Читать книгу Billabong Riders - Mary Grant Bruce - Страница 3

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DAVID LINTON of Billabong leaned on a gate-post, watching a boy on a pony.

The pony was a small black Shetland with easy paces; quiet enough for a very small boy to manage, but a free mover. No child of Billabong had ever been taught to ride on a slug; and the tall man who watched could remember many children whose first riding lessons had been given in the little paddock round which his grandson was now trotting. His own boy and girl, and the friends they had brought home in their school days; his mind went back, seeing pictures of scurrying, shouting youngsters, full of the joy of being free of a leading-rein. The saplings he had planted along the fences were tall trees now. They had been planted when Norah was a baby, and Jim just able to toddle beside him as he worked.

Jim topped him now by half a head: and it was Norah’s son who was trying to urge the Shetland into a canter. David Linton believed that none of the young riders he remembered had shown better promise than his grandson. The small boy sat very straight, his hands well down, his touch light on the bit. His hat had blown off; but then, no hat ever stayed long on Davie Meadows’ black curls. He rode bare-back; the erect little figure in brief shorts and white jersey seemed part of the pony.

The Shetland responded at last to the urgent drumming of his rider’s heels, breaking into a canter. They swept past the watcher near the gate, down to the far end of the paddock, and turned to come back.

There was a log lying near the fence on the homeward run. Davie had long regarded it as a log to be jumped when he became a free agent. This seemed as good a time as any. David Linton straightened himself with a quick movement as he saw the pony headed for it. He checked back a warning shout. “Might as well let him begin to learn,” he muttered. But he moved forward.

It was only a small log: the Shetland pricked his ears and romped over it with a foot to spare. Davie had not expected anything so energetic. The pony seemed to disappear from beneath him in a most bewildering way: the earth rushed up to meet him. He rolled over and over on the short thick grass. The pony, almost as surprised as the rider, pulled up and looked at him enquiringly.

“That was a bump, old chap,” said his grandfather, arriving at a run. “Any damage?”

Davie picked himself up, scarlet with anger. Tears were very near, but he kept them back. He twisted away from his grandfather’s hand and ran to catch the pony.

“Want to get on again.” His voice trembled. “Want to go back an’ do it pwop’ly!”

David Linton picked him up and swung him to the pony’s back. He kept a hand on the rein.

“Who are you cross with, Davie? Yourself or Dumps?”

“Mineself,” he muttered.

“That’s right. Dumps jumped it well. You didn’t. But it’s no use being cross. Just remember what I told you, next time: lean forward a little and grip with your knees. You leaned back too far at that jump; and you mightn’t have had any knees at all, for all the use you made of them. So, of course, you just rolled off, do you see?”

“ ’M,” said Davie. “Want to try again.”

“Go ahead. But don’t feel cross, or Dumps will know it, and he mightn’t jump so well.” He stood aside. “Canter round the paddock again, and you’ll take it like a bird.”

Dumps went off at a canter, as if realising what was expected of him. As they went along the far side of the paddock a big car rolled quietly up to the gate. Jim Linton, who was driving, called to his sister in the back seat.

“Look at that son of yours, Norah.”

Out in a hurry came Norah and her husband—Wally Meadows, tall and dark, with black hair and brown eyes like Davie’s. They looked eagerly at the small rider.

“Sits well, doesn’t he, Nor?” said Wally, as the Shetland swung round the bend. “By Jove, the little beggar’s going to jump that log!”

Norah’s hands clenched for an instant. She watched in silence as the scampering pair came towards her. Davie was remembering his lesson; there was no mistake this time when the pony rose at the log.

“Over!” shouted his grandfather. “Good lad!”

Dumps slackened speed. Davie trotted him to his teacher, his face radiant.

“Vat all wight, Gwandad?” Suddenly he caught sight of the watchers by the gate. “Gwacious, vere’s Muvver an’ Dad!” He dug his heels into the pony’s sides and raced to meet them.

“Well, you old steeplechaser!” said his father. “Was that your first try?”

“No—mine felled off first time. Didn’t matter,” said Davie airily. “Only mine plenty silly, didn’t sit pwop’ly. Gwandad said go again an’ do it more better.”

“And you did,” said David Linton, coming up. “Let him go, now. Got a thistle for him?”

“You bet!” He jumped down, slipping off the bridle. Dumps followed him along the fence to where a milk-thistle, carefully brought from a clump Davie knew, was hidden behind a post. He took it from the boy and munched it while the small hand patted him. The ceremony was always the same at the end of a ride. It was believed that Lee Wing, the old Chinese gardener, cultivated milk-thistles for Davie’s special use.

“Will you come home in the car, Dad?” asked Jim.

“No. I’ll walk back with my cobber, thanks. We’ll be there by the time you’ve off-loaded. Had a good run, Tommy?”

