Читать книгу By Blow and Kiss - Boyd Cable - Страница 1

It was fiercely hot inside the hut, although the click and snap of the tin roof spoke of its cooling now that the sun was off it. The men eating their supper at the long deal table sat with shirt sleeves rolled up and collars open at the throat, and the sweat drops glistening on their browned faces, brick-red arms, and lean throats. In spite of the heat they ate hugely, as men do who have spent a long day in the saddle, and “Blazes,” the cook, was kept busy replenishing the heaped-up plates.

As they finished, one by one the men pushed their plates back and loaded their pipes, and the reek of strong tobacco mingled with the smells of cooked meats and the kerosene lamp on the wall.

“Scottie” Mackellar, slow and deliberate in eating as in most things, was the last to finish and light his pipe.

He had been down to the station that day, just returning as supper was served, and although the men waited expectantly for news or orders, they waited without questions, knowing Scottie and his ways, and that questions were more likely to delay than hasten his words.

“Whip” Thompson tried gently for a rise.

“What’s it looking like below, Mac?” he asked.

“Dry,” said Scottie, slowly, “vera dry.” As they had all been thinking and talking of little else but the dry spell that had lain hot and heavy on the land for months past, this did not convey much fresh information.

“How d’you think the sheep are makin’ out?” tried Whip Thompson again.

“They micht be better,” said Scottie. “But then again, they micht be worse.”

“Wot’s the boss sayin’ about it?” asked another man.

“What would he be saying?” countered Scottie.

“If I was ’im,” struck in Jack Ever, a little man with a peaky face, “I’d be sayin’ something in sulphur-coloured langwidge wi’ purple trimmin’s.”

Scottie made no reply, and the men began to drift slowly out of doors to lounge and smoke, or perch themselves on the rail in front of the hut.

“’E’s a bloomin’ hencyclopeedy, ain’t ’e?” said Ever, disgustedly, when he had settled himself comfortably.

“You’d have got more if you’d asked less,” said Aleck Gault, with a light laugh.

A lumbering man, with a heavy jowl and a thick neck, sprawled his arms on the top rail of the fence and laughed hoarsely.

“It’s ver-r-ra dry,” he mimicked. “Never a spit or a spot o’ rain for this month o’ Sundays; the sheep eatin’ the skin off’n the country, an’ the seeds below the skin; the paddocks bare as the back of yer hand an’ even the hills gettin’ eaten out, an’ the cattle wi’ as much flesh on ’em as a post an’ rail fence; the sheep droppin’ dead in droves like flies in a frost, an’ good for nothin’ ’cept to fatten the crows; the bottoms o’ the tanks dry mud this month back, an’ the river mostly dry sand. An’ I believe ye, Scottie – it’s dry, ver-r-ra dry.”

“Here’s Scottie comin’ now, Darby,” said Whip Thompson. “Wot’s he goin’ to do wi’ the broom?”

“If you never want to know – just ask him,” grunted Darby.

Scottie approached with the broom under his arm. “I’ll be wantin’ three o’ ye to go down to the station to-morrow,” he said. “You, Aleck, an’ Ned an’ Jack.”

“Wot to do?” said Jack Ever.

“The boss’ll tell ye that,” said Scottie. “He was speakin’ o’ shiftin’ the sheep out again tae the back paddocks an’ mebbe up into the hills.”

Whip Thompson whistled. “Goin’ to be some graft presently,” he said. “Handlin’ silly bleatin’ jumbucks over the Pinnacles country an’ through the Whistlin’ Hills’ll be some sport.”

“You an’ Darby’ll stop an’ gie me a hand,” said Scottie. “I’ll be puttin’ the little hut in some sort o’ shape. And, Steve Knight, ye micht tak’ a turn up by Split-the-Wind, and push back ony o’ the cattle beasties ye see intae the hills a bit.”

Steve Knight looked up from the stockwhip he was plaiting. “Stay out or get back at night?” he asked.

“Get back,” said Scottie, and moved slowly away.

The men watched him go to the old hut that stood a couple of hundred yards from the big one, untwist the bit of fencing wire that held the door, and pass in with his broom.

“Put the little hut in shape,” said Darby. “What d’you suppose…”

He interrupted himself. “An’ what’s wrong wi’ Blazes? He looks mad over suthin’.”

