The Sweep Winner

CHAPTER I
THE GLITTERING WIRE

A man on horseback shaded his eyes with his hands as he looked along the glittering line of wire which runs for hundreds of miles between New South Wales and Queensland, and forms the great rabbit-proof fence, of which he was one of the keepers.

The blazing sunlight scorched all things living. Not a blade of grass was to be seen. The baked ground gasped with thirst. The slight breeze was like the breath from a huge furnace.

The wire was hot and dazzling. Millions of glimmering specks and hundreds of thousands of electric sparks danced on it in revelry. Merely to look at the shimmering wire blinded the eyes. The horse turned his head away. He was dried, shrivelled, mere skin and bone. Yet he was strong, enduring, capable of going long journeys; an heroic beast, fighting a terrific battle against tremendous odds; a faithful companion, a true friend – always reliable. There was a mute appeal in his puzzled pathetic eyes, which questioned why such things were; why he should be rewarded for his efforts with a parched throat, an empty stomach, and a hot skin.

The man dismounted, carelessly placing his hand on the wire, then snatching it back quickly, with a sharp oath.

"Everything burns in this cursed country," he muttered.

The horse rubbed his nose against the man's arm.

"Ping, old fellow, it's hotter than hell. Thirsty? of course; so am I. We'll have to thirst until we reach the next hole."

The man was strong, well-built, six feet high; even the hard life had not sapped his strength. His dark hair, moustache, and beard, gave him a sombre appearance. His eyes shone fiercely under bushy brows. His face, hands and arms were tanned a deep brown, as also was his chest, where the shirt opened from the throat. He was no common man. His speech was not that of the keepers of the fence, or the bulk of them, for there were many and strange beings on these hundreds of miles of wire line. The majority were old boundary riders, stockmen, tank sinkers, fencers, teamsters. In another class were criminals, convicts and men whose hands were against their fellows; who were dangerous sometimes, when they scented betrayal, or suspected they were being tracked. The man looking at the mirage in the distance belonged to none of these classes; he stood out alone. They knew it, and gave him a show of respect, when they met him, which was seldom.

There must have been some weighty reason for him to bury himself in this solitude, and to accept an occupation from which any educated man must shrink. He wanted to be alone. He could not have come to a better place. Boonara, the nearest bush town, was fifty miles away from where he stood, and a dozen less from his hut.

He descended upon Boonara at night, and waited for it to wake up. When it did, surprise was visible on every face as one by one the inhabitants looked forth from their habitation. The surprise was genuine. It was long since a man of this stamp had entered Boonara. He was amused at the people, and wondered if there was one respectably clean inhabitant. Then he remembered the scarcity of water and pardoned the dirt. He was not clean himself, but he felt wholesome. His body had been cared for as much as possible during the week's tramp.

He soon became acquainted with the Boonarites. They gathered round him, and questions were levelled at him. It was quick firing to which he responded with solitary shots. At the end of the first day the people of Boonara were not a jot wiser about him. One fact was patent, he had money. It was difficult to discover how much, but he "shouted" at Bill Big's "shanty," and paid his footing, and was so far granted the freedom of Boonara.

The township of Boonara consisted of one main street, with irregular, irresponsible-looking houses dotted about, built anyhow. They had been put up at various times by many different sorts of men. Building operations commenced at one end and continued at intervals until a sort of street was formed. The first inhabitant had been a "keeper of the fence," and he camped there because it was convenient to his work. Gradually, in oddments, other men came to the place. It was a bachelor township until some enterprising man, bolder than the rest, and more saving, ventured to Sydney and returned with a wife. She was the only woman in the township for a long time, and was regarded with a certain amount of awe and wonder. The consensus of opinion was that she must have had a terribly bad time in Sydney, or nothing would have induced her to marry Jack and come to Boonara. The example set proved catching, and other members of the bachelor community took unto themselves partners. The township grew slowly, unlike the centres of big mining districts which spring up mushroom-like in a night and often die away as quickly.

