Selected Stories (30 page)

“Fight! you——!” he yelled. “Why don’t you fight? That ain’t fightin’. Fight, and don’t try to murder each other. Use your crimson hands or, by God, I’ll chip you! Fight, or I’ll blanky well bullock-whip the pair of you;” then his language got awful. They said we went like windmills, and that nearly every one of the blows we made was enough to kill a bullock if it had got home. Jimmy stopped us once, but they held him back.

Presently I went down pretty flat, but the blow was well up on the head and didn’t matter much—I had a good thick skull. And I had one good eye yet.

“For God’s sake, hit him!” whispered Jack—he was trembling like a leaf. “Don’t mind what I told you. I wish I was fighting him myself! Get a blow home, for God’s sake! Make a good show this round and I’ll stop the fight.”

That showed how little even Jack, my old mate, understood me.

I had the Bushman up in me now, and wasn’t going to be beaten while I could think. I was wonderfully cool, and learning to fight. There’s nothing like a fight to teach a man. I was thinking fast, and learning more in three seconds than Jack’s sparring could have taught me in three weeks. People think that blows hurt in a fight, but they don’t—not till afterwards. I fancy that a fighting man, if he isn’t altogether an animal, suffers more mentally than he does physically.

While I was getting my wind I could hear through the moonlight and still air the sound of Mary’s voice singing up at the house. I thought hard into the future, even as I fought. The fight only seemed something that was passing.

I was on my feet again and at it, and presently I lunged out and felt such a jar in my arm that I thought it was telescoped. I thought I’d put out my wrist and elbow. And Romany was lying on the broad of his back.

I heard Jack draw three breaths of relief in one. He said nothing as he straightened me up, but I could feel his heart beating. He said afterwards that he didn’t speak because he thought a word might spoil it.

I went down again, but Jack told me afterwards that he
felt
I was all right when he lifted me.

Then Romany went down, then we fell together, and the chaps separated us. I got another knock-down blow in, and was beginning to enjoy the novelty of it, when Romany staggered and limped.

“I’ve done,” he said. “I’ve twisted my ankle.” He’d caught his heel against a tuft of grass.

“Shake hands,” yelled Jimmy Nowlett.

I stepped forward, but Romany took his coat and limped to his horse.

“If yer don’t shake hands with Wilson, I’ll lamb yer!” howled Jimmy; but Jack told him to let the man alone, and Romany got on his horse somehow and rode off.

I saw Jim Bullock stoop and pick up something from the grass, and heard him swear in surprise. There was some whispering, and presently Jim said:

“If I thought that, I’d kill him.”

“What is it?” asked Jack.

Jim held up a butcher’s knife. It was common for a man to carry a butcher’s knife in a sheath fastened to his belt.

“Why did you let your man fight with a butcher’s knife in his belt?” asked Jimmy Nowlett.

But the knife could easily have fallen out when Romany fell, and we decided it that way.

“Anyway,” said Jimmy Nowlett, “if he’d stuck Joe in hot blood before us all it wouldn’t be so bad as if he sneaked up and stuck him in the back in the dark. But you’d best keep an eye over yer shoulder for a year or two, Joe. That chap’s got Eye-talian blood in him somewhere. And now the best thing you chaps can do is to keep your mouth shut and keep all this dark from the gals.”

Jack hurried me on ahead. He seemed to act queer, and when I glanced at him I could have sworn that there was water in his eyes. I said that Jack had no sentiment except for himself, but I forgot, and I’m sorry I said it.

“What’s up, Jack?” I asked,

“Nothing,” said Jack.

“What’s up, you old fool?” I said.

“Nothing,” said Jack, “except that I’m damned proud of you, Joe, you old ass!” and he put his arm round my shoulders and gave me a shake. “I didn’t know it was in you, Joe—I wouldn’t have said it before, or listened to any other man say it, but I didn’t think you had the pluck—God’s truth, I didn’t. Come along and get your face fixed up.”

We got into my room quietly, and Jack got a dish of water, and told one of the chaps to sneak a piece of fresh beef from somewhere.

Jack was as proud as a dog with a tin tail as he fussed round me. He fixed up my face in the best style he knew, and he knew a good many—he’d been mended himself so often.

While he was at work we heard a sudden hush and a scraping of feet amongst the chaps that Jack had kicked out of the room, and a girl’s voice whispered, “Is he hurt? Tell me. I want to know—I might be able to help.”

