 CHAPTER XII We didn't go straight ahead along any main track to the lower Murray and Adelaide exactly, that would have been a little too open and barefaced. No, we divided the mob into three, and settled where to meet in about a fortnight. Three men to each mob. Father and Warragull took one lot, they had the dog old Cribb to help them. He was worth about two men and a boy. Starlight, Jim, and I had another, and the three stranger chaps another. We'd had a couple of knockabouts to help with the cooking and stockyard work. They were paid by the job. They were to stay at the camp for a week to burn the gunyas, knock down the yard, and blind the track as much as they could. Some of the cattle we'd left behind they drove back and forward across the track every day for a week. If rain came they were to drop it and make their way into the frontage by another road. If they heard about the job being blown or the police set on our track they were to wire to one of the border townships we had to pass. Weren't we afraid of their selling us? No, not much. They were well paid and had often given Father and Starlight information before, though they took care never to show out in the cattle or horse-stealing way themselves. As long as chaps in our line have money to spend they can always get good information and other things, too. It is when the money runs short that the danger comes in. I don't know whether cattle duffin was ever done in New South Wales before on such a large scale, or whether it will be ever done again. Perhaps not. These wire fences stop a deal of crosswork, but it was done then you take my word for it. A man's word is hasn't that long to live that it's worth while to lie, and it all came out right, that is, as far as our getting safe over, selling the cattle and having the money in our pockets. We kept on working by all sorts of outside tracks on the main line of road, a good deal by night, too, for the first two or three hundred miles. After we crossed the Adelaide border we followed the Darling down to the Murray. We thought we were all right and got bolder. Starlight had changed his clothes and was dressed like a swell, a way on a roughish strip, but still like a swell. They were his cattle. He had brought them from one of his stations on the Naran. He was going to take up country in the Northern Territory. He expected a friend out from England with a lot more capital. Jim and I used to hear him talking like this to some of the squatters whose runs we passed through, as grave as you please. They used to ask him to stay all night, but he always said, he didn't like to leave his men. He made it a practice on a road. When we got within a fortnight's drive of Adelaide he rode in and lived at one of the best hotels. He gave out that he expected a lot of cattle to arrive, and got a friend that he'd met in the billiard room, and couldn't he play surprising? To introduce him to one of the leading stock agents there. So he had it all cut and dry, when one day Waragul and I rode in, and the boy handed him a letter, touching his hat respectfully, as he had been learned to do before a lot of young squatters and other swells that he was going out to a picnic with. My confounded cattle come at last, he says. Excuse me for mentioning business. I began to hope they'd never come. Pop my soul, I did. The time passes so deuce and pleasantly here. Well, they'll all be at the yards tomorrow. You fellows had all better come and see them sold. There'll be a little lunch and perhaps some fizz. You go to the stock agents, run them all and company. Here's their address, Jack. He says to me, look at me straight in the eyes. They'll send a man to pilot you to the yards, and now off with you, and don't let me see your face till tomorrow. How he carried it off. He cantered away with the rest of the party, as if he hadn't a thought in the world except about pleasure and honest business. Nobody couldn't have told that he wasn't just like the mother young gentleman with only their stock and station to think about. And a little fun at the races now and then. And what a risk he was running every minute of his life, he and all the rest of us. I wasn't sorry to be out of the town again. There were lots of police, too. Suppose one of them was to say, Richard Marston, I arrest you for—it hardly mattered what. I felt as if I should have tumbled down with sheer fright and cowardliness. It's a queer thing you feel like that off and on. Other times a man has as much pluck in him as if his life was worth fighting for, which it isn't. The agent knew all about us, or thought he did, and sent a chap to show Mr. Kerasforth's cattle, Charles Kerasforth, Esquire, of Sturgeon, Yorkshire, and Banda, Warruna, and Ebor Downs, New South Wales—that was the name he went by—the way to the yards. We were to draft them all next morning into separate pens, cows and bullocks, steers and heifers, and so on. He expected to sell them all to a lot of farmers and small settlers that had taken up a new district lately, and were very short of stock. You couldn't have come into a better market, young fellow, says the agent's man to me. Our boss, he's advertised them that well as there'll be smart biddin' between the farmers and some of the squatters. Good store cattle's been scarce, and these in such rattling condition. That's what'll sell them. Your master seems a regular free-headed sort of chap. He's a jolly a squatter there's been in town these years, I hear folks say. Puts them in mind of Haughton and Evelyn Sturt in the old Overlander days. Next day we were at the yards early, you bet. We wanted to have time to draft them into pens of twenty to fifty each, so that the farmers and small settlers might have a chance to buy. Besides, it was the last day of our work. Driving all day and watching half the night is pretty stiffish work, good weather and bad, when you've got to keep it up for months at a time, and we'd been three months in a week on the road. The other chaps were wild for a spree. Jim and I had made up our minds to be careful. Still, we had a lot to see in a big town like Adelaide, for we'd never been to Sydney even in our lives, and we'd never seen the sea. That was something to look at for the first time, wasn't it? Well, we got the cattle drafted to rights, every sort in size and age by itself as near as could be. That's the way to draft stock, whether they're cattle, sheep or horses. Then every man can buy what he likes best, and isn't obliged to lump up one sort with another. We had time to have a bit of dinner. None of us had touched a mouthful since before daylight. Then we began to see the buyers come. There had been a big tent rigged, as big as a small wood shed, too. It came out in a cart, and then another cart came with a couple of waiters, and they laid out a long table of boards on trestles with a real first-class feed on it, such as we'd never seen in our lives before. Fowls and turkeys and tongues and rounds of beef, beer and wine and bottles with guilt labels on. Such a set-out it was. Father began to growl a bit. If he's going to feed the whole country this way, he'll spend half the stuff before we get it, let alone drawing a down on the whole thing. But Jim and me could see how Starlight had been working the thing to write when he was swelling it in the town among the big bugs. We told him the cattle would fetch that much more money on account of the lunch and the blowin' the auctioneer was able to do. These would pay for the feed and the rest of the Fowls ten times over. When he gets in with men like his old pals, he loses his head, I believe, Father says. In fancies, he's what he used to be. He'll get fitted quite simple some day if he doesn't keep a better look out. That might be. But it wasn't to come about this time. Starlight came riding out by and by, dressed up like a real gentleman, and lookin' so different that Jim and I hardly dared speak to him. On a splendid horse, too, not rainbow, he'd been left behind. He was always left within a hundred miles of the hollow, and he could do it in one day if he was wanted to. And a lot of fine-dressed chaps with him, young squatters and officers, and what not. I shouldn't have been surprised if he'd had the governor out with him. They told us afterwards he did dine at Government House Regular, and was made quite free and welcome there. Well, he jumps down and shakes hands with us before them all. Well, Jack, well, Bill, and so on, calls us his good-faithful fellows, and how well we brought the cattle over. Nod's the father, who didn't seem able to take it all in, says he'll back us against any stockman in Australia. Has up Warrigle and shows him off to the company. Most intelligent lad. Warrigle grinned and showed his white teeth. It was as good as a play. Then everybody goes to lunch, swells and selectors, Germans and patties, natives and immigrants. A good many of them, too. And there was eating and drinking, and speech of fine till all was blue. Buy and buy the auctioneer looks at his watch. He'd had a pretty good tuck in himself, and they must get to business. Father opened his eyes at the price the first pen brought. All prime young bullocks, half-fat most of them. Then they all went off like wildfire. The big men and the little men bidding, quite jealous. Sometimes one getting the lot, sometimes another. One chap made a remark about there being such a lot of different brands. But Starlight said they'd come from a sort of depot station of his, and were the odds and ends of all the mobs of store cattle that he'd purchased the last four years. That satisfied him. Particularly as he said it in a careless, fierce way which he could put on, as if it was like a man's impudence to ask him anything. It made the people laugh, I could see that. Buy and buy when it comes to the important bull. He was in a pen by himself, looking first rate. His brand had been faked, and the hair had grown pretty well. It would have took a sharp hand to know him again. Well, gentlemen, says the auctioneer. Here is the important bull, Duke of Brunswick. It ain't often an animal of his quality comes in with a mob of store cattle. But I am informed by Mr. Kerasworth that he left orders for the whole of the cattle to be cleared off the run, and this valuable animal was brought away in mistake. He was to return by sea. But as he happens to be here today, why, sooner than disappoint any intended buyer, Mr. Kerasworth has given me instructions to put him up. And if he realizes anything near his value, he will be sold. Yes, draws Starlight, as if a dozen important bulls more or less made no odds to him. Put him up by all means, Mr. Runamall. Expect a rather large shipment of baits as Duchess tribe next month. Rather prefer them on the whole, the Duke here is full of booth blood, so he may just as well go with the others. I shall never get what he costs, though, I know that. He's been a most expensive animal to me. Maddie, a true word, spoken in jest. He had good call to know him, as well as the rest of us, for a most expensive animal, before all was said and done. What he cost us all around, it would be hard indeed to cipher up. Anyhow, there was a great laugh at Starlight's easy way of taking it. First one and then another of the squatters that was going in for breeding began to bid, thinking he'd go cheap. Until they got warm, the bull went up to a price that we never dreamed he'd fetch. Everything seemed to turn out lucky that day. One would have thought they'd never seen an imported bull before. The young squatters got running one another, as I said before, and he went up to two hundred and seventy pounds. Then the auctioneer squared off the accounts as sharp as he could. And it took him all his time, what with the German and the small farmers who took their time about it, paying in greasy notes and silver and copper out of canvas bags, and the squatters who were too busy chaffing and talking among themselves to pay it all. It was dark before everything was settled up, and all the lots of cattle delivered. Starlight told the auctioneer he'd see him at his office in a deucid high and mighty kind of way, and rode off with his new friend. All of us went back to our camp. Our work was over, but we had to settle up among ourselves and divide shares. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the cattle all sold and gone, and nothing left at the camp but the horses and the swags. When we got there that night, it was late enough. After tea, Father and I and Jim had a long yard, settling over what we should do, and wondered whether we were going to get clean away with our share of the money after all. By George, says Jim, it's a big touch and no mistake. To think of our getting over all right and selling out so easy, just as if they was our own cattle. Won't there be a jolly row when it's all out, and the number of people missed their cattle? More than half of them was theirs. And when they muster, they can't be off seeing there some hundreds short. That's what's bothering me, says Father. I wish Starlight had been so thundering flash with it all. He'll draw more notice on us, and everyone will be gassing about this big sale and all that, till people set on to ask where the cattle come from and what not. I don't see as it makes any difference, I said. Somebody was bound to buy them, and we'd have to give the brands and receipts just the same. Only if we'd sold to any one that thought there was a cross look about it, we'd have had to take half money. That's all. They've fetched a Ratlin price through Starlight's work in the oracle with those swells, and no mistake. Yes, but that ain't all of it, says the old man, fell in his pipe. We've got to look at what comes after. I never liked that important bull being took. They'll rake all the colonies to get hold of him again, particular as he sold for near 300 pound. We must take our share of the risk along with the money, said Jim. We shall have our whack of that according to what they fetched today. It'll be a short life and a merry one, though, Dad, if we go on big licks like this. What'll we tackle next? A bank or government house? Nothing at all for a good spell, if you've any sense, groundfather. It'll give us all we know to keep dark when this thing gets into the papers, and the police in three colonies are all in full cry like a pack of beagles. The thing is, what'll be our best dart now? I'll go back overland, says he. Starlight's going to take Waragol with him, and they'll be off to the islands for a turn. If he knows what's best for him, he'll never come back. These other chaps say they'll separate and sell their horses when they get over to the Murray, low down, and work their way up by degrees. Which way are you boys going? Jim and I to Melbourne by next steamer, I said. May as well see a bit of life now we're in it. We'll come back overland when we're tired of strange faces. All right, says Father, they won't know where I'm lying by for a bit. I'll go bail, and the sooner you clear out of Adelaide, the better. News like ours don't take long to travel, and you might be nabbed very simple. One of you write a line to your mother and tell her what you're off to, or she'll be fretting herself on the gal, too, fretting over what can't be helped. And I suppose it's the nature of some women. We done our settlin' up next day. All the sale money was paid over to Starlight. He cashed the checks and drew the lot and notes in gold. Such a bundle of them there was. He brought them out to us at the camp, and then we whacked the lot. There were eight of us that had to share and share alike. How much do you think we had to divide? Why, not a penny under four thousand pounds. Had to be divided among the eight of us. That came to five hundred a man. A lot of money to carry about. That was the worst of it. Next day there was a regular split in squander. We didn't wait long after daylight, you bet. Father was off and well on his way before the stars were out of the sky. He took Wargal's horse, Bilba, back with him. He and Starlight was going off to the islands together and couldn't take horses with them. But he was real sorry to part with the cross grain varmint. I thought he was going to blubber when he saw Father leading him off. Bilba wouldn't go neither at first, pulled back, and snorted and went on as if he'd seen only one man afford his life. Father got vexed at last and makes a sign to Old Crib. He fetches him such a healer as gave him something to think of for a few miles. He didn't hang back much after that. The three other chaps went their own road. They kept very dark all through. I know their names well enough, but there's no use in bringing them up now. Jim and I cuts off into the town, thinking we was due for a little fun. We'd never been in a big town before, and it was something new to us. Adelaide ain't as grand quite as Melbourne or Sydney, but there's something quiet and home like about it to my thinking. Great wide streets, planted with trees. Lots of steady going German farmers with their vineyards and orchards and droll little wagons. The women work as hard as the men, harder perhaps, and get brown and scorched up in no time. Not that they've got much good looks to lose, least ways none we ever saw. We could always tell the German farmers places along the road from one of our people by looking outside the door. If it was an Englishman or an Australian, you'd see where they throwed out the teapot leavens. If it was a German, you wouldn't see nothing. They drink their own sour wine if their vines are old enough to make any, or else hop beer, but they won't lay out their money in the tea-chest or sugar bag. No fear, or the grog either, and not far wrong. Then the sea. I can see poor old Jim's face now, the day we went down to the port, and he seen it for the first time. So we've got to the big waterhole at last, he said. Don't it make a man feel queer and small to think of its going away right from here where we stand to the other side of the world? It's a long way across. Jim, says I, had to think we've lived all our lives up to this time and never set eyes on it before. Don't it seem as if one was shut up in the bush or tied to a gum tree so as one can never have a chance to see anything? I wonder we stayed in it so long. It's not a bad place, though it is rather slow and wired in sometimes, says Jim. We might be sorry we ever left it yet. When does a steamer go to Melbourne? The day after tomorrow. I'll be glad to be clear off, won't you? We went to the theater that night and amused ourselves pretty well next day until the time came for our boat to start from Melbourne. We had altered ourselves a bit, had our hair cut and had our beards trimmed by the hairdresser. We bought fresh clothes and what with this and the feeling of being in a new place and having more money in our pockets than we'd ever dreamed about before. We looked so transmogrified when we saw ourselves in the glass that we hardly knew ourselves. We had to change our names too for the first time in our lives. And it went harder against the grain than you'd think. For all we were a couple of cattle duffers where the war and a peace sure to be after us before the year was out. It sounds ugly, says Jim after we had given our names as John Simmons and Henry Smith at the hotel where we put up at till the steamer was ready to start. I never thought that Jim Marston was to come to this to be afraid to tell a fat greasy looking fellow like that innkeeper what his real name was. Seems such a pitiful mean lie, don't it, Dick? It ain't so bad as being called number 14, number 221 as they sing out for the fellows in Baramangile. How would you like that, Jim? I blow my brains out first, cried out Jim, or let some other fellow do it for me. It wouldn't matter which. It was very pleasant those two or three days in Adelaide if they'd only lasted. We used to stroll about the lighted streets till all hours watching the people and the shops and everything that makes a large city different from the country. The different sorts of people, the carts and carriages, buggies and trays, pony carriages and spring carts all jumbled up together. Even the fruit and flowers and oysters and fish under the gas lights seem strange and wonderful to us. We felt as if we would have given all the world to have got mother and Eileen down to see it all. Then Jim gave a groan. Only to things, says he, that we might have had all this fun someday and bought and paid for it honest. Now it isn't paid for. It's out of some other man's pocket. There's a curse on it. It will have to be played in blood or prison time before all's done. I could shoot myself for being such a cursed fool. Too late to think of that, I said. We'll have some fun in Melbourne for a bit anyhow. For what comes after we must chance it as we've done before, more than once or twice either. Next day our steamer was to sail. We got Starlight to come down with us and show us how to take our passage. We'd never done it before and felt awkward at it. He made up his mind to go to New Zealand and after that to Honolulu, perhaps to America. I'm not sure that I'll ever come back boys, he said. And if I were you, I don't think I would either. If you get over to San Francisco, you'd find the Pacific Slope a very pleasant country to live in. The people and the place would suit you all to pieces. At any rate, I'd stay away for a few years and wait till all this blows over. I wasn't sorry when the steamer cleared the port and got out a side of land. There we were, where we'd never been before, in blue water. There was a stiff breeze and in half an hour we shouldn't have turned our heads if we'd seen hood and the rest of them come riding after us on seahorses with warrants as big as the mainsail. Jim made sure he was going to die straight off and the pair of us wished we'd never seen outer back murmura, nor hoods cattle, nor starlight, nor warrigal. We almost made up our minds to keep straight and square to the last day of our lives. However, the wind died down a bit next day and we both felt a lot better, better in body and worse in mind as often happens. Before we got to Melbourne, we could eat and drink, smoke and gamble and work quite ourselves again. We'd laid it out to have a regular good month of it in town, taking it easy, and stopping nice and quiet at a good hotel, having some reasonable pleasure. Why shouldn't we see a little life? We'd got the cash, and we'd earned that pretty hard. It's the hardest earned money of all that's got on the cross, if fellas only knew, but they never do till it's too late. When we got tired of doing nothing, being in a strange place, we'd get across the border, above Albury somewhere, and work on the mountain runs till shearing came round again, and we could earn a fairish bit of money. Then we'd go home for Christmas after it was all over, and see Mother and Eileen again. How glad and frightened they'd be to see us. It wouldn't be safe altogether, but go we would. We got to Melbourne all right, and know it's a different sort of a place from Sydney. It's a jolly enough town for a couple of young chaps with money in their pockets. Most towns are, for the matter of that. We took it easy, and didn't go on the spray or do anything foolish. No, we weren't all together so green as that. We looked out for a quiet place to lodge near the sea, St. Kilda, they call it, in front of the beach, and we went about and saw all the sights, and for a time managed to keep down the thought that perhaps sooner or later we'd be caught, and have to stand our trial for this last affair of ours, and maybe one or two others. It wasn't a nice thing to think of, and now and then it used to make both of us take an extra drop of grog by way of driving the thoughts of it out of our heads. That's the worst of not being straight and square. A man's almost driven to drink when he can't keep from thinking of all sorts of miserable things day and night. We used to go to the old horse