“Yes, splendid,” said Jim’s wife—who was called Tommy because her name was Cecilia. She looked very small beside Jim’s great form; English by birth, with blue eyes and fair hair, the hottest Australian sun had never succeeded in making her look tanned. This dainty appearance, however, was deceptive; Billabong had good reason to know that Tommy was equal to any emergency she had met in Australia.

Wally and Norah also decided to walk home. The car slid away across the grass; Davie was induced to leave Dumps, and they strolled towards the homestead, a big red house with wide verandahs, surrounded by trees. Many out-buildings straggled away from it, as near every station homestead. A few hundred yards away, concealed behind a belt of gum-trees, was another house—Little Billabong, Norah and Wally’s home. But it was never quite clear which was really “home” to Norah. Certainly Little Billabong held their personal belongings; but Big Billabong held their hearts.

“You’re coming to tea?” David Linton asked.

“Yes. There’s a letter Jim and Wally must talk over with you. But it will keep till after tea. Oh, and we met the doctor in Cunjee, Dad. He told me to say he hoped you were resting your leg. I said you were resting as much as we could expect—which didn’t seem to satisfy him much.”

“Well, so I am resting the darned leg,” the squatter defended himself. “I haven’t been on a horse for a fortnight.”

“I told him that, but he didn’t seem to think it was enough,” said Norah. “He said, ‘When a horse rolls on a man’s leg, that man ought to do more than leave off riding for a bit. But when that man’s David Linton there’s not much chance of his being sensible!’ ”

“Rubbish! Nothing’s so good for bruised muscles as exercise. I said I wouldn’t ride, but I’m not going to turn into an invalid. Do you want me to go to bed and let that leg grow stiff?”

“No, Dad,” said Norah meekly. “But I’m not a doctor, you see.”

“Well, you’ve more sense than doctors about most things—so forget my leg. I’ll have forgotten it myself in a couple of weeks.”

“I haven’t doctored three obstinate men for years without knowing how far I can go,” said his daughter. “As long as you don’t ride too soon I’m not worrying. Have you been running round that paddock after Davie?”

“Not I; he managed for himself, didn’t you, Davie? We’ve had a very good time, and we reckon we’ve earned our tea.”

“Vere’s Bwown,” said Davie suddenly. He ran ahead to the open gate of the back yard, where Jim and Tommy were carrying in parcels. Down the path, bent on helping them, came a stout figure in print dress and white apron: Brownie, who had mothered two generations of children on Billabong. They heard Davie’s shout to her.

“Bwown! Mine’s afther jumping a log!”

“Did you, then, my lamb! An’ stuck on?”

“Once mine didn’t, an’ ven mine did.”

“An’ that’s not bad for a four-year-old,” said she, carefully concealing her pride. “Take that parcel from Auntie Tommy, Davie—it’s too big for her.”

He whirled round. “You shouldn’t cally big fings like vat,” he said sternly, grasping the parcel—somewhat astonished to find it weighed much less than he expected. Brownie had already noted that it dangled by its loop from one of Tommy’s fingers, and might therefore be carried by a gentleman four years old. She believed in the Billabong doctrine that men couldn’t be trained too early to look after their women-folk.

The early spring evening had grown chilly; when they gathered in the smoking-room for tea it was pleasant to find a log fire crackling in the grate. David Linton sat down in his big easy-chair with a little sigh of relief, glad to rest the leg of which he had spoken so scornfully. He wondered privately if it might be wise to follow the doctor’s advice. There was a busy time ahead for Billabong when a mob of store cattle from Queensland would arrive. Already they were on the road from his northern station: he had no wish to be out of the saddle when they came.

“What’s this letter we’ve got to discuss, Jim?” he asked, stirring his tea.

“Rather a nuisance, I’m afraid,” said Jim. “It’s about the Queensland cattle. They’re in a bit of a fix. Bill Parker was in charge, as usual, and they travelled well until they crossed the New South Wales border. Then they struck trouble. Some fools shooting ducks from cars at night startled the bullocks; they tried to stampede, and Parker’s horse fell with him as he was galloping to head them. And now he’s in hospital with a broken leg. He’s getting on all right, but he’s badly worried about the cattle.”

Mr. Linton looked grave.

“Parker’s the one man we couldn’t spare,” he said. “Who’s his second-in-command?”

“Fellow named Gribble. Parker says he’s fairly good under somebody’s direction, but mighty little use on his own. Parker didn’t feel justified in letting him travel the cattle. He managed to get a week’s grass for them, so they’re just camping. The gang’s short-handed, too. Some of the men went off to a township and didn’t come back: one of ’em was the cook, worse luck. So things are just anyhow, with poor Parker doing all he can from a hospital bed to straighten ’em out.” Jim fished in his pocket. “Here’s his letter.”