It made my heart jump, I can tell you. Jack went out at once and there was some whispering. When he came back he seemed wild.

“What is it, Jack?” I asked.

“Oh, nothing,” he said, “only that damned slut of a half-caste cook overheard some of those blanky fools arguing as to how Romany’s knife got out of the sheath, and she’s put a nice yarn round amongst the girls. There’s a regular bobbery, but it’s all right now. Jimmy Nowlett’s telling ’em lies at a great rate.”

Presently there was another hush outside, and a saucer with vinegar and brown paper was handed in.

One of the chaps brought some beer and whisky from the pub, and we had a quiet little time in my room. Jack wanted to stay all night, but I reminded him that his little wife was waiting for him in Solong, so he said he’d be round early in the morning, and went home.

I felt the reaction pretty bad. I didn’t feel proud of the affair at all. I thought it was a low, brutal business all round. Romany was a quiet chap after all, and the chaps had no right to chyack him. Perhaps he’d had a hard life, and carried a big swag of trouble that we didn’t know anything about. He seemed a lonely man. I’d gone through enough myself to teach me not to judge men. I made up my mind to tell him how I felt about the matter next time we met. Perhaps I made my usual mistake of bothering about “feelings” in another party that hadn’t any feelings at all—perhaps I didn’t; but it’s generally best to chance it on the kind side in a case like this. Altogether I felt as if I’d made another fool of myself and been a weak coward. I drank the rest of the beer and went to sleep.

About daylight I woke and heard Jack’s horse on the gravel. He came round the back of the buggy-shed and up to my door, and then, suddenly, a girl screamed out. I pulled on my trousers and ’lastic-side boots and hurried out. It was Mary herself, dressed and sitting on an old stone step at the back of the kitchen with her face in her hands, and Jack was off his horse and stooping by her side with his hand on her shoulder. She kept saying, “I thought you were——! I thought you were——!” I didn’t catch, the name. An old single-barrel, muzzle-loader shot-gun was lying in the grass at her feet. It was the gun they used to keep loaded and hanging in
straps in a room off the kitchen ready for a shot at a cunning old hawk that they called “ ‘Tarnal Death”, and that used to be always after the chickens.

When Mary lifted her face it was as white as note-paper, and her eyes seemed to grow wilder when she caught sight of me.

“Oh, you did frighten me, Mr Barnes,” she gasped. Then she gave a little ghost of a laugh and stood up, and some colour came back.

“Oh, I’m a little fool!” she said quickly. “I thought I heard old ’Tarnal Death at the chickens, and I thought it would be a great thing if I got the gun and brought him down; so I got up and dressed quietly so as not to wake Sarah. And then you came round the corner and frightened me. I don’t know what you must think of me, Mr Barnes.”

“Never mind,” said Jack. “You go and have a sleep, or you won’t be able to dance to-night. Never mind the gun—I’ll put that away.” And he steered her round to the door of her room off the brick verandah where she slept with one of the other girls.

“Well, that’s a rum start!” I said.

“Yes, it is,” said Jack; “it’s very funny. Well, how’s your face this morning, Joe?”

He seemed a lot more serious than usual.

We were hard at work all the morning cleaning out the big wool-shed and getting it ready for the dance, hanging hoops for the candles, making seats, etc. I kept out of sight of the girls as much as I could. One side of my face was a sight and the other wasn’t too classical. I felt as if I had been stung by a swarm of bees.

“You’re a fresh, sweet-scented beauty now, and no mistake, Joe,” said Jimmy Nowlett—he was going to play the accordion that night. “You ought to fetch the girls now, Joe. But never mind, your face’ll go down in about three weeks.”

My lower jaw is crooked yet; but that fight straightened my nose, that had been knocked crooked when I was a boy—so I didn’t lose much beauty by it.

When we’d done in the shed, Jack took me aside and said:

“Look here, Joe! If you won’t come to the dance to-night—and I can’t say you’d ornament it—I tell you what you’ll do.
You get little Mary away on the quiet and take her out for a stroll—and act like a man. The job’s finished now, and you won’t get another chance like this.”

“But how am I to get her out?” I said.

“Never you mind. You be mooching round down by the big peppermint-tree near the river-gate, say about half-past ten.”

“What good’ll that do?”

