The Sweep Winner Part 1

The Sweep Winner.

by Nat Gould.

CHAPTER I

THE GLITTERING WIRE

A man on horseback shaded his eyes with his hands as he looked along the glittering line of wire which runs for hundreds of miles between New South Wales and Queensland, and forms the great rabbit-proof fence, of which he was one of the keepers.

The blazing sunlight scorched all things living. Not a blade of gra.s.s was to be seen. The baked ground gasped with thirst. The slight breeze was like the breath from a huge furnace.

The wire was hot and dazzling. Millions of glimmering specks and hundreds of thousands of electric sparks danced on it in revelry. Merely to look at the shimmering wire blinded the eyes. The horse turned his head away. He was dried, shrivelled, mere skin and bone. Yet he was strong, enduring, capable of going long journeys; an heroic beast, fighting a terrific battle against tremendous odds; a faithful companion, a true friend--always reliable. There was a mute appeal in his puzzled pathetic eyes, which questioned why such things were; why he should be rewarded for his efforts with a parched throat, an empty stomach, and a hot skin.

The man dismounted, carelessly placing his hand on the wire, then s.n.a.t.c.hing it back quickly, with a sharp oath.

"Everything burns in this cursed country," he muttered.

The horse rubbed his nose against the man's arm.

"Ping, old fellow, it's hotter than h.e.l.l. Thirsty? of course; so am I.

We'll have to thirst until we reach the next hole."

The man was strong, well-built, six feet high; even the hard life had not sapped his strength. His dark hair, moustache, and beard, gave him a sombre appearance. His eyes shone fiercely under bushy brows. His face, hands and arms were tanned a deep brown, as also was his chest, where the shirt opened from the throat. He was no common man. His speech was not that of the keepers of the fence, or the bulk of them, for there were many and strange beings on these hundreds of miles of wire line.

The majority were old boundary riders, stockmen, tank sinkers, fencers, teamsters. In another cla.s.s were criminals, convicts and men whose hands were against their fellows; who were dangerous sometimes, when they scented betrayal, or suspected they were being tracked. The man looking at the mirage in the distance belonged to none of these cla.s.ses; he stood out alone. They knew it, and gave him a show of respect, when they met him, which was seldom.

There must have been some weighty reason for him to bury himself in this solitude, and to accept an occupation from which any educated man must shrink. He wanted to be alone. He could not have come to a better place. Boonara, the nearest bush town, was fifty miles away from where he stood, and a dozen less from his hut.

He descended upon Boonara at night, and waited for it to wake up. When it did, surprise was visible on every face as one by one the inhabitants looked forth from their habitation. The surprise was genuine. It was long since a man of this stamp had entered Boonara. He was amused at the people, and wondered if there was one respectably clean inhabitant. Then he remembered the scarcity of water and pardoned the dirt. He was not clean himself, but he felt wholesome. His body had been cared for as much as possible during the week's tramp.

He soon became acquainted with the Boonarites. They gathered round him, and questions were levelled at him. It was quick firing to which he responded with solitary shots. At the end of the first day the people of Boonara were not a jot wiser about him. One fact was patent, he had money. It was difficult to discover how much, but he "shouted" at Bill Big's "shanty," and paid his footing, and was so far granted the freedom of Boonara.

The township of Boonara consisted of one main street, with irregular, irresponsible-looking houses dotted about, built anyhow. They had been put up at various times by many different sorts of men. Building operations commenced at one end and continued at intervals until a sort of street was formed. The first inhabitant had been a "keeper of the fence," and he camped there because it was convenient to his work.

Gradually, in oddments, other men came to the place. It was a bachelor township until some enterprising man, bolder than the rest, and more saving, ventured to Sydney and returned with a wife. She was the only woman in the township for a long time, and was regarded with a certain amount of awe and wonder. The consensus of opinion was that she must have had a terribly bad time in Sydney, or nothing would have induced her to marry Jack and come to Boonara. The example set proved catching, and other members of the bachelor community took unto themselves partners. The township grew slowly, unlike the centres of big mining districts which spring up mushroom-like in a night and often die away as quickly.

Boonara gathered in many of the keepers of the fence, who had tired of the life and settled there on a mere pittance. It was not a prosperous community; there was little conversation, and a lot of grumbling. Each man regarded his neighbour with suspicion, not knowing who he was, except by name, nor whence he came. All around Boonara was an arid waste, except at certain seasons, few and far between, when rain came sweeping in a deluge over the parched earth, filling up the gaping cracks and crevices, hissing and swishing over the land, bringing life, in every drop a new birth. Then the plains woke up. Miles upon miles of dull-brown crumbling gra.s.sless s.p.a.ces became green and refreshing.

Strange sights followed these deluges. In a mysterious manner sheep appeared in thousands wandering across the plains, nibbling this wonderful and succulent food from which they had been so long debarred.

Cattle came, mobs of horses, all branded, belonging to squatters miles away. n.o.body seemed to own the land round Boonara. At least no member of the township had ever heard the name of an owner mentioned. They ran what cattle, horses and sheep they possessed anywhere on it. There were no enclosures, no square-mile paddocks. The only fence was the glittering wire running along the border.

There were very few men in the township who had seen the wire fence. But they met the keepers of it at long intervals when they paid visits to Bill's shanty.

In all communities, however small, there is a fierce desire to look down upon someone, to imagine a superiority. It is a trait which is laughable, and sometimes pathetic. Although the Boonarites were far from civilisation they had their pride, and regarded the keepers of the fence as beings of an inferior order. As the keepers had no respect for the inhabitants, everybody seemed satisfied with the state of affairs.

