the desert they used to say that at the Creation that
part must have been meant for the bottom of the sea, only the sea
wouldn't lob there!"
"My father used to prospect in that country," said Stephens, the Perth
boy. "He never found any gold worth picking up, and then he struck two
dry wells and 'did a perish,' and he wouldn't have got back alive if
some other prospectors hadn't found him. He says that where the early
miners used to camp for any time they used to cut a spiral ringbark in
the big trees, from as high as they could reach to the ground. Then,
if it rained--not that it often did--the water running down the tree
would get caught in this spiral cut, and flow down the tree to the
ground. They nailed a bit of tin there to lead it into a bucket."
"Seems a complicated way of getting a drink," remarked Downes.
"The only other way was to condense--and condensed water wasn't up to
much," Stephens answered. "I guess those old prospectors earned all
the gold they got."
"Any gold on this place?" asked Dick.
Stephens shook his head.
"They've hunted for it, of course," he said. "Where haven't they
hunted for it in Western Australia? This little old State is dotted
all over with poppet-heads and mullock-heaps like plums in a pudding.
Mr. Warner reckons if you could go down deep enough you'd get gold; but
there'll never be the water available for deep mining."
Near the boundary of Narrung they came upon a frowsy camp, where half a
dozen Afghans were cutting timber for the mines. They were eating as
the boys rode up, and their greeting was not over-cordial; swarthy,
hook-nosed fellows in dirty clothes that were a mixture of East and
West. Two or three half-starved dogs flew out to yelp at the horses.
"Wouldn't have them on the place, if it was my say," remarked Stephens.
"Dirty, lazy brutes, and look at their poor wretches of starved camels.
They haven't had a decent feed for a month. I told the boss they'd
start a lively fire on the run some day, but he reckons they can't do
any harm in this sandy corner. Well, I wouldn't trust 'em." He rode
on, muttering, and shaking an anxious young head.
They had reached the eastern boundary line; a fence had to be mended
half a mile beyond the Afghan camp, and when it was finished, they
turned north, riding fast until they came to more fertile country.
They passed the hut where lived Macleod's poetical "hatter," pausing
for five minutes' chat with the old man, who was seated on a stump
outside his door under a big belar, devouring papers left him by the
ration cart; and then on, across a wide, grassy plain, until they came
into the belt of timber that extended beyond the out-station, where
Bill Summers and his mate spent their lonely existence. The wheels of
the ration cart had left a recent mark upon the grass.
"Harry must have hurried a bit," said Downes. "Of course he goes
straight from point to point, and we go round all the corners--still,
he must have made his mules travel. He's going to have dinner with old
Bill, too; it's a great day for Bill. He'll be awfully sick if he
hasn't managed to get a turkey and has to give us salt horse."
"Much we care!" said Stephens.
"No, but he does. Bill's what my mother calls 'house-proud,' and he's
also jealous of Harry's cooking. He's a great old chap!" said Downes,
enthusiastically.
They came into sight of the hut. The cart was standing near it, the
mules contentedly cropping the grass; but there was no sign of any of
the men.
"Harry's inside advising Bill as to the last stages of the turkey,"
laughed Stephens.
"Helping him light up his fire, I should think," said Downes, glancing
keenly at the hut. "There's no smoke." He looked puzzled. "Wonder if
the old chap is out after cattle--let's give him a coo-ee."
They shouted, and as there was no response they shook their horses into
a canter. The mules looked up at them uninterestedly as they dashed
up; then they resumed feeding. Something in the utter stillness of the
place caught at the boys' hearts and stilled their merry voices.
"Hold my horse a minute, Dick." Downes flung his bridle across. "I'm
going in."
He ran up to the hut. As he did so old Harry limped out, with a face
so ashen that the boy cried out in alarm.
"Harry! What's wrong?"
The old man was looking at Dick.
"Don't let that kid come," he said. "Get him home--quick. They've got
Bill and Fox."
"Got them? Who? What do you mean?"
