Dugdale nodded and selected one from the box pushed across the writing table. Thornton leaned back in his chair and regarded the young man pensively.
“You and I have always got on well,” he said slowly. “I like a man who sticks to his work, not only sticks to it but studies it. When I came to Barrakee first I paid cash for the lease, and that expenditure left me tight of money. For the first twelve months I spent only fifteen nights here; the other days and nights I was out on the run. I spared neither myself nor my wife then, but now we don’t regret it. How much money have you got?”
“About four hundred pounds,” was Dugdale’s unhesitating reply.
“Go careful; you’ll want every penny of it. Make the hut on your land serve you for at least a year. Never spend a penny ’less you are forced to, yet pay cash for everything. The deferred-payment system is our greatest curse. Today is August 1st. I have told Watts to have two thousand six-tooth ewes yarded at Thurlow Lake on the 7th. He’ll lend you a man to get ’emto your place, and as you have plenty of feed and water you should do well. I’ll let you have rams next month, or October, and here is an order to Mortimore to start you off with three months’ supply of rations. However, before you go to him, run in and see Mrs Thornton. She wishes to speak to you.
“I think that’s about all, Dug, excepting that I am always here if you get into any difficulty or want assistance. And, Dug, if you get tired ofsquattering, your job is always open to you.”
The station owner rose to his feet, smiling.
“But the sheep, Mr Thornton!”Dugdale expostulated. “When will you require payment? I can’t possibly pay cash for them.”
“When you take delivery of them Watts will ask you to sign a document. I am selling them to you at fifteen shillings a head. My opinion of you is good, and I am going to back my opinion by leaving you to pay when you like within the next ten years.”
They stood facing each other across the table. The young man’s face was flushed, and his eyes were suspiciously moist:
“Thank you, sir,” he said softly, holding out his hand.
He found Mrs Thornton in the garden.
“You asked for me?” he said, smiling.
“Yes, Dug. I wanted to invite you to lunch with us before you leave.” She stood, frail and pale, yet indomitable in spirit. Only a little woman, yet holding a personality of surprising power.
“That is very kind of you,” he said.
“It is not often, fortunately, that my husband and I lose people we like,” she went on gently. “I am sorry you are going, yet glad you have the opportunity of doing well for yourself. We shall miss you, and I think Ralph will miss your steadying influence. Is it right that you will be living alone in an ordinary hut?”
“Why, yes, Mrs Thornton, till I can afford to build a larger house.”
She sighed. Then:
“You will find it lonely, Dug, and you will miss your home comforts. I suppose you have no curtains to hang before the window?”
“No. I never thought of curtains,” he admitted.
“I expected that,” she said. “So I sent Kate in to make you up a parcel of things-curtains, a table cover, a small carpet, a fire fender, and what not. And then there is a small box of preserves and jams and pickles Kate and I made. They will, I think, be so much better for you than the tinned stuff. And, Dug, never forget us, will you? We would like to have you think that this is your home, and we your people.”
He found himself unable to speak.
“We all have our worries and our battles,” she went on softly. “And the older we get the more we enjoy battering down our worries and winning our battles. Your father and we were great friends, and we hope his son will always be our friend, too.”
“Perhaps my father would have won his battle had my mother lived, and she had been like you,” he told her, with choking voice. “Certainly she could hardly have been more kind than you.”
And quite suddenly the calm, efficient Dugdale took her hand in courtly fashion and kissed it. “Please accept my thanks-no-my gratitude-for granted. I cannot say what I would like.” And, bowing stiffly, he left her to regard his retreating figure with suddenly shining eyes and flushed face.
The lunch in Dugdale’s honour was a great success. The squatter talked sheep, and his wife housekeeping. Ralph rallied from his lately growing silence, and even Kate-Kate, whose heart was slowly breaking-forced a laugh now and then, and a bantering suggestion that Dugdale should buy a cookery book.
“I shall be satisfied with baking-powder bread, and meat grilled on hot coals,” he told her, keeping well hidden the agony which was becoming almost unbearable. “And when I tire of that, I shall doubtless find an excuse to come to Barrakee for a meal.”
