Chapter XIII: A Jersey Bull

‟HOW’S Sarah?” demanded Mr. Weston, coming into the kitchen next morning with a bucket of milk in either hand.

“Well, she’s better,” Jean answered, turning from a pan of fried potatoes. “She says the neuralgia has quite gone. But you can see that she has had an awful night—the poor old soul is so white, with big black rings under her eyes. We couldn’t dream of letting her get up.”

“And she’s really too tired to fight us about it,” said Jo, who was compounding a stew. “She says she feels as if she could sleep all day, and of course it’s the best thing for her. So we’ve given her some tea and toast, and darkened her room, and we’re not going near her until dinner-time.”

“That’s right—sleep is probably all the treatment she needs,” Mr. Weston said. “But it’s a bit hard on you, twinses. Do you think you can manage?”

“Well, rather!” said his daughters cheerfully. “We’re going to have no end of a day. Mother’s not going to dream, when she comes in, that there isn’t a staff of liveried servants!”

“So I should think,” said Father dryly. “What time did you two get up?”

“Oh—five-ish,” said Jean, with studied carelessness.

“Rather more ‘ish’ than five, I fancy. Truth now, twinses.”

“Well, it’s going to be hot, so we thought we might as well start early. And it truly was after half-past four.”

“H’m!—not much after,” said Mr. Weston, laughing. “However, I don’t mind, if you’ll take a rest after lunch. See here, girls; I’ve got business in Barrabri, and I want to be at the sales, besides meeting Mother’s train: I intended driving in after breakfast. Suppose I take the boys with me? a holiday won’t do them any harm, and you’ll have no dinner to get—except for yourselves. That, I know, means that you’ll dine on scraps off a corner of the kitchen table, but I believe women like that sort of thing!”

“Father, you are just the most scrumptious person!” ejaculated Jean.

“We won’t say we’d love to get rid of you all, but yes—well, it would be rather gorgeous to have the day to ourselves,” Jo agreed. “We want to make cakes, and have everything as nice as nice. Bless you! Did you say you would like to hurry away after breakfast?”

“I didn’t say so, but of course I will,” said Mr. Weston, laughing. “Never say I’m not a well-trained parent!”

“I’ll never say you’re not an understanding one,” Jean said. “Breakfast will be ready whenever you and the boys are. Won’t the urchins be delighted at a day in Barrabri!”

“We want a lot of stores, Father,” said Jo. “Luckily Sarah has them down on the kitchen slate, or we wouldn’t know what was needed. I’ll make a list presently.”

“Do—and put down what sort of sweets you like. I don’t believe you’ve had any for a month.”

“No sweets until rain comes,” said Jean determinedly.

“Who says so?”

“We do.”

“Well, I haven’t said it yet,” remarked Mr. Weston, with a twinkle. “However, we won’t discuss the point; it’s too hot. I’ll be ready in ten minutes, if that will do, girls.”

Breakfast over, and the boys arrayed in garments suitable for a day in Barrabri—“and what’s more important, for meeting Mother, so just you keep clean, young Billy!” warned his sisters—the remaining housework was swiftly accomplished, and the twins retired to the kitchen. There was a savoury odour of hot scones when Mr. Weston put his head in half an hour later.

“I’m off, girls,” he said. “Sure you have put everything on the list?”

“Why, I hope so,” said Jean, taking floury hands from a yellow mixing-bowl, and endeavouring fruitlessly to rub her eye with her elbow. “Aren’t the flies awful! The list is so long that you won’t want any additions to it, Father. Whatever you do, bring the seventy-pound bag of sugar; there are only a few pounds in the house, and we have to make jam to-morrow.”

“I won’t forget,” Father nodded. “Poor little cooks, you do look hot! Josephine, my daughter, are you trying to bake yourself?”

“It happens without any trying, in this weather,” Jo answered. She was kneeling in front of the open oven, which gave back her voice with a hollow sound. “I wish they’d taught us at school _why_ a cake suddenly rises in the middle and explodes! It looks weird, and I’m sure it won’t be wholesome.” Shutting the oven-door carefully, she scrambled to her feet. “It is so simple to cook things in class, with gas-stoves and Miss Smith—this oven seems to have the Equator in the middle and the North Pole at one side!”

“Don’t you worry,” said Father consolingly. “It smells tremendously good, and the scones are splendid.” He looked at his daughters, a little wrinkle in his brow. “Don’t work too hard, twinses. Mother will be vexed if she finds you knocked up.”

