Mates at Billabong Part 24

"Indeed you won't," her brother responded. "Why, it'll be dark before long--let alone the state of the weather. You don't mind, Cecil, do you?"

Thus directly questioned, Cecil could do nothing but express his entire willingness.

"That's all right, then," Jim said. "Hurry on down to the hotel and get the saddles on, there's a good chap. Goodness knows whether you'll find any one there, but I fancy that pretty well the whole township is up at the match. You'll only escape that storm if you're lucky--don't lose a minute." He made his farewells to Mrs. Anderson, and turned to Norah again. "Better look after your own girth," he told her--"run after Cecil and lend him a hand if he wants it."

Cecil had already started; his slim, correctly attired figure was hastening along the dusty lane. He hated rain, and the hint of the coming storm had made him hurry when no other consideration would have done so. There was no one visible about the hotel yard, as he entered, and he called in vain; then, seeing no help for it, he entered the stables, where the Billabong horses occupied the stalls at one end.

Bobs whinnied sharply as the door opened, and Cecil looked at the inquiring head; and then, sourly, towards Brown Betty, standing peacefully, half asleep, in her stall.

"Wonder if she'd mind?" Cecil muttered, pondering. "Let her, anyhow!"

With which cryptic remarks he moved towards the saddles.

Norah arrived on the scene a few minutes later, coming straight to the stables. For a moment she could not see Cecil, then, peering into Betty's stall, she made him out, busily girthing up. Bobs was already saddled, and Norah went up to him.

"Why, you have been quick, Cecil," she said, cheerfully. "I thought I was going to help you, but there doesn't seem anything for me to do.

Thanks very much for saddling Bobs." She led the pony out, and then stopped. "Oh, what a pity," she said. "You've got the wrong saddles on, Cecil."

Cecil came out, leading the brown mare, and a little flushed.

"I did it on--ah--purpose," he said. "You don't mind, I suppose if I ride Bobs home?"

Norah looked at him a moment, and then flushed in her turn. To let her cousin ride Bobs seventeen miles was unthinkable. She had the profoundest regard for her pony's back; and she knew that even Brown Betty's seasoned hide was giving way under the unskilled horsemanship of the city boy. It was very doubtful, moreover, that it would be safe to mount him on Bobs, who was already excited with the coming storm and the prospect of home. She knew every turn, and thought of the high-spirited pony--he went quietly for her, but with a new-chum it might be a different matter.

Moreover, Norah was distinctly annoyed. She was a sweet-tempered maiden, but she did not like being treated lightly; and in a.s.suming that he might coolly appropriate her special property, it seemed to her that Cecil was treating her very lightly indeed. She had a moment's swift wish that Jim were there to take her part. It was not quite easy to oppose any one nearly grown up like Cecil--who in addition was a guest, and had a special claim on courtesy. She flushed deeply as she answered him in a low voice.

"I can't let you ride Bobs, I'm afraid, Cecil."

"Oh, can't you?" said Cecil, staring. "Why not?"

"Well, no one rides him but me," said Norah unhappily. "And he's a queer pony, Cecil. I'm not a bit sure that he'd go nicely with you. You see, I understand him."

"You evidently think no one can ride but yourself," Cecil said disagreeably. "I really think I can manage the famous Bobs."

"If you knew him it might be all right," Norah answered. "But I'd really rather not, Cecil. He's eager and impatient, and quite unaccustomed to strangers. Dad would be awfully annoyed if you had any trouble with him."

"I don't fancy Uncle David would be given any need for annoyance,"

Cecil replied. "I'm a bit sick of this old mare, and I don't think it would hurt you to lend me Bobs. It's uncommonly selfish of you to want to keep him always."

Norah's flush deepened.

"I'm awfully sorry you think that," she said. "And I'll speak to Dad about your riding him, if you like--another time."

"Another time? Then what's the matter with my riding him now? I suppose," said Cecil with a sneer, "you want to show off in Cunjee."

Norah stared at him blankly for a moment. Rudeness had been always so far from her that she did not for a moment comprehend that this boy was being deliberately rude. Then she walked round Bobs without replying, and unbuckled the girth.

"Please let me have my saddle," she said. Her voice was quite final.

Cecil was pale with anger. He flung round without a word, tugging at the buckle until Betty, who was patient but girth-galled, pulled away in protest. As it yielded Norah laid his saddle on the mare's withers, and slipped her own away. Their eyes met for a moment as she did so--the child's steady and a little scornful, the young man's shifty. Then Norah lifted her saddle across to Bobs, and girthed him up in silence.

The pony was restless and excited, and objected to the second saddling out in the s.p.a.ce of the yard, when he was keen to get away. It seemed unreasonable to Bobs, and he ran round and generally behaved in a frivolous manner, while Norah struggled with the girth. When it was done, she took her head, somewhat dishevelled, from under the saddle flap. She laughed a little.

Cecil, every line of his back showing offended dignity, was riding out of the yard. As he came to the gate he dug his heel into Betty, who broke into a canter at once. Norah's escort disappeared round a turn in the street without looking back.

