Bush Studies (5 page)

She did not look for Squeaker this time, she had given him up.

While she waited for her breath to steady, to her relief and surprise the dog came out. She made a rush to the new hut, but he passed seemingly oblivious of her, and, bounding across the plain, began rounding the sheep. Then he must know Squeaker had gone to town.

Stay! Her heart beat violently; was it because she on the bunk slept and did not want him?

She waited till her heart quieted, and again crept to the door.

The head of the woman on the bunk had fallen towards the wall as in deep sleep; it was turned from the billy, to which she must creep so softly.

Slower, from caution and deadly earnestness, she entered.

She was not so advanced as before, and felt fairly secure, for the woman's eyes were still turned to the wall, and so tightly closed she could not possibly see where she was.

She would bend right down, and try and reach it from where she was.

She bent.

It was so swift and sudden, that she had not time to scream when those bony fingers had gripped the hand that she prematurely reached for the billy. She was frozen with horror for a moment, then her screams were piercing. Panting with victory, the prostrate one held her with a hold that the other did not attempt to free herself from.

Down, down she drew her.

Her lips had drawn back from her teeth, and her breath almost scorched the face that she held so close for the staring eyes to gloat over. Her exultation was so great that she could only gloat and gasp, and hold with a tension that had stopped the victim's circulation.

As a wounded, robbed tigress might hold and look, she held and looked.

Neither heard the swift steps of the man, and if the tigress saw him enter, she was not daunted. “Take me from her,” shrieked the terrified one. “Quick, take me from her,” she repeated it again, nothing else. “Take me from her.”

He hastily fastened the door and said something that the shrieks drowned, then picked up the pole. It fell with a thud across the arms which the tightening sinews had turned into steel. Once, twice, thrice. Then the one that got the fullest force bent; that side of the victim was free.

The pole had snapped. Another blow with a broken end freed the other side.

Still shrieking “Take me from her, take me from her,” she beat on the closed door till Squeaker opened it.

Then he had to face and reckon with his old mate's maddened dog, that the closed door had baffled.

The dog suffered the shrieking woman to pass, but though Squeaker, in bitten agony, broke the stick across the dog, he was forced to give the savage brute best.

“Call 'im orf, Mary, 'e's eatin' me,” he implored. “Oh corl 'im orf.”

But with stony face the woman lay motionless.

“Sool 'im on t' 'er.” He indicated his new mate who, as though all the plain led to the desired town, still ran in unreasoning terror.

“It's orl er doin',” he pleaded, springing on the bunk beside his old mate. But when, to rouse her sympathy, he would have laid his hand on her, the dog's teeth fastened in it and pulled him back.

SCRAMMY 'AND

A
LONG
the selvage of the scrub-girt plain the old man looked long and earnestly. His eyes followed an indistinct track that had been cut by the cart, journeying at rare intervals to the distant township. At dawn some weeks back it had creaked across the plain, and at a point where the scrub curved, the husband had stopped the horse while the woman parted the tilt and waved goodbye to the bent, irresponsive old man and his dog. It was her impending motherhood that made them seek the comparative civilization of the township, and the tenderness of her womanhood brought the old man closer to her as they drove away. Every week since that morning had been carefully notched by man and dog, and the last mark, cut three nights past, showed that time was up. Twice this evening he thought he saw the dust rise as he looked, but longer scrutiny showed only the misty evening light.

He turned to where a house stood out from a background of scrub. Beside the calf-pen near it, a cow gave answer and greeting to the penned calf. “No use pennin' up ther calf,” he muttered, “when they don't come. Won't do it termorrer night.” He watched anxiously along the scrub. “Calf must 'ave got 'is 'ed through ther rails an' sucked 'er. No one else can't 'ave done it. Scrammy's gorn; 'twarn't Scrammy.” But the gloom of fear settled on his wizened face as he shuffled stiffly towards the sheepyard.

His body jerked; there was a suggestion of the dog in his movements; and in the dog, as he rounded up the sheep, more than a suggestion of his master. He querulously accused the dog of “rushin' 'em, 'stead er allowin' Billy” (the leader) “to lead 'em”.

