Mates at Billabong Part 31

"Yes, I guess we'd better," Jim said. "I'll come in and say good-night to you, Norah." A look pa.s.sed between them; the boy knew his father never failed to pay a good-night visit to Norah's room. She smiled at him gratefully.

It was very lonely and quiet up there, undressing, with her heart like lead within her. She hurried over her preparations, so that she might not keep Jim waiting when he came; she knew he needed sleep--"a big boy outgrowing his strength like that," thought Norah, with the quaint little touch of motherliness that she always felt towards Jim. Once she caught sight of something on the end of the couch; the white rug that had been Jim's Christmas present, with the scarlet B standing out sharply in the corner--the rug Bobs would never use. Shivering a little, she put it away in her wardrobe. Just now she could only think of that most dear one--perhaps lying out there in the cold shadows of the bush night. She crept into bed.

Jim came in in his shirt sleeves.

"Comfy, little chap?"

"Yes, thanks, old man. Jim--shall I ride Sirdar tomorrow?"

"You needn't have asked," the boy said--"he's yours. And, Norah--I know Dad wouldn't mind. I'd like you to have Garryowen. He's a bit big, but he'll suit you quite well. I know he won't make up, but you'd get fond of him in time, dear."

"Jim!" she said--knowing all that the carelessly spoken words meant--"Jimmy, boy." And then Jim was frightened, for Norah, who had not cried at all, broke into a pa.s.sion of crying. He held her tightly, stroking her, not knowing what to say; murmuring broken, awkward words of affection, while she sobbed against him. After a while she grew quiet, and was desperately ashamed.

"I didn't mean to make an a.s.s of myself," she said, contritely. "I'm awfully sorry, and you were such a brick to me, Jimmy. I won't ever forget it; only I couldn't take your horse. I love you for it. But Sirdar will do for me quite well." And no arguments could shake her from that decision.

Jim put the light out after some time. Then he came back and sat down on the bed.

"I wanted to tell you, dear little chap," he said, gently. "I sent Mick out with Boone to-day, and--and they buried him under that big tree where he fell, and heaped up stones so that nothing could get at him."

He stopped, his voice uncertain as Norah's hand tightened in his.

"Mick said there couldn't have been any hope for him, kiddie," he went on, presently. "His back was broken; no one could have done anything."

He would not tell her of other things Mick had seen--the spur wounds from hip to shoulder and the marks of the stick that Cecil had thrown down beside the pony he had ridden to his death. "They carved his name on the tree in great big letters. Some time--whenever you feel you can--I'll take you out there. At least"--his hand gripped hers almost painfully--"Dad and I will take you."

Norah put her face against him, not speaking. They stayed so, her breath coming and going unevenly, while Jim stroked her shoulder.

Presently he slipped to his knees by the bed, one arm across her, not moving until her head nestled closer, and he knew she was asleep. Then the big, tired fellow put his own head down and went to sleep as he knelt, waking, stiff and sore, in the grey half light that just precedes the dawn. He crept away noiselessly, going out on the balcony for a breath of the chill air.

Below him, against the stockyard fence, a black shadow stood and whinnied faintly. Jim's heart came into his throat, and he swung himself over the edge of the balcony, using his old "fire escape" to slide to the gravel below. He ran wildly across to the yard.

A moment later the big bell of the station clanged out furiously.

Norah, fastening her habit with swift fingers, ran to open the door in answer to Jim's voice.

"Hurry all you know, little chap," he said. "I'm off in a few minutes--breakfast's ready. Wally's going into Cunjee with a telegram to Melbourne for the black trackers, as hard as he can ride."

"Jim--there's something you know!"

He hesitated.

"I'd better tell you," he said. "Monarch's come home alone, Norah!"

CHAPTER XIX

THE LONG QUEST

The creek went down with a broken song, 'Neath the she oaks high; The waters carried the song along, And the oaks a sigh.

HENRY LAWSON.

The big black thoroughbred still stood by the rails as they rode away.

He had got rid of the saddle, and the broken bridle trailed from his head. No one had time to see to him.

Billabong was humming with activity. Men were running down to the yards, bridle in hand; others leading their horses up to be saddled; while those who were ready had raced over to the quarters for a s.n.a.t.c.hed breakfast. Sirdar and the boys' horses had been stabled all night, so that they were quickly saddled. Jim was riding Nan; Wally, on Garryowen, was already a speck in the distance.

"You'll be quicker if you take him," Jim had said. Then he and Norah had cantered away together.

"Monarch wasn't hurt, Jim?"

"He'd been down, I think," Jim said; "His knees look like it. But he's all right--why, he must have jumped three fences?"