"Well, if he isn't a donkey!" was her comment. "He's awfully unpleasant--I wish he wouldn't make things so uncomfortable." She mounted Bobs, and subdued that excitable steed's impatience while she settled her habit. "Jim will be so angry if he finds out. I must get away before he comes."

She rode into the street. Some distance away a crowd was moving slowly in her direction. Cheers and s.n.a.t.c.hes of triumphant choruses were wafted to her. In the midst she could see some figures in white flannels. Norah rounded the corner of the street, seeing ahead of her a fast-receding speck--Brown Betty and her rider. It was evident that she was not to have the benefit of Cecil's presence on the ride home; and Norah could not help laughing again, although she was annoyed at the whole occurrence. For all his airs, he was such a baby, this cousin of hers.

"I'll tell Dad all about it," she reflected. "The he can say whether he thinks Cecil can ride Bobs. Only I won't tell him he cleared out and left me, 'cause there would be a row straight away." Thus pondering in the Australian manner, she took the road home.

Jim's storm was coming up slowly, and though the sun had not yet set, already it was growing dusk; and still it was very hot. She let Bobs canter slowly, not wishing to appear to be hurrying after Cecil. Norah never bore malice, but she had her pride! Often she glanced back over her shoulder, hoping to see the boys. She knew they would not let the gra.s.s grow under their horses' hoofs, once they were able to take the road home. But the track lay bare behind her, and ahead Cecil had quite disappeared. By the time she was five miles out of Cunjee she seemed the only person in the whole landscape, and the only sound that met her ear was the steady beat of the cantering hoofs, mingled with the creak of the saddle leather.

The metalled road ended, and she struck into the bush track. It was very lonely now; trees overhung the path, and the eerie light of the coming storm threw strange shadows, at which Bobs shied constantly.

Once or twice there was a distant roll of thunder. There was just light enough left to see the way. The road wound in and out among the trees.

By day it was Norah's favourite part of the journey; but now she could not help wishing that it were possible to look further ahead, or to watch the road over which she had pa.s.sed, to catch the first glimpse of Jim and Wally. There was a pleasant security in feeling that they were coming. Norah was not a nervous girl; but she had rarely been allowed to ride any but short distances alone. If Dad and Jim were not available, it was an understood thing that Billy must act as her escort. Certainly she had never been in the dark alone, and so far from home. She was not afraid--she would have laughed at the very notion.

Still, it was a little queer. She knew she would be glad when she was out of the timber.

There came a bend in the track, and Bobs swung round it sharply. Then a dark figure loomed up suddenly in the gloom, and the pony shied violently, and propped. Norah struck her heel into him, her heart giving a great bound. He struggled and plunged. A hand was on his bridle, and a rough voice threatened him savagely. In the gloom Norah could just make out a brutal-looking man, young, but with something in his face that made her shudder. Her heart stood still for a moment, after that first wild leap. Then she realized that he was asking her for money, and she commanded her voice to answer.

"I haven't any."

It was true. When she rode with her father or brother it never occurred to Norah to carry money, and she wore nothing of value at all to tempt any thief. Her hunting-crop was silver mounted; she remembered it suddenly, glad that it was dark and that the man would not be likely to notice the gift that had been Jim's.

"I don't believe y'," he said.

"Well, you can, then," Norah answered. She was beginning to recover herself, a little ashamed of that first moment of unreasoning terror.

If she had no money he would surely let her go. She scarcely knew the meaning of fear--how should she, in the free, simple life that had always been guarded, yet had left her only a little child in mind? "I haven't so much as a penny," she went on. "Let go my bridle."

"What are y' doin' here alone?" The slow voice was crafty; something in it brought back that stupid first fear. She pulled herself together.

"My people are coming--you'd better let go. If my brother gets hold of you--"

"Oh, your brother's comin', is he?"

"Yes; let go my bridle."

"Shut up about your bridle!" said the man, and Norah shrank back as if she had been stung. He began to lead Bobs off the track.

"What are you doing?" she asked angrily. She kicked Bobs again, and the pony tried to rear, caught between the sudden blow and that compelling hand on his rein. The man pulled him down savagely, jerking at his bit and flinging threats at him and at Norah.

"Y' might as well stop playin' the fool," he told her. "I want that pony, an' I'm goin' to have it."

TO HAVE BOBS! She tried to speak, but the words died before she could utter them. Bobs! In her bewildered terror she scarcely realized for a moment what he meant; then she raised her whip and cut with all her strength at the hand that held the rein. He gave a sharp yell of pain as the stinging whalebone caught him, but he did not relinquish his grasp, and Norah struck at him again and again, half blindly in the darkness, but always with the strength of desperation. It could not last long--the struggle was too pitifully unequal. It was only a minute before he had wrested the whip from her and held her wrists in one vice-like hand. His voice was thick with rage.

"I'll teach y'," he said, "y' little spitfire! Get off that pony."

He began to drag her off. She clung to the saddle wildly, knowing how hopeless it was, but somehow feeling that she must not leave that one poor haven of safety. Then she felt herself going, and in that sickening moment screamed for help--a child's piteous cry:

"Jim! Jim! Jim!"