Bush Studies (6 page)

“No bones!” He had taken great care to omit them. “Neow!” As ever, War took his word; he caught and swallowed instantly several pieces flung to him. At the finish his masters “Eny?” referred to bones. War's grateful eyes twinkled, “Not a one.” “Never is neow!” had reference to a trouble War had had with one long ago.

It was now time for his own supper, but after a few attempts he shirked it. “Blest if I evven fergot t'bile th' billy; funny ef me t' ferget!” He held his head for a moment, then filled the billy, and in a strange uncertainty went towards and from the fire with it, and in the end War thought there was no sense at all in putting it so far from the blaze when it had to boil.

“Tell yer wot, War, w'ile it biles us'll count 'em. Gimme appertite, ehm, War?”

War thought “countin' 'em” was the tonic. Then together they closed the door, spread a kangaroo-skin on the floor, and put the slush-lamp where the light fell on it. The man sat down, so did War, took off his belt, turned it carefully, tenderly, and opened his knife to cut the stitching. This was a tedious process, for it was wax thread, and had been crossed and recrossed. Then came the chink of the coins falling. The old man counted each as it rolled out, and the dog tallied with a paw.

“No more?” Certainly more, said War. A jerk, tenderly calculated, brought another among the seductive heap.

“All?” no—still the upraised paw. The old man chuckled.

“Ole 'en gets more b' scratchin'.” This was the dog's opinion, and a series of little undulations produced another, and after still further shaking, yet another.

War was asked with ridiculous insincerity, “All?” and with ridiculous sincerity his solemn eyes and dropped paw said “All”. Then there was the honest count straight through, next the side show with its pretence of “disrememberin'”, or doubts as to the number—doubts never laid except by a double count. In the first, so intent was the man, that he forgot his mate; though his relief in being good friends again had made him ignore his fear.

But the dog had heard an outside sound, and, moving to the door, waited for certainty. At this stage the man missed his mate's eyes.

He lay face downward, covering his treasure, when he realized that his friend was uneasy. And as the dog kept watch, he thrust them back hurriedly, missing all the pleasure and excitement of a final recount.

With dumb show he asked several questions of his sentinel, and took his answers from his eyes. Then, when Warder, relieved, began to walk about, the old man with forced confidence chaffed him. He sought refuge from his own fears by trying to banish the dog's, and suggested dingoes at the sheepyard, or a “goanner” on the roof. “Well, 'twas 'possum,” he said, making a pretence of even then hearing and distinguishing the sound.

But round his waist the belt did not go that night. Only its bulk in his life of solitariness could have conceived its hiding place.

He bustled around as one having many tasks, but these he did aimlessly. With a pretence of unconcern he attempted to hum, but broke off frequently to listen. He was plainly afraid of the dog's keen ears missing something. But his mate's tense body proclaimed him on duty.

“I know who yer thort 'twas, Warder!” They were sitting side by side, yet he spoke very loudly. “Scrammy 'and, ehm?” He had guessed correctly.

“An' yer thort yer see 'im lars' night!” He was right again.

“An' yer thort 'twas 'im that 'ad bin ramsakin' the place yesterday, when we was shepherdin'. An' yer thort 't must 'ave bin 'im shook the tommy!” The dog's manner evinced that he had not altered this opinion. The old man's heart beat loudly.

“No fear, Warder! Scrammy's gone, gone long ways now, Warder!” But Warder's pricked ears doing double duty showed he was unconvinced. “'Sides, Scrammy wouldn't 'urt er merskeeter,” he continued. “Poor ole Scrammy! 'Twarn't 'im shook the tommy, Warder!” The dog seemed to be waiting for the suggestion of another thief having unseen crept into their isolated lives, but his master had none to offer. Both were silent, then the man piled wood on the fire, remarking that he was going to sit up all night. He asked the dog to go with him to the table to feed and trim the slush-lamp.

Those quavering shadows along the wall were caused by its sizzling flare flickering in the darkness, the dog explained. “Thort it mighter bin ther blacks outside,” the man said. “They ain't so fur away, I know! 'Twar them killed ther lamb down in ther creek.” He spoke unusually loudly. He hoped they wouldn't catch “poor ole one-'anded Scrammy”. He said how sorry he was for “poor ole Scrammy, cos Scrammy wouldn't 'urt no one. He on'y jes' came ter see us cos 'e was a ole friend. He was gone along ways ter look fur work, cos 'e was stony broke after blueing 'is cheque at ther shanty sixty miles away.”