yards now and then, and the cattle yards too. It was like old times to see the fat cattle and sheep end up at Flemington, and the butchers riding out on their spicy nags or driving trotters. But their cattle yards was twice as good as ours, and me and Jim used often to wonder why the Sydney people hadn't managed to have something like them all these years. Instead of the miserable cockatoo things at Homebush that we'd often heard the drovers and squatters grumble about. However, one day, as we was sitting on the rails, talking away, quite comfortable, we heard one butcher say to another, My word, this is a smart bit of cattle-duffing. A thousand head, too. What's that? says the other man. Why, haven't you heard of it? says the first one. And he pulled a paper out of his pocket with this in big letters. Great cattle robbery! A thousand head of Mr. Hood's cattle were driven off and sold in Adelaide. Warrants are out for these suspected parties who were supposed to have left the colony. Well, here was a bit of news. We felt as if we could hardly help falling off the rails. But we didn't show it, of course, and sat there for half an hour talking to the buyers and sellers and cracking jokes like the others. But we got away home as soon as we could, and when we began to settle, what we should do. Warrants were out, of course, for Starlight and us, too. He was known, and so were we. Our descriptions were sure to be ready to send out all over the country. Waragall they might not have noticed it was common enough to have a black boy or a half-cast with a lot of traveling cattle. Father had not shown up much. He had an old P-jacket on it. They might not have dropped down to him or the three other chaps that were in it with us. They were just like any other road hands, but about there being warrants out with descriptions. In all the colonies, for a man to be identified but generally known as Starlight, and for Richard and James Marston, we were as certain as that we were in St. Kilda in a nice quiet little inn overlooking the beach. And what a murder it was to have to leave it all. Leave the place we had to do it once. It wouldn't do to go strolling about Melbourne with the chance of every policeman we met taking a look at us to see if we tallied with a full description they had at the office. Richard and James Marston are twenty-five and twenty-two, respectively, both tall and strongly built, having the appearance of Bushman. Richard Marston has a scar on left temple. James Marston has lost a front tooth, and so on. When we came to think of it, they couldn't be off knowing us if they took it into their heads to bail us up any day. They had our height and make. We couldn't help looking like Bushman, like men that had been in the open air all their lives, and that had a look as if saddle and bridal rain were more in our way than the spade and plow handle. We couldn't wash the tan off our skins. Faces, necks, arms all showed pretty well that we'd come from where the sun was hot and that we'd had our share of it. They had my scar, gotten a row, and Jim's front tooth knocked out by a fall from a horse when he was a boy. There was nothing for it but to cut and run. It's time for us to go, my boys, as the song the Yankee Sailor sung us one night runs. And then which way to go? Every ship was watched that close as strange rat couldn't get a passage. And besides, we had that feeling we didn't like to clear away all together out of the old country. There was mother and Eileen still in it, and every man, woman, and child that we'd known ever since we were born. A chap feels that even if he ain't much good other ways, we couldn't stand the thought of clearing out for America as Starlight advised us. It was like death to us, so we thought we'd chance it somewhere in Australia for a bit longer. Now, where we put up a good many drovers from Gippsland used to stay as they brought in cattle from there. The cattle had to be brought over Swanson Street Bridge, and right through the town, after twelve o'clock at night. We'd once or twice when we'd been out late stopped to look at them and watched the big heavy bullocks and fat cows staring and starting and slipping all among the lamps and pavements, but the street also strange and quiet, and laughed at the notion of some of the shopkeepers waking up and seeing a couple of hundred wild cattle, with three or four men behind them, shouldering and horning one another than rushing past their doors at a hard trot, or breaking into a gallop for a bit. Some of these chaps, seeing we was cattlemen and knew most things in that line, used to open out about where they'd come from and what a grand place Gippsland was. Splendid grass country, rivers that run all the year round, great fattening country, and snowy mountains at the back, keeping everything cool in the summer. Some of the mountain country, like Omeo, that they talked a lot of, seemed about one of the most out-of-the-way places in the world. More than that you could get back to old New South Wales by way of the Snowy River, and then on to Monaro. After that we knew where we were. Going away was easy enough in a manner of speaking, but we'd been a month in Melbourne, and when you mind that we were not bad-looking chaps, ferrishly dressed and with our pockets full of money, it was only what might be looked for that we had made another friend or two beside Mrs. Morrison, the landlady of our inn, and Gippsland drovers. When we had time to turn around a bit in Melbourne and, of course, we began to make a few friends, wherever a man goes, unless he keeps himself that close that he won't talk to anyone or let anyone talk to him, he's sure to find someone he likes to be with better than another. If he's old and done with most of his fancies, except smoking and drinking, it's a man. But if he's young and got his life before him, it's a woman. So Jim and I hadn't been a week in Melbourne before we fell across a couple of, well, friends that we were hard set to leave. It was a way of mind they'll walk down to the beach every evening and have a look at the boats and the bay and the fishermen, if there were any anything that might be going on. Sometimes a big steamer would be coming in, churning the water under her paddles and tearing up the bay like a hundred bunyettes. The first screwboat Jim and I saw, we couldn't make out for the life of us what she moved by. We thought all steamers had paddles. Then the sailing boats flying before the breeze like seagulls and the waves, if it was a rough day, rolling and beating and thundering on the beach. I generally stayed till the stars came out before I went back to the hotel. Everything was so strange and new to a man who'd seen so little else except green trees that I was never tired of watching and wondering and thinking what a little bit of a shabby worldchaps like us lived in that never seemed anything but a slab hut maybe all year round and a bush public on high days and holidays. Sometimes I used to feel as if we hadn't done such a bad stroke and cut and loose from all this. But then the horrible feeling would come back of never being safe even for a day, of being dragged off and put in the dock and maybe shut up for years and years. Sometimes I used to throw myself down upon the sand and curse the day when I ever did anything that I had any call to be ashamed of and put myself in the power of everything bad and evil in all my life through. Well, one day I was strolling along thinking about these things and wondering whether there was any other country where a man could go and feel himself safe from being hounded down for the rest of his life. When I saw a woman walking on the beach ahead of me, I came up with her before long and as I passed her she turned her head and I saw she was one of two girls that we'd seen in the landlady's parlor one afternoon. The landlady was a good decent scotch woman and had taken a fancy to both of us, particularly to Jim, as usual. She thought she was that simple that we were up-country squatters from some far-back place or overseers, something in the sheep or cattle line everybody could see that we were. There was no hiding that, but we didn't talk about ourselves over much, for very good reasons, and the less people say, the more others will wonder and guess about you. So we began to be looked upon as bosses of some sort and to be treated with a lot of respect that we hadn't been used to much before. So we began to talk a bit, natural enough, this girl and I. She was a good-looking girl with a wonderful, fresh, clear skin, full of life and spirits and pretty well taught. She and her sister had not been a long time in the country. Their father was dead and they had to live by keeping a very small shop and by dressmaking. They were some kind of cousins of the landlady and the same name, so they used to come and see her evenings and Sundays. Her name was Kate Morrison and her sister was Jeanie. This and a lot more she told me before we got back to the hotel, where she said she was going to stay that night and keep Mrs. Morrison company. After this we began to be a deal better acquainted. It all came easy enough. The landlady thought she was doing the girls a good turn by putting them in the way of a couple of hard- working, well-to-do fellows like us, and as Jim and the younger one Jeanie seemed to take a fancy to each other. Mrs. Morrison used to make up boating parties and we soon got to know each other well enough to be joked about falling in love and all the rest of it. Well, after a bit we got quite into the way of calling for Kate and Jeanie after their day's work was done and taking them out for a walk. I didn't know that I cared so much for Kate in those days anyhow, but by degrees we got to think that we were what people call in love with each other. It went deeper with her than me, I think, mostly does with women. I never really cared for any woman in the world except Gracie Storfield, but she was far away, and I didn't see much likelihood of me being able to live in that part of the world, much less to settle down and marry there. So that we'd broken a sixpence together and I had my half I looked upon her as ever so much beyond me and out of my reach, and didn't see any harm in amusing myself with any woman that I might happen to fall across. So partly from idleness, partly from liking, and partly seeing that the girl had made up her mind to throw in her lot with me for good and all, I just took it as it came, but it met a deal more than that, if I could have foreseen the end. I hadn't seen a great many women, and it made up my mind that except a few bad ones, there was mostly of one sort. Good to lead, not hard to drive, and above all easy to see through and understand. I often wonder what there was about this Kate Morrison to make her so different from other women. But she was born unlike them, I expect. Anyway, I never met another woman like her. She wasn't out and out handsome, but there was something very taking about her. Her figure was pretty near as good as a woman's could be, her step was light and active, her feet and hands were small, and she took a pride in showing them. I never thought she had any temper different from other women, but if I'd noticed her eyes surely I'd have seen it there. There was something very strange and out of the way about them. They hardly seemed so bright when you looked at them first, but by degrees, if she got roused and set up about anything, they'd begin to burn with a steady sort of glitter that got fiercer and brighter, till you'd think they'd burn everything they looked at. The light in them didn't go out again in a hurry, it seemed as if those wonderful eyes would keep on shining, whether their owner wished it or not. I didn't find out all about her nature at once, trust a woman for that. Vane and fond of pleasure I could see she was, and from having been always poor in a worrying miserable, ill-contented way, she'd got to be hungry for money and jewels and fine