CHAPTER I
THE LITTLE CHAP
He was riding hard and fast, the thud of his horse's hoofs resounded from the sun-baked ground. He rode for a life, the life of his child, a little chap six years old. As he urged on his mare he fancied in every moan of the wind he heard a cry of pain. His face was set and his eyes were tearless, but his heart throbbed painfully, and each pulsation seemed to increase his dread of what might happen in the homestead during his absence. In the Australian bush doctors are few and far between, and many miles have to be covered before assistance in case of sickness can be obtained.
Jim Dennis's had not been a happy life. He was practically an outcast from society, a solitary man, living in a lonely spot in the wilds of New South Wales. He had been grievously wronged, and knew it, but others did not, and the world's judgment upon him had been harsh and unjust. He hated the world, so he said, and thought he meant, it; but there was one connecting link with the past that softened his heart, and that was the little chap who lay fighting for life while he rode at a mad pace to fetch aid so necessary to save him; and the mare, with that unerring instinct which horses possess, knew she was set no ordinary task. The sun was glowing down upon man and beast, and the ground felt like hot bricks. There was no grass, for the wretched substitute in the dried shrivelled blades that nodded faintly in the wind could scarcely be designated as such.
No trees afforded a cool shade, and a stagnant water-hole or two was no temptation to drink.
Jim Dennis had several miles to go before he reached Swamp Creek, the nearest township to his lonely station.
He urged the mare on, and faster and faster she went, taxing her strength to the uttermost, and yet never faltering, her courage still high, her spirit undaunted. Her nostrils were extended and fiery red, a few faint traces of foam were on the bit, but her mouth was dry and parched as the ground she galloped over.
Her breath came in short, quick sobs, and Jim Dennis knew she would be well-nigh spent in another hour. He was not a cruel man, and he had great affection for all animals. It was mankind that he warred against, not the brute creation.
'Poor old lass,' he murmured as he patted her hot neck. 'Poor old Bess. This is a hard day's work for you old girl; but don't think me cruel. You must save his life – my little chap's life. He's dying, Bess. Do you hear – ? he's dying!' He almost shouted the last words in a long wail of agony.
The mare pricked her ears at the sound, and, noble beast that she was, stretched out in a final effort.
She almost flew over the ground and even Jim Dennis, who knew her so well, was surprised.
'She knows,' he thought. 'Good old Bess! She's never gone like this before.'
There was a singing in his ears, and a monotonous, wailing cry hovered around him.
If the little chap died he knew there was nothing left for him to live for. That small life breathed hope into him, and if it were extinguished the last flicker would go out of his heart.
In the far distance he saw a small cluster of houses, shanties would perhaps be the proper word. It was the dim outline of Swamp Creek, a miserable little place, but to Jim it seemed a haven of rest and hope.
The local doctor was a curious compound of self-conceit and good nature. He had been a ship's surgeon for many years, and if he was somewhat addicted to drink, no better hearted fellow could be found for a hundred miles round.
He was stranded in Sydney, but through the aid of a brother medico of repute he managed to establish himself at Swamp Creek, where in his bachelor state he eked out an existence.
Dr Thomas Sheridan, or, as he was familiarly known in Swamp Creek district, Dr Tom, was simply idolised by the inhabitants, and this adoration was not undeserved, for it often stood in lieu of medical fees.
Dr Tom, even when in his cups, was never known to refuse to undertake any journey, no matter how far, or in what weather, or how remote the chance of payment.
Although he did not look it, Dr Tom was by no means unskilful, and he had an iron nerve which no amount of bad, fiery liquor, could shake.
It was to Dr Tom that Jim Dennis was riding, and he felt every confidence in his being able to pull the little chap through if he could only get him there in time.
That was the all-important question: Would Dr Tom arrive in time?
Nearer and nearer the mare galloped towards the township, and the doctor, whose house stood at the edge of the village, saw them coming.
He was in a good humour. That morning he had completed a difficult operation to his entire satisfaction, although the patient had alluded to him as a 'blundering old idiot,' and wondered why such men were permitted to 'adorn' the medical profession.
Dr Tom was used to strong language, Swamp Creek was famous for it, in fact the Creek had almost a language of its own. The atmosphere probably had something to do with the warmth of the expressions used by the inhabitants.
