Robbery Under Arms

R >> Rolf Boldrewood >> Robbery Under Arms

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One of the young cows was a bit strange with me, so I had to
shake a stick at her and sing out `Bail up' pretty rough
before she'd put her head in. Aileen smiled something like her old self
for a minute, and said --

`That comes natural to you now, Dick, doesn't it?'

I stared for a bit, and then burst out laughing. It was a rum go,
wasn't it? The same talk for cows and Christians. That's how things
get stuck into the talk in a new country. Some old hand like father,
as had been assigned to a dairy settler, and spent all his mornings
in the cowyard, had taken to the bush and tried his hand
at sticking up people. When they came near enough of course he'd pop out
from behind a tree in a rock, with his old musket or a pair of pistols,
and when he wanted 'em to stop `Bail up, d---- yer,' would come
a deal quicker and more natural-like to his tongue than `Stand.'
So `bail up' it was from that day to this, and there'll have to be
a deal of change in the ways of the colonies and them as come from 'em
before anything else takes its place, between the man that's got the arms
and the man that's got the money.

After we'd turned out the cows we put the milk into the little dairy.
How proud Jim and I used to be because we dug out the cellar part,
and built the sod wall round the slabs! Father put on the thatch;
then it was as cool and clean as ever. Many a good drink of cold milk
we had there in the summers that had passed away. Well, well,
it's no use thinking of those sort of things. They're dead and gone,
like a lot of other things and people -- like I shall be before long,
if it comes to that.

We had breakfast pretty comfortable and cheerful. Mother looked pleased
and glad to see me once more, and Aileen had got on her old face again,
and was partly come round to her old ways.

After breakfast Aileen and I went into the garden and had a long talk
over the plan we had chalked out for getting away to Queensland.
I got out a map Starlight had made and showed her the way we were going
to head, and why he thought it more likely to work than he had done before.
I was to make my way down the Macquarie and across by Duck Creek,
George's station, Willaroon; start from there with a mob of cattle
to Queensland as drover or anything that would suit my book.

Jim was to get on to one of the Murray River boats at Swan Hill,
and stick to her till he got a chance to go up the Darling
with an Adelaide boat to Bourke. He could get across from there by Cunnamulla
towards Rockhampton, and from there we were safe to find plenty of vessels
bound for the islands or San Francisco. We had hardly cared where,
as far as that goes, as long as we got clear away from our own country.

As soon as Jeanie got a word from Jim that he'd sailed and was clear
of Australia, she'd write up to Aileen, who was to go down to Melbourne,
and take mother with her. They could stop with Jeanie
until they got a message from San Francisco to say he'd safely arrived there.
After that they could start by the first steamer. They'd have money enough
to take their passages and something handsome in cash when they got to land.

Aileen agreed to it all, but in a curious sort of way. `It looked well,'
she said, `and might be carried out, particularly as we were
all going to work cautiously and with such a lot of preparation.'
Everything that she could do would be done, we might be sure; but though
she had prayed and sought aid from the Blessed Virgin and the saints
-- fasting and on her bare knees, night after night -- she had not been able
to get one gleam of consolation. Everything looked very dark,
and she had a terrible feeling of anxiety and dread about the carrying it out.
But she didn't want to shake my courage, I could see;
so she listened and smiled and cheered me up a bit at the end,
and I rode away, thinking there was a good show for us after all.

I got back to the Hollow right enough, and for once in a way
it seemed as if the luck was on our side. Maybe it was going to turn --
who was to know? There had been men who had been as deep in it as any of us
that had got clean away to other countries and lived safe and comfortable
to the day of their death -- didn't die so soon either --
lived to a good round age, and had wives and children round them
that never knew but what they'd been as good as the best.
That wouldn't be our case; but still if we once were able to put the sea
between us and our old life the odds would be all in our favour
instead of being a hundred to one that we weren't placed and no takers.

