MIDNIGHT
When the north wind moans thro’ the blind creek courses,
And revels with harsh, hot sand,
I loose the horses, the wild red horses,
I loose the horses, the mad red horses,
And terror is on the land!
—Marie E. J. Pitt.
DUSK fell, and the stars came out to ride in a blue-black sky, before the sound of horses’ feet, galloping, floated to the quiet house at Billabong. Mrs. Brown came out on the verandah, one hand at her ear, listening.
“Here they are—an’ thank goodness!” she uttered. “I’m never easy in me mind when they’re out on them young horses—not as anything ever happens, but who’s to say it isn’t goin’ to? It’s always a relief, like, to see them come scrimmagin’ in!”
Hogg, a dim figure in the gloom of a big clump of hydrangea, merely grunted. Norah considered that a serious realization of the claims of his name had induced Hogg to practise grunting. It was a fine art with him, and capable of innumerable shades of expression.
Just now he was hunting snails—his dour face occasionally revealed in an almost startling manner by gleams from the tiny lantern he carried.
“Watter will always bring them,” he remarked.
“Eh?” asked Brownie, sharply.
“Ay. The place was free a week back—an’ noo they’re crawlin’ all through it—rapacious beasts!”
“What on earth are you saying, man?” demanded Brownie, bristling.
“Tes the snails, Mistress Broon. Whiles, ’a wes thinkin’ there wes none; but sin’ ’a’ve been soakin’ this pairt o’ the gairden they’ve made ma life a burrden. ’A ken fine there’s nae gairdener wull get to heaven gin he has to deal much in life wi’ snails!” said Hogg, desperately.
“Nasty beasts!” said Brownie sympathetically. She shuddered as a crunching sound came from under Hogg’s boot, and fled indoors; and the Scotchman worked on, pondering upon the peculiar and painful susceptibilities of women. “It makes ma heart glad to scrunch ’em!” he reflected, demolishing half a dozen of his enemies with a massive boot.
The riders trotted into the stable yard, tired, but cheerful.
“Coming home was the best part of the day,” said Norah, happily, slipping off and beginning to unbuckle Bosun’s breastplate, leaving Garryowen to Jim. Garryowen had carried her like a bird; but Norah had a fancy for letting her own property go.
“I think you can put Bosun in the stable to-night,” her father said; “Monarch and Garryowen, too; they deserve a bit of hard feed.”
“And don’t Nan and Warder?” protested Jean.
“Yes—but they aren’t used to it,” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “These three are pampered babies, and the others are matter-of-fact old stagers.”
“Nan’s a dear!” said Jean, indignantly. She caressed the brown mare’s long nose.
“I’ll slip over after tea and feed them,” Jim said. “They’re a bit hot now.”
“Very well,” his father answered, leading Monarch into the dark recesses of the stable and returning for Bosun. “Better leave the others in the yard, too, until you come over; then you can give them some chaff, just to set Jean’s mind at rest.” He pulled that lady’s hair gently. “Make haste, we’ve kept poor Brownie unconscionably late.”
Brownie showed no signs of having been delayed. She met them smilingly, and called Wally “poor dear!” when he simulated extreme fatigue. Tea was a mighty meal, and before it was over Norah and Jean felt their eyelids drooping. It was still very hot in the house. Outside, a wind began to blow fitfully from the west.
“Go to bed, both of you!” ordered Mr. Linton, as they rose from the table and went out through the long windows upon the verandah. “You’re both knocked up. What’s that light moving?”
“That’s Hogg, snail hunting,” Jim answered.
“I’ll be fined for working him overtime some day,” said his father. “Most of them are only too glad to knock off, but Hogg’s a demon to work.”
“This isn’t work, it’s sport!” grinned Jim.
“I should think Hogg’s dreams would be haunted by the screams of slaughtered snails!” Wally said. “Wonder how many of their scalps he’s entitled to wear at his saddle bow—slain in gentle and joyous combat! He’s a mighty hunter.” He yawned, cavernously. “Jim, if you want me to help you feed those horses before I go to sleep you’d better hurry.”
“Come on,” Jim said, swinging himself over the low railing of the verandah. “Then I’ll race you to bed, if you like. Good-night, kids!”
“Kid yourself,” said Norah, in great scorn. “Jean, first into the bath gets it!” Uttering this mystic prediction, she kissed her father hastily, and fled upstairs, with Jean toiling in her wake. Sounds of much splashing kept the bathrooms lively for some time. Then Billabong, clean, refreshed and profoundly sleepy, tumbled into bed and became oblivious of the world.
* * * * *
Norah woke from a confused dream of Hogg, mounted on an immense Queensland bullock, and chasing a battalion of snails down Mount Kosciusko. Variety was lent to the vision by the fact that Kosciusko had become an active volcano, and was in wild eruption behind the Scotchman, who was silhouetted blackly against a background of burning lava. And the snails were screaming.
For a moment she did not think she could be awake. The ridiculous dream had been vivid, and still the glow filled her room. Then again came the sound she had dreamed, and Norah was suddenly broad awake, and, flinging herself out of bed, fled to the window. She uttered a cry, and tugged at Jean frantically.
“Whatever’s the matter?” asked Jean sleepily.