"The blacks. They're there--in their bunks--speared."
[Illustration: "'They're there in their bunks--speared.'"]
Downes reeled back.
"Dead?"
"Yes; both dead." The old man's voice broke in a quavering sob. "They
couldn't've known, that's the only thing--both of 'em must have bin
asleep. The brutes! the brutes! the brutes! Poor old Bill Summers,
that never hurt man, woman or child in his life! My God, if I could
get my hands on them!"
The other boys were round them now, leaving Dick with the four horses.
They stared at each other, white-faced; and Stephens looked into the
hut, to stagger back, hiding his eyes.
"They couldn't've suffered," Harry repeated. "That's the only thing.
But it's hard on old Bill, to go out without a chance to hit back. And
Fox, too--a decent young chap as ever stepped. Got an old mother, and
a girl in Geraldton."
"What are we to do?" Downes gasped.
"Get the kid there home, and warn the other out stations. For all we
know they're in the timber here now; not that they're likely to attack
five or six men together and in daylight. I must take the--the bodies
in in the cart. One of you must help me--you're the eldest, Mr.
Downes, you'd better stay--and then you'll have to ride with me; 'cause
I can't keep a lookout from the cart, and we must go round by the Five
Mile and warn 'em there. Mr. Stephens can go to the eastern
stations--not likely to be trouble there, but they must get in their
cattle. Mr. Macleod can take the little chap home and warn the other
huts on his way. Mr. Warner must hear as quick as you can get home to
tell him, Mr. Macleod."
"He's over at Mernda," Macleod said, his voice husky. "Won't be home
until after dark."
The old soldier's keen face darkened.
"You'll have to go after him, then. The news has got to get to
Westown, and he'll do it quickest in the car. Get a fresh horse when
you go in. The police and the black trackers'll have to come out from
Westown. Ride as hard as you can, every one of you. And keep your
eyes skinned all the time--you don't know where the black fiends may
be."
"We'd better wait on guard until you--until you start," Macleod said.
"You can't keep a watch while you get them----" The words stuck in the
boy's throat. "They could rush you from the trees if we left you
alone."
"Yes, that's right," Harry said. "Well, take the little chap off for a
minute, Mr. Macleod--poor lad, he doesn't know what's up, and he's
looking like a ghost--and we'll get a start."
Macleod went over and took two of the horses from Dick, leading him off
behind the hut while he told him of the tragedy. Dick stared at him
blankly; evident as it had been to him that something was terribly
wrong it was impossible to realise that the old man who had been kind
to him lay dead in his hut, foully murdered with his sleeping mate.
"I don't think we've anything to be scared about," Macleod said. "I've
a revolver, and, besides, I don't think the brutes would attack any of
us in broad daylight."
"I'm not scared," Dick said dully. "I say, do you--do you think
it--hurt them much?"
"Harry says not," said Macleod, with a gulp--he was only a boy himself.
"He says they couldn't have known. Bill must have been very sound
asleep or they would never have got in--I don't expect he ever woke,
poor old chap."
"That's something," Dick said. His eyes blazed suddenly. "Can't we do
anything? Can't we fight?"
"We'll raise the whole country when we get home," Macleod answered
savagely. "I only hope the boss will let us go out with our guns, and
not wait for the police. But our job is to warn the out stations, and
then to get the news to the boss." He wheeled round, and suddenly took
off his hat. "Here they are."
The cart came by, its pitiful burden covered with the dead men's
blankets; old Harry, tight-lipped, driving, and the white-faced boys
following. Downes made two efforts to speak before his voice would
come.
"That's all right, Mac," he said. "Get to the huts and home as quick
as ever you can. Keep close together, mind, while you're in the
timber, and go like smoke!"
Stephens had gone off at a hand gallop already. Macleod nodded, and he
and Dick gave their horses their heads, taking the track through the
trees where the cart wheels had left their print on the soft grass.