“Oh, we’re quite all right,” Jo replied. “It’s really great fun, Father, and we’re enjoying it. And we _do_ want to have things nice for Mother. It would be so horrid for her to come home from Melbourne to find everything at sixes and sevens just because Sarah was sick.”

“She won’t do that,” said Father—“you have the house like a new pin. Well, I must go: there’s plenty to do in Barrabri before Mother’s train gets in.” He closed the door with a cheery farewell; and immediately re-opened it.

“By Jove, I nearly forgot something! That Jersey bull I sold to Joe Harrison is in the stock-yard, and he’ll send for him during the day. Don’t go into the yard, for he’s a nasty-tempered beast. You can tell Harrison’s man where he is; and give the man a cup of tea when he comes, and something to eat, for he’ll have had a twelve-mile ride.”

“All right,” said the twins, together.

“Thanks,” said Father. He smiled at them in the way that made it feel most uplifting to be able to do anything for him. “Now, don’t forget to eat some lunch yourselves. We’ll be back before four o’clock.”

“We’ll have the kettle boiling; Mother will want her tea badly,” Jean said. They went out upon the kitchen verandah to watch him get into the buggy, where Billy and Rex were awaiting him, swishing with the whip at the clustering flies. “Take great care of yourself!” they called. It was always their good-bye to him.

Outside, the blazing February sun beat down on the dust-coloured paddocks, above which a heat-haze shimmered. The road ran right and left beyond the homestead fences, here and there a little cloud of dust showing where a horseman rode slowly. A deeper cloud marked the passage of a flock of starving sheep, on their way to be trucked to Gippsland—many of them doomed to die from sheer weakness on the road before ever they should see the train. In the fruit trees outside the kitchen window locusts shrilled ceaselessly, and grey miners—greediest of birds—hopped and pecked, uttering long, screaming cries. The twins took advantage of the break in their work to refresh themselves with a cool drink from the canvas water-bag hanging under the shade of a great walnut-tree, Jo obligingly holding the cup for Jean, whose hands were too encumbered by flour to do so for herself. Then they dived anew into the hot kitchen.

It was an hour later that Jo was carrying a freshly baked cake across to the larder—a cool room, looking south, under the walnut-tree. She regarded her cake with a motherly eye as she went. It had baked a trifle peculiarly as to shape; still, it bore indications of being an excellent cake. The odour it exhaled was tempting enough to the hungry cook, and sent her thoughts in the hopeful direction of lunch. She put her burden carefully on a shelf, and came back across the verandah.

A low sound met her ear; a long, growling bellow, which had come at intervals during the morning. The Jersey bull was resenting his imprisonment in the stock-yard, and venting his ill-temper by making unpleasant remarks and pawing up the ground in one corner. Jo stopped to glance in the direction of the yard.

As she did so, the bull found a weak spot in the fence. He put his great head under, and lifted; and the top rail shot into the air. It left a gap that was far too much temptation for a wrathful Jersey. Jo uttered a startled exclamation as the big brown beast suddenly rose in the air, jumping lazily over the broken fence. He stood irresolutely for a moment, and then trotted up the road, keeping close beside the fence, and bellowing morosely as he went.

Jo’s voice brought her twin hurriedly out to her side.

“Good gracious!” Jean exclaimed. “The wicked old horror! Whatever can we do?”

“We can’t let him go,” Jo said. “Mr. Harrison’s man must have him, or Father wouldn’t get the money for him. And anyhow, he isn’t safe, Jean; he simply mustn’t be left on the road. Why, he might meet some children. You never know who may be on that track.”

“I don’t believe we could yard him again,” Jean said doubtfully. “Father said yesterday that it took him all his time to handle him: his temper’s abominable. Mother has wanted Father to sell him for ever so long, ’cause he isn’t to be trusted.”

“If only a man would come along!” Jo uttered.

They ran to the fence and looked up and down the road. No one was in sight: the lane the bull had taken was a quiet one, and it was empty save for his fast-retreating form. He trotted briskly, hugging the fence and uttering his long, growling bellow. The twins looked at each other blankly.

“He’s worth such a lot of money, too!” Jean said. “Father’s going to get ever so much for him. It’s perfectly awful, Jo!”

Jo was thinking.

“There are men at Moncrieff’s, of course,” she said. “But he’d be out of sight long before we could get them, and once he gets to the cross-roads we wouldn’t be able to tell which way he went. Besides, he might jump into any paddock; you know, Father said that no fence would stop him except the stock-yard. And if he did any damage he might get shot. A policeman shot a stray bull in Barrabri last month.” She wrinkled her forehead. “Jean, I don’t see how we’re to hold up our heads if anything happens to him—he was left in our charge!”

