The Pioneers

by Katharine Susannah Prichard

  CHAPTER XLI

  "So the Schoolmaster's swearin' young Davey Cameron was no more than ahired drover to him," said McNab.

  He was talking to Steve.

  "What's that you're saying?"

  Deirdre came to the doorway.

  McNab had just arrived. A skinny, raw-boned boy from the Wirree wastaking his horse and cart to the stables. She had seen it draw up a fewminutes before and wondered why McNab had come. She had heard Steve'sgreeting to him and McNab's reply.

  "Oh, there you are, Deirdre," he said, shuffling towards her and holdingout his hand. She disregarded it, looking into his eyes.

  McNab was in a good temper. The smile wrinkling the skin about his mouthtold that he had some secret cause for being well pleased with himselfand the world at large. He could afford to forgive her.

  "What's that you were saying about father?" she asked.

  "Haven't you heard? Why it's out of the world you are here, Steve. It'sthe talk of Wirreeford this business of young Davey duffin'! And theSchoolmaster says it's none of Davey Cameron's business, but his. Iwasn't sure Farrel was in it meself, before--had me suspicions ofcourse--but nothing to go on. Conal's business I knew it was; but thedevil who gave him long legs knows where he is. He knew when to leave.Smells a sinking ship like a rat at sea, Conal does."

  Neither Deirdre nor Steve spoke. McNab's eyes wandered from one to theother of them. He continued, chuckling, as though enjoying the joke:

  "He's saying--the Schoolmaster--that Young Davey was a good stockman,and when he quarrelled with his father he gave him a job and was payinghim wages, reg'lar, till he got something else to do, or went homeagain. And there was no more to it than that. Davey, of course, tried tobluff things out at first; but there was an information out, signed byCameron, so the story wouldn't wash that he was on D.C.'s business."

  Deirdre clenched her hands as McNab giggled; there was a malicious, slowglimmer in his eyes as they rested on her.

  "When Cameron got a suspicion someone was liftin' cattle from the backhills, he was busy enough givin' information --keen enough to catch themoonlighters! But he didn't reck'n on his boy being taken in charge of amob.

  "Troopers in Melbourne didn't believe Davey's yarn about being hisfather's son, seein' they'd got Donald Cameron's written word againstmobs coming from the South to the markets thereabouts. Farrel's story isa good 'un. He says he struck a bargain with Donald Cameron, as agentfor Maitland & Co., stock and store dealers, of Cooburra, New SouthWales, a couple of years ago. These beasts were to have gone over theborder when next some of Maitland's stockmen were in the South; but therivers were down, the stock rollin' fat, and prices up, so he thought ita pity to lose the market, and sent Young Davey with 'm round the swampto Melbourne yards, not telling him details of the deal. Davey havin'had a difference with his father was glad of the job; it's a sort ofchallenge to Cameron. Clever of the Schoolmaster! I wonder what D.C.'lldo about it He can see it's a let-off for Davey, if he stands to it, alet-off for the Schoolmaster too. If he doesn't--well, I think Davey, 'nyour father, my dear, 'll spend a bit of time on the roads.

  "The queer part of the business is that though half a dozen men's beastsmay be in the mob, the brands've been so neatly faked, no one can swearto 'em. All the clear skins've got Maitland's brand on. So the charge ofcattle-stealin' 'll stand or fall be what Cameron says--or does. Acouple of white-faced cows with D.C. on 'm are the only give-aways inthe lot!"

  "He won't put his own son away," blurted Steve.

  "P'raps! P'raps not!"

  McNab fidgeted.

  "Hardly likely!" Deirdre cried.

  "Mick Ross 'n Bud Morrison were in here, couple of nights ago," Stevewent on. "And they said they'd swear blind none of their beasts were inthe lot. All the hill settler's 'd be prepared to do the same, theysaid--rather than put Davey or the Schoolmaster in a fix."

  "Y--es," snarled McNab, "so I'm told!"

  Deirdre laughed. His disgust and disappointment delighted her.

  "You didn't reckon on that, did you, Mr. McNab," she said.