Dr Tom looked at the mare and her rider, and said to himself:
'That's Jim Dennis. Wonder what the devil he's up to, tearing about the country like a madman in this heat. He's on a "jag," I guess. Well, he'll get no assistance here, I can do with all the "jag mixture" myself.'
Jim Dennis pulled the exhausted mare up with a jerk, and, springing out of the saddle, rushed up the steps of the doctor's house.
'He's dying, Dr Tom, the little chap's dying. Come at once. For God's sake man hurry! We haven't a moment to lose. You must save him. You can save him. You will save him! He's all I have in the world.'
'What, little Willie!' exclaimed Dr Tom. 'What's got hold of him?'
'Fever, or something. He's raving. Don't stand talking. Hurry up! Get out your buggy and horses. Never mind if you drive 'em to death. I'll pay for 'em. Only get there in time.'
'I'll be ready in a crack, Jim,' said Dr Tom, as he went inside, and, in a very short space of time, the buggy, with a decent pair of horses hitched to it, was at the door.
'Leave your mare here, she's dead beat,' said Dr Tom.
Away they went at full gallop, and as the doctor's buggy dashed out of the township, people looked after it and thought it must be a desperate case for him to drive his cattle at such a pace.
'Keep calm, man; keep calm, or you'll be ill yourself,' said Dr Tom.
'I can't do it, doc, the little chap may be dead,' and Jim Dennis groaned.
'Cheer up, mate, you never know what a youngster can pull through; they'll beat a man hollow. Many's the child I have seen live when a man would have died,' said Dr Tom.
There was a gleam of hope in Jim Dennis's eyes, but it quickly faded, and he said, —
'Bad luck has dogged me all my life. There's a curse upon me, and now it's fallen on the little chap.'
Dr Tom looked at him. He did not know the history of this man's life but he guessed some of it. He was a shrewd judge of character, and in his heart he believed that Jim Dennis was more sinned against than sinning. He had heard strange stories of this lonely man, and he had more than once had a stand-up fight on his account. He liked Jim more than anyone about Swamp Creek, and he was very fond of the little chap, as Willie was called.
He meant to save the child if possible, and he had fought many a fight with grim Death and beaten him. Nothing gave Dr Tom more satisfaction than to rescue a patient from danger. It was not so much that he loved his profession as that he desired to overcome obstacles.
'Get up!' said the doctor, and laid the lash across the backs of his horses. 'It will ruin my pair, but I don't mind that. They are not accustomed to this pace.'
'You can take the best pair I have,' said Jim.
'I know that. You are not like the bulk of my patients. Cross words is the most I get from some of them,' said the doctor.
Jim Dennis smiled faintly. He knew Dr Tom did not exaggerate.
The buggy swayed from side to side and bumped up and down in a manner suggestive of an early turn over.
It was a rough country and there was only a track, made by the mail coach, which ran past Jim Dennis's place twice a week.
The doctor's buggy, however, was made to bear plenty of wear and tear, and, although it looked anything but elegant, it could stand a lot of knocking about. The last time it had been washed the Swamp Creek folk were so surprised that they turned out en masse to look at the unfamiliar operation. Dr Tom, who said he disliked publicity, had not since repeated the operation. The harness had several suspicions of bits of rope about it, and the horses were accustomed to do most of their own grooming by rolling in the stable yard. Altogether the turnout was not one to inspire confidence, but it was, nevertheless, a welcome sight to many a sufferer round Swamp Creek.
'We'll be there soon, Jim. Cheer up, old man. Don't let the little chap see you with a downcast face. Whom have you left with him?'
'Sal!'
'What! the half-caste?'
'Yes. She's a good sort.'
'Humph!' said the doctor.
'Who else could I leave?'
'No one, of course,' and Dr Tom applied the whip vigorously.
A cloud of dust rose around the buggy and they came to a stop; the sudden jerk nearly threw them out.
One of the horses was down. With a muttered curse, Jim Dennis jumped out and urged the animal to rise. The tired horse struggled to his feet and, as Jim sprang into the buggy, moved on again.
'Dead beat,' said Dr Tom; 'but he'll last to your place.'