It was a long letter, written laboriously in pencil. Mr. Linton read it slowly.

“He’s a good chap,” he commented, folding it up. “Most men would think a broken leg was enough to think about; but not Parker.”

“We’ll see he doesn’t lose by it,” said Jim. “Well, Dad, Wally and I reckon we’ll have to go up and take charge of the mob. This fellow Gribble doesn’t seem much to depend on, and we can’t chance the cattle with an unknown man—even supposing Parker could find one.”

“Certainly we can’t. No, you’ll have to go, boys. It’s a nuisance, but it can’t be helped. I’d go with you, but for this fool of a leg.”

“ ’Wish you could,” said Wally. “It would be like old times to do a bit of droving with you again. What about taking Murty, since we can’t have you, Dad?”

“That’s a good idea,” agreed Mr. Linton. “Murty isn’t as young as he was—and neither am I, for that matter—but he’s still hard to beat after cattle. A first-rate chap in a camp, too; he has his own ways of dealing with grumblers. You didn’t send any word to Parker, I suppose, Jim?”

“No. I only read his letter after we left Cunjee. I’ll ring up presently and send him a wire to put his mind at rest.”

“Will you fly up, Jim?” asked Norah.

“No need, I think. The cattle are having a spell; and we couldn’t take our gear by ’plane. There’ll be plenty of time if we leave in a couple of days. You girls can have the job of hunting out all our camping outfit to-morrow,” he added generously.

“I knew you would hate us to be out of it,” smiled Tommy. “Would you like your boots greased, too?”

“It’s a kind thought, but I did them myself yesterday. Otherwise, you might begin on them at daybreak. But don’t worry: we’ll find lots of other dainty jobs for you. You’ll need a day’s rest by the time we get away.”

“We’ll take it—don’t you worry,” Norah assured him. “I wonder how long it will be before our time of rest is over?”

“Hard to say. Depends on the condition of the bullocks, the feed along the route, and whether we have any drawbacks—like the one that landed poor old Parker with a broken leg. You probably won’t see us for a few weeks, at any rate. By the way, Nor, Parker hasn’t anyone belonging to him, I believe—how about sending him a parcel of oddments?”

“Books and magazines,” nodded Norah. “And a cake, I think, don’t you, Tommy? You can see that he has plenty of tobacco, Jim, when you get there.”

“A good new cardigan,” suggested Tommy. “They’ll let him wear it as a bed-jacket in the hospital, if he needs one. We’ll probably think of lots of other things when we put our minds to it.”

“I knew you’d have ideas,” said Jim. “Well, I’d like him to feel there was someone to spare a thought for him; it’s the least we can do, seeing he got knocked out in our service. Easy enough to fix up the money side of it, but I don’t think that counts as much.”

“And weeks of being helpless can’t be a cheerful prospect for a fellow who spends most of his life in the saddle,” remarked Wally. “Well, we’ll try to cheer him up, anyhow. Norah, don’t you think it’s time we collected our son and went home? I’ve got quite a lot of things to see to.”

They found Davie sitting on the kitchen table talking earnestly to two of his best friends: Murty O’Toole, head stockman of Billabong, and Lee Wing, the gardener, who was also capable of turning his hand to many things. Billabong had been their home for more than thirty years: they were part of the family, bound up in the interests of the people they loved. Since Davie spent much of his time with them and with Billy, the native “boy” who was now grey-haired, his language was a curious mixture of Irish, Chinese and blackfellow pidgin-English, often confusing to strangers.

“Hallo, Murty,” said Wally. “Are you game to go overlanding after cattle again?”

“ ’Twould be all in the day’s wurrk, Mr. Wally, wherever it is. I wouldn’t say no to bein’ on the roads wance more.”

“It’s the Queensland mob. They’ve got into trouble, and Jim and I want you to take a hand with them. And us,” added Wally.

“Is that so? I’ll be ready whenever you are. I wondher, now, what sort of horses they’ll be givin’ us?”

“Not too bad, I expect. But we’ll have to take our chance of that. Lee Wing, you’ll have to keep an eye on my family for me.”

“Too li’ I will, Mas’ Wally. I leckon I better camp over at Li’l Billabong.”

“That’s a good notion. I’ll feel all right about them if you’re there.”

“Well, I reckon,” said Brownie, “that we’ll transplant them over here, same as we’ve done often enough before. Billabong ’ud be lonesome for the Master and Mrs. Jim, all by themselves.”

“That welly tlue,” agreed Lee Wing. “But me camp at your place all-same, Mas’ Wally.”

“Can mine go wiv you, Dad?” demanded Davie.

“Not this time, old chap. You’ve got to grow a bit before you go droving. Come on home.”

He swung him to his shoulder. The three old servants of Billabong watched them as they went into the dusk.