“I tole 'im,” he continued in an altered voice, “thet I couldn't lend 'im eny cos I 'ad sent all my little bit er money” (he whispered “money”) “to ther bank be ther boss. Didn' I?” Emphatically his mate intimated that this was the case. He held his head in his shaking hands, and complained to the dog of having “come over dizzy”.

He was silent for a few moments, then, abruptly raising his voice, he remarked that their master was a better tracker than “Saddle-strap Jimmy”, or any of the blacks. He looked at the tally stick, and suddenly announced that he knew for a certainty that the boss and his wife would return that night or early next morning, and that he must see about making them a damper. He got up and began laboriously to mix soda and salt with the flour. He looked at the muddy-coloured water in the bucket near the wall, and altered his mind.

“I'll bile it first, War, same as 'er does, cos jus' neow an' then t' day I comes over dizzy-like. See th' mist t's even! Two more, then rain—rain, an' them two out in it without no tilt on the cart.” He sat down for a moment, even before he dusted his ungoverned floury hands.

“Pint er tea, War, jes' t' warm ther worms an' lif' me 'art, eh!”

Every movement of the dog was in accord with this plan.

His master looked at the billy, and said, “'twarn't bilin'”, and that a watched pot never boiled. He rested a while silently with his floury hands covering his face. He bent his mouth to the dog's ear and whispered. Warder, before replying, pointed his ears and raised his head. The old man's hand rested on the dog's neck.

“Tell yer wot, War, w'ile it's bilin' I'll 'ave another go at ther button, cos I want ter give 'im ther 'at soon as he comes. S'pose they'll orl come!” He had sat down again, and seemed to whistle his words. “Think they'll orl come, Loo?”

Loo would not commit himself about “orl”, not being quite sure of his master's mind.

The old man's mouth twitched, a violent effort jerked him. “Might be a boy arter orl; ain't cocky sure!” His head wagged irresponsibly, and his hat fell off as he rolled into the bunk. He made no effort to replace it, and, for once unheeded, the fire flickered on his polished head. Never before had the dog seen its baldness. The change from night-cap to hat had always been effected out of his sight.

“War, ain't cocky sure it'll be a gal?”

The dog discreetly or modestly dropped his eyes, but his master had not done with concessions.

“Warder!” Warder looked at him. “Tell yer wot, you can go every Sunday evenin' an' see if 'tis a boy!”

He turned over on his side, with his face to the wall. Into the gnarled uncontrolled hand swaying over the bunk the dog laid his paw.

When the old man got up, he didn't put on his hat nor even pick it up. Altogether there was an unusualness about him tonight that distressed his mate. He sat up after a few moments, and threw back his head, listening strainingly for outside sounds. The silence soothed him, and he lay down again. A faded look was in his eyes.

“Thort I 'eard bells—church bells,” he said to the dog looking up too, but at him, “Couldn't 'ave. No church bells in the bush. Ain't 'eard 'em since I lef' th' ole country.” He turned his best ear to the fancied sound. He had left his dog and the hut, and was dreaming of shadowy days.

He raised himself from the bunk, and followed the dog's eyes to a little smoke-stained bottle on the shelf. “No, no, War!” he said. “Thet's for sickness; mus' be a lot worser'n wot I am!” Breathing noisily, he went through a list of diseases, among which were palsy, snake-bite, “dropersy”, and “suddint death”, before he would be justified in taking the last of his pain-killer.

His pipe was in his hidden belt, but he had another in one of those little pockets. He tried it, said “'twouldn't draw'r”, and very slowly and clumsily stripped the edge of a cabbage-tree frond hanging from the rafter, and tried to push it through the stem, but could not find the opening. He explained to the intent dog that the hole was stopped up, but it didn't matter. He placed it under the bunk where he sat, because first he would “'ave a swig er tea”. His head kept wagging at the billy. No, until the billy boiled he was going to have a little snooze. The dog was to keep quiet until the billy boiled.

