‘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 that there’s nothing here that will make liars of us.’
He looked through the letters and papers by the light of the fire. There were some letters from Mrs Baker to her husband, also a portrait of her and the children; these Andy put aside. But there were other letters from barmaids and women who were not fit to be seen in the same street with the Boss’s wife; and there were portraits—one or two flash ones. There were two letters from other men’s wives too.