Boonara gathered in many of the keepers of the fence, who had tired of the life and settled there on a mere pittance. It was not a prosperous community; there was little conversation, and a lot of grumbling. Each man regarded his neighbour with suspicion, not knowing who he was, except by name, nor whence he came. All around Boonara was an arid waste, except at certain seasons, few and far between, when rain came sweeping in a deluge over the parched earth, filling up the gaping cracks and crevices, hissing and swishing over the land, bringing life, in every drop a new birth. Then the plains woke up. Miles upon miles of dull-brown crumbling grassless spaces became green and refreshing. Strange sights followed these deluges. In a mysterious manner sheep appeared in thousands wandering across the plains, nibbling this wonderful and succulent food from which they had been so long debarred. Cattle came, mobs of horses, all branded, belonging to squatters miles away. Nobody seemed to own the land round Boonara. At least no member of the township had ever heard the name of an owner mentioned. They ran what cattle, horses and sheep they possessed anywhere on it. There were no enclosures, no square-mile paddocks. The only fence was the glittering wire running along the border.

There were very few men in the township who had seen the wire fence. But they met the keepers of it at long intervals when they paid visits to Bill's shanty.

In all communities, however small, there is a fierce desire to look down upon someone, to imagine a superiority. It is a trait which is laughable, and sometimes pathetic. Although the Boonarites were far from civilisation they had their pride, and regarded the keepers of the fence as beings of an inferior order. As the keepers had no respect for the inhabitants, everybody seemed satisfied with the state of affairs.

There was one keeper of the fence whom the Boonarites placed upon an equality with themselves, and that was the man who came upon them in the night.

They were amazed when he went on the glittering wire track. He was far too good for that job; "he wouldn't stick it long" they declared. He did "stick it," however, to their great surprise. The man was a mystery to them, which is not to be wondered at, considering he was mostly a puzzle to himself. His hut was forty miles away, and only three people had visited him there. He did not encourage them. Loneliness sat lightly upon him, so it seemed. Bill Bigs was the most frequent visitor, and when he rode there, or drove in his buggy, it was seldom empty-handed. Somewhere, hidden in the bowels of the earth beneath Bill's shanty, there was mysteriously reported to be spirituous hoards of excellent quality; these rarely saw the light of day in Boonara. Various decoctions were served out over the bar, and there was a strange resemblance in the flavour, no matter from which bottle they were taken. A "nip" from one of Bill's underground bottles was like nectar from the gods.

The man on the fence was never served with inferior stuff, and when Bill visited him he took with him of his best.

Bill Bigs was rough and ready. Rumour credited him with having been in league with bushrangers, before those undesirable and romantic figures disappeared from the earth. Probably this was true, but Ben was no longer an illegitimate preyer upon mankind. He was licensed to "rob" by doctoring his goods. He prided himself on knowing a man when he saw one, and he put down the occupier of the hut in this category. He, however, knew nothing about his friend, except that he was worth a dozen ordinary fence keepers. The man never spoke of his past, or explained why he was in the most solitary place in this vast land. In vain Bill tried to induce him to talk. There was a threatening glitter in his eyes which caused Bill to halt and get on to another track. It was this man, the keeper of the fence, who stood under the blazing sun pitying his horse more than himself. He was waiting for another keeper at the point where they had met, and had a few words and parted. He shaded his eyes again, but saw no one coming.

"I'll wait, I'm always waiting. It hasn't worn me out; it never will. There's a fire within that keeps me alive; it burns, but never dies down. There's enough fuel in my thoughts to keep it glowing until my light goes out."

CHAPTER II
IN THE HUT

Glen Leigh was his name. At least he was down as such on the books, but names were not of much account on his job; they might as well have been numbers seeing they were mere indications of identity. He waited until he was tired, although he had much patience. His throat was parched; his skin burned; there was no shade. On his head, straight down, poured the fierce sun. To look at it was blinding. It seared the eyes; sparks danced when they turned to the earth again. He had no watch. In his hut there was one, but he seldom wound it. He told the time by nature's signs, and was never far out in his calculations.

"I've waited an hour. Damn the fellow. Why doesn't he come? He expects me to do his work and my own too." He shrugged his shoulders. Jim Benny was a mere lad compared with him.

"Poor young devil. What's he done that he should come to this? The sins of the father, and so on."

A shadow flitted across the ground. He started. This was not a land of shadows, except when rain clouds swept away the dazzling blue. He looked around, then above. There was a small black cloud floating in the brilliant sky; it looked like a balloon.

"Rain!" he exclaimed. "By all that's holy, rain."

There was a power of feeling in the word.

"Rain."

In lands where skies are dull, where moisture hangs in the air, where a downpour spoils pleasure and provokes temper, the word rain has a very different meaning. To Glen Leigh rain meant almost everything. There had been none for over nine months, not a drop, and that small balloon-like cloud that cast its shadows and startled him, was more welcome than a shower of gold.

