"Drat the brutes! Oh, I say, here's a go! Listen to the beggars! Ain't they footin' it?"
"To horse! to horse, pals!" cried Thundercloud, making hasty strides to a patch of scrub where they had tied up the horse. In a few seconds the three were mounted and away with a swinging canter, adding their yells to the cries of the beasts. They were soon up to the spot where Jimmy had come to grief, when, thundering down the gully, the horse made a shy at the prostrate coachman, shooting off Thundercloud and Red Murphy. They scrambled up quickly, none the worse for their spill. Hawkeye immediately reined in his steed and rejoined his dismounted companions.
The boys were greatly concerned to find Jimmy in this condition. The affair began to assume a serious aspect. They were no longer outlaws and police: they were pals, and Jimmy was suffering intense pain from his sprained ankle. After a short consultation the boy was placed on the horse, which was led by Sandy. The others followed behind, making a somewhat mournful spectacle. In due course they reached the goatcart, now in possession of Yellow Billy, who had disentangled the team and was waiting for the others to come along. The steer meanwhile continued his career at headlong speed, until he pulled up at the milking yards in an exhausted condition. Mrs. Blain, as the hours sped by, began to get concerned at the non-return of the boys. Concern deepened into anxiety. She became a prey to evil imaginings, as do all our dear mothers. They are lost! ... Some dreadful accident has happened! ... That gun! ... Their legs, arms, necks, are broken! And so on and on, running over the whole gamut of catastrophy.
She goes out to scan the streets, and listens with strained ears for some enheartening sound of footsteps. Lights are out in the village. Even the dogs are sleeping. No shuffle of advancing feet; no rattle of wheels as they grind in the ruts: no sound, indeed, is borne upon the night wind save the mystic noises of the flowing river, which fill the air with a deep undertone. Above this, at intervals, come the splashing sounds of the jumping fish; the smooth splash of the falling mullet, the tail flutter of the rising perch. The wood-duck's soft quack-quack, and the red-bill's chuckle, are to be heard as they move among the sedges. No landward sound!
Stay! a dark shadow swiftly steals along the earth like a spirit of evil omen, and passes through the house, across the street, as it strikes the walls. While from above comes a wail as that of a lost soul.
The poor woman quivers and shivers at the unwonted sight and sound. She knows not that the apparition is the shadow of a black swan, which is sailing high up in the heavens; it crosses the moon, and utters its melancholy note as it wings its flight to the feeding grounds. The mother is now on the outskirts of the town, under the shadows of the trees. Every leaf is a tongue; every tongue whispers—Something! which dries the throat and fills the ears with heart-thumps. "Why did I? ... That gun! ... What will father? ... Why don't they come? ... Which track? ... Hark! Yes, 'tis the galloping hoofs ... Oh, God! it is the steer! ... Riderless! ... This way, then.... On, on, on! ... At last! ..."
"Cheer up, mother ... no harm done ... Jimmy had a bit of a buster an' sprained his ankle.... Scold us, mother, but—don't cry!"
The hour is verging on midnight as five weary lads, four billies, one horse, and one thankful woman straggled into the silent township. All romance, for the moment, had gone out of bushranging.
CHAPTER IV
THE GREAT MATCH