Joe Wilson and His Mates [97]
it was the money due to Bob when he died.
Now I'll have to go and see her when we get to Solong;
there's no getting out of it, I'll have to face her --
and you'll have to come with me.'
`Damned if I will!' I said.
`But you'll have to,' said Andy. `You'll have to stick to me;
you're surely not crawler enough to desert a mate in a case like this?
I'll have to lie like hell -- I'll have to lie as I never lied
to a woman before; and you'll have to back me and corroborate every lie.'
I'd never seen Andy show so much emotion.
`There's plenty of time to fix up a good yarn,' said Andy. He said no more
about Mrs Baker, and we only mentioned the Boss's name casually,
until we were within about a day's ride of Solong; then Andy told me
the yarn he'd made up about the Boss's death.
`And I want you to listen, Jack,' he said, `and remember every word --
and if you can fix up a better yarn you can tell me afterwards.
Now it was like this: the Boss wasn't too well when he crossed the border.
He complained of pains in his back and head and a stinging pain
in the back of his neck, and he had dysentery bad, -- but that doesn't matter;
it's lucky I ain't supposed to tell a woman all the symptoms.
The Boss stuck to the job as long as he could, but we managed the cattle
and made it as easy as we could for him. He'd just take it easy,
and ride on from camp to camp, and rest. One night I rode to a town
off the route (or you did, if you like) and got some medicine for him;
that made him better for a while, but at last, a day or two
this side of Mulgatown, he had to give up. A squatter there
drove him into town in his buggy and put him up at the best hotel.
The publican knew the Boss and did all he could for him --
put him in the best room and wired for another doctor.
We wired for Ned as soon as we saw how bad the Boss was,
and Ned rode night and day and got there three days before the Boss died.
The Boss was a bit off his head some of the time with the fever,
but was calm and quiet towards the end and died easy. He talked a lot
about his wife and children, and told us to tell the wife not to fret
but to cheer up for the children's sake. How does that sound?'
I'd been thinking while I listened, and an idea struck me.
`Why not let her know the truth?' I asked. `She's sure to hear of it
sooner or later; and if she knew he was only a selfish, drunken blackguard
she might get over it all the sooner.'
`You don't know women, Jack,' said Andy quietly. `And, anyway,
even if she is a sensible woman, we've got a dead mate to consider
as well as a living woman.'
`But she's sure to hear the truth sooner or later,' I said,
`the Boss was so well known.'
`And that's just the reason why the truth might be kept from her,' said Andy.
`If he wasn't well known -- and nobody could help liking him,
after all, when he was straight -- if he wasn't so well known
the truth might leak out unawares. She won't know if I can help it,
or at least not yet a while. If I see any chaps that come from the North
I'll put them up to it. I'll tell M`Grath, the publican at Solong, too:
he's a straight man -- he'll keep his ears open and warn chaps.
One of Mrs Baker's sisters is staying with her, and I'll give her a hint
so that she can warn off any women that might get hold of a yarn. Besides,
Mrs Baker is sure to go and live in Sydney, where all her people are --
she was a Sydney girl; and she's not likely to meet any one there
that will tell her the truth. I can tell her that it was
the last wish of the Boss that she should shift to Sydney.'
We smoked and thought a while, and by-and-by Andy had what he called
a `happy thought'. He went to his saddle-bags and got out
the small canvas packet that Ned had given him: it was sewn up
with packing-thread, and Andy ripped it open with his pocket-knife.
`What are you doing, Andy?' I asked.
`Ned's an innocent old fool, as far as sin is concerned,' said Andy.
`I guess he hasn't looked through the Boss's letters, and I'm just going
to see
Now I'll have to go and see her when we get to Solong;
there's no getting out of it, I'll have to face her --
and you'll have to come with me.'
`Damned if I will!' I said.
`But you'll have to,' said Andy. `You'll have to stick to me;
you're surely not crawler enough to desert a mate in a case like this?
I'll have to lie like hell -- I'll have to lie as I never lied
to a woman before; and you'll have to back me and corroborate every lie.'
I'd never seen Andy show so much emotion.
`There's plenty of time to fix up a good yarn,' said Andy. He said no more
about Mrs Baker, and we only mentioned the Boss's name casually,
until we were within about a day's ride of Solong; then Andy told me
the yarn he'd made up about the Boss's death.
`And I want you to listen, Jack,' he said, `and remember every word --
and if you can fix up a better yarn you can tell me afterwards.
Now it was like this: the Boss wasn't too well when he crossed the border.
He complained of pains in his back and head and a stinging pain
in the back of his neck, and he had dysentery bad, -- but that doesn't matter;
it's lucky I ain't supposed to tell a woman all the symptoms.
The Boss stuck to the job as long as he could, but we managed the cattle
and made it as easy as we could for him. He'd just take it easy,
and ride on from camp to camp, and rest. One night I rode to a town
off the route (or you did, if you like) and got some medicine for him;
that made him better for a while, but at last, a day or two
this side of Mulgatown, he had to give up. A squatter there
drove him into town in his buggy and put him up at the best hotel.
The publican knew the Boss and did all he could for him --
put him in the best room and wired for another doctor.
We wired for Ned as soon as we saw how bad the Boss was,
and Ned rode night and day and got there three days before the Boss died.
The Boss was a bit off his head some of the time with the fever,
but was calm and quiet towards the end and died easy. He talked a lot
about his wife and children, and told us to tell the wife not to fret
but to cheer up for the children's sake. How does that sound?'
I'd been thinking while I listened, and an idea struck me.
`Why not let her know the truth?' I asked. `She's sure to hear of it
sooner or later; and if she knew he was only a selfish, drunken blackguard
she might get over it all the sooner.'
`You don't know women, Jack,' said Andy quietly. `And, anyway,
even if she is a sensible woman, we've got a dead mate to consider
as well as a living woman.'
`But she's sure to hear the truth sooner or later,' I said,
`the Boss was so well known.'
`And that's just the reason why the truth might be kept from her,' said Andy.
`If he wasn't well known -- and nobody could help liking him,
after all, when he was straight -- if he wasn't so well known
the truth might leak out unawares. She won't know if I can help it,
or at least not yet a while. If I see any chaps that come from the North
I'll put them up to it. I'll tell M`Grath, the publican at Solong, too:
he's a straight man -- he'll keep his ears open and warn chaps.
One of Mrs Baker's sisters is staying with her, and I'll give her a hint
so that she can warn off any women that might get hold of a yarn. Besides,
Mrs Baker is sure to go and live in Sydney, where all her people are --
she was a Sydney girl; and she's not likely to meet any one there
that will tell her the truth. I can tell her that it was
the last wish of the Boss that she should shift to Sydney.'
We smoked and thought a while, and by-and-by Andy had what he called
a `happy thought'. He went to his saddle-bags and got out
the small canvas packet that Ned had given him: it was sewn up
with packing-thread, and Andy ripped it open with his pocket-knife.
`What are you doing, Andy?' I asked.
`Ned's an innocent old fool, as far as sin is concerned,' said Andy.
`I guess he hasn't looked through the Boss's letters, and I'm just going
to see