"It's curious," he muttered, "I've never seen it exactly like this. But it must mean rain. God send it. We want it, we dried up sapless things. Rain, Ping. Do you hear, old parchment, rain. And your coat'll be dripping wet. There'll be grass, and you'll feel juice in your mouth instead of dried leaves and twigs. Rain, Ping, rain!"

He gave the horse a sound smack, jerked up his head, and pointed to the cloud rolling above.

A slight breeze came. Ping sniffed, inhaling it with delight, while an anxious look of anticipation came into his eyes.

Glen watched the cloud as though his life depended on it, as thousands of lives did. It was a peculiar phenomenon, a black patch steering through a sea of blue. In its wake it left a trail, dull, streaking out, and beyond the trail were more heavy clouds on the rain path. This leader was the herald of the storm.

There was no moan, there was nothing to cause it, but presently the wire fence seemed to buzz, and the rising wind came through it playing on the strings a sort of sad harmony, but sweet music in the ears of the man and horse.

A low rumbling sound proclaimed the advance of the clouds, and they rolled along in battalions blotting out the sunlight; the relief to the eyes was immense. He waited, but Jim Benny did not come. He almost forgot about him in his anxiety over the approaching rain.

A crack straight above his head, which echoed over the plain, was followed by a burst of water which deluged him and Ping in a few minutes. Both gasped with relief. They opened their mouths, and the refreshing water cooled them; they had not had such a soaking for months. The land responded to the rain. He fancied he saw the blades of grass already shooting; he knew they would be there in a matter of twenty-four hours. He mounted Ping and rode to his hut. It was no use waiting any longer for Jim Benny; he would see him next day. Still he wondered what had come to him, and felt a bit uneasy. He liked Jim, although he seldom spoke more than a few words to him. Perhaps it was the mystery surrounding him which appealed to him; he was a mysterious man himself.

The rain poured down as he rode along. Ping's ambling pace soon covered the ground, and he reached his hut in a shorter time than usual.

The door was wide open. Someone had been there in his absence. He smiled; the intruder would not have had a very rich find. A few of his provisions might be gone; the poor devil was welcome to that.

He was always cautious, for he was accustomed to face danger. There was no telling what sort of desperate, hunted character had found his way there, so he handled his revolver as he went in. Lying on his bunk he saw a bundle of clothes, or what looked like it. Quietly he stepped up, then started back in amazement. It was no sundowner, not even a man from Boonara, out on the jag, who had wandered in a half-frenzied condition so many miles. What he saw was a woman, a young, pretty woman, whose face was lined with sorrow, whose cheeks were sunken. The hands were hanging down, thin, almost emaciated, showing the veins, a dull blue. One leg drooped down the side. The boot was worn, and torn. The dress over it was ragged. Her whole appearance denoted the utmost distress, hardship, exhaustion. She hardly breathed, although he saw her bosom slightly heave and fall. She was in a pitiable plight indeed.

Glen Leigh was so wonder-struck at this strange sight that he stood staring at her for some time, until Ping roused him by poking his head in at the door, asking in his dumb way for food. Even the woman, lying so strangely there, did not cause him to delay. Ping was a good comrade; he must be attended to. He went round to the back of the hut, where there was a lean-to shed, and Ping followed him. There was a little precious hay still left, which he had secured for the horse at Boonara at a fabulous price, panning out, if reckoned up, at about a hundred pounds a ton. It had been brought down the river on one of the puffing, snorting, little steamers, and deposited at the small staging, to be left till called for, and fetched by Bill Bigs at his leisure. Ping sniffed this small portion of evil-smelling stuff with satisfaction. He had never known better fare, for he had been bred in the wilds, and brought up anyhow, on anything. His dam had very little milk for him; she had nothing to make it with. When his dam deserted him, or he left her to go on his own, he wandered about, living precariously until he was six years old. Then some master on two legs caught him, and Ping began to learn the effects of contact with humanity. Ping's life had not been a happy one until he passed into Glen Leigh's hands. With the wisdom of the horse he discovered the great change in ownership, and wondered at it. He followed Leigh about like a dog; there was no bucking, biting, squealing, kicking against the pricks. He settled down to a humdrum existence with a feeling of glorious content.

As Glen Leigh stood for a few moments eyeing Ping he compared him with the woman lying in his hut. There was a similarity between their lives. Both had been ill-used, and both came into his possession. Into his possession? What on earth was he to do with the woman? Ping was all right. He had bought him for a trifle. But the woman. It was quite a different thing. She was in his hut, and part of his household for the night. What must he do with her?