“Then you will be finding excuses fairly often, because you will soon tire of baking-powder bread and grilled meat,” she told him with a laugh.
“You will have to do as I suggested some time ago, Dug,” Ralph put in. “Which is to hunt up a wife to keep house.”
Dugdale looked at everybody but Kate when he replied:
“Then, I think I shall find myself blocked at the outset. I am sure no woman would want to live in a boundary-rider’s hut.”
“Women have done it,” Kate murmured.
“Would you live in a boundary-rider’s hut with me?” asked Ralph.
“I would live anywhere with the man I loved.” And so well did she play her part that even Ralph thought that the man she loved was himself. His gaze fell to his plate. He felt like Judas.
The conversation ran on gaily till the end of the meal, when they all rose and accompanied Dugdale to his loaded truck. Cranking the engine, he slowed it till it ticked over gently; when, beginning with the Little Lady, he shook them by the hand, coming last to Kate, at whom he smiled in his old quizzical fashion. She returned his clasp with a softpressure, and his smile with plucky lightness; but when he drove away she left the others, walking slowly to the garden gates, and then when out of sight almost running to her room, where she flung herself with abandon on the bed.
Ralph had his arm through that of Mrs Thornton when they, with the squatter, sauntered back to the house. The latter was saying: “I had a letter fromHemming this morning. He tells me that his place is in fine fettle.”
“Oh, I am glad of that,” Mrs Thornton exclaimed.
“But they find the homestead much larger than Thorley’s place,” Thornton continued. “The house contains sixteen rooms, and Mrs Hemming has had great difficulty in securing maids. She was indeed thankful when our missing Nellie Wanting turned up asking for a job.”
“So that is where she went to, John? You know, I cannot understand to this day why she so suddenly disappeared.”
Ralph Thornton, with eyes on the ground and quickly throbbing heart, said nothing.
Chapter Thirty
Bony Sees the Light
AUGUST2ND was a memorable day in the history of Barrakee.
When Blair was driving his team from the homestead for the daily load of wood, the squatter told him that if he liked he need bring only a small load, so as to be back in time to hear the result of the momentous race. Blair smiled in his grim way:
“Eucla will win, so there is no need for me to worry, or wait for the result I know already,” he said.
So at about three o’clock theThorntons assembled on the veranda and the squatter proceeded to tune in on the expensive wireless set. Very shortly he got Melbourne just in time to allow them to hear the result of the three o’clock race. After that followed market reports and a short lecture on the art of fattening pigs, a subject that interested the station-owner but not the ladies.
Mrs Thornton was sewing, Kate pretending to listen but her thoughts far away, Ralph also was pretending to be interested in pigs, but it was only pretence. Back at the office door stood old Mortimore, watch in hand. Behind him was the telephone, and fifty miles west at Thurlow Lake Dugdale sat with the receiver against his ear. Then, clear as a bell, came
the announcer’s voice one minute after the great race. It said:
“Result of Golden Plate Handicap at Mooney Ponds-Eucla, one; Teddy Bear, two; Gentleman Jack, three. Time, one minute thirty-seven seconds.”
The four listeners smiled at one another. The squatter rose and walked to the end of the veranda, and, hearing Mortimore respond to his call, announced the horses’ names as given. And at Thurlow Lake Dugdale put back the receiver and shook hands enthusiastically with the overseer.
“Twenty thousand pounds free of income tax, less two thousand pounds to be paid the owner, is eighteen thousand pounds,” Thornton murmured. “Five into eighteen thousand is three thousand six hundred pounds.”
“What are you going to do with all that money, John?” inquired the Little Lady, a hint of mockery in her voice.
“I am going to divide with you and Kate,” he replied instantly.
“Oh, Uncle! You are a dear,” Kate burst out. “I want some clothes badly.”
“You will be able to buy one or two things with twelve hundred pounds,” the squatter told her gravely.