When they were yarded he found fault with the hurdles. “Some un 'ad been meddlin' with 'em.” For two pins he would “smash 'em up with ther axe”.

The eyes of the sheep reflected the haze-opposed glory of the setting sun. Loyally they stood till a grey quilt swathed them. In their eyes glistened luminous tears materialized from an atmosphere of sighs. The wide plain gauzed into a sea on which the hut floated lonely. Through its open door a fire gleamed like the red, steaming mouth of an engine. Beyond the hut a clump of myalls loomed spectral and wraith-like, and round them a gang of crows cawed noisily, irreverent of the great silence.

Inside the hut, the old man, still querulous, talked to the listening dog. He uncovered a cabbage-tree hat—his task of the past year—and laid upside down, on the centre of the crown, a star-shaped button that the woman had worked for him.

“It's orl wrong, see!” The dog said he did. “'Twon't do!” he shouted with the emphasis of deafness. The dog admitted it would not. “An' she done it like thet, ter spile it on me er purpus. She done it outer jealersy, cos I was makin' it for 'im. Could 'ave done it better meself, though I'm no 'and at fancy stitchin'. But she can't make a 'at like thet. No woman could. The're no good.” The dog did not dispute this condemnation.

“I tole 'er ter put a anker jes' there,” he continued. He pointed to the middle of the button which he still held upside down. “Thet's no anker!” The dog subtly indicated that there was another side to the button. “There ain't,” shouted the old man. “What do you know about an anker; you never see a real one on a ship in yer life!” There was an inaudible disparaging reference to “imperdent kerloneyals” which seemed to crush the dog. To mollify him the man got on his knees and, bending his neck, showed the dog a faded anchor on the top of the cabbage-tree hat on his head. A little resentment would have served the dog, but he was too eager for peace.

Noting this, the old man returned to the button for reminiscences. “An' yet you thort at fust a thing like thet would do.” There was a sign of dissent from the dog. “Yer know yer did—Sir. An' wot's more yer don't bark at 'er like yer used ter!”

The dog was uneasy, and intimated that he would prefer to have that past buried.

“None er thet now; yer know yer don't.” Bending the button he continued, “They can't never do anythin' right, an' orlways, continerally they gets a man inter trouble.”

He had accidentally turned the button, he reversed it looking swiftly at the dog. “Carn't do nothin' with it. A thing like thet! Might as well fling it in the fire!” He put it carefully away.

“W'ere's 'e now?” he asked abruptly. The dog indicated the route taken by the cart.

“An' 'ow long as 'e bin away?” The dog looked at the tally stick hanging on the wall. “Yes, orl thet time! What does 'e care about me an' you, now 'e's got 'er! 'E was fust rate afore 'e got 'er. Wish I 'ad er gorn down thet time 'e took their sheep. I'd er seen no woman didn't grab 'im. They're stuck away down there an' us orl alone 'ere by ourselves with only ther sheep. Scrammy sez 'e wouldn't stay if 'e wus me. See's there any signs er 'em comin' back!”

While the dog was out he hastily tried to fix the button, but failed. “On'y mist, no dust?” he asked, when his messenger returned. “No fear,” he growled, “'e won't come back no more; stay down there an' nuss ther babby. It'll be a gal too, sure to be! Women are orlways 'avin' gals. It'll be a gal sure enough.”

He looked sternly at the unagreeing dog. “Yer don't think so! Course yer don't. You on 'er side? Yer are, Loo!”

The dog's name was “Warderloo” (Waterloo) and had three abbreviations. “Now then, War!” meant mutual understanding and perfect fellowship. “What's thet, Warder?” meant serious business. But “Loo” was ever sorrowfully reminiscent And accordingly Loo was now much affected and disconcerted by the steady accusing eyes of the old man.

“An' wot's more,” he continued, “I believe ye'll fool roun', ye'll fool aroun' 'er wusser nor ever w'en she comes back with ther babby.” At this grave charge the dog, either from dignity or injury, was silent. His master, slowly and with some additions, repeated the prophecy, and again the dog gave him only silent attention.

“'Ere she comes with ther babby,” he cried, flinging up his arms in clumsy feigned surprise. Loo was not deceived, and stood still.