After that for a long time they did not speak. Grim fear was knocking at both their hearts, for with the return of the black horse without his rider, their worst dread was practically confirmed. It was fairly certain that Mr. Linton was helpless, somewhere in the bush, and that meant that he had been so for nearly two days, since it was almost that time since he had ridden away from Killybeg.

Two days! They had been days of steady, relentless heat, untempered by any breeze--when the cattle had sought the shade of the gum trees, and the dogs about the homestead had crept close in under the tree lucernes, with open mouths and tongues lolling. The men working on the run had left their tasks often to go down to the creek or the river for a drink; in the house, closely shuttered windows and lowered blinds on the verandahs had only served to make the heat bearable. And he had been out in it, somewhere, helpless, and perhaps in pain; with nothing to ease for him the hot hours or to save him from the chill of a Victorian night, which, even in midsummer, may be sharply cold before the dawn. The thought gnawed at his children's hearts.

They pa.s.sed through the billabong boundary and out into the rough country beyond, sharply undulating until it rose into the ranges David Linton had crossed on his way to and from Killybeg. They had been fairly certain that he had come through them safely on his way home, and the thought had been a comfort--for to seek a man in those hills was a hopeless task. But suddenly a sick fear came over Norah.

"Jim," she said, "we don't know where Monarch got rid of Dad, of course?"

"No; but I expect it was near where they picked up his tracks."

"You don't think it might have been in the ranges?"

Jim looked suddenly aghast; but his face cleared.

"No," he said, decidedly; "I don't. That place where Monarch had been playing up shows Dad must have been on him--a horse alone doesn't go to market as he seems to have done there. I guess you can put that notion out of your head, mate." He smiled at Norah, who answered him with a grateful look.

Five miles from the boundary they came upon the tracks--to see them gave Norah a queer sense of comfort, since in a way they brought her in touch with Dad. Then they separated, beating into the scrub that hemmed them round everywhere, except when low, stony hills rose naked out of the green undergrowth.

"We must shout to each other every few minutes to make sure we're not getting too far apart," Jim said. "Of course, it's not so risky when you're riding--if you gave old Sirdar his head anywhere I know he'd take you home. Still, you don't gain anything by going far apart. A systematic search is what's necessary in a place like this, where you might ride half a dozen yards from him and not see him. Keep Tait with you, Norah."

"All right," Norah nodded. "What about coo-eeing, Jim? He might hear a shout and answer it, even if he couldn't see us."

"Yes, but you can't keep coo-eeing all the time," said Jim, practically. "I'll tell you what--sing or whistle. You can do that easily, and it doesn't tire you. And of course, if you find him, fire the revolver--you're sure you've got it carefully?"

"Yes, it's all right," Norah replied, showing the revolver in its neat leather case. Jim and her father had taught her its use long ago, and she understood it quite well. Mr. Linton held the view that all women in the bush should know how to handle fire arms, since the bush is a place where no one ever knows exactly what may turn up, from burglars to tiger snakes. "Fire three times in the air, isn't it, Jim?"

"Yes, that's right. Go on then, kiddie, and do take care!" Jim's voice was strained with anxiety and wretchedness. While Norah was full of hope, and, indeed, could scarcely realize that they might not find Dad soon, the boy had the memory of the fruitless search all the previous day to dispirit him. As he looked at the forbidding wall of green scrub, his feeling was almost one of despair.

It did not take long for Norah to realize the difficulty of their task.

She beat up and down among the trees, striving to keep an eye in every direction, since any one of the big stumps, any clump of brushwood, any old log or little knoll or gra.s.sy hollow might hide the one she sought--unable, perhaps, to see her or call to her even should she pa.s.s in his sight. She remembered Jim's advice, and began to sing; but the words died in her throat, and ended in something more like a sob.

Whistling was more possible, and mechanically she took up a tune that Wally used to sing, and whistled it up and down the scrub as she went.

Soon she did not know that she was doing so; but years after she used to shudder within herself if she heard that foolish little tune.

The men came out a little later, and soon the scrub was alive with voices and the noise of the searching. It was weary work, with many a flutter at the heart when a sudden call would bring Norah to attention, rigid and listening--forgetting for the moment that only the three signals agreed upon were to give evidence of success. Hour after hour went by.

They had settled a certain signal to meet for lunch, and when it finally summoned them the searchers struggled out of the bush one by one. Jim's heart smote him as he saw Norah's white face, and he begged her to cease; to stay resting during the hot afternoon, even if she would not go home. Norah shook her head dully. She could not do it; and Jim, knowing how he would have felt were he in her place, did not press her, although he was miserably anxious. They sat down together on an old log, finding a shred of comfort in each other's nearness.