Settling Day

CHAPTER VIII
AT CUDGEGONG STATION

He had not long to wait. The doors were pushed open and someone looked out.

In the dim light he saw it was Rodney Shaw, and he seemed to be listening intently. Then he went inside, leaving the windows open.

'He must have heard me step on to the verandah,' thought Jim.

He heard him moving about the room again, and, although he had no desire to spy upon him, he thought it better to remain in his present position.

'Perhaps he has been indulging too freely,' said Jim to himself. 'He could take more than his share before he went away.'

'Curse the thing!'

Jim heard these words distinctly, and then came the sound of a man stumbling over a chair.

It was strange behaviour on the part of Rodney Shaw, and Jim Dennis could not understand it.

In a short time all was quiet, and he decided to slip off the verandah and go round to the horses.

He was passing the open window when he heard a cry of surprise, almost of terror, from within, which caused him to stop.

Looking into the room, he saw Rodney Shaw sitting on his bed, in his pyjamas, and glancing at him with wide, staring eyes.

'Who the devil are you?' said Shaw in a wild tone of voice.

'It's only me, Jim Dennis.'

'What are you doing there? Why are you spying about on my verandah? I'll have you locked up,' said Shaw.

Jim laughed, and made excuses for him.

'He's not himself, he's been drinking,' he thought.

'I brought your horse back, and I camped in a chair on the verandah to wait until some of the hands were about.'

'I don't believe it. It's a – ' began Shaw.

'Stop,' said Jim. 'Even if you have been on a "jag," I allow no man to call me that.'

He spoke in a resolute tone, and Rodney Shaw, pulling himself together, thought better of what he was about to say, and went out to him.

'You took me by surprise,' he said in an apologetic way. 'I have been absent so long that I am not accustomed to the change again.'

'How haggard and worn he looks,' thought Jim. 'I wonder what ails him.'

'Have you been on a "jag"?' asked Jim, smiling.

Rodney Shaw looked at him. He evidently did not understand what he meant.

Jim thought this strange.

'Surely you have not forgotten what a "jag" means. You have been on one or two in your time at Swamp Creek.'

Rodney Shaw laughed.

'You think I have been drinking. Well, I own up I did have a drop too much – first with Machinson, then after he left. It soon got hold of me. I am not as strong as I was.'

'I thought there was something of that kind,' said Jim. 'Let me tell you why I came here with the horse at this hour.'

'All right. Sit down.'

They seated themselves in a couple of chairs, and Jim commenced his story.

Rodney Shaw did not appear to take much interest in it, he seemed to be thinking of other things.

'It was Dalton's gang stole your horse,' said Jim; 'and if I were you I would insist upon Machinson "going" for them. They are a bad lot, and ought to be cleared out of Barker's Creek. They are a danger to the whole district.'

'You and Machinson don't seem to hit it,' said Shaw.

'No; but it is not my fault. He does not act on the square, and he has accused me of things I have never been mixed up in,' said Jim. 'You ought to be able to convince him that it is his duty to clear Dalton's gang out.'

'Why me in particular?'

'Because you are the biggest owner about here, and have more influence than any of us. You have only to mention the matter to the P.M. and he'll soon see that Sergeant Machinson carries out his duties or he'll know the reason why.'

'The P.M.?' questioned Shaw.

Jim laughed.

'Surely you have not forgotten Adye Dauntsey, the police magistrate at Barragong. He's stood your friend more than once when you have been in a scrape. Don't you recollect when he made it up between yourself and your father after that row in Swamp Creek?'

Rodney Shaw seemed uneasy, but Jim Dennis did not notice it. He was laughing to himself over the thought of the row in which he had taken a hand himself.

'So old – ?'

'Dauntsey,' said Jim.

'Yes, Dauntsey. Is he there still, eh? Queer beggar and a rum name. How does he spell his Christian name?'

'Adye,' said Jim, spelling it out.

Shaw scribbled it on the back of the rest of his chair with a pencil he had near him.

'You don't mean to forget it,' said Jim. 'You must have a deuced bad memory.'