Starlight was glad enough to see me back, and like everything he tackled,
had been squaring it all for our getting away with head and hand.
We wanted to take everything with us that could do us any good, naturally.
Father and he had made it right with some one they knew at Turon
to take the gold and give them a price for it -- not all it was worth,
but something over three-fourths value. The rest he was to keep
for his share, for trouble and risk. There was some risk, no doubt,
in dealing with us, but all the gold that was bought in them days
wasn't square, not by a lot. But there was no way of swearing to it.
Gold was gold, and once it was in the banks it was lumped up with the rest.
There was a lot of things to be thought of before we regularly made a move
for good and all; but when you make up your mind for a dart,
it's wonderful how things shape. We hadn't much trouble dividing the gold,
and what cash there was we could whack easy enough. There was the live stock
that was running in the Hollow, of course. We couldn't well take them
with us, except a few of the horses. We made a deal at last with father
for them. He took my share and Starlight's, and paid us in cash
out of his share of the notes. All we wanted was a couple of horses each,
one to carry a pack, one to ride.

As for dad, he told us out, plump and plain, that he wasn't going to shift.
The Hollow was good enough for him, and there he was going to stop.
If Jim and I and Starlight chose to try and make blank emigrants of ourselves,
well and good. He didn't see as they'd have such a rosy time
getting over to these new townships on the other side. We might get took in,
and wish we was back again before all was said and done.
But some people could never let well alone. Here we had everything
that any man in his senses could wish for, and we wasn't contented.
Every one was going to cut away and leave him; he'd be all by himself,
with no one but the dog for company, and be as miserable as a bandicoot;
but no one cared a blank brass farden about that.

`Come with us, governor,' says Starlight, `have a cruise round the world,
and smell salt water again. You've not been boxed up in the bush
all your life, though you've been a goodish while there. Make a start,
and bring old Crib too.'

`I'm too old and getting stiff in the j'ints,' says dad, brightening up a bit,
`or I don't say as I wouldn't. Don't mind my growling.
But I'm bound to be a bit lonely like when you are all drawed off the camp.
No! take your own way and I'll take mine.'

`Next Monday ought to see us off,' says Starlight. `We have got
the gold and cash part all right. I've had that money paid
to Knightley's credit in the Australian Bank I promised him,
and got a receipt for it.'

`That's just like yer,' says father, `and a rank soft thing
for a man as has seen the world to drop into. Losin' yer share
of the five hundred quid, and then dropping a couple of hundred notes
at one gamble, besides buying a horse yer could have took for nothing.
He'll never bring twenty pound again, neither.'

`Always pay my play debts,' says Starlight. `Always did, and always will.
As for the horse -- a bargain, a bargain.'

`And a dashed bad bargain too. Why didn't ye turn parson instead of taking
to the bush?' says father, with a grin. `Dashed if I ain't seen some parsons
that could give you odds and walk round ye at horse-dealin'.'

`You take your own way, Ben, and I'll take mine,' says Starlight
rather fierce, and then father left off and went to do something or other,
while us two took our horses and rode out. We hadn't a long time
to be in the old Hollow now. It had been a good friend to us in time of need,
and we was sorry in a kind of way to leave it. We were going to play
for a big stake, and if we lost we shouldn't have another throw in.

Our horses were in great buckle now; they hadn't been doing much lately.
I had the one I'd brought with me, and a thoroughbred brown horse
that had been broken in the first season we came there.

Starlight was to ride Rainbow, of course, and he had great picking
before he made up his mind what to choose for second horse.
At last he pitched upon a thoroughbred bay mare named Locket
that had been stolen from a mining township the other side of the country.
She was the fastest mare they'd ever bred -- sound, and a weight-carrier too.

`I think I'll take Locket after all,' says he, after thinking about it
best part of an hour. `She's very fast and a stayer. Good-tempered too,
and the old horse has taken up with her. It will be company for him.'

`Take your own way,' I said, `but I wouldn't chance her.
She's known to a lot of jockey-boys and hangers-on. They could swear
to that white patch on her neck among a thousand.'

`If you come to that, Rainbow is not an every-day horse,
and I can't leave him behind, can I? I'll ship him, if I can, that's more.
But it won't matter much, for we'll have to take back tracks all the way.
You didn't suppose we were to ride along the mail road, did you?'

`I didn't suppose anything,' says I, `but that we were going to clear out
the safest way we could. If we're to do the swell business
we'd better do it apart, or else put an advertisement into the "Turon Star"
that Starlight, Marston, and Co. are giving up business and going to leave
the district, all accounts owing to be sent in by a certain date.'

`A first-rate idea,' says he. `I'm dashed if I don't do it. There's nothing
like making one's exit in good form. How savage Morringer will be!
Thank you for the hint, Dick.'