In half an hour they saw Dennis's homestead in the distance, and again the lash came down on the horses' backs, wielded by Dr Tom's vigorous arm.
It was a moment of terrible suspense to Jim Dennis when the buggy pulled up, and Dr Tom, springing out with more activity than might have been expected, hurried into the cottage.
Jim was almost afraid to follow him.
If the little chap was dead he felt he could not bear the blow.
The minute or two he stood outside waiting seemed an eternity.
Then came a relief that was well-nigh as insupportable. It was Dr Tom who called out, —
'Come in, Jim, the little chap's alive. I'll pull him through. He's not so bad after all.'
'Thank God!' said Jim Dennis, whose prayers had been few and far between.
CHAPTER II
BLACK SAL
Jim Dennis's homestead was anything but an enticing place. He had built the bulk of it himself, and said it was good enough. The boards were fairly weather-beaten and the galvanised iron roof was torn at the ends by wind and rain. A small verandah in front was reached by five rickety steps, and some of the piles on which the house was built afforded a fine refuge for white ants. These insects were so industrious that one stump was a crumbling mass, so laboriously had it been honeycombed.
Around the homestead was the stable yard, a dull, dreary-looking place, consisting of two or three sheds hurriedly run up, a heap of refuse, a dirty old dog kennel, home made, a sheep pen, and a few etceteras, that men who have known such places will imagine.
For all that, however, Jim Dennis had a fair station. He had purchased it in the rough from the Government and obtained it on easy terms. All payments had been kept up and the land was his own.
Jim Dennis was never known to repudiate debts. His name was 'good' with the storekeepers for miles round, but he was more feared than respected. No one seemed able to understand him. He had an inscrutable face, and was seldom seen to smile except when the little chap was with him.
'He's a bad lot,' was the Swamp Creek opinion.
'And let me tell you, you "bounders,"' said Dr Tom, 'that half of you are not fit to black Jim Dennis's boots.'
'He never has 'em blacked, doc.'
'Then you're not fit to scrape the dirt off 'em, never mind the blacking,' was the retort.
Inside Wanabeen, the name of Jim's place, the little chap lay gasping on a camp bedstead, with the half-caste Sal crooning near him.
Sal was not so black as the aborigine, and had been brought up on a mission station. She was not a bad-looking woman, about four or five-and-twenty.
How came she there?
It happened in this wise. Sal was the offspring of a rich squatter. Her only disgrace was her birth, not to her, but to the man who begot her. She lived with the blacks on the station for several years. She grew up in wild, unrestricted freedom. She was lithe and active as any young black on the run, and her fleetness of foot had more than once stood her in good stead.
Sal had dark brown liquid eyes, a nose somewhat too large for her face, but not unprepossessing, full cheeks, a forehead well set on, small ears, thickish lips, and a mass of dark curly hair that never seemed to be out of order. She had small hands and small feet, and her supple limbs were graceful.
When the 'boss' of the station went to England to spend the money others had made for him, Sal was annexed by the mission people.
Not that these good folk meant any harm, quite the contrary, they took the girl for the good of her health and her soul.
It so happened that Sal did not know the meaning of the word soul, but it was explained to her. She thought it curious that a certain portion of her body when she died would go to regions far away. If she happened to be good her soul would revel above the blue sky in unrestricted freedom for evermore; if she by any chance turned out badly – well, there was another place where her soul would suffer torments suitable to her misdeeds.
Sal argued this matter out with herself, and commenced to take observations. She saw much in the conduct of her preceptors which caused her to wonder whether their souls were destined for the blue skies or the other place.
Having white blood in her veins, Sal had an imagination far beyond her dull, thick-skulled people. She had a mind and a will of her own. The former suggested to her that she ought to run away from the mission, and the latter carried it out. In a word, Sal 'bolted.'
For several years she wandered about with the members of her own tribe, loathing the savage, uncouth part of their nature, yet loving the liberty they enjoyed. She was a curious mixture, a compound of black and white, a study in unharmonies. Half tame, half wild, reasoning yet unreasoning, knowing good from bad, yet undecided on which side lay happiness. The chief of her tribe, King Charlie, who had dreamt the dream and seen the vision of the 'Spirit of the Lilies' and of the bursting of the cloud that turned the great western plain into a lake, understood her.