'I have. I met with a nasty accident in England. I was riding in a hurdle race and came a cropper on my head, and my memory has not been the same since.'

'I'm sorry for that,' said Jim. 'That accounts for it. I thought you seemed curiously forgetful about things around here.'

Rodney Shaw gave a sigh of relief.

'Yes, that explains it, as you say. If you remind me of people I knew, and places I have been to with you, and what we formerly did together, I shall recall it all, and not forget it again, but the spill seemed to knock a lot of old memories out of my head.'

'I have heard of such things before,' said Jim. 'I once knew a steeplechase rider who almost entirely lost his memory through an accident.'

'My case exactly,' said Rodney Shaw. 'What was that row at Swamp Creek? I forget it.'

'We were on a bender at old John Slade's pub,' said Jim, 'and you kissed his daughter, and he went for you hot and strong, although I don't think the girl had any objections.'

'You were fairly powerful in those days, and you fired Joe out of the bar, and a regular free fight took place, in which a lot of damage was done. Your old man was very angry about it, but Adye Dauntsey smoothed it over. I took your part, of course, and should have got into trouble, only they couldn't very well drag me into it and leave you out.'

Rodney Shaw laughed as he replied, —

'I recollect it quite well. We had some rare sprees in those days. You were always ready to stand by me.'

'I hope I shall always be ready to help a pal in trouble,' said Jim.

'I am sure you will. I am afraid I treated you rather off-handed the other day.'

'I didn't like your manner, I confess,' said Jim. 'I thought you were glad to get rid of me.'

'Not at all. You misunderstood me. I hope we shall be as good friends as ever.'

'I hope so,' said Jim. 'It will not be my fault if we are not.'

'I don't think I will meddle with Dalton's gang. No good will come out of it, and I have my horse again, thanks to you,' said Shaw.

'As you please,' replied Jim.

'But it would be for the good of the district if they were bundled out, neck and crop, and you are the proper man to see it done.'

'Sergeant Machinson has the matter in hand, and I will tell him all about your capture of the horse from Dalton's men. He is bound to take action then.'

'He will not; you see if he does,' replied Jim.

'You don't mean to say he stands in with a lot like that?'

'I won't go as far as that,' said Jim; 'but it looks like it. He never lifts a hand against them.'

'Well, I'll think the matter over. There is a good deal in what you say. Wait until I put some decent clothes on, and we'll go round and have a look at the horse. It would be rather a joke if he did not belong to me, after all this trouble.'

'There's not much fear of that,' answered Jim. 'Thoroughbred stallions are scarce in these parts.'

They went round to the back of the house to where Jim had fastened up the horses.

The hands were about, and Rodney Shaw called to a man who was crossing the yard.

'This is Alec Beg, the man who brought the horse as far as Potter's,' said Shaw.

Jim Dennis looked him over and did not like him.

'A shifty customer, I'll bet,' he thought.

'We have found the stallion,' said Shaw.

'Have you?' exclaimed the man in evident surprise. 'Where is he?'

'Over there,' said Jim, pointing to the horse.

'Where the deuce did he come from?'

'I made the thieves give him up,' said Jim, looking straight at him.

'Then you knew who stole him?'

'Dalton's gang.'

'Who may they be?' asked Alec Beg.

'You'll find out before you have been long in this district,' said Jim. 'I'd advise you to keep out of their way, they'll do you no good.'

'I'm not likely to mix up with a lot like that.'

Jim had his doubts on that head, but made no remark.

'You'll have to be careful with this horse,' said Jim. 'He's got a devil of a temper, but I have tamed him down a bit. He had one of the biggest hidings he'll ever get, and it has done him good. He looks a well-bred horse.'

'He's by Fisherman out of Mermaid, and his name is Seahorse.'

'That's something like blood,' said Jim, enthusiastically. 'I'd like to send a couple of mares to him, if you will allow me.'

'With pleasure. It is the least I can do after all the trouble you have taken,' replied Shaw.