clothes. Just like a person that's been starved and shivering with cold, longs for a fire and a full meal in a warm bed. Some people like these things when they can get them, but others never seem to think about anything else and would sell their souls or do anything in the whole world to get what their hearts are set on. When men are like this, they're dangerous. But they hardly hurt anybody, only themselves. When women are born with hearts of this sort, it's a bad look out for everybody they come near. Kate Morrison could see that I had money, she thought I was rich, and she made up her mind to attract me and go shares in my property, whatever it might be. She went over her younger sister Jeannie to her plans, and our acquaintance was part of a regular put-up scheme. Jeannie was a soft, good-tempered, good-hearted girl with beautiful fair hair, blue eyes, and the prettiest mouth in the world. She was as good as she was pretty and would have worked away without grumbling in that dismal little shop from that day to this, if she'd been let alone. She was only just turned seventeen. See, she soon got to like Jim a deal too well for her own good, and used to listen to his talk about the country across the border, and such simple yarns as he could tell her. Poor old Jim, until she said she'd go and live with him under a soft push if he'd come back and marry her after Christmas. And, of course, he did promise. He didn't see any harm in that. He intended to come back if he could, and so did I, for that matter. Well, along and short of it was that we were both regularly engaged, and had made all kinds of plans to be married at Christmas, and go over to Tasmania or New Zealand. When this terrible blow fell upon us like a shell, I did see one explode at a review in Melbourne, and my word, what a scatteration it made. Well, we had to let Kate and Jeannie know the best way we could that our business required us to leave Melbourne at once, and that we shouldn't be back till after Christmas, if then. It was terrible hard work to make out any kind of a story that would do. Kate questioned and Cross questioned me about the particular kind of business that called us away like a lawyer. I've seen plenty of that since. Until at last I was obliged to get a bit cross and refused to answer any more questions. Jeannie took it easier, and was that downhearted and miserable at parting with Jim that she hadn't the heart to ask any questions of any one, and Jim looked about as dismal as she did. They sat with their hands in each other's till it was nearly twelve o'clock when the old mother came and carried the girls off to bed. We had to start at daylight next morning, but we made up our minds to leave them a hundred pounds apiece to keep for us until we came back, and promised if we were alive to be at St. Kilda next January, which they had to be contented with. Jeannie did not want to take the money, but Jim said he'd very likely lose it, and so persuaded her. We were miserable and low spirited enough ourselves at the idea of going away all in a hurry. We'd come to like Melbourne, and had bit by bit cheated ourselves into thinking that we might live comfortably and settle down in Victoria, out of reach of our enemies, and perhaps live and die unsuspected. From this dream we were aroused by the confounded advertisement. Detectives and constables would be seen to be pretty thick in all the colonies, and we could not reasonably expect not to be taken some time or other, most likely before another week. We thought it over and over again in every way. The more we thought over it the more dangerous it seemed to stop in Melbourne. There was only one thing for it that was to go straight out of the country. The Gippsland people were the only bushmen we knew at all well, and perhaps that door might shut soon. So we paid our bill. They thought us a pair of quiet, respectable chaps at the hotel, and never would believe otherwise. People may say what they like, but it's a great thing to have some friends that can save you. Well, I never knew no harm of him. The better tempered chap couldn't be. And all the time we knowed him he was that particular about his bills and money matters, that a banker couldn't have been more regular. He may have had his faults, but we never seen him. I believe a deal that was said of him wasn't true, and nothing won't ever make me believe it. Now these kind of people will stand up for you all the days of your life, and stick to you till the very last moment, no matter what you turn out to be. Well, there's something pleasant in it, and it makes you think human nature ain't quite such a low and paltry thing as some people tries to make out. Anyhow, when we went away our good little landlady and her sister was that sorry to lose us. As you'd have thought, they was our blood relations. As for Jim, everyone in the house was fit to cry when he went off from the dogs and cats upward. Jim never was in no house, where everybody didn't seem to take naturally to him. Poor old Jim. He bought a couple of horses and rode away down to sail with these chaps that had sold their cattle in Melbourne and was going home. It rained all the way, and it was the worst road by chocks we'd ever seen in our lives. But the soil was wonderful, and the grass was something to talk about. We'd hardly ever seen anything like it. A few thousand acres there would keep more stock than half the country we'd been used to. We didn't stay more than a day or so in sail. Every morning at breakfast someone was sure to turn up the paper and begin jabbering about the same old infernal business, hoods, cattle, and what a lot were taken, and whether they'll catch car light and that other man, and so on. We heard of a job at Omeo while we were in sail, which we thought would just about suit us. All the cattle on a run there were to be mustered and delivered to a firm of stock agents that had bought them. They wanted people to do it by contract at so much ahead. Anybody who took it must have money enough to buy stock horses. The price per head was pretty fair, what would pay well, and we made up our minds to go in for it, so we made a bargain, bought two more horses each, and started away for Omeo. It was nearly two hundred miles from where we were. We got up there all right and found a great rich country with a big lake. I don't know how many feet above the sea. The cattle were as wild as hares, but the country was pretty good to ride over. We were able to keep our horses in good condition in the paddocks, and when we'd mustered the whole lot, we found we had a handsome check to get. It was a little bit strange buckling, too, after the easy life we'd led for the last few months, but after a day or two we found ourselves as good men as ever, and could spin over the limestone boulders and through the thick mountain timber as well as ever we did. The man soon gets right again in the fresh air of the bush, and as it used to snow there every now and then the air was pretty fresh, you bet, particularly in the mornings and evenings. After we'd settled up we made our minds to get as far as Monaro and wait there for a month or two. After that we might go in for the shearing till Christmas, and then whatever happened we would both make a strike back for home and have one happy week at any rate with Mother and Eileen. We tried as well as we could to keep away from the large towns and the regular male coach rode. We worked on runs where the snow came down every now and then, and such a way as to make us think that we might be snowed up alive some fine morning. It was very slow and tedious work, but the newspaper seldom came there, and we were not worried day after day with telegrams about our Adelaide's stroke and descriptions of Starlight's own look and way of speaking. We got into the old way of working hard all day and sleeping well at night. We could eat and drink well, the corned beef and the damper were good, and Jim, like when we were at the back of Boree when Waragel came, wished that we could stick to this kind of thing always, and never have any fret or crooked dealings again as long as we lived. But it couldn't be done. We had to leave and go shearing when the spring came on. We did go and went from one big station to the other. When the spring was regularly on and shearers were scarce, by and by the weather got some warmer and we had to cut our last shed before the first week in December. Then we couldn't stand it any longer. I don't care, says Jim, if there is a policeman standing at every corner of the street I must make a start for home. They may catch us, but our chance is a pretty good one, and I'd just to soon be lagged outright as I have to hide and keep dark and molder away life in some of these God-forsaken spots. So we made up to start for home and chance it. We worked our way by degrees up the Snowy River, by Bucking and Gallant-up-E and gradually made toward Balooka and Buckley's Crossing. On the way we crossed some of the roughest country we'd ever seen or ridden over. My word, Dick, said Jim one day as we were walking along and leading our horses. We could find a place here if we were hard-pushed near as good for hiding and as the hollow. Look at that bit of table-land that runs up toward Black Mountain. Any man that could find a track up to it might live there for a year, and all the police of the country be after him. So what would he get to eat if he was there? That long chap we stayed with at Wargal Merring told us that there were wild cattle on all those table-lands. Often they get snowed up in winter and die making a circle in the snow, then fish in all the creeks besides the old snowing, and their places on the south side of them that people didn't see once in five years. I believe I shall make a camp for myself on the way and live in it till they forgot all about these cursed cattle, rot their hides. I wish we'd never set eyes on one of them. So do I, but like many things in the world it's too late. Too late, Jim. CHAPTER XIV One blazing hot day in the Christmas week, Jim and I rode up the gap that led from the southern road towards Rocky Creek and the little flat near the water where our hut stood. The horses were tired, for we'd ridden a long way, and not very slow either, to get to the old place. How small and queer the old homestead looked, and everything about it, after all we'd seen. The trees in the garden were in full leaf, and we could see that it was not let go to waste. Mother was sitting in the veranda, sewing, pretty near the same as we went away. And the girl was walking slowly up from the creek carrying a bucket of water. It was Eileen. We knew her at once. She was always as straight as a rush and held her head high, as she used to do. But she walked very slow, and looked as if she was dull and weary of everything. All of a sudden Jim jumped off, dropped his horses bridle on the ground, and started to run toward her. She didn't see him till he was pretty close. Then she looked up astonished like and put her bucket down. She gave a sudden cry and rushed over to him. The next minute she was in his arms, sobbing as if her heart would break. I came along quiet. I knew she'd be glad to see me, but bless you, she and mother cared more for Jim's little finger than my old body. Some people have a way of getting the biggest share of nearly everybody's liking that comes next or an item. I don't know how it's done or what works it, but so it is. And Jim could always count on every man, woman and child, wherever he lived, wearing his colors and backing him right out through thick and thin. When I came up Eileen was saying, Oh, Jim, my dear old Jim, now I'll die happy. Mother and I were only talking of you today and wondering whether we should see you at Christmas, and now you come. Oh, Dick and you too! But we shall be frightened every time we hear a horse's tread or dog's bark. Well, we're here now, Eileen, and that's something. I had a great notion at clearing out for San Francisco and turning