There was no use talking to him when he got into this sort of humour.
He was the most mad, reckless character I ever came across,
and any kind of checking only seemed to make him worse. So I left him alone,
for fear he should want to do something more venturesome still,
and went on with my packing and getting ready for the road.

We fixed up to start on the Monday, and get as far away
the first couple of days as we could manage. We expected to get a good start
by making a great push the first day or two, and, as the police would be
thrown off the scent in a way we settled -- and a good dodge it was --
we should have all the more time to be clear of New South Wales
before they regularly dropped that we were giving them leg bail for it.

The Sunday before Starlight started away by himself,
taking a couple of good horses with him -- one he led, and a spare saddle too.
He took nothing but his revolver, and didn't say where he was going,
but I pretty well guessed to say good-bye to Aileen. Just as he started
he looked back and says --

`I'm going for a longish ride to-day, Dick, but I shall be here late
if I'm back at all. If anything happens to me my share of what there is
I give to her, if she will take it. If not, do the best you can with it
for her benefit.'

He didn't take Warrigal with him, which I was sorry for,
as the half-caste and I didn't hit it well together,
and when we were by ourselves he generally managed to do or say something
he knew I didn't like. I kept my hands off him on account of Starlight,
but there was many a time my fingers itched to be at him,
and I could hardly keep from knocking some of the sulkiness out of him.
This day, somehow, I was not in the best of tempers myself.
I had a good lot on my mind. Starting away seems always a troublesome,
bothering sort of thing, and if a man's at all inclined to be cranky
it'll come out then.

Next day we were going to start on a long voyage, in a manner of speaking,
and whether we should have a fair wind or the vessel of our fortune
would be wrecked and we go down with it no one could say.
This is how it happened. One of the horses was bad to catch,
and took a little trouble in the yard. Most times Warrigal was quiet enough
with 'em, but when he got regular into a rage he'd skin a horse alive,
I really believe. Anyhow, he began to hammer the colt with a roping-pole,
and as the yard was that high that no beast could jump it
he had him at his mercy. I wouldn't have minded a lick or two,
but he went on and on, nearly knocking the poor brute down every time,
till I could stand it no longer, and told him to drop it.

He gave me some saucy answer, until at last I told him I'd make him.
He dared me, and I rushed at him. I believe he'd have killed me that minute
if he'd had the chance, and he made a deuced good offer at it.

He stuck to his roping-stick -- a good, heavy-ended gum sapling,
six or seven feet long -- and as I came at him he struck at my head
with such vengeance that, if it had caught me fair,
I should never have kicked. I made a spring to one side,
and it hit me a crack on the shoulder that wasn't a good thing in itself.
I was in at him before he could raise his hands, and let him have it
right and left.

Down he went and the stick atop of him. He was up again like a wild cat,
and at me hammer and tongs -- but he hadn't the weight,
though he was quick and smart with his hands. I drew off and knocked him
clean off his pins. Then he saw it wasn't good enough, and gave it best.

`Never mind, Dick Marston,' says he, as he walked off;
and he fixed his eyes on me that savage and deadly-looking,
with the blood running down his face, that I couldn't help shivering a bit,
`you'll pay for this. I owe it you and Jim, one a piece.'

`Confound you,' I said, `it's all your own fault. Why couldn't you stop
ill-using the horse? You don't like being hit yourself.
How do you think he likes it?'

`What business that of yours?' he said. `You mind your work
and I'll mind mine. This is the worst day's work you've done this year,
and so I tell you.'

He went away to his gunyah then, and except doing one or two things
for Starlight would not lift his hand for any one that day.

I was sorry for it when I came to think. I daresay I might have got him round
with a little patience and humbugging. It's always a mistake
to lose your temper and make enemies; there's no knowing what harm
they may do ye. People like us oughtn't to throw away a chance,
even with a chap like Warrigal. Besides, I knew it would vex Starlight,
and for his sake I would have given a trifle it hadn't happened.
However, I didn't see how Warrigal could do me or Jim any harm
without hurting him, and I knew he'd have cut off his hand
rather than any harm should come to Starlight that he could help.

