It had turned a bit chilly,so I let the big tarpaulin down all round --it was made to cover a high load,the flour in the waggon didn't come above the rail,so the tarpaulin came down well on to the ground.
I fixed Jim up a comfortable bed under the tail-end of the waggon:when I went to lift him in he was lying back,looking up at the stars in a half-dreamy,half-fascinated way that I didn't like.
Whenever Jim was extra old-fashioned,or affectionate,there was danger.
`How do you feel now,sonny?'
It seemed a minute before he heard me and turned from the stars.
`Jim's better,dad.'Then he said something like,`The stars are looking at me.'I thought he was half asleep.I took off his jacket and boots,and carried him in under the waggon and made him comfortable for the night.
`Kiss me 'night-night,daddy,'he said.
I'd rather he hadn't asked me --it was a bad sign.As I was going to the fire he called me back.
`What is it,Jim?'
`Get me my things and the cattle-pup,please,daddy.'
I was scared now.His things were some toys and rubbish he'd brought from Gulgong,and I remembered,the last time he had convulsions,he took all his toys and a kitten to bed with him.And `'night-night'and `daddy'were two-year-old language to Jim.I'd thought he'd forgotten those words --he seemed to be going back.
`Are you quite warm enough,Jim?'
`Yes,dad.'
I started to walk up and down --I always did this when I was extra worried.
I was frightened now about Jim,though I tried to hide the fact from myself.
Presently he called me again.
`What is it,Jim?'
`Take the blankets off me,fahver --Jim's sick!'(They'd been teaching him to say father.)I was scared now.I remembered a neighbour of ours had a little girl die (she swallowed a pin),and when she was going she said --`Take the blankets off me,muvver --I'm dying.'
And I couldn't get that out of my head.
I threw back a fold of the 'possum rug,and felt Jim's head --he seemed cool enough.
`Where do you feel bad,sonny?'
No answer for a while;then he said suddenly,but in a voice as if he were talking in his sleep --`Put my boots on,please,daddy.I want to go home to muvver!'
I held his hand,and comforted him for a while;then he slept --in a restless,feverish sort of way.
I got the bucket I used for water for the horses and stood it over the fire;I ran to the creek with the big kerosene-tin bucket and got it full of cold water and stood it handy.I got the spade (we always carried one to dig wheels out of bogs in wet weather)and turned a corner of the tarpaulin back,dug a hole,and trod the tarpaulin down into the hole,to serve for a bath,in case of the worst.
I had a tin of mustard,and meant to fight a good round for Jim,if death came along.
I stooped in under the tail-board of the waggon and felt Jim.
His head was burning hot,and his skin parched and dry as a bone.
Then I lost nerve and started blundering backward and forward between the waggon and the fire,and repeating what I'd heard Mary say the last time we fought for Jim:`God!don't take my child!
God!don't take my boy!'I'd never had much faith in doctors,but,my God!I wanted one then.The nearest was fifteen miles away.
I threw back my head and stared up at the branches,in desperation;and --Well,I don't ask you to take much stock in this,though most old Bushmen will believe anything of the Bush by night;and --Now,it might have been that I was all unstrung,or it might have been a patch of sky outlined in the gently moving branches,or the blue smoke rising up.But I saw the figure of a woman,all white,come down,down,nearly to the limbs of the trees,point on up the main road,and then float up and up and vanish,still pointing.I thought Mary was dead!
Then it flashed on me --
Four or five miles up the road,over the `saddle',was an old shanty that had been a half-way inn before the Great Western Line got round as far as Dubbo and took the coach traffic off those old Bush roads.
A man named Brighten lived there.He was a selector;did a little farming,and as much sly-grog selling as he could.He was married --but it wasn't that:I'd thought of them,but she was a childish,worn-out,spiritless woman,and both were pretty `ratty'from hardship and loneliness --they weren't likely to be of any use to me.But it was this:
I'd heard talk,among some women in Gulgong,of a sister of Brighten's wife who'd gone out to live with them lately:she'd been a hospital matron in the city,they said;and there were yarns about her.Some said she got the sack for exposing the doctors --or carrying on with them --I didn't remember which.The fact of a city woman going out to live in such a place,with such people,was enough to make talk among women in a town twenty miles away,but then there must have been something extra about her,else Bushmen wouldn't have talked and carried her name so far;and I wanted a woman out of the ordinary now.I even reasoned this way,thinking like lightning,as I knelt over Jim between the big back wheels of the waggon.
I had an old racing mare that I used as a riding hack,following the team.In a minute I had her saddled and bridled;I tied the end of a half-full chaff-bag,shook the chaff into each end and dumped it on to the pommel as a cushion or buffer for Jim;I wrapped him in a blanket,and scrambled into the saddle with him.
The next minute we were stumbling down the steep bank,clattering and splashing over the crossing,and struggling up the opposite bank to the level.The mare,as I told you,was an old racer,but broken-winded --she must have run without wind after the first half mile.
She had the old racing instinct in her strong,and whenever I rode in company I'd have to pull her hard else she'd race the other horse or burst.
She ran low fore and aft,and was the easiest horse I ever rode.
She ran like wheels on rails,with a bit of a tremble now and then --like a railway carriage --when she settled down to it.
The chaff-bag had slipped off,in the creek I suppose,and I let the bridle-rein go and held Jim up to me like a baby the whole way.
