CHAPTER IV
JIM'S TROUBLE
Left alone with his son, Jim Dennis watched him tenderly, and Sal looked keenly at him, with dog-like devotion gleaming out of her deep, dull, liquid eyes.
She understood what the life of this child meant to the man who had been kind to her when all others had deserted her. Her heart bled for him in his trouble, and she would willingly have given her life to spare him pain.
Jim Dennis gazed long at the child's now peaceful face. As his little head lay pillowed in peaceful slumber on one arm, the features of the sleeping boy recalled many memories.
It brought back thoughts of a woman he had loved and married, and who left him when Willie Dennis was but an infant. It was a cruel, heartless blow she struck him, and he meant some day to 'settle' an account with the man who had robbed him.
It was the old story. The life at Wanabeen was lonely and Maud Dennis was city bred. Jim Dennis had deceived her in nothing when he married her. He told her of the solitary life he led, and painted his home in anything but glowing colours. He would rather have risked losing her than deceive her.
Maud fancied she loved him, probably she did then, and said life with him would be worth living anywhere. Jim Dennis believed her, married her and took her home to Wanabeen.
For a time all went well. Then the loneliness commenced to tell upon her somewhat frivolous nature. She pined for the city, the pleasures of Sydney life, the shops, the gaiety, the dances and picnics, the admiration of men and the thousand and one other attractions that are all in all to some women. Jim Dennis saw she felt lonely and it troubled him. He was absent on the station the greater part of the day, it could not be otherwise in his life. He thought when the child was born it would cheer her and render her life more tolerable.
He was grievously mistaken. Maud was not a woman to make a devoted mother. She was too selfish, and little Willie was rather a 'bore' to her.
With a great trouble at his heart, Jim Dennis saw this, and he felt he must do something to relieve the strain. He asked her if she would like to go to Sydney for a few months for a change. Maud was delighted at the prospect, but asked, much to her husband's astonishment, what would become of the child.
'Take him with you,' said Jim. 'You cannot leave him here.'
'Surely you can find someone to mind him. I shall not be able to enjoy myself in Sydney if he is there,' was her unfeeling reply.
Jim Dennis was a man of few words.
'Leave him with me. I will take care of him,' he said, as he took the little chap in his arms and kissed him.
'I am sure you will manage all right, Jim,' she said; 'and he will be far better here than in Sydney. It is a trying journey, and the coach is such an uncomfortable one. Yes, he will be far better here.'
So Willie remained at Wanabeen, and his mother went to Sydney. It was with a sad heart, and a feeling of bitter disappointment, that Jim Dennis watched her wave her hand in farewell from the box seat of Ned Glenn's coach.
He stood on the verandah with the child in his arms, and remained there until it was out of sight. He saw her talking gaily to Ned, and she did not look back after that one farewell.
A presentiment of coming evil oppressed him. Ought he to have allowed her to go? that was the burden of his thoughts. He hardly knew what he feared. She was his wife, and he trusted her; then what harm could come of it?
He had never seen her from that day, but her face and form came vividly to mind as he looked at his child.
He received letters from her during the first month of her stay in Sydney. He was pleased with them. She was happy, the change was doing her an immense amount of good. She inquired lovingly after him and the child. As the month wore on her letters became shorter, and excuses were made that she had so much to do, and such a short time to do it in, that she must make the most of it, and so on.
In the last letter he received no mention was made of Willie, and he felt it keenly.
Then there was an interval of suspense. He waited a fortnight and no letter arrived. He could stand it no longer, and he wrote to her father asking how it was he had not heard from Maud. Was she ill? Then came the reply that seemed for days and weeks to blot out his life, and he wandered about in an aimless, half-dazed way, heedless where he went, not knowing what he was doing.
'Maud left home to return to Wanabeen a week ago,' wrote her father. 'What can have happened?'
Jim Dennis knew what had happened. His heart told him that she had left him and deserted her child. He did not answer the letter, and another came.
Maud's father wrote to say his daughter was a disgrace to her family. He heard she had gone to England, but he did not know with whom. He advised him to think of her as dead and cast her memory out of his life, as he meant to do.
'She is not worth a thought from such a man as you, Jim Dennis. You are worth a hundred times more than she is. I am sorry for you, very sorry. Can we help you at all with the little one? If so, please say in what way. I wish to heaven she had never been born to bring this disgrace upon us all.'
Jim Dennis wanted no help, and wrote to that effect. 'I will find her out, and the man who has ruined our lives, and then there will be a heavy settling day between us. As for blotting her out of my memory, I cannot do that yet, but the day may come when it will be done. If ever such a day arrives, there will be no mercy for the man or the woman – at present I have some for her.'