Yankee. What would you have done then? Well, he walked up to the house leading our horses. Jim and Eileen hand in hand. Mother looked up and gave a scream. She nearly fell down. When we got in her face was as white as a sheet. Mother of mercy, I vowed to you for this, she said. Sure, she hears our prayers. I wanted to see you both before I died and I didn't think you'd come. I was afraid you'd be dreading the police and maybe stay away for good and all. The Lord be thanked for all his mercies. We went in and enjoyed our tea. We'd had nothing to eat that day since breakfast, but better than all was Eileen's pleasant, clever tongue. Though she said it was getting stiff for one of exercise. She wanted to know all about our travels and was never tired of listening to Jim's stories of the wonders we'd seen in the great cities and the strange places we'd been to. Oh, how happy you must have been, she would say. Well, we have been pining and wearying here all through last spring and summer and then winter again. Cold and miserable it was last year. And now Christmas has come again. Don't go away again for a good while or mother and I'll die straight out. Well, what could we say? Tell her we'd never go away at all if we could help it. Only she must be a good girl and make the best of things for mother's sake. When had she seen father last? Oh, he was away a good while once that time you and Jim were at Mr. Faulklin's back country. You must have had a long job then. No wonder you've got such good clothes and look so smart and up-like. He comes every now and then just like he used. We never know what's become of him. When was he here last? Oh, about a month ago. He said he might be here about Christmas but he wasn't sure. And so you saved Mrs. Faulklin from being killed off her horse, Jim. Tell me all about it like a good boy. And what sort of a looking young lady is she? All right, so Jim, I'll unload the story bag before we get through, but there's a lot in there yet. I want to look at you and hear you talk just now. How's George Storfield? Oh, he's just the same good kind, steady going fellow he always was, says she. I don't know what we should do without him when you're away. He comes and helps with the cows now and then. Two of the horses got into Bargo Pond and he went and released them for us. Then a storm blew off best part of the roof of the barn and the bit of wheat would have spoiled only for him. He's the best friend we have. You better make sure of him for good and all, I said. I suppose he's pretty well to do now with that new farm he bought the other day. Oh, you saw that, she said. Yes, he bought out the cumbers. They never did any good with honeysuckle flat, though the land was so good. He's going to lay it all down in Lucerne, he says. And then he'll smarten up the cottage and sister Eileen will go over and live in it, says Jim. And a better thing she couldn't do. I don't know, she said. For George, I wish I was fonder of him. There never was a better man, I believe, but I cannot leave mother yet, so it's no use talking. Then she got up and went in. That's the way of the world, says Jim. George worships the ground, she treads on, and she can't make herself care too straws about him. Perhaps she will in time. She'll have the best home and the best chap in the whole district if she does. That's a deal of if in this world, I said. And if we're copped on account of that last job, I'd like to think she and mother had someone to look after them. Good weather and bad. We might have done that and not killed ourselves with work, either, said Jim, rather selfishly for him. And he lit his pipe and walked off into the bush without saying another word. I thought, too, how he might have been ten times, twenty times as happy if we'd only kept on steady ding-dong work, like George Storfield, having patience and seeing ourselves get better off, even a little, year by year. What did he come to? And what lay before us? And though we were that fond of poor mother and Eileen that we would have done anything in the world for them, that is, we would have given our lives for them any day, yet we had left them. Father, Jim, and I delete this miserable, lonesome life, looked down upon by a lot of people not half good enough to tie their shoes and oblige to a neighbor for help in every little distress. Jim and I thought we'd chance a few days at home, no matter what risk we ran, but still we knew that if warrants were out, the old home would be well watched, and that it was the first place the police would come to. So we made up our minds not to sleep at home, but to go away every night to an old deserted shepherd's hut a couple of miles up the gullet that we used to play in when we were boys. It had been strongly built at first. Time was not much matter then, and there were no wages to speak of, so that it was a good shelter. The weather was that hot, too. It was just as pleasant sleeping under a tree as anywhere else. So we didn't show at home more than one at a time and took care to be ready for a bolt at any time day or night when the police might show themselves. Our place was midland clear all round now, and it was hard for anyone on horseback to get near it without warning. And if we could once reach the gully, we knew we could run faster than any man could ride. One night, late-ish, just as we were walking off to our hut, there was a scratching of the door. When we opened it, there was old crib. He ran up to both of us and smelt round our legs for a minute to satisfy himself, then jumped up once to each of us as if he thought he ought to do the civil thing, wagging his stump of a tail and laid himself down. He was tired and had come a long way. We could see that. And that he was foot sore, too. We knew that Father wasn't so very far off and would soon be it. If there had been anybody strange there, crib would have run back fast enough. Then Father would have dropped there with something up and not shone. No fear of the dog not knowing who was right and who wasn't. He could tell every sort of a man a mile off, I believe. He knew the very walk of the police troopers' horses, and would growl, Father said, if he heard their hoes rattle on the stones of the road. About a quarter of an hour after Father walks in, quiet as usual. Nothing never made no difference to him, except he thought it was worthwhile. He was middle and glad to see us and behave kind enough to mother, so the poor soul looked quite happy for her. It was little enough of that she had for her share. By and by Father walks outside with us, and we had a long, private talk. It was a brightish kind of starlight night. As we walked down to the creek, I thought how often Jim and I had come out on just such a night possum hunting, and came home so tired that we were hardly able to pull our boots off. Then we had nothing to think about when we woke in the morning but to get in the cows, and didn't we enjoy the fresh butter and the damper and bacon and eggs at breakfast time? It seemed to me the older people get the more miserable they get in this world. If they don't make misery for themselves, other people do it for them. Or just when everything's going straight, and they're doing their duty first rate and all that, some accident happens, and just as they was the worst people in the world, I can't make it out at all. Well, boys, says Dad. You've been lucky so far. I suppose you had a pretty good spree in Melbourne. You've seen the game was up by the papers, didn't you? But why didn't you stay where you were? Why, of course, that brought us away, says Jim. We didn't want to be fetched back in Irons, and thought there was more show for it in the bush here. But even if they grabbed starlights, says the old man, you'd no call to be feared. Not much chance of his peaching, if it had been a hanging matter. You don't mean to say there ain't warrants against us in the rest of the lot, I said? There's never a warrant out again any one but starlights, said the old man. I've had the papers read to me regular, and I rode over to Spargo and saw the reward of two hundred pounds, a chap alongside of me read it, as is offered for a man generally known as Starlight, supposed to have left the country. But not a word about you two and me, or the boy, or them other coves. So we might as well have stayed where we were, Jim. Jim gave a kind of a groan. Still, when you look at it, isn't it queer, I went on, that they should only spot Starlight and leave us out? It looks as if they was keeping dark for fear of frighten us out of the country, but watching all the same. It's this way I worked it, says father, rubbing his tobacco in his hands the old way and bringing out his pipe. They couldn't be off marking down Starlight along with his carrying on. So, of course, he drawed notice to himself all roads, but the rest of us only came in with the mob, and as soon as they were sold, stashed the camp and cleared out different ways. Them three fellers is in Queensland long ago, and nobody was to know them from any other road ends. I was back with the old mayor and Bilbaugh in mighty short time. I wrote them day and night, turn about, and they can both travel. You kept pretty quiet, as luck had it, and was off to Melbourne quick. I don't really believe they dropped any of us far Starlight, and if they don't nab him, we might get shut of it altogether. I've known worse things has never turned up in this world and never will now. Here the old man showed his teeth as if he were going to laugh, but not better of it. Anyhow, we made it up to come home at Christmas, says Jim. But it's all one. But it saved us a deal of trouble in our minds all the same if we'd known there was no warrants out after us, too. I wonder if they'll nail Starlight. They can't be well off it, says father. He's gone off his head, and stopped in some swell town in New Zealand, Canterbury, I think it's called, living tip-top among a lot of young English swells, instead of making off for the islands as he laid out to do. How do you know he's there, I said. I know, and that's enough, snarls, father. I hear a lot, in many ways, about things and people that no one guesses on, and I know this, that he's pretty well marked down by old Stilbrook the detective, as went down there a month ago. But didn't she warn him? Yes, of course, as soon as I heard tell of it, it's too late, I'm thinking. He has the devil's luck as well as his own. I always used to tell him, yet it failed him yet. I believe you're the smartest man of the crowd, dad, says Jim, laying his hand on father's shoulder. He could pretty nigh get round the old chap once in a way, good Jim, surely as he was. What do you think we'd better do? What's our best dart? Father shook off his hand, but not roughly, and his voice wasn't so hard when he said, Why, stop at home, quiet, of course, and sleep in your beds at night. Don't go planting in the gulley, or someone'll think you want it. And let on to the police, right about the country till I give you the office. Never fear, but I'll have a word quick enough. Go about and see the neighbors round, just as usual. Jim and I was quite stunned by this bit of news. No doubt we was pretty sorry as ever we left Melbourne, but there was nothing for it now but to follow it out. After all, we were at home, and it was pleasant to think we wouldn't be hunted for a bit, and might ride about the old place and enjoy ourselves a bit. Eileen was as happy as the day was long, and poor mother used to lay her head on Jim's neck and cry for joy to have him with her. Even father used to sit in the front, under the quinces and smoke his pipe, with old crib at his feet, most as if he thought he was happy. I wonder if he ever looked back to the days when he was a farming boy and hadn't took the poaching. He must have been a smart, handy kind of lad, and what a different look his face must have had then. We had our own horses, of course, and had pretty good trim, so we foraged up Eileen's mare and made it up