He protected her and saved her from danger.
King Charlie had a metal plate suspended from his neck, which covered his hard, black, hairy chest – in the shape of a half moon – and on this plate was written the 'order of the garter' of his tribe. King Charlie loved Sal, and she ruled him, as women have ruled those who love them since the day that Adam fell.
There came a time, when the land was parched and food was scarce, when the wandering camp split up and some went one way, some another.
Sal found a resting place at Wanabeen. She crawled, half dead, to the foot of the steps of Jim Dennis's homestead, and, panting, lay down to die.
She stretched out her scantily-clothed limbs and pillowed her black curly head on her shrunken arms.
She commenced to think about her soul and wonder when it would leave her body, and whether it would soar to that bright blue, hot, pitiless sky above. Then she fell asleep, and when Jim Dennis came out of his cottage with the little chap in his arms he stumbled over her.
Jim Dennis did not curse or swear or tell this outcast to 'get out.'
He put the little chap down, who was then three years old, and picked up the sleeping woman. He carried her on to the verandah – he was a big, powerful fellow – and then he went inside, dragged out his own mattress and put her on to it.
The little chap watched him with wondering eyes, and commenced to make three-year-old remarks, such as 'Who's that, daddy? Pitty woman. Whoo's seepy, daddy,' and so on.
Jim Dennis brought water and moistened her lips. Then he stood watching her.
Sal slept right through the night, and when she came round in the morning she saw Jim Dennis before her with the child in his arms. She rubbed her eyes and looked at them. Then she explained what had happened, and Jim said, —
'You can stay here and look after the little chap. Will you?'
Her big brown eyes glistened, and, weak as she was she stretched out her hands for the child.
Jim put him down, and, after a moment's hesitation, he toddled towards her.
From that day, three years ago, black Sal had been devoted to the little boy. In her wild, half-tamed way she loved him more than anything on earth.
It was Sal who sat at the child's bedside when Jim Dennis rode out to Swamp Creek for Dr Tom. The woman watched every movement of the little face, every quiver of the body. Each moan from his lips pierced her like a knife. The child was not her own, and yet she loved him, and worshipped with a dog-like devotion the big man who was his father.
Sal would willingly have submitted to any torture could she by so doing have saved the child a moment's pain.
During the long weary hours when Jim Dennis was absent she felt as though something in her body must snap.
Then she heard, with her keen ears, the low, dull thud of the horses' hoofs, and she knew they were coming, and that help was at hand. She did not leave the bedside to look out, she would not have done that for worlds. When Dr Tom came into the room she gave a gasp, and watched him as he looked at the child. She saw hope in his face and caught his hand.
Dr Tom pressed it and said, —
'Come in, Jim, the little chap's alive. I'll pull him through. It's not so bad after all.'
All that night Dr Tom fought for the child's life, and the dark woman and Jim Dennis looked on in silent agony.
With the first streaks of dawn a change came over the child. It was as though the coming day had ushered in new life and hope.
For two days Dr Tom remained at Wanabeen, and at the end of that time the boy's life was out of danger.
The tension relapsed, Jim Dennis said, —
'I have a lot to thank you for, doctor. You have saved him, and he is dearer to me than my own life. I shall never forget it. There may come a time when I can be of service to you, and then you must not be afraid to ask what you will of Jim Dennis.'
Dr Tom was not a sentimental man, but even his hard, rough-used nature felt the delicacy of the situation.
'It has given me more pleasure to save that child's life than I ever experienced before. Jim Dennis, you're a brick.'
Jim smiled as he replied, 'Swamp Creek thinks I'm a shocking bad lot.'
'Then Swamp Creek can go to – '
'Hold hard, doc.'
'Let 'em say anything against you in my presence, that's all,' said Dr Tom.
'You are quite sure he is out of danger?' asked Jim.
'Certain. I'll leave all the necessary medicine and tell Sal what to do. She's like a mother to him.'
A dark cloud gathered on Jim Dennis's face, and Dr Tom saw it.
'Jim, my man, where is the lad's mother?'
'Wait and I'll tell you on – ' he hesitated.
'On! – when?' asked Dr Tom.