“Never you mind. You just do as you’re told, that’s all you’ve got to do,” said Jack, and he went home to get dressed and bring his wife.

After the dancing started that night I had a peep in once or twice. The first time I saw Mary dancing with Jack, and looking serious; and the second time she was dancing with the blarsted jackeroo dude, and looking excited and happy. I noticed that some of the girls, that I could see sitting on a stool along the opposite wall, whispered, and gave Mary black looks as the jackeroo swung her past. It struck me pretty forcibly that I should have taken fighting lessons from him instead of from poor Romany. I went away and walked about four miles down the river road, getting out of the way into the Bush whenever I saw any chap riding along. I thought of poor Romany and wondered where he was, and thought that there wasn’t much to choose between us as far as happiness was concerned. Perhaps he was walking by himself in the Bush, and feeling like I did. I wished I could shake hands with him.

But somehow, about half-past ten, I drifted back to the river slip-rails and leant over them, in the shadow of the peppermint-tree, looking at the rows of river-willows in the moonlight. I didn’t expect anything, in spite of what Jack said.

I didn’t like the idea of hanging myself: I’d been with a party who found a man hanging in the Bush, and it was no place for a woman round where he was. And I’d helped drag two bodies out of the Cudgegong River in a flood, and they weren’t sleeping beauties. I thought it was a pity that a chap couldn’t lie down on a grassy bank in a graceful position in the moonlight and die by just thinking of it—and die with his eyes and mouth shut. But then I remembered that I wouldn’t make a beautiful corpse, anyway it went, with the face I had on me.

I was just getting comfortably miserable when I heard a step behind me, and my heart gave a jump. And I gave a start too.

“Oh, is that you, Mr Wilson?” said a timid little voice.

“Yes,” I said. “Is that you, Mary?”

And she said yes. It was the first time I called her Mary, but she did not seem to notice it.

“Did I frighten you?” I asked.

“No—yes—just a little,” she said. “I didn’t know there was anyone——” then she stopped.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” I asked her.

“Oh, I’m tired,” she said. “It was too hot in the wool-shed. I thought I’d like to come out and get my head cool and be quiet a little while.”

“Yes,” I said, “it must be hot in the wool-shed.”

She stood looking out over the willows. Presently she said, “It must be very dull for you, Mr Wilson—you must feel lonely. Mr Barnes said——” Then she gave a little gasp and stopped—as if she was just going to put her foot in it.

“How beautiful the moonlight looks on the willows!” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “doesn’t it? Supposing we have a stroll by the river.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr Wilson. I’d like it very much.”

I didn’t notice it then, but, now I come to think of it, it was a beautiful scene: there was a horse-shoe of high blue hills round behind the house, with the river running round under the slopes, and in front was a rounded hill covered with pines, and pine ridges, and a soft blue peak away over the ridges ever so far in the distance.

I had a handkerchief over the worst of my face, and kept the best side turned to her. We walked down by the river, and didn’t say anything for a good while. I was thinking hard. We came to a white smooth log in a quiet place out of sight of the house.

“Suppose we sit down for a while, Mary,” I said.

“If you like, Mr Wilson,” she said.

There was about a foot of log between us.

“What a beautiful night!” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “isn’t it?”

Presently she said, “I suppose you know I’m going away next month, Mr Wilson?”

I felt suddenly empty. “No,” I said, “I didn’t know that.”

“Yes,” she said, “I thought you knew. I’m going to try and get into the hospital to be trained for a nurse, and if that doesn’t come off I’ll get a place as assistant public-school teacher.”

We didn’t say anything for a good while.

“I suppose you won’t be sorry to go, Miss Brand?” I said.

“I—I don’t know,” she said. “Everybody’s been so kind to me here.”

She sat looking straight before her, and I fancied her eyes glistened. I put my arm round her shoulders, but she didn’t seem to notice it. In fact, I scarcely noticed it myself at the time.

“So you think you’ll be sorry to go away?” I said.

“Yes, Mr Wilson. I suppose I’ll fret for a while. It’s been my home, you know.”

I pressed my hand on her shoulder, just a little, so as she couldn’t pretend not to know it was there. But she didn’t seem to notice.

“Ah, well,” I said, “I suppose I’ll be on the wallaby again next week.”

“Will you, Mr Wilson?” she said. Her voice seemed very soft.