It took him a long time to write this letter. He was not much of a hand at letter writing, and his thoughts did not flow freely. Living his lonely life, he did not hear for a long time the story his wife had circulated in Sydney.
She had not only deserted him, but she had cast aspersions upon his character. She had blackened his name and accused him of many sins. To hide her own shame she threw blame for it upon him. Nay, she even went so far as to repudiate her own son, and say he was not her child. No outrage to the feelings of such a man as Jim Dennis could have been worse. He heard faint rumours of such things, but he refused to believe them. However, the truth was forced home to him by a friend from Sydney, who thought it better he should know the facts and try to refute them.
But Jim Dennis refused to do so. He bore his second blow as he did the first, in silence, but he brooded long and deep over his wrongs. He hardened his heart and cursed the mother of his child.
He clenched his hands and swore a solemn oath the child should never hear its mother's name. Nay, more, he would, if necessary, uphold what his wife had said, and make Willie think he had another mother who was dead.
At all events, the lad should never learn, if he could possibly guard it from him, of the disgrace that had been put upon them both. Time had softened the blow to Jim Dennis, but had not healed it, and he was thinking of the bitter past as he sat by the bedside of his son.
Then old Ned Glenn's words occurred to him.
'What was he to make of the boy?'
Time enough for that, but still it had to be thought about. He had often mapped out an imaginary career for the little chap, but had never been able to satisfy himself the conclusions he had arrived at were for the best.
Ned Glenn's remark:
'I hope I'll live to see him on the back of a cup winner for his dad,' had sent off his thoughts in another direction.
Jim Dennis was a splendid horseman, no man in the wild district in which he lived could compare with him.
He had broken-in the most obstinate of buck-jumpers and took a delight in mastering their stubborn natures. If a neighbour had a particularly savage, untameable animal, he would send to him and ask him if he could 'make the brute manageable.'
Nothing suited Jim better. He did not think it a trouble, but a pleasure, and regarded it more as conferring a favour upon himself than the other way about.
He would ride miles to lend a hand at this 'amusement,' as he called it, and thought he risked neither life nor limb by undertaking the task.
'You are the rummiest fellow I ever knew,' said Dr Tom to him. 'You never charge anything for your trouble, and, bless me, if you don't seem to regard risking your neck as legitimate sport.'
'Is there anything I can do for you in the breaking-in line?' Jim asked with a smile.
'Yes, there is. I have bought a brute that licks creation,' said the doctor.
'Ah!' said Jim, expressively. 'Didn't try him before buying?'
'No, not much.'
'How long was the price?'
'Only a fiver.'
'You cannot expect much for that.'
'But I got more than I bargained for. The seller said he was quiet enough,' said the doctor.
'Have you had him in the buggy?'
'Can't get him to look at the vehicle, and he has kicked down a portion of the stable already.'
'It wouldn't take long to kick the lot down,' laughed Jim.
'Don't abuse my property, or the next time you are ill I shall decline to attend you.'
'You mean the first time I am ill. I have never troubled you for any medicine yet,' said Jim.
'Only for whisky,' said the doctor, with a twinkle in his eyes.
'How about this horse? Must I tackle him for you?' asked Jim, changing the subject.
'If you will be so obliging.'
Jim Dennis took the doctor's steed in hand, and in the course of a severe tussle, extending over several hours, completely cowed him.
To such a man as Jim Dennis the thought of his son being a jockey came natural. With a critical eye he looked him over and thought, 'He is just cut out for it. He'll never be a heavy weight and he's the exact shape.'
'He'll have to pretty well live in the saddle here,' thought Jim; 'and he may as well make the most of his skill if he has any in that direction.'
The lad turned over and, opening his eyes, looked into his father's face.
'Do you feel better now, Willie?' he asked tenderly.
'Yes, dad, all the pain has gone.'
Sal put her hand on his head and smoothed back his hair. 'You will soon be well, Willie,' she said.
'Does Dr Tom say so?'
'Yes,' answered his father.
'I'm so glad, dad. I want to be a big man and help you. There's no one to look after you but Sal and me. We'll take care of you. I mean to be as good a rider as you are.'
'That's right. I hope you will be even better.'
'I could not be better, because you are the best.'
'You must rest now, and keep quiet. Give him his medicine, Sal.'
The woman measured out the dose and placed the glass to his lips.
'That's not nasty. I like it,' he said.
A low, rumbling sound was heard. 'We are going to have rain,' said Jim, and his face brightened, for they were sorely in need of it.
'That will do good, dad.'
'Yes, and cool the air for you. You are not frightened at storms, are you?'
'No, not when you are here. I'm never frightened at anything when you are near me.'
It was a great consolation in Jim Dennis's life when he heard his child speak like this. He almost forgave the mother for deserting them, because it left Willie entirely for himself.