  She went off down the road to the paddock where Steve's two milking cowswere, and presently, drove them, one swinging before the other, into theyard at the back of the shanty. She was easier in her mind than she hadbeen since the Schoolmaster had gone--even since Davey rode out ofNarrow Valley. But the sight of McNab disturbed her. She bailed andleg-roped the cows. Wondering why he had come, as she milked, and themilk fell with a gentle swish into the pail between her knees, she couldnot believe that it was merely to bring them the good news that Daveyand the Schoolmaster were likely to get off.

  She turned the cows into the paddock beside the bails and took the pailof warm, sweet-smelling milk indoors.

  When she went into the kitchen McNab was sitting in the big chair by thefire. He looked up at her. The firelight showed his face and the smilethat glimmered on it. He seemed to be remembering, and with triumph,that other night when he had sat there.

  Steve, crouched on the bench opposite him, was shivering and sobbing.

  Deirdre put the milk in its place.

  "What's the matter? What have you done to him?" she cried, facing McNab.

  He took a heavy chain from his pocket. It clanked with a dull, slowsound.

  Steve started from his chair.

  "Oh, send him away, Deirdre, send him away!" he sobbed.

  Deirdre knew the meaning of the trick. She had heard it often. It was anold dodge to discover escaped convicts, this clanking of a chain nearthem. A man who had worn irons never forgot the sound they made, andwhenever he heard it would start and tremble. The rage that burned to awhite heat kept her silent a moment.

  "You'd never 've thought it, would you, Deirdre? Him a lag, and you alag's daughter?" McNab chuckled.

  "It's a lie!"

  "Is it? You ask--Uncle Steve. It's been a puzzle to me, more'n eighteenyears, why two chaps from the Island never came for the help that waspromised 'm, and they with a reward out against them. I knew they'd gotsafe up the river because a boat was found on the bank, beyond whereM'Laughlin's is now. I meant to touch a bit of that reward, too, butit's never too late to mend, as they say."

  "You'd never send us back to the Island?" Steve cried. "You'd never dothat, McNab?"

  "Wouldn't I?"

  McNab laughed softly. He was enjoying the spectacle of Steve'swhimpering, the trembling of his withered limbs--the sense of power thatit gave him.

  "You--" Deirdre gasped; but anger choked her.

  "There, now," he interrupted. "I wouldn't be calling me names, if I wereyou, Deirdre. After the pretty way you treated me a month or two ago,too. Would you be forgettin', my dear? It would be a pity to make anenemy of me, as I said once before. It's a bad enemy I make, they say,and a nasty temper I've got when I'm roused. But there's nothing Iwouldn't do for you, Deirdre. You can twist me round your little fingerif you like."

  The firelight was in his eyes.

  "See here, Steve," he said. "I've got something to say to Deirdre. She'sa sensible girl, got her head well-screwed on. We're old pals, me 'nDeirdre. You go outside while I talk things over with her. We'll seewhat can be done."

  Steve scuttled across the room. He was crying helplessly, and pulled hiscoat sleeve across his nose as he went to the door.

  "Now," McNab said genially, "you sit there, Deirdre, and we can talk."

  Deirdre took the chair Steve had left. She sat very stiff and straightin it. She knew what was coming. There were fear and loathing in hereyes. But McNab only saw how great and dark they were, how red the curveof her lips, how full of vigour and grace the lines of her strong, youngbody.

  "You know what'll happen if it's known Farrel's an escaped convict?" heasked.

  "Yes."

  "Port Arthur, irons 'n the rest of it! Well, nobody need know, lest Ilike. There's a couple of lads can prove who Steve and y'r father are,but they won't--lest I like."

  "What are you going to like? That's what I want to know," Deirdre cried,he
r hands gripping the arms of the chair.

  "Depends on you, my dear!"

  He leant forward.

  There was appeal in her eyes. But her eagerness, her hunted wild-birdair only stirred in McNab a lust for the capture and taming of her.

  "If you promise to marry me, nothing'll be heard of it," he said.

  Deirdre was not surprised. She had expected something like what he hadsaid. The sound of it stunned her nevertheless.