The cook had bounced from the door, dashed out a basin of greasy water, and flung himself inside again with violent anger and indignation in every motion, and then the men could hear him rattling and slamming dishes about as if they were his personal enemies.

They were all too well accustomed to the blazes of anger that had earned him his name to pay much attention to it, and just at present they were much more concerned over what Scottie was going to do with the small hut. But it appeared there was a connection between the two things.

“’As he tole you?” Blazes demanded, coming over to them. “’As he tole you ’e’s bringin’ them blighted sheep up ’ere?”

“Yes,” said Darby. “But I dunno why it should worry you, Blazes. You don’t ’ave to cook for the sheep.”

“Cook for the sheep, you mutton-’ead” retorted Blazes. “Don’t I ’ave to cook for the shepherds though? Don’t I know wot it means too? Men comin’ in all hours day an’ night, and wantin’ feedin’. An’ makin’ up tucker for you an’ the rest to take out on the ’ills. An’ extry ’ands ’ere from down below…”

“Wot’s Scottie doin’ wi’ the old hut?” put in Whip Thompson.

“Do,” said Blazes, angrily. “’Ow do I know wot ’e’s goin’ to do? I asked ’im civil as you please wot ’e wanted the broom for. ‘Tae sweep’ ’e says.’

“Perhaps the boss is goin’ to move in here while the sheep are up,” suggested Steve Knight.

Scottie emerged again, and as he passed them he halted a moment. “If there’s ony o’ ye has some o’ the weeklies wi’ picturs in them,” he said, “mebbe ye’ll lat me hae them tae put on the walls. I want the place tae look as nice as it will.” He paused a moment, and then went on slowly, “I’m movin’ in there, an’ I’m bringin’ ma niece up tae stop wi’ me.”

He moved off before the men could reply, and he left them staring in amazement.

“That’s it, is it?” exploded Blazes. “Bring ’is sheep first, then ’is nieces, then Lord knows wot. ’Is niece’ll be some ’alf-baked jackeroo new-chum I suppose. Men’s hut isn’t good enough for ’im evidently. Must ’ave a separate ’ouse. Well if ’e expecks me to carry ’is meals over to ’im – ”

One or two of the men were laughing, and Blazes stopped and glared at them.

“Isn’t a niece the same as a nephy?” said Darby the Bull, hesitatingly. “Only a woman instead o’ a man?”

“He said niece, didn’t he?” said Aleck Gault.

“He said niece right enough, and a niece is a woman right enough,” said Steve Knight. “Fancy Scottie with a niece!”

“Wonder what she’s like,” said Whip Thompson; “young or old, pretty or ugly.”

“Pretty,” snorted Blazes; “she would be pretty, bein’ a niece o’ his, wouldn’t she? She’ll be some long-nosed Scotchman, wi’ eyes like a boiled Murray codfish, an’ teeth stickin’ out like tombstones, an’ a face that’d turn a tin o’ condensed milk sour. Nice sort o’ fancy flamin’ trick bringin’ a woman up ’ere to Thunder Ridge. That’s the finish, that is – the dead finish.”

“Oh, I dunno,” said Whip Thompson, vaguely. “Mebbe she won’t be too bad.”

“Wot’s ’e want ’er here for?” demanded Blazes, resentfully. “Why couldn’t ’e keep ’er down at the station below?”

“P’raps he’ll get ’er to cook for him,” said Darby the Bull, grinning. “You know you could never make burgoo to his liking.”

“First time he had it,” said Aleck Gault, “Scottie wondered if it was a plate of porridge or a grindstone. Said it was thick enough to jump on without dinting it. And next time when it was thin enough to wash your face in he wasn’t pleased. I don’t wonder at him bringing someone to cook for him.”

“Well, she can cook for ’im an’ you too, for all o’ me,” snapped Blazes. “I’m done wi’ this job. Sheep here’s bad enough, but a woman – that’s the finish, that is,” and he stumped off.

He had threatened to throw up his job too often for the men to believe it, and now their minds were on something more interesting.

“D’you s’pose we’ll ’ave to wear jackets when she’s knockin’ about?” said Whip Thompson, glancing at his bare arms.

“You’ll have to wash your shirt oftener,” said Aleck Gault, laughing.

“I haven’t seen a woman for more’an hour or two in months since I was a kiddie,” said Darby the Bull. “It’ll seem odd-like allus havin’ one about the place.”

