Читать книгу Chips And Splinters - Edward S Sorenson - Страница 7

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The manager of Mooly-ong was standing at the gate of the horse-yard, waiting for some colts to come in, when a breathless and excited traveller hurried up to him.

"For God's sake, ken yer lend 's a horse an cart, boss?" he panted, while he breathed with the hard, rasping sound of a winded sheep.

"What's up?" asked the manager, now scrutinising the stranger with some concern.

"Accident—four-mile tank—Lor! it's awful!" said the traveller in disjointed gasps, his eyes bulging.

"What is? What's happened?" the manager repeated.

"My mate—Bob—got his leg broke." He waved his hand impatiently towards the four-mile. "I want a cart to run him to th' hospital 'fore dark."

"How did it happen?" asked the manager complacently.

"It was this way," said the traveller. "We camped 'longside a dead tree, an' Bob—he was always a bit of a fool, was Bob (God forgive me)—he makes his fire agin it, an' fore he got up this mornin' the blamed thing falls across his legs an' breaks one of 'em. I dunno how he wasn't killed. He's in a purty bad way, though, I ken tell yer."

"You'd better wait till the men come, and they'll help you to take him in on a stretcher. The jolting of a cart will be too severe."

The traveller's face seemed to cloud over at this suggestion.

"Yer needn't trouble 'em at all, boss," he said, hurriedly. "Bob's got th' constitootion of a cart-'orse, an' he's useter 'avin' broken legs. We've bound it up with a couple o' shingles an' saddle-straps, an' he's doin' fine. He specially mentioned not to fetch anybody or anything—barrin' a cart. 'S a queer sort Bob. Independent like. Don't like to see anybody else fusain' around him—or even lookin' on."

"You'll want somebody to help you get him in, anyhow."

"There's another cove there," said the traveller, quickly. "He'll be help enough. All we want's a cart an' a good-steppin' 'orse. There's no need to trouble yer a bit further, boss, thank yer all th' same."

"Well, there's a spring-dray there—it's the only thing I've got in the line of vehicles just at present. The harness is in it. Catch that bay horse in the yard while I get you a mattress and some brandy. A nip will do him good."

The traveller smacked his lips as he got the winkers, and hastened into the yard to catch the horse. In a few minutes he was driving away at a fast trot.

The camp was in a clump of gidgee, two miles from the homestead. Around it were stacks of billet wood, recently cut in readiness for shearing. Bob was sitting on a rolled-up swag, smoking and looking very pleasant—considering. A broad grin was on his face as the cart came bumping and rattling up to the nearest pile of wood, against which it was backed. Then the traveller threw out the mattress with a curse. Bob walked over, and he walked well for a man with a broken leg.

"So yer worked th' oracle, Joe?" he remarked, and the grin expanded.

"Aye," said Joe, "but it was ticklish business, lemme tell yer. I was afraid th' old dog was comin' himself."

"But what's this?" asked Bob, kicking the mattress.

"That's a comfort for yer broken leg. It'll be a dashed nuisance, but I couldn't very well refuse it, or he'd 'ave thought I was 'ard-hearted—an' perhaps got suspicious. Had to pitch him a few mulgas as it was to stop him from sendin' th' whole bloomin' station out for yer. Broken legs seem to be quite unordinary in this part. But here's one good thing he sent yer, anyway." He drew the flask from his pocket and took a long swig before handing it to Bob. "Try how that acts on yer leg, mate. It's the real Ma-ki."

It was near midnight when Joe got back to the station with the cart and a very tired horse.

"Had to drive awful slow, as Bob was purty bad—worse 'n I thought," he explained. "It'll be a long time 'fore he's fit for th' wallaby again."

"I'll have a look at him to-morrow," said the manager. "I'd have gone out to-day, only we were so busy in the yard—and short-handed."

"Oh, there's no occasion to 'pologise," said Joe, gratefully. "We managed fust-class—an' many thanks to yer, boss, for th' loan o' th' cart."

The manager offered him a night's board and lodging, and promised to see what he could do for him; but Joe politely declined any further assistance, and very shortly took his departure.

While riding next morning the manager struck the cart track, and followed it to have a look at the scene of the alleged catastrophe. The first thing he noticed was the disappearance of an alarming quantity of his billet wood, and several tracks, indicating that various trips had been made thence towards the town. Putting spurs to his horse, he followed these traces at a gallop, and they led him into the yard of Murphy's hotel, where the missing wood was neatly stacked. He called Murphy without dismounting.

"Where did you get that wood?" he demanded.

"Bought it from those shearers you lent the cart to—the two chaps," said Murphy, "who are cutting wood in your paddock till shearin' starts."

"What did you give for it?"

"Three quid."

In less than half an hour a black-tracker, two troopers and the irate manager of Mooly-ong were following like bloodhounds in the footsteps of two swagmen. Three miles from town they found the remains of a fire; and there they were baffled, for no tracks led from it.

Joe and Bob had taken their boots off at that fire, and wrapping pieces of woolly sheepskin round their feet, had cut across country to another road. One of the troopers accidentally hit upon the tracks there three days afterwards, when it was too late to follow, and picked up the improvised moccasins that had been discarded. These he sent as a memento to the manager of Mooly-ong. Later, he found the sheep that had been killed to provide the bits of sheepskin; and then the manager's cup was full.