'I have some very well-bred mares,' said Jim, 'and I'll bring a couple over some day.'

Alec Beg was standing by, and muttered, —

'He's a blooming fool to let a man like him get hold of that blood. He's one of those prying sort of fellows. Hang me if I like him.'

It was not feasible that Alec Beg would like Jim Dennis, because the latter was an honest man.

When Jim Dennis took his departure, Alec Beg said to Rodney Shaw, —

'I don't think you are wise to let him get hold of the Fisherman blood. You ought to keep it yourself about here.'

'A couple of mares will not matter much, and, besides, he got the horse back for me,' replied Shaw.

'That constable who came with Sergeant Machinson says he's a bad lot, and not to be trusted. He may have been in with Dalton's gang over this affair.'

'Don't be a fool and talk rubbish,' said Shaw. 'If he were one of the gang we should not have recovered the horse.'

He went inside, leaving Beg grumbling in the yard.

'I must keep in with Jim Dennis,' Rodney Shaw said to himself. 'He'll be useful to me. I am sorry my memory is so bad,' and he laughed curiously. 'So Adye Dauntsey is police magistrate at – what the deuce is the name of the place? – oh, here it is, and he picked up a piece of paper – Barragong. I wonder if the worthy P.M. will think I have altered much during the last eight or nine years. Probably he will, most people about here think me changed, even Benjamin Nix, my manager, says he would hardly have known me. The worthy Nix has not altered much, I'll be bound. So far as I can judge, he has managed things all right at Cudgegong – what a name to give a place! but it is suitable.'

'Jim Dennis is a man to be trusted, and he will stick to a pal, he says, and I know he will keep his word. It's deuced slow here after London. I think in a few years I'll sell out and go back again. And if I do return, that lady friend of mine will probably find me out and create a scene. I hate scenes. Perhaps I am better off here, and in time I may settle down into a respectable married man.'

He laughed again, but there was no mirth in the sound. It was an ugly laugh, a laugh that betrayed the baseness of the man, the treachery lurking within. It was not a good laugh to hear.

CHAPTER IX
THE SORT OF MAN DR TOM IS

Dr Tom Sheridan sat in his den concocting cooling drinks for himself, and mixtures of quite a different prescription for his patients.

On board ship, when he acted as medical adviser to the skipper, his officers, the crew, and the passengers – the last-named lot he considered of little account – he had been in the habit of dosing them with the same compound for all manner of complaints.

'It saves a heap of trouble, and it's always handy,' said Dr Tom, as he filled a bottle from his regular tap. 'If it does no good, there is the blessed and everlasting consolation that it can do no harm.'

Passengers annoyed Dr Tom, as they have continued to annoy ships' doctors ever since, for the doctor had a soul above medicine. He considered himself a poet, a truly dramatic poet, and he was sore with the world because his efforts had not been appreciated. He had cast his poems upon the mess-room table, in the hopes of them bearing fruit, and they had been neglected in the most aggravating fashion.

The skipper put the finishing touch to one of Dr Tom's efforts. The worthy medico had, after much toil and brain work, composed a poem which he believed would appeal to the skipper's heart.

It was a wild, weird thing, a concoction of fiery skies, blistering sun, howling winds, dashing waves, heaving billows, snow-flecked seahorses, and what not, and in the midst of this poetic chaos was a good ship, commanded by a worthy skipper with a fiery beard. That was where Dr Tom blundered. He had no tact, even if his poetic ship had, and the skipper's hair being of a bright, flaming colour, he resented this personal allusion.

When the poem was solemnly presented to him by his 'boy,' he read the first few stanzas with pride, but arriving at the fiery beard period, he flew into a rage, hurled himself into Dr Tom's cabin, and said, —

'Did you write this … d – d insulting thing?'

The doctor was mortally offended, nay, he was more than that, he was hurt. He had expended many hours on the composition of that poem, and had neglected the groans of many patients in order to finish it off.

'That, sir, is an effort that has cost me dear,' he said.