“Well, he’s left it now,” said Jean dolefully. “And Father would know we couldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t be angry.”

“Why, of course he wouldn’t: he’d never say a word about it to us. And that would make it all the worse, because we’d know how bad he felt about it,” Jo answered. “Jean, it’s no use talking, while the old beast gets further and further away every minute. I’m going after him!”

“After Father?”

“No, stupid, after the Jersey! I believe I can stop him, on Pilot. At least, I’m going to try!”

“You aren’t going to do any such thing, Jo Weston!” said Jean desperately. “You’ll get killed, and Father would be furious!”

“I won’t get killed at all,” said Jo, laughing. “And I’d never have any peace of mind if I didn’t go, and the old beast killed some poor little youngster by the roadside. And neither would you, and you know it!”

“Then we’ll both go,” said Jean decidedly.

“We can’t—some one must stay with Sarah and the house. And I’m the eldest!”

“Five minutes!” said her twin, resentfully. “That’s not fair, Jo!”

“No, it isn’t, I know,” admitted Jo, hugging her penitently. “I didn’t mean it, Jeanie darling. But you know Pilot is just a bit handier with cattle than Punch is, and I’m used to him—I know I’d better go. Oh, we mustn’t waste time arguing about it. You run and get Pilot, and I’ll fly into my riding things.” And Jean, silenced, but inwardly protesting, ran.

The ponies were in the little paddock near the house. They were accustomed to being caught in the open; even if Pilot felt puzzled at being bridled by the wrong twin he made no objection. By the time Jo, in coat and breeches, came running from the house, he was ready; a handsome, eager little black pony, dancing with impatience and with disgust at the swarming flies. Jo swung herself into the saddle.

“Do be careful, old girl!” Jean called.

“Of course I will,” Jo answered briskly. “Put the sliprails of the yard down, in case I bring him back, will you, Jeanie?”

She waved her hand gaily, and in another moment was galloping up the road.

Far ahead, the Jersey bull was only a little dot upon the wayside. He was travelling fast, and probably his temper was, as yet, none the better for the exercise. Jo shuddered to think of what might happen if he encountered any of the Bush children, who are, as a rule, fearless of any animals. Little children would very certainly not think of getting out of his way.

She dug her heel into Pilot, giving him his head: and the black pony, glad to be out again, after long days in the paddock, answered promptly. His long stride soon lessened the distance separating them from the blur of dust ahead. From the house, Jean watched them anxiously, until a bend in the road hid them from sight. Then she turned with a little sigh, and hurried back to the neglected kitchen, resolving to have all the work done before Jo’s return. But it was certainly hard to be the one to stay at home.

It was near a little clump of trees that Jo first came up with the Jersey. The shade had tempted him to pause; he stood under a wattle, his angry head low, until the sound of galloping hoofs startled him. Quite well he knew that hoofs would come; but he had not the smallest intention of waiting for them. As Pilot and his rider came into view he went off again, this time at a heavy gallop.

“Bother the old thing!” said Jo, pulling up. “We’ll let him run a bit, Pilot: he’ll stop much sooner then.”

She waited until the bull dropped once more into a jog-trot. Then she cantered on, keeping this time on the opposite side of the road, in the somewhat vain hope of inducing the fugitive to think she was merely out for a ride, with no intention whatever of interfering with his excursions. But the bull knew the pony, and he was not easy to deceive; he quickened his pace whenever the hoofs came nearer, and so the miles steadily increased between them and the Emu Plains homestead, now far out of sight. Jo set her teeth at last.

“Well, this may go on all day,” she said. “We’ve simply got to head him, Pilot. Come on, boy!”

Pilot was very willing. He was galloping before the bull realized it. There was a minute of uncertainty, and then the pony forged steadily ahead, still keeping on the far side of the road—not turning until they were a hundred yards in the lead. Then Jo swung round suddenly, pulling up across the bull’s path. The Jersey came on steadily. She swung her light stock-whip free, with a sharp crack, and, shouting, rode to meet him.

The bull was in much too evil a frame of mind to care for a girl on a small black pony. He bellowed defiance, keeping close to the fence, and scattering the dust as he came. The stock-whip spoke again, the lash falling across his face; but it was not the heavy thong to which he was accustomed, and, while it made him angrier, it did not turn him in the least. He put his head down and charged, making a savage thrust with his cruel little horns at the pony, missing Jo’s leg by a hair’s breadth. Pilot danced aside; and then they were once more in the rear, and the broad, brown back, with the switching, angry tail, seemed to fill the road in front of them.