to ride over to George's store-fields and gave him a look-up. He'd been away when we came, and now we heard he was home. George has been doing well all his time, of course, I said. I expect he'll turn squatter some day and be made a magistrate. Like enough, says Jim, more than one we could pick began lower down than him, and sits on the bench and gives coves like us a turn when we're brought up before him. Fancy old George said, is anything known constable of this prisoner's antecedents? As I heard old Higgler say one day at Bargo, why do you make fun of these things, Jim, dear, says Eileen, looking so solemn and mournful like? Aught in a steady worker to rise in life, and isn't it sad to see cleverer men and better workers, if they like, kept down by their own fault? Why wasn't your own mare-born blacker chestnuts, says Jim, laughing, and pretending to touch her up, come along, and let's see if she can trot as well as she used to. Poor Lowen, says she, patting the mare's smooth neck, she was a wonderful, neat, well-bred, dark ron with black points, one of Dad's, perhaps, that he brought her home one time he was in special good humor about something. Where she was bred or how, nobody ever knew. She was born pretty and good how little trouble her life gives her. It's a pity we can't all say as much, or have as little on our minds. Who's fault's that, says Jim? The dingo must live as well as the collie, or the sheep, either. One's been made just the same as the other. I've often watched a dingo turn round twice and then pitch himself down in the long grass like as if he was dead. He's not a bad sort, old dingo, and has a good time of it, as long as he lasts. Yes, till he's trapped or shot or poisoned some day, which he always is, says Eileen bitterly. I wonder any man should be content with a wicked life and a shameful death. And she struck low on with a switch and spun down the slope of the hill between the trees like a forest or doe with the hunter-hound behind her. When we came up with her, she was all right again and tried to smile. Whatever put her out for the time, she always worked things by kindness, and would leave us straight if she could. Driven, she knew we couldn't be, and I believe she did us about ten times as much good that way as if she had scolded and raged or even sneered at us. When we rode up to Mr. Storrifield's farm we were quite agreeable and pleasant again. Jim Macon believed his horse could walk fastest, and saying that her mare's pace was only a double shuffle of an amble like Bilba's, and she declaring that the mare's was a true walk, and so it was. The mare could do pretty well everything but talk, and all her paces were first-last. Old Mrs. Storrifield was pottering about in the garden with a big sun-bonnet on. She was a great woman for flowers. Come along in, Eileen, my dear, she said. Gracie's in the dairy. She'll be out directly. George only came home yesterday. Who be these you've got with a white tick, she says. Looking again with her sharp old gray eyes, it's you, boy, is it? Well, you've changed a deal, too. And Jim, too. Is he as full of mischief as ever? Well, God bless you, boys. I wish you well. I wish you well. Come in out of the sun, Eileen, and one of you take the horses up to the stable. You'll find George there somewhere. Eileen had jumped down by this time and had thrown a rain to Jim, so we rode up to the stable on a very good one it was. Not long put up that we could see how the place had changed and how different it was from ours. We remembered the time when their hut wasn't a patch on ours, when old Isaac Storrifield, that had been gardener at Mulgoa to some of the big gentlemen in the old days, had saved a bit of money and taken up a farm. But bit by bit their place had been getting better and bigger every year, while ours had stood still and now was going back. End of Chapter 14, Recording by Mike Harris Chapter 15 George Storfield's place for the old man was dead and all the place belonged to him and Gracie. Quite stunned Jim and me. We'd been away more than a year and he'd pulled down the old fences and put up new ones. First rate work it was too. He was always a dead hand at spitting. Then there was a big hay shed, chock full of sweet good hay and wheat shoes, and last of all the new stable with six stalls and a loft above and racks, all built of iron bark slabs, as solid and regular as a church gym set. They'd a good six-room cottage and a new garden fence ever so long. There were more fruit trees in the garden than a lot of good draught horses standing about that looked well, but as if they'd come off a journey. The stable door opens and out comes old George as hearty as ever, but looking full of business. Glad to see your boys, he says, what a time you've been away. Been away myself these three months with a lot of teams carrying. I've taken great care of the business lately. I'm just settling up with my drivers, but put the horses in. There's chaff and corn in the manger and I'll be down in a few minutes. It's well on to dinner time, I see. Wonder whether Gracie's as nice as she used to be, says Jim. Next to one I used to think she wasn't to be beat. When I was a little chap I believed you and she must be married for certain, an old George and Eileen. I never lay there at anyone from herself, I remember. The first two don't look like coming off, I said. You're the likeliest man to marry and settle if Jeannie sticks you. She'd better go down to the pier and drown herself comfortably, said Jim. If she knew what was before us all, perhaps she would. Poor little Jeannie. We've no right to drag other people into our troubles. I believe we're getting worse and worse. The sooner we're shot or locked up, the better. You won't think so when it comes. Oh man, I said. Don't bother your head, it ain't the best part of you. About things that can't be helped. We're not the only horses that can't be kept on the course, with a good turn of speed too. They weren't shooting like dingos, as Eileen said. They've never had no good except to ruin those that back them and disgrace their owners and the stable they come out of. That's our sort, all the pieces. Well, we'd better come in. Gracie will think we're afraid to face her. When we went away last, Grace Storfield was a little over 17, so now she was 19 all out and a fine girl she'd grown. I never used to think of her beauty. Now I almost began to think she must be. She wasn't tall, and Eileen looked slight alongside of her. But she was wonderfully fair and fresh coloured from an Australian girl, with a lot of soft brown hair and a pair of clear blue eyes that always look kindly and honestly into everyone's face. Every look of her seemed to wish to do you good, and make you think that nothing that wasn't square and right and honest and true could live in the same place for her. She held out both hands to me and said, well Dick, so you're back again. You must have been to the end of the world, and Jim too. I'm very glad to see you both. She looked into my face with that pleased look that put me in mind of her when she was a little child and used to come toddling up to me, staring and smiling all over her face the moment she saw me. Now she was a grown woman and a sweet looking one too. I couldn't lift her up and kiss her as I used to, but I felt as if I should like to all the same. She was the only creature in the whole world, I think, that liked me better than Jim. I've been trying to drive all thoughts of her out of my heart, seeing the tangle I'd got into in more ways than one. But now the old feeling which had been part of me ever since I'd grown up became rushing back, stronger than ever. I was surprised at myself and looked queer, I dare say. And only naft and Jim came to the rescue and says, Dick doesn't remember you, Gracie. You've grown such a swell too. You can't be that little girl we used to carry on our backs. Dick remembers very well, she says, and her very voice was ever so much fuller and softer. Don't you, Dick? And she looked into my face as innocent as a child. I don't think he could pull me out of the water and carry me to the cottage now. You tumble in and we'll try, says Jim. First man to keep you for good, eh, Gracie? It's fine hot weather and no lens to see fair play. You're just as sour as ever, Jim, says she, bluffing and smiling. I see George coming, so I must go and fetch him dinner. Eh, then he's going to help me instead of mother. You must tell us all you're about your travels while we sit down. When George came in he began to talk to make up for lost time and told us where he had been, a long way out in some new back country just taken up with sheep. He had got a first rate paying price for his carriage out and had bought back and delivered a full load of wood. I mind to do it every year for a bit, he said. I can breed and feed a good stamp of draft horse here. I pay drivers for three wagons and drive the fourth myself. It pays first rate so far and we had very fair feed all the way there and back. Supposing you get a dry season, I said how will it be then? We shall have to carry forage, of course, but by then carriage will be higher and it will come to the same thing. I don't like being so long away from home, but it pays first rate and I think I see a way to with paying better still. So you've ridden over to show them the way, Haylen, he said as the girls come in. Very good of you it was. I was afraid you'd forgotten the way. I never forget the way to a friend's place, George, she said, and you've been our best friend while these naughty boys have left mother and me so long by herself. But you've been away yourself. Only about four months, he said, and after a few more trips I shan't want to go away any more. That will be a good day for all of us, you said. You know, Gracie, we can't do without George, can we? I felt quite deserted, I can tell you. He wouldn't have gone away at all if you'd held up your little finger, you know, your hard-hearted girl, said Grace, trying to frown. It's all your fault. Oh, I couldn't interfere with Mr Storefield's business, said Haylen, looking very grave. What kind of a country was it you were out in? Not a bad place for sheep and cattle and black, said poor George, looking rather glum, and not a bad country to make money or do anything but live in, but that hot and dry and full of flies and mosquitoes that I'd sooner live on a pound a week down here than take a good station as a present there. That is, if I were contented, he went on to say with a sort of groan. There was never a greater mistake in the world, I believe, than for a man to let a woman know how much he cares for her. It's right enough if she's made up her mind to take him, no-one's what happened. But if there's any half-and-half feeling in her mind about him, and she's uncertain and doubtful whether she likes him well enough, all this down on your knees business works against you, more than your worst enemy could. I didn't know so much about it then, I've found it out since, worse luck. And I really believe if George had had the Sarri to crack himself up a little, and say he'd met a nice girl or two in the back country and hit his hand, Haylen would have made it up with him that very Christmas and been a happy woman all her life. When Old Mrs. Storfield came in, she put us through our facings pretty brisk, where'd we been, what had we done, what took us to Melbourne, how we liked it, what kind of people they were, and so on. We had to tell her a good luck, part of it truth, of course, but pretty mixed. It made rather a good yarn, and I could see Grace was listening with her heart as well as with her ears. Jim said generally we met some nice people in Melbourne, named Jackson, and they were very kind to us. Were there any daughters in the family, Jim asked Grace? Oh yes, three. Were they good looking? No, rather homely, particularly the youngest. What did they do? Oh, their mother kept a boarding house, we stayed there. I don't think I ever knew