Involuntarily he murmured, looking at his mate, “Funny w'ere ther tommy'awk's gone ter!” Then he missed the axe. “My Gord, Warder!” he said, “I lef' the axe outside; clean forgot it!” This discovery alarmed the dog, and he suggested they should bring it in.

“No, no!” he said, and his floury face grew ghastly.

He stood still; all his faculties seemed paralysed for a time, then fell stiffly on his bunk. Quite suddenly he staggered to his feet, rubbed his eyes, and between broken breaths he complained of the bad light, and that the mist had come again.

One thing the dog did when he saw his master's face even by that indifferent light, he barked low, and terribly human.

The old man motioned for silence. “Ah!” His jaw fell but only for a moment. Then a steely grimness took possession. He clung to the table and beckoned the dog with one crooked finger. “Scrammy?” cunningly, cautiously, indicating outside, and as subtly the dog replied. Then he groped for his bunk, and lay with his eyes fixed on the billy, his mouth open.

He brought his palms together after a while. “'Cline our 'earts ter keep this lawr,” he whispered, and for a moment his eyes rested on the hiding place, then turned to the dog.

And though soon after there was a sinister sound outside, which the watchful dog immediately challenged, the man on the bunk lay undisturbed.

Warder, growling savagely, went along the back wall of the hut, and, despite the semi-darkness, his eyes scintillating with menace through the cracks drove from them a crouching figure who turned hastily to grip the axe near the myall logs. He stumbled over the lamb's feeding-pan lying in the hut's shadow. The moonlight glittering on the blade recalled the menace of the dog's eyes. The man grabbed the weapon swiftly, but even with it he felt the chances were unequal.

But he had planned to fix the dog. He would unpen the sheep, and the lurking dingoes, coming up from the creek to worry the lambs, would prove work for the dog. He crouched silently to again deceive this man and dog, and crept towards the sheepyard. But the hurdles of the yard faced the hut, and the way those thousand eyes reflected the rising moon was disconcerting. The whole of the night seemed pregnant with eyes.

All the shadows were slanting the wrong way, and the moon was facing him, with its man calmly watching every movement. It would be dawn before it set. He backed from the yard to the myall's scant screen. Even they had moulted with age. From under his coat the handle of the axe protruded. His mind worked his body. Hugging the axe, he crept towards some object, straightened himself to reach, then with the hook on his handless arm, drew back an imaginary bolt, and stooping entered. With the axe in readiness he crept to the bunk. Twice he raised it and struck.

It was easy enough out there, yet even in imagination his skin was wet and his mouth was dry. Even if the man slept, there was the dog. He must risk letting out the sheep. He covered the blade of the axe and went in a circuit to the sheep, and got over the yard on the side opposite to the hut. They rushed from him and huddled together, leaving him, although stooping, exposed. He had calculated for this, but not for the effect upon himself. Could they in the hut see him, he would be no match for the dog even with the axe. Heedlessly, fear-driven, he rushed to where he could see the door, regardless of exposing himself. Nothing counted now, but that the dog or the old man should not steal upon him unawares.

The door was still closed. No call for “Warder!” came from it, though he stood there a conspicious object. While he watched he saw an ewe lamb make for the hut's shelter. He stooped, still watching, and listened, but could hear nothing. He crept forward and loosened the hurdles. Never were they noisier, he was sure. He knew that the sheep would not go through while he was there. He crept away, but although the leader noted the freed exit, he and those he led were creatures of habit. None were hungry, and they were unused to feeding at night, though in the morning, came man and dog never so early, they were waiting.

Round the yard and past the gateway he drove them again and again. He began to feel impotently frenzied in the fear that the extraordinary lightness meant that daylight must be near. Every moment he persuaded himself that he could see more plainly. He held out his one hand and was convinced.

He straightened himself, rushed among them, caught one, and ran it kicking through the opening. It came back the moment he freed it. However it served his purpose, for as he crouched there, baffled, he unexpectedly saw them file out. Then they rushed through in an impatient struggling crowd, each fearing to be last with this invader.

When he “barrowed” out the first, he had kept his eyes on the hut, and had seen an old ewe and lamb run to it and bunt the closed door. But if there was any movement inside, the noise of the nearer sheep killed it.