“Not a bit—we’ll help the ould horse, but ’tis Nugget that’ll pull him out,” rejoined the stockman. “I doubt if we’d shift him in a month of Sundays. Let ye be catching that rope, Mr. Jim, when I pass it under him.”
To adjust the tackling was a matter requiring care, in order to avoid injury to the bullock. They padded him with sacking wherever a rope was likely to cut when the strain came upon it, with due regard that no knots should press unduly. It took time—standing as the workers were on slippery hidden logs that moved and squelched under them like living things, and in icy water that chilled them through and through, and numbed their fingers as they wrestled with the hard rope. When it was done Norah led Nugget in to the edge of the boggy mud, and the trace-chains attached to his collar were joined to the tackling on the bullock.
“Lead him on, and we’ll see if he can shift him, Nor,” Jim called.
“Come up, Nugget,” responded Norah. She took the black horse by the head; and Nugget, suddenly realising that great things were demanded of him, woke up and went forward with a steady strain. The bullock, finding himself more uncomfortable than he had ever dreamed of being, bellowed indignantly. But nothing happened. The prisoner did not budge an inch.
“No good,” Jim sang out. “Back, Nugget,” and Nugget stopped and backed with thankful promptness. “We’ll have to rig up some more tackling.”
The broad leather saddle-girths made an excellent foundation for side-ropes. Jim and Billy took one, Murty and Wally the other. They waded out until they were on firm ground. The bullock stood glaring at them, wild-eyed.
“Now, Nor—and all together!”
The tackling tightened. On either side, the rope-holders threw their weight on the stiffening cords, like men in a tug of war. Norah, stumbling on the hoof-printed mud, urged Nugget by voice and hand. There was a minute’s hard pulling.
“Slack off,” Jim commanded. “Back him, Norah.” Men and horse panted in unison, getting their breath anew.
“I believe he came a little,” Wally said.