“And you, Ralph? What are you going to do with your share?” again asked the Little Lady.
“I am going to divide with you and Kate,” he said, mimicking the squatter’s voice.
“But that wouldn’t be fair,” Mrs Thornton urged. “Kate and I would then have double what you and your father had. And it was your money and his that bought the two shares.”
“Well, let us pool our two shares, then, and divide among the four of us, Dad,” Ralph suggested.
Thornton laughed softly and agreed. It was then that Mortimore called him to the office and there he found Dugdale wishing to speak to him on the phone.
“Our luck is right in, isn’t it, Mr Thornton?” the squatter heard over the wire. “About those sheep,” Dugdale went on. “I shall be taking delivery on the 7th, two thousand at fifteen shillings, and I shall pay cash for them, Mr Thornton.”
“But that is not necessary, Dug,” expostulated the squatter.
“Ah, but it is. I rememberyour saying that it was wise to pay cash for everything.”
Secretly delighted with Dugdale’s principle, Mr Thornton still urged his extended-terms offer, but Dugdale persisted and finally won.
“I think, Dug, that it would be as well if you came for those ewes on Friday the sixth,” Thornton said reflectively. “The Paroo is flooded as far down as Wanaaring and the river is rising rapidly at Bourke. We are in for a big flood, and the Washaways are sure to run. Ask Watts to have the sheep in the yards there for certain Thursday night.”
“Very well, thanks. But how will you get those out-back sheep in for the shearing?” asked Dugdale.
“We shall have to muster and get them this side of the Washaways before the flood comes, Dug. I should have had the bridges made.”
Coming up the river road about this time, Henry McIntosh walked beside the bullock-driver.
“Your share of that twenty thousand, ’Enery, works out at about three thousand five hundred pounds,” Blair was saying, certain sure that Eucla would win. “Now, wot I wantter know is, wot are you going to do with all that ’ere cash?”
“I dunno, Fred,” replied Henry, with his usual vacant grin.
“Well, you ought to,” Blair’s beard twitched, and his eyes glared. “People who don’t know wot to do with their money shouldn’t be allowed to ’aveany.”
“Well, wot are you going to do with yours, Fred?” countered Henry, after a full minute’s pause.
“I’m going to git married,” announced Blair, with studied casualness.
“Wot!” Slowly a grin started to spread over Henry’s face. Blair saw it, and uprose his beard; and as quickly as it rose, so quickly did the grin subside.
“As I just said, ’Enery, I am going to git married now that I am a blooming capitalist. And you, ’Enery, are going to be my best man and valet. You are never going to leave me while Bill is dependent on us for a bit of tucker. So there! Don’t you think I am going to allow you to go and git drunk, and tell the whole blooming world where Bill Clair is hidup. ”
“But I am not going to git drunk,” protested Henry.
“No, you are not going to git drunk, ’Enery. I am going to take great care that you don’t.”
They fell into a lengthy argument about this, which lasted till the team drew the load against the wood-heap at the shearing-shed; and later neither of them would tell their fellow workers precisely how they intended spending their fortunes.
Naturally the winning of the sweep was the sole topic of conversation at dinner that night. Rainbow Harry suggested that, as a particular friend of his invited him and several others to Wilcannia on the occasion of winning a hundredpounds, it would be considered the thing for Blair and McIntosh to invite all the hands on Barrakee to spend a month with them at Broken Hill. O’Grady, the station engineer, seconded the proposal; but Johnston, the carpenter, thought that, if the two lucky winners were each to make their friends and comrades a present of a hundred pounds, their illustrious names would be handed down to posterity.
The discussion threatening to become heated at the end of the meal, Bony, an interested but silent listener, rose from his place, and, getting his hat from the bunkroom, walked away past the pumping plant and finally seated himself on a log at the upper end of Dugdale’s favourite fishing pool.
It was growing dark and the air was cold and frosty. Below was the dimming sheen of water; above the shimmering lights of brilliant stars. Other than the far, dull murmur of men’s voices there was not a single sound to disturb the silence.