'By the Lord, if there are any more such efforts, it will cost you untold wealth!' yelled the frantic skipper with the fiery beard, and he flung the offending poem into a mass of half-empty drug bottles.

Dr Tom picked it up carefully, smoothed it out, and caressed it as though it had been a pet kitten.

When he arrived in Sydney he secured the shipping reporter of the Morning Light and took him into his cabin.

'Read that,' said Dr Tom, in a solemn manner, handing the rejected of the skipper to the worthy press man.

The shipping reporter of the Morning Light blinked and looked uneasy. He had read Dr Tom's poems before, or pretended to, and the effect was not pleasing.

But the doctor kept good whisky in his den, and the man who chronicled the doings of ships on their voyages from far countries dearly loved a drop of the real stingo, which money could not then purchase in Sydney, and of which very little is to be had even unto this day.

The poem was duly read.

'It is one of your best efforts,' said the scribe. This opinion was diplomatic, and committed him to nothing.

The doctor smiled, and there was a pleasant jingle of glasses, and a soothing odour penetrated the stuffy little medicine box.

'Ah!' sighed Dr Tom, 'I knew you would appreciate it.'

A sound of liquid flowing into a glass was balm to the shipping reporter of the Morning Light.

'Try this. It's a drop of the best.'

The man of letters – ships' letters, sipped it with the air of a connoisseur.

'Splendid stuff, doctor, splendid,' he said.

'That poem has cost me many hours' deep thought,' said Dr Tom.

'No doubt. It is an elegant composition.'

'I wonder if the Morning Light would publish it,' mildly suggested the doctor. 'Here, try another; it will do you no harm.'

'I'll ask our sub; he's not a bad sort. He might cram it into the weekly,' said the reporter.

The doctor looked crestfallen.

'The weekly,' he said sorrowfully. 'Surely it is worthy of a place in the daily.'

'It is, doctor. Upon my word, it is; but you know what they are in the office. They're death on poems. It would be risking my place to suggest it for the daily.'

Dr Tom jingled the glasses, and there was something in them when the sound ceased.

'Try your best,' said Dr Tom. 'I'll give you a couple of real good startling pars about this voyage if you'll get it in the daily.'

'And you'll not tell the other fellows?'

'No. I'll not breathe a word to 'em,' said Dr Tom.

'Then I'll risk it. Now for the news.'

The doctor related a couple of rather spicy incidents that had occurred during the voyage from London, and the shipping reporter chuckled over them.

'I reckon these will get that poem in, doc.' The whisky had made him familiar in his speech. Sure enough Dr Tom succeeded in his object, and when his skipper read the poem in the Morning Light next morning, he went about Sydney saying things, and, encountering the happy doctor, vowed he would not take him back in his ship.

'I have no ambition to sail again in your old tub,' said Dr Tom. 'My fortune is made.' So Dr Tom remained in Sydney, found his fortune was not made, and eventually came to Swamp Creek.

As Dr Tom sat meditating over his fortunes, or what remained of them, he thought of many things.

He thought of the first mate on the ship he had left in Sydney, and who had cleared out at the same time as himself. He had never liked that mate, he was a bad lot, and Dr Tom had at one time serious thoughts of dosing him and giving him to the sharks.

He also thought of the days he had spent wandering about Sydney, almost penniless, until a friendly hand had helped him to Swamp Creek and a monotonous existence, and yet it was an existence he did not dislike. He had not an enemy in the place, so far as he knew, and everyone was kind to him.

True, he did a lot of work, and got very few fees, and had even on one occasion to borrow money from Jim Dennis to purchase drugs to supply to sick people.

'When all my accounts are settled,' said Dr Tom to Jim Dennis, 'I mean to buy a station and throw this job up.'

'Don't let the folk around here know that or you'll never be paid. They would not lose you for anything, old man.'

It was very hot after the rain, and Dr Tom had very little else to do but kill time.

Having bottled up his medicines, he commenced to smoke and think.

What a life his had been. One of those men who with a little exertion might have made a name for themselves, he had been contented to drift carelessly and aimlessly through life.