The only thing he was selfish in was the love of his son, and he could not bear that to be shared with anyone.
CHAPTER V
A REGULAR SAVAGE
For days and weeks there had been no rain at Wanabeen or in the Swamp Creek district. Jim Dennis was not a rich man, far from it, and he had to depend upon his small station for his living. Everything depended upon the weather. Without rain the land became a mere barren waste, and the stock perished. There were no artesian bores then, no artificial or scientific means of drawing supplies of water from under the ground, although Jim had a shrewd suspicion, from observations he had made, that underground rivers existed. He wished such rivers above instead of beneath the surface, or that he could find some means to tap them.
Owing to his boy's illness he had not been on his run for several days, quite an unusual occurrence with him. He could not leave the lad while in danger. He would have lost everything sooner than do so. But now he was on the high road to recovery, he went about his ordinary duties as usual.
The low rumbling still continued, and he went outside the house to look at the sky and watch the signs of the approach of the welcome storm. In the distance he saw black masses of clouds, but they were a long way off, and he was fearful that, after all, the storm might not reach Wanabeen.
The cattle and horses already recognised the coming rain, and sniffed the air and looked around with eager anticipation.
'I'll saddle up and have a look round,' he said to himself. 'Willie will be all right.'
He stepped inside and found his son asleep. He beckoned to Sal and told her to look after him and that he would not be long gone.
He saddled his horse, a fine bay about six years old, and one he had bred himself. There was a certain amount of comradeship between Jim Dennis and his horses. They seemed to understand him as well as he did them. He rode out at the gate and went in the direction of the storm.
It was with a glad heart he heard the rumbling of the thunder, and from the various signs around him he knew the rain was near at hand. As far as he could see there was a peculiar haze in the atmosphere, dense, like falling rain.
The brown, bare earth, with here and there a scanty tuft of green, seemed to lie gasping for water. Big cracks appeared in the ground where it had been unable to stand the constant baking any longer, and so had given way. The trees were gaunt and well-nigh leafless.
He rode along keeping his eyes fixed on the clouds ahead. With surprising suddenness he felt a cool breeze commence to blow. It fanned his face and refreshed him, and his horse snorted and tossed his head as though he would say, 'This is a pleasant change. There will be a chance of a good feed soon.'
He reined in and waited; there was no occasion to ride on, for the storm was coming towards him fast. It was a thing to be welcomed, not avoided.
A few drops of rain fell, and he turned round to ride home. He had gone out to greet it and give it the welcome due to such a guest.
A dozen horses came galloping towards him, and he saw one of them was a strange animal and did not belong to him.
Jim Dennis knew there were lawless characters in the district who would be only too glad to get him into trouble. He was a straight goer and would have nothing to do with them, although he was credited with being hand and glove with the gang. The mounted police, too, had a 'down' on Jim, with one exception, Constable Doonan, who was his staunch friend. It was over the sticking up of the mail at Potter's Shanty and the robbery of the bank agent, that the police were strong against him. At that time Doonan was not in the district, but he had heard all about it, and when he came to know Jim Dennis he refused to believe he had a hand in it.
Sergeant Machinson, however, and the men who were engaged with him in investigating the robbery, wished to lay the blame upon Jim Dennis, and they, no doubt, honestly thought him the guilty party, or one of it.
Jim, however, was too many for them, and, managed to keep out of their clutches.
Sergeant Machinson had been called over the coals for not capturing the thieves, and he was wroth over the affair accordingly.
'That fellow Dennis was at the bottom of it, I'll be sworn,' he said to the other constables; 'or how did he come by the five-pound note? We must have him yet, my lads, but he'll take some catching. He's a smart fellow, but those very clever men often do some foolish act and it gives them away.'
As the bad characters in any district generally know what is going on, they soon discovered Sergeant Machinson and the bulk of his men had a 'set' against Jim Dennis. This helped them considerably in their dealings with the owner of Wanabeen.
Fortunately, however, for Jim Dennis, Constable Doonan was stationed at Swamp Creek, and looked after the district around Wanabeen.
Sergeant Machinson was quartered at Barragong, about ten miles away, and was in charge of a large tract of country. He had several men under him, amongst them Doonan. He would have removed Doonan elsewhere, as he knew he was partial to Jim Dennis, but had no ostensible reason for such a step.
When Jim Dennis saw the strange horse running with his own, his first thought was that some evil-disposed person had put it on his run in order to get him into trouble. Such things were often done out of spite or revenge, in fact Jim had narrowly escaped getting into trouble from this cause.
The rain was now coming down fast and the thunder crashed overhead with loud, startling cracks. The vivid lightning frightened the mob of horses, and they galloped at headlong speed in the direction of the homestead.