But of his surroundings Bony was oblivious. His mind was still centred on the fact that Mrs Thornton had the boomerang with which Clair had killed King Henry. The recurring question, which the half-caste worried as a dog will worry a bone, was: How did the Little Lady become possessed of the weapon?
Had it been any other boomerang, at once it would be obvious that it was merely a curio; but it was outside all probability that here on Barrakee there were two boomerangs originally belonging to members of Wombra’s tribe in far-off Northern Queensland. Yet, if it was the actual weapon, which Bony was compelled to believe it was, why did Mrs Thornton have it in her boudoir? If she knew its late ugly history, why had she not destroyed it? And, knowing, what was the connexion between her and Clair?
Assuming that there was such a connexion it was obvious, too, that it was the Little Lady who had warned Clair over the telephone-a timely warning which had enabled him to escape the police.
Bony’s mind travelled backwards to the point when Clair had just set off tracking King Henry. At about that time, Mary, the cook, had died. Mary was Clair’s sister. Was there a connexion between her death and Clair’s vengeance? If so, how did Mrs Thornton come to be mixed up in that, or was the Little Lady’s warning, plus her possession of the boomerang, just feminine sympathy for a wanted man?
It was more than an hour later that Bony thought he saw the light. Subconsciously aware that he was chilled to the bone, the discomforts of his body were nothing in the sudden elation of his mind. He rose to his feet with the suddenness of one who has arrived at a long-debated conclusion. His reddish-black face was lit by the lamp of triumph.
“Ah!” he whispered. “That must be it. It must be. It accounts for all things. I must find that doctor.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The Coming of the Flood
THE MORNING after the day on which the great sweepstake prize came to Barrakee it was seen that the chain of pools along the river bed had been joined by the first freshet presaging what eventually became the greatest flood recorded during the white man’s occupation of the country.
Countless millions of tons of water spread over millions of acres of country in the south-west of Queensland and north-west of New South Wales were rolling slowly but irresistibly southward down the Darling and the Paroo, as well as the dozens of creeks forming the network of tributaries of those rivers. From t
he vast watersheds the waters converged upon the Darling at Wilcannia.
There is nothing spectacular in these floods. There is no sudden rush of water sweeping everything before it; rather does the water creep, filling first the deep channels, then rising slowly to push its way out into the shallower channels, in a further and final rise sweeping over the flats and low-lying country, submerging ground thought to be above the reach of floods.
One week after the first water appeared at Barrakee it ran fourteen feet deep along those stretches that had been dry. It was the first stirring of a sleeping giant, whose awakening brought disaster, sorrow, and retribution to the people of Barrakee. For, to carry the simile further, when the giant yawned and stretched his sinuous self he took as his own young Ralph Thornton.
Not a soul saw him depart, but in the morning Bony read the story on the ground. Picking up the young man’s tracks at the garden gate opposite the billabong, the half-caste traced him for nearly two miles down the river, past the shearing-shed, past the old hotel site, to a point in a river bend where a boat had been drawn into the bank.
As plainly as though Ralph had told him, Bony knew then whither he was bound and the object of his voyage. The young man had heard a pretty lubra’s voice calling, calling, for ever calling him from down at Three Corner Station, between Wilcannia and Menindee. Throughout long nights and longer days Ralph had heard the call; his heart was being strangled by those influences which no longer puzzled and frightened him, because they had become so felt that it was useless to resist them.
The river had taken him, had claimed him. The bush with its indescribable lure, a lure a million times stronger than that of the sea, had drawn him. Nothing-devoted love of the Little Lady, generous love and pride in him of the squatter, the promise of the prettiest girl in Australia, careful rearing, wide education-not all these together had availed to balance that insistent, insidious, luring call.
His head bowed in thought, Bony walked back to the homestead. He knew the way the lad had taken, he knew why he had taken it, and he knew the victorious force compelling the lad to go without a word to his foster-parents, not even leaving a note in part explanation. Nellie Wanting was the immediate influence, but behind her was a much greater one.
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