There was one keeper of the fence whom the Boonarites placed upon an equality with themselves, and that was the man who came upon them in the night.

They were amazed when he went on the glittering wire track. He was far too good for that job; "he wouldn't stick it long" they declared. He did "stick it," however, to their great surprise. The man was a mystery to them, which is not to be wondered at, considering he was mostly a puzzle to himself. His hut was forty miles away, and only three people had visited him there. He did not encourage them. Loneliness sat lightly upon him, so it seemed. Bill Bigs was the most frequent visitor, and when he rode there, or drove in his buggy, it was seldom empty-handed.

Somewhere, hidden in the bowels of the earth beneath Bill's shanty, there was mysteriously reported to be spirituous h.o.a.rds of excellent quality; these rarely saw the light of day in Boonara. Various decoctions were served out over the bar, and there was a strange resemblance in the flavour, no matter from which bottle they were taken. A "nip" from one of Bill's underground bottles was like nectar from the G.o.ds.

The man on the fence was never served with inferior stuff, and when Bill visited him he took with him of his best.

Bill Bigs was rough and ready. Rumour credited him with having been in league with bushrangers, before those undesirable and romantic figures disappeared from the earth. Probably this was true, but Ben was no longer an illegitimate preyer upon mankind. He was licensed to "rob" by doctoring his goods. He prided himself on knowing a man when he saw one, and he put down the occupier of the hut in this category. He, however, knew nothing about his friend, except that he was worth a dozen ordinary fence keepers. The man never spoke of his past, or explained why he was in the most solitary place in this vast land. In vain Bill tried to induce him to talk. There was a threatening glitter in his eyes which caused Bill to halt and get on to another track. It was this man, the keeper of the fence, who stood under the blazing sun pitying his horse more than himself. He was waiting for another keeper at the point where they had met, and had a few words and parted. He shaded his eyes again, but saw no one coming.

"I'll wait, I'm always waiting. It hasn't worn me out; it never will.

There's a fire within that keeps me alive; it burns, but never dies down. There's enough fuel in my thoughts to keep it glowing until my light goes out."

CHAPTER II

IN THE HUT

Glen Leigh was his name. At least he was down as such on the books, but names were not of much account on his job; they might as well have been numbers seeing they were mere indications of ident.i.ty. He waited until he was tired, although he had much patience. His throat was parched; his skin burned; there was no shade. On his head, straight down, poured the fierce sun. To look at it was blinding. It seared the eyes; sparks danced when they turned to the earth again. He had no watch. In his hut there was one, but he seldom wound it. He told the time by nature's signs, and was never far out in his calculations.

"I've waited an hour. d.a.m.n the fellow. Why doesn't he come? He expects me to do his work and my own too." He shrugged his shoulders. Jim Benny was a mere lad compared with him.

"Poor young devil. What's he done that he should come to this? The sins of the father, and so on."

A shadow flitted across the ground. He started. This was not a land of shadows, except when rain clouds swept away the dazzling blue. He looked around, then above. There was a small black cloud floating in the brilliant sky; it looked like a balloon.

"Rain!" he exclaimed. "By all that's holy, rain."

There was a power of feeling in the word.

"Rain."

In lands where skies are dull, where moisture hangs in the air, where a downpour spoils pleasure and provokes temper, the word rain has a very different meaning. To Glen Leigh rain meant almost everything. There had been none for over nine months, not a drop, and that small balloon-like cloud that cast its shadows and startled him, was more welcome than a shower of gold.

"It's curious," he muttered, "I've never seen it exactly like this. But it must mean rain. G.o.d send it. We want it, we dried up sapless things.

Rain, Ping. Do you hear, old parchment, rain. And your coat'll be dripping wet. There'll be gra.s.s, and you'll feel juice in your mouth instead of dried leaves and twigs. Rain, Ping, rain!"

He gave the horse a sound smack, jerked up his head, and pointed to the cloud rolling above.

A slight breeze came. Ping sniffed, inhaling it with delight, while an anxious look of antic.i.p.ation came into his eyes.

Glen watched the cloud as though his life depended on it, as thousands of lives did. It was a peculiar phenomenon, a black patch steering through a sea of blue. In its wake it left a trail, dull, streaking out, and beyond the trail were more heavy clouds on the rain path. This leader was the herald of the storm.

There was no moan, there was nothing to cause it, but presently the wire fence seemed to buzz, and the rising wind came through it playing on the strings a sort of sad harmony, but sweet music in the ears of the man and horse.

A low rumbling sound proclaimed the advance of the clouds, and they rolled along in battalions blotting out the sunlight; the relief to the eyes was immense. He waited, but Jim Benny did not come. He almost forgot about him in his anxiety over the approaching rain.

A crack straight above his head, which echoed over the plain, was followed by a burst of water which deluged him and Ping in a few minutes. Both gasped with relief. They opened their mouths, and the refreshing water cooled them; they had not had such a soaking for months. The land responded to the rain. He fancied he saw the blades of gra.s.s already shooting; he knew they would be there in a matter of twenty-four hours. He mounted Ping and rode to his hut. It was no use waiting any longer for Jim Benny; he would see him next day. Still he wondered what had come to him, and felt a bit uneasy. He liked Jim, although he seldom spoke more than a few words to him. Perhaps it was the mystery surrounding him which appealed to him; he was a mysterious man himself.

The rain poured down as he rode along. Ping's ambling pace soon covered the ground, and he reached his hut in a shorter time than usual.

The door was wide open. Someone had been there in his absence. He smiled; the intruder would not have had a very rich find. A few of his provisions might be gone; the poor devil was welcome to that.