“Quick, tell Jim! Call him! Oh, hurry, Jean, the stables are on fire. I’m going—the horses!” She was groping for shoes and flinging on a coat. Then she tore downstairs, shouting as she went. From the stables, as she stumbled out upon the verandah, came again the sound of her dreams, and she caught her breath in a sob. For no one who has ever heard it can forget the horror of a horse’s scream.
The stables were burning fiercely. One end, the westward end, that held the buggy house and harness rooms, was a sheet of flame; but the fire had not yet fairly seized upon the whole, although the door of the loose boxes showed trails of smoke coming from within. She could hear the trampling of hoofs, jostling, terrified, and then a long whinny of utter fear, rising again to a scream. Sobbing, she wrestled with the stiff bolt of the door.
Across the garden came a shout—Jim’s voice.
“Come away from that, Norah! Come back, dear. They’ll trample over the top of you.” He was running desperately towards the little figure against the lit building.
“They’re burning!” said Norah, sobbing. The fastening yielded, and she flung one door back, unable to see anything for the dense smoke. She called the horses by name, pushing open the lower door, and had barely time to jump aside when Monarch and Bosun bolted out, frantic with fear. Further back, the scream came once more.
“Oh, it’s Garryowen!” Norah gasped, “and his door’s shut; and if I don’t go in, Jim will.” She took a long breath, a child’s fear fighting against pity and love. Then she put her arm up, as if to guard her eyes, and stumbled into the smoke.
Within, it was almost impossible to breathe. Fierce little shoots of fire came through cracks in the wall that showed a mass of flame beyond; and the heat was choking and deadly. Already the roof was burning; the hay in the loft above had caught, and the flames were shooting fifty feet above the stables. In his box, Jim’s big bay thoroughbred was rearing and kicking, mad with terror. Even when Norah had managed to open his door, he would not come out to face the unknown horrors. She called him, trying to steady her voice—knowing that to venture within his box in his maddened state was little short of suicide. From outside she could hear Jim’s voice, shouting for her, sharp with anxiety.
“Oh, I’ll have to leave him!” Norah sobbed. “The fire’s coming through the roof. Oh, Garry, dear, do come out!”
Above the loose box the ceiling split open for about a yard, and a shower of burning fragments came down. They struck Garryowen on the quarter—and the great horse, screaming, plunged through the open door and out like a whirlwind to the glimpse of star-lit sky that showed through the further doorway. Behind him Norah staggered feebly, brushing burning particles from her hair—holding one hand across her mouth in the vain effort to keep out the choking smoke. Within sight of safety, consciousness left her; she tripped, falling face downward on the wooden blocks.
Jean’s terrified voice at his door had awakened Jim almost before Norah had flown downstairs. The glow in his room did not put the fear into his heart that flashed there at the stammering words—
“Norah’s gone over!”
“Norah—she mustn’t!” the boy gasped. He flung himself past Jean, shouting to her to warn the rest of the house, and raced across to the burning stables. At the gate of the yard Monarch and Bosun almost were upon him—they swerved in their maddened gallop, missing him by a hair’s breadth as he ran. But there was no sign of the little sister.
He peered through the smoke wildly, calling to her. For all that he knew, his own horse was already out, safe in some dark corner of the yard; that Norah had gone into the burning building did not enter his head. He searched for her, shouting her name more and more loudly. A sudden terror came upon him lest the horses should have knocked her down as they rushed out—he sprang to the open doors, in sick fear of finding her hurt—senseless. But nothing was visible—nothing but the rolling clouds of flame-shot smoke. He paused, irresolute.
Then he heard Norah’s voice at Garryowen’s box, and even as he leapt forward, amazed and despairing, came a clatter of hoofs on the wooden pavement, as the bay horse bolted out in his last wild dash for safety. His shoulder just brushed Jim as he plunged through the doorway, but the touch was enough to send the boy staggering back, almost falling. He recovered himself with an effort, dashing into the stable.
Beyond him, above Garryowen’s loose box, the roof split gradually, and the roar of inrushing flames filled his ears. They lit up the dark interior, for a moment even stronger than the cruel smoke. Then he saw Norah at his feet. He picked her up, holding her with her face pressed against him to save her from the burning fragments that filled the air—staggering out, grim and determined, with his breath coming in choking gasps. Then his father’s voice rang in his ears, and he saw Wally’s face dimly and felt their hands as they drew him and his burden to safety.
He put Norah down on the grass gently, a limp, unconscious figure. A voice he did not recognize as belonging to him was gasping something about water, and he heard Wally’s swift feet, that seemed to go and come all at once——. They were splashing water on Norah’s face, but she did not move; and suddenly he heard a dry sob break from his father, more terrible in its agony than any sound could ever be again. Perhaps it was in answer to it that Norah’s eyes flickered a little and presently they opened more widely—red-rimmed eyes, half blind—and she smiled at them faintly. Her smoke-grimed lips moved in words that sounded like “all right.”
Jim got to his feet and moved over to the fence, his shoulders shaking as he gripped the pickets.
“I thought she was dead,” he said; “I was jolly well sure she was dead.”
Voices and shouting were coming from the men’s hut. Behind him a long, thundering crash echoed to the sky as the stable roof fell in. Then his father’s hand was on his shoulder.
“Steady, old chap,” said David Linton, “she’s all right. Get to the hose in the garden quickly, Jim. The house has caught.”