'Settling Day,' said Jim.
CHAPTER III
POTTER'S SHANTY
Dr Tom remained for three days at Wanabeen.
'If there's anyone ill they know where to find me,' he said.
'They'll never come to Wanabeen for you. There's a bad name about this place,' Jim replied.
'Who's given it?'
'The police, and well – you know – others.'
'Why?'
Jim Dennis shrugged his shoulders. It was an expressive gesture, it meant so much to a man who understood him.
'You are one of the old gang, they tell me, Jim – is that true?'
'What do you mean by the old gang?'
'One of the men who stuck the beggars all up at Potter's Shanty when the coach was stopped,' said Dr Tom.
'They say that – do they?'
'Yes.'
'Then let it rest. I was there that night.'
'Were you in it, Jim? – no halves.'
'No, doc, I was not in it in the sense you mean.'
'Who put it up?'
The question was a simple one, but Jim Dennis turned round like a lion at bay, and said, —
'You – you – dare ask me that?'
Dr Tom felt uncomfortable.
'I don't want you to give a pal away,' he said.
Jim Dennis strode over to him and took his arm. The pressure was painful and Dr Tom winced.
'This is not an amputation case,' he said.
Jim Dennis dropped his arm and said quietly, —
'Forgive me, doc; but don't you really know the fact of that matter?'
'No, on my honour.'
'Then I am the last man to tell you.'
Dr Tom sighed and glanced out of his eyes at Jim.
That 'sticking up' case at Potter's Shanty had puzzled more than one clever man.
Now the little chap has pulled through, and death is not knocking at his door, it may be as well to relate the incident.
Potter's Shanty was a public-house, a wayside hotel, a dispensary for every kind of infernal liquor, bad and indifferent – there was no good.
The mail coach stopped at Potter's, and it was reported to the police that sometimes the mails stopped there also. Potter's was a curious old place, and lay, or, to be more correct, tried to stand, between Swamp Creek and Wanabeen. Old Potter was a relic of bygone days. He had been mixed up with the Kelly gang over the border, and at various times a hospitable Government had entertained him without his sanction.
Old Potter was a trifle of a moralist in his way. He could neither read or write; so on one occasion when he was accused of forgery he brought forward unimpeachable evidence in his favour.
The Crown had produced a mass of evidence which proved up to the hilt that old Potter was an unmitigated thief, but the prosecution went too far, as prosecutions occasionally do, and proved too much. It was sworn on oath (Potter was particular about oaths) that old Samuel Potter had forged a signature to a bill.
'What's a bill?' asked Samuel.
The Court tittered. There were a few remarks made as to Samuel Potter's blissful ignorance.
'Do you mean to tell me you don't know what a bill is?' asked the Crown prosecutor.
'Well, that depends,' said Potter.
'What depends? Depends on what? Answer me that, sir!' thundered the irate man with the flowing wig.
'Well, it's this way, you see. If you stayed at my shanty and ran up a score, which you didn't pay, and I asked you for the amount, I'd call that a bill.'
The learned gentleman pulled his black cloak furiously and said, —
'If I owed you a bill I would pay it, provided you presented it in due form.'
'That's what I couldn't do, your worship,' said Potter.
'Why?' asked the judge.
'Because I can't read or write.'
The judge put on his spectacles, which had been reposing on his notebook, and said, as he eyed the Crown prosecutor with severity, —
'I understood this man was charged with forgery.'
The Crown prosecutor blinked, and eventually Samuel Potter was discharged.
Although it was perfectly true that Potter could neither read or write, he was a shrewd man, and his shanty had been the scene of many an illegal transaction.
Swamp Creek folk had a wholesome dread of Potter's, and the solitary mounted constable in the place knew it was wise for him to 'keep in' with old Sam.
The police magistrate for the district was also aware that Potter's Shanty was a house of ill repute, but what could he do, he was one against many?
The incident alluded to by Dr Tom was exciting enough in its way.
Ned Glenn, the driver of the coach, pulled up as usual at Potter's to refresh his horses, five of them, fairly good animals. The passengers also endeavoured to cool their parched throats, but old Sam was one too many for them. His liquors were strong and 'home made,' and so the passengers discovered.