“Oh I'm a ole liar, am I! Yit's come ter thet; ez it? Well better fer I ter be a liar 'n fer you ter lose yer manners—Sir.”

In vain Loo protested. His master turned round, and when poor Loo faced that way, he drew his feet under him on the bunk and faced the wall. When the distressed Loo, from outside the hut, caught his eye through the cracks, he closed his own, to stifle remorse at the eloquent dumb appeal.

Usually their little differences took some time to evaporate; the master sulked with his silent mate till some daring feat with snake or dingo on the dog's part mollified him. Loo, probably on the look-out for such foes, moved to the end of the hut nearest the sheep. Two hasty squints revealed his departure, but not his whereabouts, to the old man, who coughed and waited, but for once expected too much from poor Loo. His legs grew cramped, still he did not care to make the first move. It was a godsend when an undemonstrative ewe and demonstrative lamb came in.

Before that ewe he held the whole of her disgraceful past, and under the circumstances, “'er imperdence—'er blarsted impendence—” in unceremoniously intruding on his privacy with her blanky blind udder, and more than blanky bastard, was something he could not and would not stand.

“None er yer sauce, now!” He jumped down, and shook his fist at the unashamed, silent mother. “Warder,” he shouted, “Warder, put 'em out!”

Warder did so, and when he came back his master explained to him that the thing that “continerally an' orlways” upset him was “thet dam old yoe”. It was the only sorrow he had or ever would have in life. “She wusn't nat'ral, thet ole yoe.” There was something in the Bible, he told War, about “yoes” with barren udders. “An' 'twarn't as though she didn't know.” For that was her third lamb he had had to poddy. But not another bite would he give this one. He had made up his mind now, though it had been worritin' him all day. “Jes' look at me,” showing his lamb-bitten fingers. “Wantin' ter get blood outer a stone!”

He shambled round, covered the cabbage-tree hat and the despised woman-worked button carefully; then his better nature prevailed. “See 'ere!” and there was that in his voice that indicated a moral victory. He took off the cloth and placed the button right side up and in its proper place. “Will thet do yer?” he asked.

After this surrender his excitement was so great that the dog shared it. He advised War to lie down “an' 'ave a spell”, and in strong agitation he went round the sheep-yard twice, each time stopping to hammer down the hurdles noisily, and calling to War not to “worrit; they's orlright now, an' firm as a rock.”

Through these proceedings the ewe and lamb followed him, the lamb—lamb fashion—mixing itself with his legs. He had nothing further to say to the ewe, but from the expression of her eyes she still had an open mind towards him. Both went with him inside the hut. Were they intruders? the dog asked. He coughed and affected not to hear, went to the door, looked out and said the mist was gone, but the dog re-asked. “I think, War, there's some er that orker'd little dam' fool's grub lef',” he said, gently extricating the lamb from between his legs, “an' it'll on'y spile. Jes' this once 'an no more, min' yer, an' then you skiddy addy,” he said to the ewe. He carried the lamb outside, for he would not finger-suckle it that night before Waterloo.

From his bunk-head he took an axe, cut in two a myall log, and brought in half. He threw it on the fire for a back-log, first scraping the live coals and ashes to a heap for his damper.

He filled and trimmed his slush-lamp, and from a series of flat pockets hanging on the wall he took thread, needle, and beeswax. He hung a white cloth in a way that defined the eye of the needle which he held at long range; but vary as he would from long to longest the thread remained in one hand, the needle in the other. Needle, thread, light, everything was wrong, he told War. “'Es fer me, thenk a Lord I ken see an' year's well's ever I could. Ehm, War! See any change?” War said there had been no change observable to him. “There ain't no change in you neither, War!” he said in gratitude to the grizzled old dog. But he felt that War had been disappointed at his failure, and he promised that he would rise betimes tomorrow and sew on the button by daylight.

“Never mind, War; like ter see 'em after supper?” Comradeship was never by speech better demonstrated.

From the middle beam the old man untied two bags. Boiled mutton was in one, and the heel of a damper in another.

“No blowey carn't get in there, eh?” the dog looked at the meat uncritically, but critically noted the resting place of two disturbed “bloweys”.