Nat Gould - The Sweep Winner

"It's the rummiest yarn I ever heard, but I don't see as how you could make it up. I wonder who she is?"

"That's what I've got to find out. If she dies, her secret goes with her. Help to save her, then we'll get to know," begged Glen.

Bill thought of his girl at work in Adelaide. Supposing she was in such a plight? The mere idea made him shiver.

"I'll do it, Glen. Damn it, man, if you'd outed with it at first the thing would have been settled in five minutes."

He disappeared. Glen knew if he had fired the story at him straight away it would not have been believed at all. Bill also knew it as he dived into the bowels of the earth beneath his bar.

"He's worked me cleverly," he muttered. "He saw I was cut up rough when he came in, and he handled me well. It's a queer go, a very queer go, but I believe him. He's not given to lying, and in any case I can go and see for myself in a day or two. If he's put up a game on me, I'll – No, he'd never do it. He's too much of a man. And his face! It might be his sweetheart the way he looked."

Bill was rummaging about. Selecting two bottles he took them with him. As he went back through his storeroom, he collected some tinned milk, soup, and biscuits.

He packed them all carefully so that there would be no risk of breakage, then went back to the bar.

Two men had come in during his absence. One was "on the fence," and as usual they had selected a bottle of alleged whisky, and were helping themselves. Glen had refused to join them. He was called a sullen bounder.

"Get out of this," yelled Bill when he saw the rider on the fence. "You're one of the devils who caused all this mess."

"I'll pay for it – at least my share," answered the man.

"Then out with it," said Bill, putting his package down.

Glen eyed it greedily. He ought to have had it an hour ago and been well on his way back to the hut. Here was more delay. Would she be alive? Would she be alive? Was Jim with her? Yes, he'd wait. He was sure of it.

The man pulled out some greasy pound-notes and handed Bill a couple.

"That's more'n my whack. It'll have to stand good for this," and he placed his hand on the bottle.

"And mind, if I see any signs of strife brewing you'll not get away so easily next time," warned Bill, as he stuffed the dirty notes in his pocket, only too glad to get anything in payment for the damage.

He beckoned to Glen, picked up the package and went outside.

"You'll find all you want here; at least as much as I can give you."

"I'll never forget it, Bill. One of these days I may be able to do you a good turn. I'll see you are paid in full, and more."

"Never mind about that. It's something to my credit that I've faith enough in a man to believe such a dodgasted yarn as you've spun me."

"You do believe it?"

"Yes. Shake. You'll not mind me driving over? I'll not come empty-handed, and not to act the spy, but it's such a stretcher that I'd just like to see for myself."

Glen smiled as he mounted Ping, and Bill handed him the parcel.

"I can't wonder at it. I can hardly believe it myself. Come and see. You'll be welcome. You always are, but not a word to a soul."

"I'll keep it dark, you bet. I'm with you in finding out all about her. It'll be a bit of a change from that filthy work," and he jerked his thumb in the direction of the bar.

As Glen was riding away, the man who had paid Bill the two notes rushed out and yelled, "Expect you've not heard that Joe Calder's been found shot dead on his track!"

Joe Calder shot dead on his track!

Glen had no time to waste or he would have gone back to hear more. He must hurry on. Ping felt there was need for haste. His master seldom pushed him as he was doing now.

Joe Calder done for at last! Glen had warned him it would come some day, for the man was a brute. He had no human feeling, and how he earned promotion over his fellows was one of those things no man could understand.

Glen was overseer on his track, as Joe Calder was on the other, and the two men often met, but they were as wide apart as the poles in every respect.

Calder was a sneak. The men under him hated him. More than one threatened to do for him, but he was a big powerful man, and dangerous. He was one of the worst characters, and when he went to Boonara even Bill Bigs fought shy of him. There was no doubt he was a criminal. His face, his shifty eyes, the backward glances, his fear of being followed and tracked down betrayed it. But he must have had a friend somewhere, or he would never have got his post.

Glen was surprised, and yet he was not. The news was shot at him unexpectedly, but he believed it, and wondered who had rid the world of a scoundrel, and the track of a desperate man. Ping travelled well, his head bound for home, such as it was, and every horse knows the way to his stable. Mile after mile was traversed, until Glen saw a faint speck in the distance and knew it was his hut. A townsman would have seen nothing, but Glen's eyes were used to looking long distances, and were almost as powerful as a glass in distinguishing objects.

"Go on, Ping. We'll soon be there," and the horse put on another spurt.

The tension in the hut was not relaxed for a moment. Hour after hour passed, and still the dog stood on guard and eyed Jim. If the man moved there came an ominous growl.

Two or three times the woman groaned, and Spotty pricked his ears wonderingly. Such sounds were unfamiliar. Jim watched him. The dog seemed half inclined to spring on the bed. Thinking better of it he settled down again with his eyes fixed as before.

A drowsy feeling crept over Jim. He was fearful of going to sleep. He had been sitting like a statue for the Lord knows how long and he had no idea of the time.

He listened. Not a sound, except a few melancholy notes from a passing bird. What was Glen doing all this time? He had promised to watch, but Glen had not promised to come back. Jim's mind was in a chaotic state, and he was hardly responsible for it.

Spotty pricked his ears. Jim accepted this as a sign that he heard something, and listened intently.

The dog gave a short, sharp bark, a true signal this time.

In his great sense of relief Jim stood up. He could bear the strain no longer.

Spotty flew at him, straight at his throat. Jim caught him with both hands and held him, the dog growling, snarling, trying to wrench himself free to bite his hands. Jim held on. He heard the hoof-beats. It was Glen returning and all would be well, but he was tired and cramped with the strain, and Spotty was a ferocious dog, and strong.

The woman moved and half sat up; then she sank back again. He was thankful.

Ping halted. Glen got out of the saddle with the precious burden and strode into the hut. Unstrung as he was, the sight that met his gaze caused him to drop the package. With a cry of despair he caught at it, just breaking its fall.

Spotty, seeing his master, ceased struggling. Jim let go his hold and fell on the floor in a dead faint.

"Get out," almost yelled Glen, and the dog shot through the opening like a fox bolting from hounds, dashing under Ping's belly and scouring across country at top speed. Yet he had only guarded his master's hut, and his doggy brain resented the injustice.

Glen opened the package before attending to Jim. There was no damage done, and he had never felt so like offering up a prayer before – supposing, after all, he had gone through, the precious bottles had broken? He knelt down beside Jim, summing up the situation, and wondering how long he had been subjected to the strain caused by the dog. Opening one of the bottles, he poured a small quantity down Jim's throat, being careful not to spill a drop.

Presently Jim sat up, looked round in a dazed way, and then seeing Glen said, "It was a near go. The dog watched me for hours. I dared not move for fear he would savage me or her, but when I heard you coming I could stand it no longer. I got up, and he flew at me. She's been like that ever since you left. What have you brought?"