Boyd Cable - By Blow and Kiss

“I could imagine it would be,” she admitted.

“I know I should get horribly tired of it, and of her,” he said; “I do of most girls, anyway – ”

“Unstable as water,” she put in softly.

“Now I’ll bet that’s a quotation from your uncle’s warning,” he said triumphantly. “You gave it away that time.”

“Not necessarily,” she retorted. “I might merely have quoted it as applying to your own description of yourself.”

“Well, anyway, I hope I’ve made it clear I don’t want any love business between us,” he said. “So is there any reason we shouldn’t just be plain friends without any frills? Of course if you’re afraid of falling in love with me – ” and he paused suggestively.

“You put it rather cunningly,” she laughed. “If I won’t be friendly it’s because I’m afraid of you, and…”

“Is there any reason you shouldn’t be, then?” he asked.

“No,” she said slowly. “Except that you have rather a – well, your reputation, you know. That isn’t meant unkindly, but if we’re going to be friendly, we must be frank.”

“Surely,” agreed Steve, heartily. “But it will take more than my reputation to smirch you. And although mine is nothing to me, I can assure you yours is. You can trust me that far, in spite of what you may have heard of me.”

“I’ll trust you,” she said, and held out her hand impulsively. “We’ll be friends then.”

He took her hand and shook it. “And I’ll ask nothing better,” he said. “Now there are the mulga trees ahead of us. You know we’re cutting them down to feed the sheep on.”

“Yes, I know,” she said; “Uncle told me all about it. He called this country a battlefield in describing it to me, and he said the mulga was almost the last ammunition you had left to carry on the fight with.”

“Almost,” Steve said, “and the hills are our last trenches. When the mulga gives out we’ll have to retreat to them, and that’s going to be a bad business. The sheep are too weak to travel far, and it’s a long way for them.”

A faint wavering cry came across the flats to their ears.

“Hark! the sound of battle,” he said. “The sheep bleating, in less poetical language. Well, you’ll be right up in the firing line here, and I’m afraid it will be rather sickening for you some ways.”

“I’m so sorry for the poor sheep,” she said.

“I’m sorrier for the poor boss,” said Steve. “He’s losing hundreds a day, and it’ll be thousands presently, and the lot if it doesn’t rain soon.”

“It’s long past the time the rains should have come, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Months past,” he said. “They’re talking of it being the beginning of another long drought. But we’re hanging on and hoping for the rain any day.”

“Any day?” she said, in dismay. “What will I do if it rains while I’m down here? I’ve no dry things to change.”

“Do?” he said laughingly. “Do if it rains? You’ll stand out in it, and let it soak you to the skin, and throw up your hat and cheer, same as the rest of us. Do you realise that an hour’s good rain would save the boss thousands of pounds, and a long day’s rain might keep him his station and run, while without it he might have to sell up and get out – a beggar? And he’s an old man, too.”

“He is married, isn’t he?” she asked.

“Yes, and his wife and girls are down in the city. Best place for ’em, too. It’s no place for a woman up here in a dry spell.”

“Thank you,” she said primly.

“Sorry,” he laughed. “I wasn’t thinking of you, though honestly I’m afraid it’s rough for you, and may be rougher. By the way, what a nice way out of my difficulty it would be if you could marry. Won’t you think it over? You could have your pick of anyone on the Ridge for a start.”

“Is that a proposal?” she asked. “I thought we agreed – ”

“Most certainly not,” he protested indignantly. “And if you’re going to twist my well-intentioned remarks into proposals of marriage, I’ll get out and walk. I shall have to appeal to your uncle to protect me.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, sir, I won’t be married to-day, thank you,” she joked. “But if I think of it later on, I’ll apply to you, as you seem so confident of finding a husband.”

“I’ll round you up a whole mob, and let you take your pick,” he said. “Don’t let me hurry you, but it would be such a blessing if we could be pals without being accused of having other ends in view.”

“Even for that great boon I’m afraid I can’t oblige just now,” she laughed.

As they approached the trees the cry of the sheep rose to one long, thin, continuous wail, and through it they could hear the ring of axes at work.

“There’s Scottie,” said Steve, pointing to a figure waving a hat in the air. “He wants us over there evidently.”

He wheeled the buggy, and the horses cantered across to where Scottie waited them.

Steve jumped down and helped the girl to alight, unharnessed and hobbled the horses, and turned them loose.

“Blazes is following on with the cart, Mac,” he said. “Now, Miss Lincoln, I’ll be off and fling my weight into the assault on the trees.”

“Why did you send him for me, uncle?” asked Ess, when Steve had gone.

Scottie looked at her. “Why no him as any o’ the others?” he said.

“And why not any of the others as well as him?” she retorted. “I only wondered at your sending him after warning me of the sort of man he was.”

“That was pairtly the reason,” replied Scottie. “I saw ye were actin’ on my judgment, an’ I thought it better to give ye a chance to hae a talk to the man an’ form yer ain opinion.”

“Well, I’m rather glad you did,” she confessed. “We had a long talk, and he certainly made no great pretensions about himself. He told me very bluntly that he knew I’d been warned against him, and that the warning was quite unnecessary, as he had no wish to fall in love with me or have me love him.”

“Talk o’ love is apt tae be a risky thing between a man an’ a maid,” said Scottie, slowly, and eyeing her closely. “It’s chancy wark, the handlin’ o’ an edged tool.”

“But better surely to know it is edged,” she said, “and to put it in a stout sheath, and bury it away. And that’s what we’ve done.”

“Well, well, ye’re old enough tae pick yer own road,” said Scottie. “An’ I’m aye within reach o’ yer signals if ye get slewed.”

A light sulky, drawn by a pair of fast trotting horses, whirled into sight from amongst the trees, and spun up to where the two were standing. “Here’s Mr. Sinclair, the boss,” said Scottie, as he approached.

The driver was a tremendously stout and heavy man, with a full round face, which he managed to keep cheerful even now, in the face of all his anxieties.

“Ha, Mackellar,” he said. “So this is the niece, is it? How d’you do, my dear. So you’re going to try camping out, eh? Hope you won’t find it too rough. Couldn’t leave her alone up there, of course, Mackellar, but I’ll take her over to the home station while you’re out if you like. He didn’t tell me you were so young and pretty, Miss – er – Lincoln. Really, I don’t know it’s safe to leave you here, you know. Have the men quarrelling and cutting each other’s throats instead of trees.”

He laughed heartily at his own joke. “What d’you say, Miss Lincoln? Care to come and put up at the station for a few days?”

“No, thank you,” said Ess. “I want to see something of the work you’re doing here, and the fight you’re making.”

“Heart-breaking work,” he said soberly. “And the worst is it’s little enough we can do. Stand by and watch the sheep die mostly and hope for rain. But we may win through yet, eh, Mackellar?”