Jim do so much lying before, but after he'd begun he had the stick to it. He told me afterwards he nearly broke down about the three daughters, but was rather proud of making the youngest the ugliest. I can see Grace is as fond of you as ever she was, Dick, says he. That's why she made me tell all those crammers. It's an awful pity we can't all square it and get spliced this Christmas. I then would take George if she wasn't a fool, as most women are. I'd like to bring Jeannie up here and join George in the carrying business. It's going to be a big thing I can see. You might marry Grace here and look after both places while we are away. And how about Kate, the devil-taker, and then she'd have a bargain. I wish she'd never dropped across her and that she wasn't Jeannie's sister, blurt's out Jim. She'll bring bad luckerbunxes before she's done. I feel as sure as we are standing here. It's all a toss-up like our lives, married or lagged, bushwork or roadwork in irons, free or bond. We can't tell how it will be with us this day here. I've half a mind to shoot myself so Jim and end it all. I would too, only for Mother and Aileen. What's the youth of life that isn't life but fear and misery, from one day's end to another? And we only just grow numb. It's damned hard that a chap's brains don't grow along with his legs and arms. We didn't ride home till quite the evening. Grace would have a stay for tea. It was a pretty hot day, so there was no use riding in the sun. George saddled his horse, and he and Grace rode part of the way home with us. He'd got a regular sunburn like us, and he could ride a bit like most natives. He looked better outside of a horse than on his own legs, being rather thick-set and shortish. But his heart was in the right place, like his sister's, and his head was screwed on right too. I think more of old George now than I ever did before, and wish I'd had the sense to value his independence straight ahead nature, and the track it led him, as he deserved. Jim and I rode in front with gracey between us. She had on a neat habit and a better hat and gloves than Aileen, but nothing could ever give her the seat and hands and light easy graceful way with her in the saddle that our girl had. All the same she could ride and drive too, and we rode side by side in the twilight, talking about the places I'd been to, and she wanted to know everything. Jim drew off a bit when the road got narrow. I felt what a fool I'd been to let things slide, and would have given my right hand to have been able to put them as they were three short years before. At last we got to the gap, it was the shortest halt from their home. George shook hands with Aileen and turned back. We'll come and see you next, he said. Christmas Eve, said Aileen. Christmas Eve, let it be, said George. All right, I said, holding Grace's hand for a bit. And so we parted. For how long do you think? End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of Robbery Under Arms This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Mike Harris Robbery Under Arms by Ralph Boulderwood Chapter 16 When we got home it was pretty late, and the air was beginning to cool after the hot day. The air was a low moon, and everything showed out clear, so that you could see the smallest branches of the trees on Dullamount, and where it stood like a dark cloud bank against the western sky. There wasn't the smallest breeze. The air was that still and quiet. You could have heard anything stir in the grass, or almost a possum digging his claws into the smooth bark of the white gum trees. The curlews set up a cry from time to time, but they didn't sound so queer and shrill as they mostly do at night. I don't know how it was, but everything seemed quiet and pleasant and home-like, as if a chap might live a hundred years if it was all like this, and keep growing better and happier every day. I remember all that so particular, because it was the only time I'd felt it like it for years, and I never had the same feeling afterwards nor likely to. Oh, what a happy day I've had, Eileen said, and all of a sudden. Jim and I and her had been writing a long spell without speaking. I don't know when I've enjoyed myself so much. I've got quite out of the way of being happy lately and hardly know the taste of it. How lovely it would be if you and Jim could always stay at home like this, and we could do our work happy and comfortable together without separating it. All this deadly fear of something terrible happening then. That's never out of my mind. Oh, Dick, won't you promise me to stop quiet and work steady at home if you and Jim haven't ever brought against you? She bent forward and looked into my face as she said this. I could see her eyes shine, and every word she said seemed to come straight from her heart. How sad and pitiful she looked. And we felt for a moment, just as we did when we were boys, and she used to come and persuade us to go on with our work and not grieve mother and run the risk of a licking from father when he came home. Her mare, Lohan, was close enough along side of my horse, stepping along at her fast tearing walk, throwing up her head and snorting every now and then. Eileen sat on her saddle better than some people can sit in a chair. She held the rain and whipped together and kept her hand on mine till I spoke. We'll do all we can, Eileen, dear for you and poor mother, won't we, Jim? I felt soft and downhearted then, if ever I did. But it's too late. Too late. You'll see us now and then. But we can't stop at home quiet and our work about here all the time as we used to. That day's gone. Jim knows it as well as me. There's no help for it now. We'll have to do like the rest, enjoy ourselves a bit while we can, and stand up to our fight when the trouble comes. She took her hand away and rode on with her rain loose in her head down. I could see the tears falling down her face, but after a bit she put herself to rights and we rode quietly up to the door. Mother was working away in her chair and father walking up and down before the door was smoking. When we were letting go of the horses, father comes up and says, I got a bit of news for you boys. Starlight's been took and the darkie with him. Where, I said, somehow I felt struck all of a heap by hearing this. I'd got out of the way of thinking they'd drop on him. As for Jim, he hurt it straight enough, but he went on whistling and patting the mare's neck, teasing her like, because she was so uneasy to get her headstall off and run after the others. Why, in New Zealand, to be sure, the blame fool stuck there all his time, just because he found himself comfortably situated among people as he liked. I wonder how he'll fancy Barema after it all. Sorry I was him well right. But how did you come to hear about it? We knew father couldn't read and write. I have a chap as his pay to read the papers regular, to put me on when there's anything in him as I want to know. He's been over here today and give me the office. Here's the paper he left. Father pulls out a crumpled up, dirty-looking bit of newspaper. It wasn't much to look at, but there was enough to keep us in reading and thinking, too, for a good while, as soon as we made it out. In pretty big letters, too. Important capture by Detective Stillbrook of the New South Wales Police. That was the top of the page, then came this. Our readers may remember the description given in this journal some months since of a cattle robbery on the largest scale, when upwards of a thousand head were stolen from one of Mr. Hood's stations, driven to Adelaide and then sold by a party of men whose names have not as yet transpired. It is satisfactory to find that the leader of the gang, who is well known to the police by the assumed name of Starlight, with a half-caste lad recognized as an accomplice, has been arrested by this active officer. It appears that, from information received, Detective Stillbrook went to New Zealand, and, after several months' patient search, took his passage in the boat which left that colony, in order to meet the male steamer outward bound for San Francisco. As the passengers were landing, he arrested a gentleman-like and well-dressed personage, who, with his servant, was about to proceed to Menzies Hotel. Considerable surprise was manifested by the other passengers, with whom the prisoner had become universally popular. He indignantly denied all knowledge of the charge, but we have reason to believe that there will be no difficulty as to identification. A large sum of money in gold and notes was found upon him. Other arrests are likely to follow. This looked bad. For a bit we didn't know what to think. While Jim and I was making it all out with the help of a bit of candle we smuggled out, we dursed take it inside. Father was smoking his pipe in the old-fashioned and saying nothing. When we'd done, he put up his pipe in his pouch and begins to talk. It's come just, as I said, and noted would, through starlight's cusset flashedness, carrying dawn in fine company. If he'd cleared out and made for the islands, as I warned him to do, and he settled to, or as good, before he left us that day at the camp, he'd been safe in some of the American places he was always gassing about, and all this wouldn't have happened. He couldn't help that, says Jim. He thought they'd never know him from any other swell in Canterbury or wherever he was. He's been took in like many another man. What I look at is this. He won't squeak. How are they to find out that we had any hand in it? That's what I'm doobersome about, says Father, lighting his pipe again. Nobody down there got much of a look at me, and I let my beard grow on the road, and shaved clean, since I got back, same as I always do. Now, the thing is, does anyone know that you boys was in the figment? Nobody's likely to know, but him and Warwick'll knock about, and those other three chaps won't come in on us for their own sakes. We may as well stop here till Christmas is over and then make down to the bar one, or somewhere thereabouts. We could take a long job at droving till the dairy's off a bit. If you'll be said by me, the old man growls out. You'll make tracks for the hollow of four daylight, and keep dark till we hear how the play goes. I know Starlight's as close as a spring lock, but that chap Warwick'll won't cotton to either of you, and he's likely to give you away if he's pinched himself. That's my notion of it. Starlight'll keep him from doing that, Jim, says, though. Boy'll do nothing his master won't agree to. He'd break his neck if he found him out in any dog's trick like that. Starlight and he ain't in the same cell. You take your oath. I don't trust no man except him. I'll be off now, and if you'll take a fool's advice, though he is your father, you'll go too. We can be there by daylight. Jim and I looked at each other. We promised to stay Christmas with Mother and Eileen, says he. And if all the devils in hell tried to stop us, I wouldn't break my word. But we'll come to the hollow unboxing-day, won't we, Dick? All right, it's only two or three days, the day after tomorrow's Christmas Eve. We'll chance that as it's gone so far. Take your own way, growled father. Fetch me my saddle. The old mare is close by the yard. Jim fetches the saddle and bridle it. Crip comes after him. Out of the veranda of where he'd been lying. Bless you, he knew something was up. Just like a Christian he was, and nothing ever happened that Dad was in, as he wasn't down to. May as well stop till morning, Dad, says Jim, as we walked up the yard. Not another minute, says the old man. And he whips the bridle out of Jim's hand and walks over to the old mare. She lifts up her head from the dry grass and stands as steady as a rock. Good-bye, he says, and he shook hands with both of us. If I don't see you again, I'll send you worried if I hear anything fresh. In another minute we hear the old mare's hoofs proceeding away among the rocks up the gullet, and gradually getting fainter in the