“Seems to me it’s going to be a blame nuisance,” growled Ned Gunliffe.

“Give ’er a chawnce, mates,” said Jack Ever. “She may be all right, an’ anyways she’s a woman. There’s plenty places where the men ’ud give their ears to have a woman round all the time.”

“They’re some as could give longer ears – an’ that’s asses,” said Ned.

“Hush, children,” said Aleck Gault, reprovingly. “I’m afraid, Steve, our Happy Home is to be broken with strife and dissension. Just the bare word of a woman, you see, and the quarrels break out.”

“Paradise invaded,” scoffed Steve Knight. “Look at the Paradise around you, and glance at us, the angels who fear a woman will disturb us.”

“It’ll please you, I suppose, Fly-by-Night. Save you some moonlight trips if you’ve a girl to spark right at home here,” said Ned Gunliffe.

“You’re right, Ned,” said Knight, good-humouredly. “First thing I want to know is whether she can sew and darn. If she can, I’m going to spend all my spare time courting her while she sews patches on my breeches and darns my socks.”

“Why not marry her an’ done with it while you’re at it?” said Gunliffe. “You’d only have to ask ’er you know. Was there ever a woman yet could resist Fly-by-Night when he rode up a-courting?” He spoke with a hint of a sneer in his tones, and, remembering an old tale of an episode in which Knight and he and a girl had been concerned, the men guessed at a hidden edge to the words. But if there was, Steve Knight ignored it.

“No chance, Ned,” he said lightly. “You see, my trouble with the girls is that the good ’uns find me out, and the bad ’uns I find out, and, either way, marryin’ is off.”

“Couldn’t ye choose a middlin’ one?” said Whip Thompson, banteringly.

“No,” said Steve; “a middling girl would be like a horse that would always trot – too slow for me if I want to go fast, and a nuisance to have to hold in if I want to walk.”

“I knew a gal once – ” said Darby the Bull, and paused.

“And a safe way to know her too, Darby,” cut in Steve. “But when you marry her you must know her for always.”

“I asked ’er to marry me – I was half drunk at the time – an’ she said if I meant it I was a fool, an’ if I didn’t I was a rogue, and either ways she was better without me. I allus remembered that though I never knew just what she meant.”

“Did you still mean it when you sobered?” said Steve, chuckling.

“I did,” said Darby, solemnly.

“Then she was right, only there was a pair of you,” said Steve. “You were a fool to ask her, and she was another not to say yes.”

Darby the Bull looked puzzled. “D’you think every man that marries is a fool then?” said Whip Thompson.

“I wish I could think so,” said Steve, gravely, but with his eyes twinkling, “but I’m afraid not, worse luck for him.”

“You’d think women was man-eaters t’ hear you,” said Jack Ever.

“Most of them are,” said Steve.

“Huh,” grunted Jack, “if we believe all we see an’ ’ear you ain’t scared enough of ’em to keep away from ’em.”

“No,” said Steve, lightly; “but I’m scared enough to keep outside the cage they’re in. When you’re married you’re inside the bars, and can’t get away if you want to.”

“D’you ever tell your girls all these things you think o’ them?” asked Thompson.

“I do,” said Steve, promptly, “and a lot more I don’t think of them. And, mostly, they don’t believe I mean what I really think of them, and do believe the lies I tell them. That sounds a bit mixed, but I mean they usually believe the lies and disbelieve the truth.”

“Rot,” said Gunliffe. “I reckon a woman can spot a lie quicker ’n a man.”

“Yes, when she wants to,” said Steve, “but – she doesn’t always want to.”

“If I felt like you, Fly-by-Night,” said Darby the Bull, “I’d run a mile if I saw a pretty girl comin’.”

“If you were like me,” said Steve, laughingly, rising and stretching himself, “you’d run many miles – to meet her. Be glad you’re not like me.”

“I am,” said Darby, so simply and earnestly that the others roared with laughter, and Steve Knight winced in the darkness, though his laugh rang as loud as any.

Aleck Gault rose to his feet. “Well, it’s time we turned in,” he said. “Perhaps we’ll dream of the bright eyes of Scottie’s niece.”

“Let’s hope they’re not what Blazes supposed – eyes like a boiled cod and teeth like tombstones, wasn’t it?” said Knight. “Though, perhaps for the peace of Thunder Ridge, it’ll be best if the prediction’s right.”