So I got ready. Dad and I had our tea together pretty comfortable,
and had a longish talk. The old man was rather down in the mouth for him.
He said he somehow didn't expect the fakement to turn out well.
`You're going away,' he said, `from where you're safe,
and there's a many things goes against a man in our line,
once he's away from his own beat. You never know how you may be given away.
The Captain's all right here, when he's me to look after him,
though he does swear at me sometimes; but he was took last time.
He was out on his own hook, and it's my belief he'll be took this time
if he isn't very careful. He's a good man to fight through things
when once he's in the thick of 'em, but he ain't careful enough to keep
dark and close when the play isn't good. You draw along steady by yourself
till you meet Jim -- that's my advice to ye.'

`I mean to do that. I shall work my way down to old George's place,
and get on with stock or something till we all meet at Cunnamulla.
After that there ain't much chance of these police here grabbing us.'

`Unless you're followed up,' says the old man. `I've known chaps
to go a deuce of a way, once they got on the track, and there's getting
some smart fellows among 'em now -- native-born chaps as'll be as good
at picking up the tracks as you and Jim.'

`Well, we must take our chance. I'm sorry, for one thing,
that I had that barney with Warrigal. It was all his fault.
But I had to give him a hardish crack or two. He'd turn dog on me and Jim,
and in a minute, if he saw his way without hurting Starlight.'

`He can't do it,' says dad; `it's sink or swim with the lot of you.
And he dursn't either, not he,' says father, beginning to growl out his words.
`If I ever heard he'd given away any one in the lot I'd have his life,
if I had to poleaxe him in George Street. He knows me too.'

We sat yarning away pretty late. The old man didn't say it,
but I made out that he was sorry enough for that part of his life
which had turned out so bad for us boys, and for mother and Aileen.
Bad enough he was in a kind of way, old dad, but he wasn't all bad,
and I believe if he could have begun again and thought of what misery
he was going to bring on the lot of us he would never have gone on the cross.
It was too late, too late now, though, to think of that.

Towards morning I heard the old dog growl, and then the tramp
of a horse's feet. Starlight rode up to the fire and let his horse go,
then walked straight into his corner and threw himself down without speaking.
He had had a precious long ride, and a fast one by the look of his horse.
The other one he had let go as soon as he came into the Hollow;
but none of the three would be a bit the worse after a few hours' rest.
The horses, of course, were spare ones, and not wanted again for a bit.

Next morning it was `sharp's the word', and no mistake. I felt a deal
smarter on it than yesterday. When you've fairly started for the road
half the journey's done. It's the thinking of this and forgetting that,
and wondering whether you haven't left behind the t'other thing,
that's the miserablest part of going a journey; when you're once away,
no matter what's left behind, you can get on some way or other.

We didn't start so over and above early, though Starlight was up
as fresh as paint at sunrise, you'd thought he hadn't ridden a yard
the day before. Even at the very last there's a lot of things
to do and to get. But we all looked slippy and didn't talk much,
so that we got through what we had to do, and had all the horses
saddled and packed by about eight o'clock. Even Warrigal
had partly got over his temper. Of course I told Starlight about it.
He gave him a good rowing, and told him he deserved another hammering,
which he had a good mind to give him, if we hadn't been starting
for a journey. Warrigal didn't say a word to him. He never did.
Starlight told me on the quiet, though, he was sorry it happened,
`though it's the rascal's own fault, and served him right.
But he's a revengeful beggar,' he says, `and that he would play you
some dog's trick if he wasn't afraid of me, you may depend your life on.'

`Now,' says he, `we must make our little arrangements.
I shall be somewhere about Cunnamulla by the end of this month'
(it was only the first week). `Jim knows that we are to meet there,
and if we manage that all right I think the greatest part of the danger
will be over. I shall get right across by Dandaloo
to the back blocks of the West Bogan country, between it and the Lachlan.
There are tracks through the endless mallee scrub, only known
to the tribes in the neighbourhood, and a few half-castes like Warrigal,
that have been stock-riding about them. Sir Ferdinand and his troopers
might just as well hunt for a stray Arab in the deserts of the Euphrates.
If I'm alive -- mind you, alive -- I'll be at Cunnamulla on the day I mean.
And now, good-bye, old fellow. Whatever my sins have been, I've been true
to you and your people in the past, and if Aileen and I meet across the seas,
as I hope, the new life may partly atone for the old one.'

Chapter 49

He shook hands with me and dad, threw his leg over Rainbow,
took Locket's bridle as if he was going for an easy day's ride,
and cantered off.