It so happened that on this journey the young manager of the Swamp Creek branch of the Nation's Bank was on his way to the headquarters for the Western District at Bourke. He carried with him a considerable sum of money, much in gold, more in notes.
It was his way of doing it. He thought that by not giving notice of the fact, publicity would be avoided, and that he might escape observation. Thirty or forty years ago things were very different in Australia to what they are now, and coaches were run in districts where the trains may now be seen daily.
Jim Dennis was at Potter's Shanty the night the coach stopped and the manager of the Nation's Bank was robbed.
A month after the robbery he cashed a note for five pounds in the Swamp Creek Hotel, and this same note was proved to have been in the possession of the manager of the Nation's Bank on the day of the robbery at Potter's. There was no direct evidence to prove Jim Dennis had any hand in the business, but in those days suspicion once fastened on to a man was difficult to get rid of. The majority of the people in the district believed Jim Dennis had a hand in the robbery, in fact was the instigator of it, and Sam Potter encouraged the impression.
Between Potter and Jim Dennis a continual war had been waged ever since, and, what made matters worse, Ned Glenn, the coach driver, sided with the owner of Wanabeen. Ned Glenn was no fool. He had driven the coach between Swamp Creek and Bourke for several years. He knew every inch of the road, or, to be more correct, the track, and no man could frighten a box-seat passenger out of his senses better than Ned. He was a weather-beaten old fellow, with a face like cracked parchment, merry little twinkling eyes that were suggestive of unlimited fun and roguery.
Ned Glenn was a character. He had figured, even in those early days, as a prominent man – a full page all to himself – in the Sydney Lantern. In this remarkable sheet Ned Glenn was depicted as a kind of Claude Duval on the box seat of his coach. Passengers were notified to 'beware of the driver,' and Ned's pockets were bulging out with stolen notes and various articles of attire alleged to have been the property of his passengers.
Ned was advised by the local lawyer at Swamp Creek that he had a good action against the paper and would recover heavy damages.
'And who'll get 'em?' said Ned.
'You will,' replied the lawyer.
'And what about your share?' asked Ned.
'I shall expect some recompense,' said the legal luminary.
Ned winked his near side eye and thought they had better let the matter slide. To tell the honest truth, Ned Glenn was rather proud of figuring in the Lantern. He had seen the Premier occupying the front page, also the Governor, and even if reflections were cast upon his character by the sketch, it was good to be in such company.
'And the hartist's signed his name to it,' said Ned, proudly, as he produced the crumpled up journal for the benefit of the 'bagman,' who occupied the box seat. Ned Glenn was a thick-and-thin supporter of Jim Dennis and Dr Tom, not to mention the little chap, and Sal. If the whole of the members of the ministry had been on his coach, Ned would have pulled up at Wanabeen.
It so came about that the night Dr Tom was to leave Wanabeen Ned's coach was due.
The doctor and Jim Dennis were standing on the verandah, and saw him tooling his team along at a shambling gallop.
'Funny thing we should be talking about that affair at Potter's,' said the doctor. 'Here's Ned's coach.'
'He'll pull up here, he always does,' said Jim. 'I'll go and get him a drink ready. I feel quite light-hearted now the little chap is better – thanks to you, doc.'
Jim Dennis passed inside, and before he came out again Ned Glenn had pulled up his horses in front of the homestead.
There were no passengers; he merely had the mail and some luggage.
'Hullo, doctor, what are you doing here?' sang out Ned in his cheery voice.
'Jim's youngster has been very ill. I've been here these three days.'
'Eh, Gad! What! the little chap?' exclaimed Ned, as he scrambled down.
'Yes, the little chap; but he's out of danger now,' said the doctor.
'Where's Jim?'
'Gone inside to get you a drink.'
Ned Glenn left the mails, the coach and the horses to look after themselves. His old-fashioned figure glided round the side of the homestead, and when he saw Jim Dennis he said, —
'He's all right, eh, Jim? We can't afford to lose him. There never was such a child.'
'Yes, Ned, he's safe, thanks to Dr Tom; but he's had a tough time of it.'
'And pulled through,' said Ned. 'I hope I'll live to see him on the back of a cup winner for his dad before I peg out.'