Joe Wilson and His Mates [105]
-- as a mob of brumbies,
when fired at, will sometimes stand watching the smoke.
Job's leg was smashed badly, and the pain must have been terrible.
But he thought then with a flash, as men do in a fix.
No doubt the scene at the lonely Bush home of his boyhood
started up before him: his father's horse appeared riderless,
and he saw the look in his mother's eyes.
Now a Bushman's first, best, and quickest chance in a fix like this
is that his horse go home riderless, the home be alarmed,
and the horse's tracks followed back to him; otherwise he might lie there
for days, for weeks -- till the growing grass buries his mouldering bones.
Job was on an old sheep-track across a flat where few might have occasion
to come for months, but he did not consider this. He crawled to his gun,
then to a log, dragging gun and smashed leg after him. How he did it
he doesn't know. Half-lying on one side, he rested the barrel on the log,
took aim at the filly, pulled both triggers, and then fell over
and lay with his head against the log; and the gun-barrel, sliding down,
rested on his neck. He had fainted. The crows were interested,
and the ants would come by-and-by.
Now Doc. Wild had inspirations; anyway, he did things which seemed,
after they were done, to have been suggested by inspiration and in no other
possible way. He often turned up where and when he was wanted above all men,
and at no other time. He had gipsy blood, they said;
but, anyway, being the mystery he was, and having the face he had,
and living the life he lived -- and doing the things he did --
it was quite probable that he was more nearly in touch than we
with that awful invisible world all round and between us,
of which we only see distorted faces and hear disjointed utterances
when we are `suffering a recovery' -- or going mad.
On the morning of Job's accident, and after a long brooding silence,
Doc. Wild suddenly said to Mac. Falconer --
`Git the hosses, Mac. We'll go to the station.'
Mac., used to the doctor's eccentricities, went to see about the horses.
And then who should drive up but Mrs Spencer -- Job's mother-in-law --
on her way from the town to the station. She stayed to have a cup of tea
and give her horses a feed. She was square-faced, and considered
a rather hard and practical woman, but she had plenty of solid flesh,
good sympathetic common-sense, and deep-set humorous blue eyes.
She lived in the town comfortably on the interest of some money
which her husband left in the bank. She drove an American waggonette
with a good width and length of `tray' behind, and on this occasion she had
a pole and two horses. In the trap were a new flock mattress and pillows,
a generous pair of new white blankets, and boxes containing necessaries,
delicacies, and luxuries. All round she was an excellent mother-in-law
for a man to have on hand at a critical time.
And, speaking of mother-in-law, I would like to put in a word for her
right here. She is universally considered a nuisance
in times of peace and comfort; but when illness or serious trouble comes home!
Then it's `Write to Mother! Wire for Mother! Send some one to fetch Mother!
I'll go and bring Mother!' and if she is not near: `Oh, I wish Mother
were here! If Mother were only near!' And when she is on the spot,
the anxious son-in-law: `Don't YOU go, Mother! You'll stay,
won't you, Mother? -- till we're all right? I'll get some one
to look after your house, Mother, while you're here.' But Job Falconer
was fond of his mother-in-law, all times.
Mac. had some trouble in finding and catching one of the horses.
Mrs Spencer drove on, and Mac. and the doctor caught up to her
about a mile before she reached the homestead track, which turned in
through the scrubs at the corner of the big ring-barked flat.
Doc. Wild and Mac. followed the cart-road, and as they jogged along
in the edge of the scrub the doctor glanced once or twice across the flat
through the dead, naked branches. Mac. looked that way.
The crows were hopping
when fired at, will sometimes stand watching the smoke.
Job's leg was smashed badly, and the pain must have been terrible.
But he thought then with a flash, as men do in a fix.
No doubt the scene at the lonely Bush home of his boyhood
started up before him: his father's horse appeared riderless,
and he saw the look in his mother's eyes.
Now a Bushman's first, best, and quickest chance in a fix like this
is that his horse go home riderless, the home be alarmed,
and the horse's tracks followed back to him; otherwise he might lie there
for days, for weeks -- till the growing grass buries his mouldering bones.
Job was on an old sheep-track across a flat where few might have occasion
to come for months, but he did not consider this. He crawled to his gun,
then to a log, dragging gun and smashed leg after him. How he did it
he doesn't know. Half-lying on one side, he rested the barrel on the log,
took aim at the filly, pulled both triggers, and then fell over
and lay with his head against the log; and the gun-barrel, sliding down,
rested on his neck. He had fainted. The crows were interested,
and the ants would come by-and-by.
Now Doc. Wild had inspirations; anyway, he did things which seemed,
after they were done, to have been suggested by inspiration and in no other
possible way. He often turned up where and when he was wanted above all men,
and at no other time. He had gipsy blood, they said;
but, anyway, being the mystery he was, and having the face he had,
and living the life he lived -- and doing the things he did --
it was quite probable that he was more nearly in touch than we
with that awful invisible world all round and between us,
of which we only see distorted faces and hear disjointed utterances
when we are `suffering a recovery' -- or going mad.
On the morning of Job's accident, and after a long brooding silence,
Doc. Wild suddenly said to Mac. Falconer --
`Git the hosses, Mac. We'll go to the station.'
Mac., used to the doctor's eccentricities, went to see about the horses.
And then who should drive up but Mrs Spencer -- Job's mother-in-law --
on her way from the town to the station. She stayed to have a cup of tea
and give her horses a feed. She was square-faced, and considered
a rather hard and practical woman, but she had plenty of solid flesh,
good sympathetic common-sense, and deep-set humorous blue eyes.
She lived in the town comfortably on the interest of some money
which her husband left in the bank. She drove an American waggonette
with a good width and length of `tray' behind, and on this occasion she had
a pole and two horses. In the trap were a new flock mattress and pillows,
a generous pair of new white blankets, and boxes containing necessaries,
delicacies, and luxuries. All round she was an excellent mother-in-law
for a man to have on hand at a critical time.
And, speaking of mother-in-law, I would like to put in a word for her
right here. She is universally considered a nuisance
in times of peace and comfort; but when illness or serious trouble comes home!
Then it's `Write to Mother! Wire for Mother! Send some one to fetch Mother!
I'll go and bring Mother!' and if she is not near: `Oh, I wish Mother
were here! If Mother were only near!' And when she is on the spot,
the anxious son-in-law: `Don't YOU go, Mother! You'll stay,
won't you, Mother? -- till we're all right? I'll get some one
to look after your house, Mother, while you're here.' But Job Falconer
was fond of his mother-in-law, all times.
Mac. had some trouble in finding and catching one of the horses.
Mrs Spencer drove on, and Mac. and the doctor caught up to her
about a mile before she reached the homestead track, which turned in
through the scrubs at the corner of the big ring-barked flat.
Doc. Wild and Mac. followed the cart-road, and as they jogged along
in the edge of the scrub the doctor glanced once or twice across the flat
through the dead, naked branches. Mac. looked that way.
The crows were hopping