On board ship he had acquired the art of cultivating laziness, and he was an adept at killing time.

The doctor was a visionary dreamer, and happy in a thousand fancies he conjured up in his imagination.

Children loved him, for no one could tell them a yarn suitable to their tender years better than Dr Tom.

The youngsters of Swamp Creek darted in and out of his dwelling in unrestricted freedom.

'Bless their little hearts, they have overturned that medicine chest again,' he would say on looking at the havoc they had made, and then proceed to put matters to rights in his own careless way.

But when there was danger at hand and Dr Tom was called, as he had been to Willie Dennis, to try and save life or relieve suffering, the best part of the man in him came out, and he strove with might and main to conquer death, and he often succeeded.

He was pottering about as usual, with no coat or waistcoat on, when Constable Doonan came in.

'Busy as usual, Dr Tom,' said the constable in a hearty voice.

'No, my boy, I am not busy. I have been sitting down making up a few prescriptions and picking up a few threads of the past.'

'And how do the threads unravel?' asked Doonan.

'Fairly well, my lad. There's a few tangles, but they are not of much account; there's no occasion for any cutting.'

'No, I'll bet there's not,' said Doonan. 'Jim Dennis is mighty proud of the job you have made of that lad of his.'

'Nice little chap,' said Dr Tom. 'He had a narrow squeak, and I don't mind telling you, if it hadn't been for Sal's care he might have gone before we got there. That woman's a marvel. Wonder who her father was.'

'They give Rodney Shaw's father the credit for it,' said Doonan.

'Eh! You don't say so! Bless me, what a heathenish lot they are about here.'

'Try and convert 'em, doctor.'

'Not I. We ought to import a few pulpit thumpers and let them try their hands.'

'They ought to start on Dalton's gang. I hear there is trouble brewing there.'

'Who's the victim this time?' asked Dr Tom.

'Jim Dennis.'

'Then, by heavens, he'll find one or two to help him!' said Dr Tom, bringing his fist down with such a bang on the table that all the bottles danced.

'What's it about?'

Doonan related how Jim Dennis had taken Seahorse from Dalton's men and restored him to Rodney Shaw.

'Just like Jim. He's the best fellow in the world,' said the doctor. 'We must see him through this. Why does not Machinson clear the whole lot out?'

'That's what I would like to know,' answered Doonan. 'It's not my place to interfere.'

'Something will have to be done soon,' said Dr Tom. 'The gang is a regular pest, and gets worse and worse every week.'

'You go to Barker's Creek sometimes, I think?' questioned the constable.

'Yes. I cannot refuse to attend a sick woman or child even amongst such a crowd, but I have told Abe Dalton I would not go near him or his men if they were dying.'

'You have plenty of pluck,' said Constable Doonan, admiringly.

Dr Tom waved his arm in a gesture of disdain as he replied, —

'There's not much pluck wanted to beard a fellow like Dalton. I'm going to Barker's Creek to-morrow to see a woman and her child. One of the ruffians came in here to-day to ask me. I gave him a bit of my mind, you may bet. I'll go, and if I see Abe Dalton, I'll tell him in the midst of his gang that if he harms Jim Dennis, or anything belonging to him, I'll make him suffer for it.'

'It will only make matters worse for Jim,' said Doonan.

'Nothing of the kind. Dalton knows as well as I do that I am the only man around here that can help him when there is sickness at Barker's Creek, and such men are terribly afraid of diseases and fevers. If an epidemic broke out at the Creek it would not be an unmitigated evil, but I would do my best for the women and children all the same. As for Dalton and his curs, they ought to die in a heap, like rabbits in a drought.'

Constable Doonan had seldom seen Dr Tom so much in earnest, and he was almost sorry he had mentioned Jim Dennis in connection with the gang, for he knew that he had roused the worthy man.

'Shall I go with you to-morrow, doctor?' he asked.

'No. You would do harm, not good. A constable at Barker's Creek is like a red rag to a bull. They would rush you, Fred, my lad – rush you.'