They were out of sight in a moment, galloping side by side, with keen
eyes searching through the timber on either hand. Once Dick fancied
that he saw a shadowy black form, and it was easy enough to think he
heard, above the pounding hoofs, the whistle of a spear; but the moment
passed and they were racing onward, only checking their speed when they
came to another lonely hut. A few words, and they were off again,
leaving the amazed and infuriated men to look to their guns and muster
their cattle out of harm's way. Another hut, and another; and then,
their work half done, they turned their horses towards home. The trees
were left behind them now, and they came out upon the wide plain where
scattered clumps of timber, easy to dodge in their gallop, gave shade
to the lazy bullocks.
"We can get a move on now!" Macleod said, between his teeth. "And
every minute we save means more chance of catching those fiends!"
They leaned forward in their saddles to ease the horses, and urged them
to racing speed. Mile after mile, trees flashing by them, cattle
lumbering, affrighted, out of their way, with no word between them, and
only the dull thud of the hoofs to break the silence. Not until they
reached the gate of the paddock near the homestead did they draw rein.
Macleod, leaning across his horse's dripping neck to open it, glanced
at Dick.
"Tired?" he asked. "You've had nothing to eat, poor kid."
"I'm not tired," Dick said; "and I feel as if I never wanted to eat
again."
"Same here!" Macleod nodded. "But it isn't sense. We'll have to get
something at the house. No use in cracking up just when we're wanted."
They were galloping again, across the last stretch of grass. Suddenly
Agility faltered in his stride and half pulled up, limping heavily.
Dick was off in a flash.
"He's picked up something," he cried. "Don't wait; I'll lead him in."
Macleod had checked his horse, but at the words he shook his bridle and
shot forward. Dick patted Agility's neck, and lifted his forefoot. He
whistled softly.
"You poor old beggar!" he said. A scrap of barbed wire was embedded in
the frog by two cruel teeth. The horse flinched from the touch. Dick
soothed him a moment, and then, with a quick movement, drew out the
torturing steel, dodging back as Agility plunged wildly.
"There!" he said. "All over, old chap. Now come and get doctored."
He led him slowly across the grass, Agility on three legs. Near the
gate O'Mara, wide-eyed with horror from Macleod's story, met him.
"Barbed wire, is it? I dunno why they have the misfortunate stuff on
anny decent place," he said, taking the horse's foot up to examine it.
"H'm--'twill be a while before he gets that to the ground. Could ye
bathe him now, Master Dick? I'd do it meself, only I must drive Mr.
Macleod to Mernda; the browns are ready in the stable, an' 'twill be
quicker than riding. And there's not another man about the place;
they're all out at some job or other. Sure I'm only in meself ten
minutes, and that's why the browns are handy; I drove Mr. Macleay over
to Andrews's for the day."
"I'll bathe him, of course," Dick said, taking Agility's bridle.
"Don't you worry about him."
"I'd have worried ten minutes ago, but it don't seem to matter much
now," the old groom said. "Poor old Bill Summers! Well, I hope them
murdherin' fiends will find it the worst day's work ever they did.
Masther Dick, will ye keep a lookout, an' the first man that comes in,
send him over to Andrews's for Mr. Macleay--he'd betther be home.
There'll be guns and cartridges wanting out of the store."
"All right," Dick nodded. "Better let me help you put the browns in."
The light buggy was still in the yard, and the horses harnessed. They
put them back, and O'Mara drove out just as Macleod came running over.
"Good man!" he said, swinging himself up. "You all right, Dick? Mind
you get something to eat. Let 'em go, O'Mara!" The buggy dashed away
down the hill, the browns resenting the unaccustomed touch of the whip.
Dick bathed Agility and rubbed him down, finally putting him into loose
box and giving him a feed. He glanced into the other boxes; they were
empty, until he came to the last one, where Conqueror's iron-grey head
poked over the half-door. Dick patted the long nose as he passed.
"You'd better take a rest while you can," he said. "I guess you'll be
wanted pretty soon." But just how soon he did not dream.