“Well, you are an old pig!” said Jo, in heartfelt accents, to the bull. “Come on. Pilot!” They galloped in pursuit again.

An hour later, they were still pursuing. Four times they had managed to head the bull, and each time he had beaten them, becoming, with each victory, more and more unmanageable. Only a man on a good horse could have turned him now, for all his wicked fury was aroused, and from being merely bad-tempered he was actively vicious. Twice, Pilot’s quickness alone had saved Jo from disaster. Now, she was very tired, and her arm felt almost useless, so cruelly did it ache from trying to use the stock-whip. Tears were not usual with the twins; but Jo was not far off them.

“We’ll never get him back, Pilot!” she said miserably.

They rounded a bend in the road, and ahead a little cottage came into view. At sight of it Jo caught her breath. Out in the road before it, two little blue figures were playing happily in the dusty grass.

No one else was in sight: before her loomed only the bull, bearing steadily down on the children. Jo forgot her weariness; forgot everything but those little, helpless figures. Next moment Pilot was going at racing pace—up the road, past the galloping bull, on and on, his rider shouting as she bent forward on his neck. “Run! Get inside the fence!”

They were very little children; too young to understand or to be afraid. They looked up at the flying pony with wide, interested eyes, never thinking of moving; unheeding Jo’s wild cries to run within the shelter of the garden fence so near to them. The sound of the racing hoofs and the wild cries brought a man to the cottage door—and in a moment he also was shouting, running wildly; knowing himself too far off to be of any use.

The bull was very close as Jo flung herself from Pilot’s back, leaving him, with a little dry sob, to shift for himself. She caught a child in each hand and raced for the garden gate, as the bull, bellowing, put down his head and charged.

It was so near a thing that the father, running madly down the path, held his breath in despair; so near that Jo felt the bull’s hot breath as she flung herself at the gate. Had it been latched, all had been over with them; but the children had left it unfastened—it gave as they touched it, and in a second they were through. Jo freed one hand to bang it behind them. She heard the latch click—heard the thud of the bull’s shoulder as he came heavily upon the stout gate-post. Then her foot caught, and all three went down in a heap.

The man who came, racing, picked her up even before he looked at the badly frightened children. His breath came and went in gasps—even as Jo’s did.

“Well!” he said, and stopped at that.

“I’m sorry,” Jo said apologetically. “Father would be awfully annoyed if he knew that horrid old Jersey had given anyone a fright!”

“It’s thanks to you I’ve got my two kids,” said the man, gasping. “There, that’ll do, Jimmy—you’re not hurt, lad. I—I never saw anything like it. Sure you’re all right, Miss Weston?”

“I’m all right, I think,” Jo said. Suddenly she felt queer, and sat down on the grass. “I’ll just sit here a moment. How did you know my name?”

“Bless you, I know the pony,” he said, looking at Pilot, standing quietly by the road. The bull was already a hundred yards away, trotting steadily. “I’ll go and catch him.” He went out and secured Pilot, putting his bridle over a post, in the shade of a grevillea tree.

“You’re sure he’s all right?” Jo questioned anxiously.

“Right as rain.” The man’s ruddy face was still queerly white. “If I’m not mistaken that’s the bull I was going to take to Harrison’s this very day. Was you bringing him yourself?”

“I?” said Jo. “Good gracious, no! I didn’t even know that Mr. Harrison lived in this direction. The bull was left in our charge, and he got out. I was trying to get him back.”

“You!—you mite of a thing!” said the man, staring. “Well, he’s brought himself not far from Harrison’s, and saved me a nice, hot ride—but it’s you that’ve had the worst of it. Just you come in, and my missus’ll make you a cup of tea while I take after the old brute. I’ll have him in his new paddock inside of half an hour. Sure you’re all right?” he queried, anxiously.

“I’m all right, thanks,” Jo said, getting up stiffly.

“You’ll be better when you’ve had a cup of tea. I’ll give the pony a feed while you’re resting, and you can ride back comfortable when he’s had it. Come along, now.” He swung a child aloft on each shoulder. “My missus’ll have something to say to you when she hears about this!—the very pluckiest——”

His voice stopped uncertainly, and Jo, suddenly aware that she was very tired, followed him up the garden path.

The wife proved to be not excitable—which was, perhaps, as well for Jo. Her motherly eyes took in the girl’s strained face at a glance—she had quietly established her on an old sofa in the kitchen before her husband had finished the story. Even then, she said little. She caught the babies to her for a moment: then, putting them aside, brought water and bathed Jo’s face and hands, and presently had a cup of tea beside her—the universal medicine of the Bush. As she put it down she stooped suddenly, and kissed the girl’s hand.