"Eat your supper, Ping. I'll go and see to the other one," he said, and went back to his "front door."

He entered softly. She was still sleeping. He sat down on a log and watched her.

How had she come there? She must have tramped miles. From Boonara of course, but he did not remember seeing her there. He smiled at the thought. He seldom gave more than a passing glance to people in the township. He was hardly likely to have noticed her sufficiently to recognise her now. If she came from Boonara, why had she left the place and wandered all these miles? Was it by chance she had struck his hut? Of course, it must have been. No doubt she saw the rainstorm coming, and seeing the hut at the same time hurried in for shelter.

She was not an ordinary working-woman, he saw that, and cudgelled his brains to find out how she came into the country at all.

She must belong to somebody, but to whom?

He knew of women who had lost their reason in solitudes, and had not wondered at it. The country was only fit for blacks, and even they shunned it, the few of them that were left after the white man's march. Had she come along with some squatter, when he had been making a visit to Bathurst, or Bourke, or even Sydney or Melbourne? That was a possible solution, but highly improbable. There was only one large station near enough to this place, from which she could have tramped. Its owner was Craig Bellshaw, of Mintaro Station, and he was not the sort of man to drive a woman away by ill-treatment, quite the contrary.

She stirred. He listened. She was muttering, but he could not catch the words. He got up and leaned over her.

CHAPTER III
A STRANGE SITUATION

He could make nothing of what she said. It was a jumble of incoherent sounds, with no meaning in them. He gathered no information as to how she came there.

"She's ill – delirious. What can I do for her?" he muttered.

He was a soft-hearted man, where women were concerned, and distress, although he had seen much of it, appealed to him. There were no doctors, not even in Boonara. When folks were ill in those parts they had to fight for life as best they could, with a few patent remedies to aid them.

"Fever," he said, "there's no doubt about it, and she has no strength to withstand it. I can't leave her alone. I wish to heaven Bigs, or someone, would come."

He sat by her all night; sometimes he had to hold her down, as she struggled like a bird in his strong grasp. He was very gentle with her. Not one man in a hundred would have credited him with such tenderness. When daylight sprang out suddenly, as it does in these climes, she became quieter. He put his hand on her breast, humming softly. The touch and the sound soothed her. With wonderful patience he remained in this position hour after hour, proving himself a great man, greater than he ever thought or reckoned himself to be. He was hungry, but he did not move. Ping came to the door and wondered why his wants were left unattended. It was unusual. He would have resented it had not the downpour brought up small shoots of green, with marvellous suddenness. He turned away and went nibbling the unaccustomed luxuries. Ping came to the door instinctively. Grass was a thing he had not seen for months. He didn't expect to find it, but as he sniffed its freshness he left the hut contentedly, and Leigh was glad.

"He smells the grass," he thought, "There's more chance of her pulling through now it's cooler." He mixed up the horse and the woman in his thoughts continually. How long he sat there he did not know, but a sound reached him which gave warning that something or someone was approaching. Ping neighed. He knew if it was a rider he would call at his hut. They always paid "ceremonial" visits; it was an event in their lives. A sound of hoofs reached him. It was very welcome; he gave a sigh of relief. He looked round, and saw a horse and rider pull up at his door. It was Jim Benny. At any other time Benny would have been cursed roundly for neglecting his work. Curses were the habitual mode of forcibly expressing disapproval by the men of the fence. But never was man more heartily welcome. Glen Leigh didn't even give a thought as to why Jim Benny came to his hut. It was an uncommon occurrence but he had no time to consider it.

Jim grinned as he put his head in at the door. He was about to speak when he grasped the situation, as far as it was possible for him to so do, lacking all knowledge of the facts.

He was much surprised, as Glen Leigh had been, when he found the woman in his hut.

"Hush," said Glen softly, and Jim crept in on tiptoe.

He stood looking at the woman. His thoughts were much the same as Glen's. The white wan face struck a chord in Jim Benny's nature that had not twanged before. His eyes glistened, then moisture gathered. Presently a couple of drops trickled down his sunburnt face. He put a hand on Glen's shoulder, bent down, and whispered, "How did she come here?"

Glen shook his head.

"She's bad?"

"Fever."

"Poor little thing," said Jim.