Warrigal nodded to both of us, then brought his pack-horse up level,
and followed up.

`There goes the Captain,' says father. `It's hard to say
if we'll ever see him again. I shan't, anyhow, nor you either, maybe.
Somehow I've had a notion coming over me this good while
as my time ain't going to be long. It don't make no odds, neither.
Life ain't no great chop to a man like me, not when he gets
the wrong side o' sixty, anyhow. Mine ain't been such a bad innings,
and I don't owe much to any man. I mean as I've mostly been square
with them that's done me a bad turn. No man can say Ben Marston
was ever back'ard in that way; and never will be, that's more.
No! them as trod on me felt my teeth some day or other. Eh, old man?'
Crib growled. He understood things regular like a Christian,
that old dog did. `And now you're a-goin' off and Jim's gone --
seems only t'other day as you and he was little toddlin' chaps,
runnin' to meet me when I come home from work, clearin' that fust paddock,
and telling me mammy had the tea ready. Perhaps I'd better ha' stuck
to the grubbin' and clearin' after all. It looked slow work,
but it paid better than this here in the long run.' Father turns
away from me then, and walks back a step or two. Then he faces me.
`Dash it, boy, what are ye waitin' for? Shake hands, and tell Jim
the old man han't forgot him yet.'

It was many a day since I'd felt father's hand in kindness;
he didn't do them sort of things. I held out mine and his fingers
closed on it one minute, like a vice -- blest if I didn't expect
to feel the bones grate agin one another; he was that strong
he hardly knew his own strength, I believe. Then he sits down on the log
by the fire. He took out his pipe, but somehow it wouldn't light.
`Good-bye, Crib,' says I. The old dog looked at me for a bit,
wagged his tail, and then went and sat between dad's knees.
I took my horse and rode away slowish. I felt all dead and alive like
when I got near the turn in the track. I looked back and seen the dog and him
just the same. I started both horses then. I never set eyes on him again.
Poor old dad!

I wasn't very gay for a bit, but I had a good horse under me,
another alongside, a smartish lot of cash in notes and gold,
some bank deposits too, and all the world before me. My dart now
was to make my way to Willaroon and look sharp about it.
My chance of getting through was none too good, but I settled
to ride a deal at night and camp by day. I began to pick up my spirits
after I got on the road that led up the mountain, and to look ahead
to the time when I might call myself my own man again.

Next day after that I was at Willaroon. I could have got there overnight,
but it looked better to camp near the place and come next morning.
There I was all right. The overseer was a reasonable sort of man,
and I found old George had been as good as his word, and left word
if a couple of men like me and Starlight came up we were to be put on
with the next mob of cattle that were going to Queensland.
He did a store cattle trade with the far-out squatters that were stocking up
new country in Queensland, and it paid him very well, as nearly everything did
that he touched. We were to find our own horses and be paid so much a week
-- three pounds, I think -- and so on.

As luck would have it, there was a biggish mob to start in a week,
and road hands being scarce in that part the overseer was disappointed
that my mate, as he called him, hadn't come on, but I said he'd gone
another track.

`Well, he'll hardly get such wages at any other job,' says he,
`and if I was Mr. Storefield I wouldn't hire him again,
not if he wanted a billet ever so bad.'

`I don't suppose he will,' says I, `and serves him quite right too.'

I put my horses in the paddock -- there was wild oats and crowsfoot
knee-high in it -- and helped the overseer to muster and draft.
He gave me a fresh horse, of course. When he saw how handy I was in the yard
he got quite shook on me, and, says he --

`By George, you're just the chap the boss wants to send out
to some new country he's going to take up in Queensland. What's your name?
Now I think of it he didn't tell me.'

`William Turner,' says I.

`Very well, William,' says he, `you're a dashed good man, I can see,
and I wish I could pick up a few more like you. Blessed if I ever saw
such a lot of duffers in my life as there are on this side.
I've hardly seen a man come by that's worth his grub. You couldn't stop
till the next mob starts, I suppose? I'd make it worth your while.'

`I couldn't well this time,' says I; `my mate's got a friend out north
just from home, and we're tied to time to meet him. But if I come
back this way I'll put in a year with you.'

`Well, an offer's an offer,' says he. `I can't say more,
but I think you'll do better by stopping on here.'