distance. Then we went in. Mother and Eileen had been at bed an hour ago, and all the better for them. Next morning we told Mother and Eileen that Father had gone, they didn't say much. They were used to his ways. They never expected him till they saw him and got out of the fashion of asking why he did this or that. He had reasons of his own which he never told them, for going or coming, and they left off troubling their heads about it. Mother was always in dread while he was there, and they were far easier in their minds when he was away off the place. As for us, we made up our minds to enjoy ourselves while we could, and we come to this way of thinking that most likely nothing was known of our being in the cattle affair that Starlight and the boy had been arrested for. We knew nothing would drag it out of Starlight about his pals and this or any other job. Now they'd got him, it would content them for a bit, and maybe take off their attention from us and the others that were in it. There were two days to Christmas. Next day George and his sister would be over, and we all looked forward to that for a good reminder of old times. We were going to have a merry Christmas at home for once in a way. After that we'd clear out and get away to some of the far out stations where chaps like ourselves always made to when they wanted to keep dark. We might have the luck of other men that we had known of and never be traced till the whole thing had dried out and been half forgotten. Though we didn't say much to each other, we had pretty well made up our minds to go straight from this out. We might take up a bit of backcountry and put stock on it with some of the money we had left. Lots of men had begun that way that had things against them as bad as us and it kept steady and worked through in course of time. Why shouldn't we as well as others? We wanted to see what the paper said of us so we wrote over to a little post town we knew of and got a copy of the evening times. And there it all was in full. Cattle lifting extraordinary. We have heard from time to time of cattle being stolen in lots of reasonable size say from ten to a hundred or even as high as two hundred head at the outside. But we never expected to have to record the erecting of a substantial stockyard and the carrying off and disposing of a whole herd estimated at a thousand or eleven hundred head chiefly the property of one proprietor. Yet this has been done in New South Wales and done we regret to say cleverly and successfully. It has just transpired beyond all possibility of mistake that Mr. Hood's outer back Mombara run has suffered to that extent in the past winter. The stolen herd was driven to Adelaide and theirs sold openly. The money was received by the robbers who were permitted to de-camp at their leisure. When we mention the name of the notorious Starlight Noel will be surprised that the deed was planned, carried out, and executed with consummate address and completeness. It seems a matter of regret that we cannot persuade this illustrious depredator to take command of our police force. That body of life assures and property protectors which has proved so singularly ineffective as a preventive service in the present case. On the well-known proverbial principle we might hope for the best results under Mr. Starlight's intelligent supervision. We must not withhold our approval as to one item of success which the force has scored. Starlight himself and a half-caste henchman have been cleverly captured by Detective Stillbrook. Just as the former, who has been ruffling it among the aristocratic settlers of Price Church, was about to sail for Honolulu. The names of his other accomplices, six in number it has said, have not as yet transpired. This last part gave us confidence, but all the same, we kept everything ready for a bolt in case of need. We got up our horses every evening and kept them in the yard all night. The feed was good by the creek now, a little dried up with plenty of bite, and better for horses that had been ridden far and fast than if it was green. We had enough of last year's hay to give them a feed at night, and that was all they wanted. They were two pretty good ones, and not slow either. We took care of that when we bought them. Nobody ever saw us on bad ones since we were boys, and we had broken them in to stand and be caught day or night, and to let us jump on and off at a moment's notice. All that day being awful hot and close, we stayed in the house and yarned away with Mother and Eileen till they thought, poor souls, that we turned over a new leaf, and were going to stay at home and be good boys for the future. When a man sees how little it takes to make women happy, them that's good and never thinks of anything but doing their best for everybody belonging to them, it's wonderful how men ever make up their minds to go wrong, and bring all that loves them to shame and grief. When they've got nobody but themselves to think of, it doesn't so much matter as I know of, but to keep on breaking the hearts of those who has never did you anything but good, and wouldn't, if they lived for a hundred years, is cowardly and unmanly any way you look at it, and yet we've done very little else ourselves these years and years. We all sat up till nine on the midnight with our hands in one another's, Jim down at Mother's feet, Eileen and I close beside them on the old seat in the veranda that Father made such a time ago. At last Mother gets up and they both started for bed. Eileen seems as if she couldn't tear herself away. Twice she came back, then she kissed us both, and the tears came into her eyes. I feel too happy, she said. I never thought I should feel like this again. God bless you both and keep us all from harm. Amen, said Mother, from the next room. We turned out early and had a bathe in the creek before we went up to the yard to let out the horses. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. It was safe to be a roasting hot day, but it was cool then. The little waterhole where we learned to swim when we were boys was deep on one side and had a rocky ledge to jump off. The birds just began to give out a note or two. The sun was rising clear and bright, and we could see the dark top of Nullamountain getting a sort of rose color against the sky. George and Gracie will be over soon after breakfast, I said. We must have everything look in ship shape as well we can before they turn up. The horses may as well go down to the flat gym, says we can catch them easy enough in time to ride back part of the way with them. I'll run up low and give her a bit of hay in the calf-pan. We went over to the yard and Jim let down the rails and walked in. I stopped outside. Jim had his horse by the main and was patting his neck as mine came out. When three police troopers rose up from behind the bushes and covered us with their rifles calling out, Stand in the Queen's name. Jim made one spring onto his horse's back, drove his heels into his flank, and was out through the gate and halfway down the hill before you could wink. Just as Jim cleared the gate, a tall man rose up close behind me and took a cool pot at him with a revolver. I saw Jim's hat fly off and another bullet grazed his horse's hip. I saw the hair fly and the horse made a plunge that would have unseated most men with no saddle between their legs. But Jim sat close and steady and only threw up his arm and gave a shout as the old horse tore down the hill a few miles an hour faster. Damn, these cartridges, said the tall trooper. They always put too much powder in for close shooting. Now, Dick Marston, he went on, putting his revolver to my head. I'd rather not blow your brains up before your people, but if you don't put up your hands, I'll shoot you where you stand. I'd been staring after Jim all the time. I believe I had never thought of myself till he was safe away. Get your horses, you damn fools! He shouted out to the men, and see if he can follow up that madman. He's most likely knocked off against a tree by this time. Well, there was nothing else for it but to do it and be handcuffed. As the steel locks snapped, I saw a mother standing below, wringing her hands, and Eileen trying to get her into the house. Better come down and get your coat on, Dick, said the senior constable. We want to search the place too. By a jove we shall get pepper from Sir Ferdinand when we go in. I thought we had you both as safe as chickens in a coop. Who would have thought of Jim giving us the slip on a bareback horse without so much as a halter? I'm devilish sorry for your family, but if nothing less than a thousand-headed cattle will satisfy people, they must expect trouble to come of it. What are you talking about, I said? You've got the wrong story and the wrong men. All right, we'll see about that. I don't know whether you want any breakfast, but I should like a cup of tea. It's deuce at slow work watching all night, though it isn't cold. We've got to be in bargo barracks tonight, so there's no time to lose. Well, it was all over now, the worst had come. What fools we had been not to take the old man's advice and clear out when he did. He was safe in the hollow and would chuckle to himself and be sorry too when he heard of my being taken. And perhaps Jim. The odds were he might be smashed against a tree, perhaps killed at the pace he was going on a horse he could not guide. They searched the house, but the money they didn't get. Jim and I had taken care of that in case of accidents. Mother's then rocking herself backwards and forwards every now and then crying out in a pitiful way like the women in her country do, I've heard tell. When some one of their people is dead, keening, I think they call it. Well, Jim and I were as good as dead. If the troopers had shot the pair of us there and then, same as Bushman told us, the black police did their prisoners when they gave them any trouble. It would have been better for everybody. However, people don't die all at once when they go to the bad, and take to stealing or drinking or any of the devil's favorite traps. Pretty they don't, and have done with it once and for all. I know I thought so when I was forced to stand there with my hands chained together for the first time in my life. Though I'd worked for it, I know that. And to see Eileen walking about laying the cloth for breakfast like a dead woman and know what was in her mind. The troopers were civil enough and goring the senior constable tried to comfort them as much as he could. He knew it was no fault of theirs. And though he said he meant to give Jim if mortal men and horses could do it, he thought he had a fair chance of getting away. He's sure to be caught in the long run, though he went on to say. There's a warrant out for him and a description in every police cassette in the colonies. My advice to him would be to come back and give himself up. It's not a hanging matter. And as it's the first time you've been fitted, Dick, the judge, as like as not, will let you off with a light sentence. So they talked away until they'd finished their breakfast. I couldn't touch a mouthful for the life of men. Soon as it was all over they ran up my horse and put the saddle on. But I wasn't to ride him, no fear. Goring put me on an old screw of a troop horse, with one leg like a gatepost. I was helped up and my legs tied under his belly. Then one of the men took the bridal and led me away. Goring rode in front, and the other men behind. As we rose the hill above the place I looked back and saw Mother drop down on the ground in a kind of fit, while Eileen bent over her and seemed to be loosening her dress. Just at that moment George Storfield and his sister rode up to the door. George jumped off and rushed over to Eileen and Mother. I knew Gracie had seen me, for she sat on her horse as if she had been turned to stone, and let her reins drop on his neck. Strange things have happened to me since, but I shall never forget that to the last day of my miserable life.