“Dead?”
“Oh, yes, quite dead. He had evidently been bitten by a snake. He had a theory that if one did bite him, it wouldn’t hurt him, and he’d always said that he wouldn’t do anything to cure himself—that he was too tough for poison to hurt him. All these snake-charming idiots say that sort of thing. Well, old Moriarty found out his mistake, as they all do—too late.”
“Poor old chap!” said Norah.
“Yes—we were all jolly sorry for old Moriarty. Of course, he was really an absolute reprobate; but he always behaved decently on our station, and he used to be jolly kind to us boys. We were lonely kids, and the place was at the back of beyond—hardly a soul ever came there, and we welcomed Moriarty’s visits tremendously. He was such an unusual animal. Ah, well, rest his sowl, as Murty would say. I don’t suppose he’d have done any good with himself, so perhaps it was as well he went out.”
They had been riding through a belt of sparse growing timber, the track marked by the wheels of the bullock-drays that were sent to bring firewood to the homestead. Now they emerged upon an open plain, where quicker going was possible. Just ahead was Billy, jogging along upon the hated Bung-Eye, whose piebald sides bore many marks of his spurs. He was leading a heavy black horse; one of the generally useful “slaves” to be found on any station, capable of being used as hack or stock-horse, in buggy, cart, or plough, and equally handy in any capacity. It was said of Nugget that in an emergency he was quite agreeable to pulling a load with his tail; and it was known that by means of a halter fastened to that useful appendage he had once “skull-dragged” a jibbing horse home. Nothing came amiss to him. If he had a temper, it was never shown. In good seasons or bad, he throve, and under no circumstances was he sick or sorry. His breeding was extremely doubtful, but in all that matters he was a perfect gentleman.
Billy looked enviously at the unhampered riders as they swept past him. He hated slow progress; to him, as to most natives, a horse was a thing which should be kept at a high speed, and it was the sorrow of his life that the work demanded of him very often meant quiet going. It was bad enough to have to jog over the paddocks on lazy old Bung-Eye, leading Nugget, heavy-footed and with trace-chains clanking dismally, without being forced to watch these cheerful people tear by him on horses that he would have bartered most of his small worldly possessions to ride. He jerked Nugget’s leading-rein angrily, whereof the old black horse took not the slightest notice. Nugget was certainly not a cheerful proposition to lead; he went at his own pace or none, and at any attempt to hustle him he simply leaned heavily on the bit, becoming in Murty’s phrase, “as aisy as a stone wall.” At the moment. Billy was blind to all his undoubted moral excellences.
Half a mile across the paddock was a swampy lagoon. Ordinarily it was fringed with a thick belt of green rushes, which made splendid cover for black duck, and always gave good shooting in the season. Now, however, it was half dried up, and the rushes, withered and yellow, rattled cheerlessly in the keen wind. There was a wide expanse of dried mud near the bank; then another expanse, deep chocolate in colour, not yet quite dry. Beyond was the water, dotted with clumps of rushes, and looking rather like pea-soup. The mud was deeply indented with hoof-marks. A loud croaking of innumerable frogs filled the air.
A dozen yards from the edge stood a big shorthorn bullock, girth deep in water. He was hopelessly bogged. From time to time he made a violent struggle to free his legs from the mud that held them; but each attempt only left him sunk more deeply. It was quite evident that he fully understood the seriousness of his plight. His sides heaved with his panting breath; his great eyes were wild with fear. Now and then he gave a low bellow, full of anxiety.
“I’ll bet he’s cold!” said Jim, with emphasis. “The great stupid ass! Why couldn’t he have the sense to keep out of a bog-hole like that?” He jumped off, and proceeded to tie Garryowen’s bridle to a tree. “Been at him long, Murty?”
“Sure I kem upon him two hours ago, an’ I’ve been doin’ me endeavours to shift him ever since,” replied Mr. O’Toole, picking his way across the hoof-marked mud to meet the riders. His usually cheery countenance wore a doleful expression, and was obscured by many muddy streaks. Mud, in fact, clothed him from head to foot; in addition to which he was extremely wet. He cast a look at his hands, plastered and dripping. “Sorry I can’t take the pony for ye, Miss Norah.”