Joe Wilson and His Mates [106]
about the branches of a tree way out
in the middle of the flat, flopping down from branch to branch to the grass,
then rising hurriedly and circling.
`Dead beast there!' said Mac. out of his Bushcraft.
`No -- dying,' said Doc. Wild, with less Bush experience but more intellect.
`There's some steers of Job's out there somewhere,' muttered Mac.
Then suddenly, `It ain't drought -- it's the ploorer at last! or I'm blanked!'
Mac. feared the advent of that cattle-plague, pleuro-pneumonia,
which was raging on some other stations, but had been hitherto
kept clear of Job's run.
`We'll go and see, if you like,' suggested Doc. Wild.
They turned out across the flat, the horses picking their way
amongst the dried tufts and fallen branches.
`Theer ain't no sign o' cattle theer,' said the doctor;
`more likely a ewe in trouble about her lamb.'
`Oh, the blanky dingoes at the sheep,' said Mac. `I wish we had a gun --
might get a shot at them.'
Doc. Wild hitched the skirt of a long China silk coat he wore,
free of a hip-pocket. He always carried a revolver. `In case I feel obliged
to shoot a first person singular one of these hot days,' he explained once,
whereat Bushmen scratched the backs of their heads and thought feebly,
without result.
`We'd never git near enough for a shot,' said the doctor; then he commenced
to hum fragments from a Bush song about the finding of a lost Bushman
in the last stages of death by thirst, --
`"The crows kept flyin' up, boys!
The crows kept flyin' up!
The dog, he seen and whimpered, boys,
Though he was but a pup."'
`It must be something or other,' muttered Mac. `Look at them blanky crows!'
`"The lost was found, we brought him round,
And took him from the place,
While the ants was swarmin' on the ground,
And the crows was sayin' grace!"'
`My God! what's that?' cried Mac., who was a little in advance
and rode a tall horse.
It was Job's filly, lying saddled and bridled, with a rifle-bullet
(as they found on subsequent examination) through shoulders and chest,
and her head full of kangaroo-shot. She was feebly rocking her head
against the ground, and marking the dust with her hoof,
as if trying to write the reason of it there.
The doctor drew his revolver, took a cartridge from his waistcoat pocket,
and put the filly out of her misery in a very scientific manner;
then something -- professional instinct or the something supernatural
about the doctor -- led him straight to the log, hidden in the grass,
where Job lay as we left him, and about fifty yards from the dead filly,
which must have staggered off some little way after being shot.
Mac. followed the doctor, shaking violently.
`Oh, my God!' he cried, with the woman in his voice -- and his face so pale
that his freckles stood out like buttons, as Doc. Wild said -- `oh, my God!
he's shot himself!'
`No, he hasn't,' said the doctor, deftly turning Job into a healthier position
with his head from under the log and his mouth to the air:
then he ran his eyes and hands over him, and Job moaned.
`He's got a broken leg,' said the doctor. Even then he couldn't resist
making a characteristic remark, half to himself: `A man doesn't shoot himself
when he's going to be made a lawful father for the first time,
unless he can see a long way into the future.' Then he took out
his whisky-flask and said briskly to Mac., `Leave me your water-bag'
(Mac. carried a canvas water-bag slung under his horse's neck),
`ride back to the track, stop Mrs Spencer, and bring the waggonette here.
Tell her it's only a broken leg.'
Mac. mounted and rode off at a break-neck pace.
As he worked the doctor muttered: `He shot his horse. That's what gits me.
The fool might have lain there for a week. I'd never have suspected spite
in that carcass, and I ought to know men.'
But as Job came round a little Doc. Wild was enlightened.
`Where's the filly?' cried Job suddenly between groans.
`She's all right,' said the doctor.
`Stop her!'
in the middle of the flat, flopping down from branch to branch to the grass,
then rising hurriedly and circling.
`Dead beast there!' said Mac. out of his Bushcraft.
`No -- dying,' said Doc. Wild, with less Bush experience but more intellect.
`There's some steers of Job's out there somewhere,' muttered Mac.
Then suddenly, `It ain't drought -- it's the ploorer at last! or I'm blanked!'
Mac. feared the advent of that cattle-plague, pleuro-pneumonia,
which was raging on some other stations, but had been hitherto
kept clear of Job's run.
`We'll go and see, if you like,' suggested Doc. Wild.
They turned out across the flat, the horses picking their way
amongst the dried tufts and fallen branches.
`Theer ain't no sign o' cattle theer,' said the doctor;
`more likely a ewe in trouble about her lamb.'
`Oh, the blanky dingoes at the sheep,' said Mac. `I wish we had a gun --
might get a shot at them.'
Doc. Wild hitched the skirt of a long China silk coat he wore,
free of a hip-pocket. He always carried a revolver. `In case I feel obliged
to shoot a first person singular one of these hot days,' he explained once,
whereat Bushmen scratched the backs of their heads and thought feebly,
without result.
`We'd never git near enough for a shot,' said the doctor; then he commenced
to hum fragments from a Bush song about the finding of a lost Bushman
in the last stages of death by thirst, --
`"The crows kept flyin' up, boys!
The crows kept flyin' up!
The dog, he seen and whimpered, boys,
Though he was but a pup."'
`It must be something or other,' muttered Mac. `Look at them blanky crows!'
`"The lost was found, we brought him round,
And took him from the place,
While the ants was swarmin' on the ground,
And the crows was sayin' grace!"'
`My God! what's that?' cried Mac., who was a little in advance
and rode a tall horse.
It was Job's filly, lying saddled and bridled, with a rifle-bullet
(as they found on subsequent examination) through shoulders and chest,
and her head full of kangaroo-shot. She was feebly rocking her head
against the ground, and marking the dust with her hoof,
as if trying to write the reason of it there.
The doctor drew his revolver, took a cartridge from his waistcoat pocket,
and put the filly out of her misery in a very scientific manner;
then something -- professional instinct or the something supernatural
about the doctor -- led him straight to the log, hidden in the grass,
where Job lay as we left him, and about fifty yards from the dead filly,
which must have staggered off some little way after being shot.
Mac. followed the doctor, shaking violently.
`Oh, my God!' he cried, with the woman in his voice -- and his face so pale
that his freckles stood out like buttons, as Doc. Wild said -- `oh, my God!
he's shot himself!'
`No, he hasn't,' said the doctor, deftly turning Job into a healthier position
with his head from under the log and his mouth to the air:
then he ran his eyes and hands over him, and Job moaned.
`He's got a broken leg,' said the doctor. Even then he couldn't resist
making a characteristic remark, half to himself: `A man doesn't shoot himself
when he's going to be made a lawful father for the first time,
unless he can see a long way into the future.' Then he took out
his whisky-flask and said briskly to Mac., `Leave me your water-bag'
(Mac. carried a canvas water-bag slung under his horse's neck),
`ride back to the track, stop Mrs Spencer, and bring the waggonette here.
Tell her it's only a broken leg.'
Mac. mounted and rode off at a break-neck pace.
As he worked the doctor muttered: `He shot his horse. That's what gits me.
The fool might have lain there for a week. I'd never have suspected spite
in that carcass, and I ought to know men.'
But as Job came round a little Doc. Wild was enlightened.
`Where's the filly?' cried Job suddenly between groans.
`She's all right,' said the doctor.
`Stop her!'