The strange horse was a splendid mover and soon headed the others.
Jim saw he was a thoroughbred, or nearly so, and thought to himself:
'By Jove! he can gallop. Mine are a fast lot, but he has given them the go-by. He's a stallion too. Wonder whose he is? I must make inquiries. This is no put-up job to get me into trouble. Abe Dalton and his gang never have horses like that to handle!'
He galloped after them and as he neared home saw the yard gates stood wide open.
'They'll go in,' said Jim to himself; 'and I must get up in time to shut them in.'
Faster and faster came the rain, and the hot ground steamed under the grateful cooling shower. In a few days the whole aspect of the country would be changed, and nature appear in a different form. Instead of the dull, dry brown would come a bright, refreshing green. The grass grows with remarkable rapidity in such regions and the scene changes as though by magic. The horses had gone under the sheds for shelter, and Jim, dismounting, closed the gates. Having unsaddled his horse, and peeped inside to see how Willie fared, he went to look at the stranger amongst his mob.
Already there was a fight on and the stallion was trying to savage his nearest neighbour. A battle royal seemed imminent, but Jim Dennis meant to stop that.
He went for a stock whip, and quickly gave the combatants to understand he was acting as referee and that he had called time.
Crack came the lash and caught the stallion on his flank. He jumped as though he had been shot, and stood still quivering. Crack came the whip again, and the other combatant galloped round the yard.
The strange horse stood looking at him with a fiery light in his eyes. He evidently did not understand this unceremonious treatment, and resented the lash of the whip.
'You try it on. Just you try it on. You'll savage me, will you? My boy, you don't know Jim Dennis.'
Jim stood bareheaded, with the rain pouring down upon him, and he revelled in the glorious shower bath. He had on a rough shirt, such as stockmen wear, a dullish red, it having seen some service, and his breeches fitted neatly into his riding boots. He was rather particular about such things for a bushman, and he may be called such without it being a misnomer.
The horse eyed Jim, and Jim kept his eyes steadily fixed on the horse.
There was a moment or two of uncertainty, and then, before the animal had time to plunge forward towards him, Jim Dennis whirled his whip round, and the lash came down on the horse's neck and curled.
With a jerk Jim had it freed again, and then the horse rushed at him.
He sprang on one side and escaped the furious attack. Quick as lightning, before the animal could turn, he had brought the lash down again on his back, and this time the horse did not turn, but galloped to the far side of the yard.
But the struggle was not ended.
The stranger again made an attack on the horse nearest him, and there was a general uproar and stamping of hoofs amongst the mob.
Jim returned to the attack and separated them. In doing so he became wedged in a corner against the fence, and the stallion came straight at him.
He had no time to use the lash, so, seizing it short in his hand, he twisted it round and raised the stock.
He struck the now infuriated horse a blow on the forehead, which dazed him for a moment but did not daunt him. The horse stood on his hind legs and commenced to strike at Jim with his fore feet.
Jim Dennis knew he had never been in such a tight fix before, and he commenced to wonder what would happen.
He struck the horse's fore legs again and again with the stock of his whip, but could not beat him off.
He heard the gate opened, but did not see who was there. Presently the stallion was attacked in the rear, and a vigorous lashing from a strong arm made him alter his tactics. He came down on all fours and then kicked furiously. Jim Dennis dodged round him, and, standing back to give himself more room, again plied his lash with effect.
The horse was now beaten, and took his defeat sullenly. He retreated, and received a parting whack as he went.
Jim Dennis then saw it was Constable Doonan who had so timely come to the rescue.
'You were in a tight corner, Jim. I came just in time. That's a brute of a horse. Where did you get him?'
'I didn't get him, he came of his own accord. He doesn't belong to me. I found him with my mob when I was out on the run. The storm gave them a fright, and they galloped into the yard. He commenced to savage my horses, so I had to separate them. We have had a toughish struggle.'
'Curious,' said Doonan. 'I wonder to whom he belongs. Looks like a thoroughbred. I have heard nothing about a horse being lost. He must have broken loose. Can you keep him here until I make inquiries?'
'If we can box him he'll be all right. Perhaps they were bringing him from Sydney or somewhere, and he managed to get away. Come inside, Fred, you are wet through.'
'It will do me good,' laughed Doonan. 'It is a long time since we had such a soaking. What a difference it will make to your place. By the way, how's the young un? I heard from Dr Sheridan he had been very ill.'
'He has had a narrow squeak, but he's pulled through, thanks to Dr Tom. Come in and see him. Willie is very fond of you,' said Jim.
'Oh, did you hear Rodney Shaw has come back from England?' said Doonan, as they went indoors.
'Has he?' said Jim. 'Why, he must have been away six or seven years.'