“There ain’t no sayin’ ‘thank you’ for what you’ve done for us,” she said.

When her husband came back, within an hour, he brought with him a man who greeted Jo as an old friend. She had drunk five cups of tea, and was feeling rested, and both babies were sitting on top of her. Jo adored babies.

“Why, Dr. Lawrence!” she said.

The Barrabri doctor patted her on the head.

“Tim Conlan’s been telling me all about you, young lady,” said he. “Nice hot day you’ve chosen to chase a bad-tempered bull twelve miles! How are you, Mrs. Conlan? and the youngsters? You all look very fit. Look here, twin—which are you? I never know!”

“Jo,” said that lady meekly.

“I’ve only your word for it,” said the doctor, laughing. “Anyhow, Conlan and I have agreed that you’re not going to ride back in this heat. He was going to drive you; but he ran across me, and I’m going past your place in the car. You come home with me, and Conlan will bring your pony over in a day or two. Will that do?”

“Oh, that’s giving Mr. Conlan an awful lot of trouble,” Jo protested. Whereat Tim Conlan uttered a kind of smothered snort, and Dr. Lawrence laughed.

“I think Mr. Conlan will be annoyed if you talk to him about trouble,” he said. “Well, that’s settled. Feel well enough to start now?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jo, giving in. “I would like to get back before Mother and Father get home—Mother’s coming back from Town to-day. And poor old Jean will be awfully anxious. She wanted to come after the bull too, but there was no one to look after Sarah—she’s sick.”

“I thought it was curious to see one of you without the other,” said the doctor. “Be thankful you haven’t got twins, Mrs. Conlan, that you can’t tell apart!”

“I’m thankful I’ve got any children at all this day!” said Mrs. Conlan, with a smothered sob.

The doctor’s swift little car made short work of the miles to Emu Plains, where they found a distraught Jean, on the point of setting out on Punch, in search of her twin.

“I simply couldn’t stand it!” she said. “How did I know if that old beast of a bull hadn’t killed you? I had awful visions of you lying on the road, hurt, in all the heat—I just couldn’t face Father and Mother when I didn’t know where you were. And Sarah’s well enough to be up, so I was coming.”

“Poor old Jean!” said Jo. “I guess you had all the worst of it.”

The doctor stayed to tea, partly that he might give Mrs. Weston a word of warning.

“She’s had rather a shock,” he said, when Jo was out of the room. “Of course, she thinks she’s all right, being fifteen, and Jo into the bargain, but I’d advise you to take care of her for a few days, and make her lie down a bit, and go to bed early. No need whatever to fuss, but just keep your eye on her. She’s had a heavy strain, finishing with a sudden call on every ounce of physical and mental strength she possessed. Conlan said it was almost a miracle that they escaped—only extraordinary quickness did it.”

So Jo found herself gently taken care of, for a few days, which embarrassed her greatly. She rather wondered that she felt listless and heavy-eyed; and her sleep was broken by bad dreams, in which she was perpetually snatching babies from the jaws of unpleasant prehistoric animals, rather like Chinese dragons. Always after one of these dreams it seemed that Mother was beside her, soothing her with a gentle voice. Mother had taken to sleeping on the verandah near them, declaring it was too hot in the house. Jo found herself very glad of her nearness. And after a few days the dreams went away, and she was a mere twin again, much to her relief.

Tim Conlan had brought Pilot back, and had found speech difficult when he talked to Jo’s parents.

“I never saw the man who’d ’ve done it,” he said. “Not in me life. The brute wasn’t twenty yards away, and he was fair wicked: them little kids of mine wouldn’t ’ve had the ghost of a show. All he wanted was something to kill, and he’d ’ve done them in but for that little slip of a girl.” He was silent a moment, his rugged face working. Like Jo, he had had bad dreams since.

“Well, I don’t suppose I’ll ever be able to pay her back,” he said. “There’s no payment for that sort of thing. But if I can do her, or any of her people, a good turn, any time in me life—well, me missus an’ me would walk barefoot fifty mile to do it, an’ glad of the chance.”

“There’s no question of payment, as you say,” Mr. Weston answered. “We’re thankful it was our girl who saved them. Remember, the bull was mine—I’d never have forgiven myself if he’d hurt them. I’ve been wishing to goodness I’d shot the brute instead of selling him.”

“Oh, well, that’s simple waste,” said Tim Conlan, amazed. “You gotter remember he’s a real good Jersey!”