Glen lifted his hand from her bosom. She only stirred slightly, then with a sigh became still again. He beckoned Jim to follow him outside. They walked a few yards away, so that the sound of their voices would not disturb her.

"Where the devil were you yesterday?" was Glen's question.

"My horse broke down. I had to bag another, and a pretty brute he is. Look at him," replied Jim pointing to the wretched mass of skin and bone.

"Why have you come here?" asked Glen.

"I thought I'd ride over and explain. I know what you are when you're in a temper," replied Jim.

"That's not the reason."

"Perhaps it isn't. Anyhow, what about her?" and he pointed to the hut.

"Somebody must go to Billy's and get some good brandy for her. It's got to be the best – none of his poison," said Glen.

"In that case you'd better go. It's no good me trying it. He'd think I was lying, and there'd be no getting it out of him. I'll stay with her if you go. Besides my horse is no good. Ping will do the journey in half the time," Jim answered.

Glen looked at him. Jim's face did not move a muscle.

"It's lucky you came," Glen remarked. "Tell me what brought you here."

"Another time," replied Jim hesitatingly.

Glen shrugged his shoulders.

"As you please," he said.

"How did she get here?" asked Jim.

Glen told him how he found her, and Jim Benny was as helpless as himself in solving the problem.

"It's very strange," said Jim. "We've never seen a woman round here before. What are you going to do with her?"

"Keep her until she's pulled round. Then I can find out all about her," returned Glen.

A faint cry came from the hut which caused them to turn round quickly and run back. A strange, weird sight met their eyes. The woman was standing close to the bed. Her hair was down. They noticed it was a beautiful nut-brown, and there was plenty of it. Her arms were stretched out. Her eyes stared glassily. As Glen came in she tottered forward, and he caught her in his arms.

A thrill went through him as he clasped her. Her face was close to his. He felt her breath on his cheek. He drew her tightly towards him, and held her for several minutes. Jim Benny watched him with a queer light in his eyes.

Glen carried her, laying her on his rough bed. She was exhausted with the exertion and remained quite still.

"You'd better go at once," said Jim, "she's bad, very bad."

Glen stood thinking for a few minutes, then asked, "You'll not leave her while I'm gone?"

"No, I'll sit by her as I found you sitting. See?" and he sat on the log, placing his hand on her breast. "That'll soothe her."

Without another word Glen Leigh left the hut.

He whistled Ping, and obediently the horse came to his call. Glen saddled him, and rode off towards Boonara. Jim Benny sat looking at the woman. He heard the hoof beats gradually dying away, then with a sudden movement got up and kissed her on the lips. She moaned.

"I couldn't help it. I meant no harm. She reminded me of – never mind names. I loved her, and she married him – that's all done with."

He remained quite still until Spotty, Glen's dog, half dingo, came sniffing round. He had been on the prowl for a day or so, and returned repentant. The predatory instinct was uppermost, which was not to be wondered at considering the wild stock from which he descended, and he made excursions to some land of which his master knew nothing.

The dog knew Jim, on the fence, but had not seen him in Glen's hut. Then there was the woman. Spotty had never come across one. Jim knew the nature of these dogs, their faithful savageness, and scented danger in the air. He had seen the dog on the fence with Glen, but had always been on horseback, and Spotty had never really scented him. He didn't even know the dog's name.

Spotty eyed Jim, then looked at the woman on the bed. Here was something he did not understand. He came forward, crouching, like a panther ready to spring, and Jim set him with his eyes, not daring to move, on her account.

Spotty sniffed at her dress, turned round, faced Jim and growled, a low rumbling sound. Then he lay on the floor, paws outstretched, head erect, watching.

Jim knew if he moved the dog would probably fly at his throat. It would be hours before Leigh returned, and he must remain in this position the whole time, on her account. Had he been alone he could have cowed Spotty, or attempted it. He heard distant thunder. There was another storm brewing, the promise of more welcome rain. The lightning flashed through the hut, playing in and out at the doors. The crashing sounds came nearer; then the rain burst in torrents.

Spotty did not move. He remained with his eyes on Jim, not even giving a glance at the figure on the bed. The woman slept through it all. Jim wondered at her strange stillness. Was she dead?

The thought made him start. He had not put his hand on her again after he kissed her, and could not feel or hear her breath. Spotty saw him move, and growled. He seemed about to spring, then crouched again.

It was a strange situation – the man, the woman, and the dog, in the hut, the storm raging outside, and Glen Leigh riding on his mission to Boonara.