  "P'raps the Schoolmaster'll get off this affair of the cattle, butthat's only three years," McNab said. "The other'd be till theexpiration of his sentence, probably for the end of his life, my dear;'n Steve--a month or two'd be the end of him! You're the price of theirfreedom. You pays y'r money and takes y'r choice, Deirdre."

  Deirdre did not hear him. After all, she was thinking, this was aproposition. She was even grateful for it. Anything seemed better thanhelplessness, hopelessness--the terrible prospect of not being able toavert this ultimate catastrophe which threatened Dan. All that had beensensitive to joy or sorrow in her seemed dead. She realised only oneoverwhelming necessity. One fact, crowding out all others, filled hermind. Thad McNab had said that Dan would have to go back to the Islandand that she could prevent it. She did not think of Davey at all, exceptto remember, vaguely, that she had promised to marry him, and that nowshe was going to break her promise and say that she would marry McNab,if--

  She looked at him as he sat by the hearth. Misshapen, with unkempt,brakish hair and beard, turning grey, wrinkled and withered, he was nomate for her glowing youth! But what did that matter? She saw theSchoolmaster's face as she had last seen it--the dear, thin, eager facewith deep lines, drawn by the sleepless ache of his heart, on it. Sheknew now why there had been an underlying grief and bitterness in whathe said when he went away; knew that he must have been afraid ofrecognition and its consequences. But Mrs. Cameron had required him tosave Davey. It was all plain now. Yet Deirdre realised that what he haddone he would probably have done without her having to ask for it. Whatpart had Mrs. Cameron had in his life that she could command him--thatshe dared ask him to lay down his life for her? What had she done forhim? In the old time the Schoolmaster had said: "We owe her more thaneither you or I can hope to repay, Deirdre." But surely he had paid--onthe night of the fires if at no other time. And now--

  McNab's gaze on her recalled her mind to what he had said.

  She met it steadily, unwaveringly.

  Yes. She would marry him, if--Her thought went back on its track. Ifwhat? Yes, if Dan got off--if he did not get the three years. If he hadto go to prison for three years, then it would be no use to marry McNab.He could not help Dan then. For three years he would have to live in aprison, wear filthy, hideous clothes, work like a beast of burden.

  "I'll tell you this day week," she said.

  "Think you'll know then how the trial's goin'," he snarled. "Well,there's an end to three years, don't forget, my pretty, and if he getsan acquittal on this, the other'll come out, unless--"

  She measured him with her eyes.

  "You marry me the day he is free of this charge--if he gets free--or onthe day he gets his three years--if he's goin' to get them, and youdon't want 'm to be for life."

  He leaned forward, his voice husky with eagerness.

  "If you change y'r mind, my dear, of course I can change mine."

  He laughed uneasily, his fingers twitching.

  "But I'll give you till this day week to make up y'r mind which it is tobe. Then you give me y'r answer. Is it a bargain?"

  "Yes," Deirdre said. She was dull and weary--beaten.

  He rose from his chair and shuffled towards the door.

  "Then I'll go and get the house ready for you," he cried, gleefully."I'm not afraid what y'r answer'll be. Oh, you're snared, my prettybird, and there's no way out for you, if you'd keep Dan Farrel, as hecalls himself, out of the darbies, and him in his blindness, going tothe Island again! It's taken a heap of schemin' to get you--but I set mymind on you when I saw you a slip of a girl coquettin' with Conal, atHegarty's--the night you came back to the Wirree."

  The desolation of her attitude reassured him.

  "Good-bye, my pretty," he said in the doorway. "And someday, when y'r mywife, Deirdre, you'll kiss me good-bye."

  He went out with a chattering clatter of laughter.

  Steve came back to the kitchen.

  "Have you been able to manage him, Deirdre?" he asked, feverishly. "Whathave you said to him? To go back there--"

  His face worked pitifully; his hands twisted over each other.

  "You don't know what it is like. I'd kill myself rather than go back,Deirdre. And your father! What'll he do? It'll be worse for him than forme. He's got you to think of. What did McNab say? Will he do anythingfor you, Deirdre? He said he would do anything in the world for you. Andyou'd want him to help us, wouldn't you? You wouldn't let Dan and y'rold Uncle Stevie, go over there again?"

  "It'll be all right," she said, looking past him. "You mustn't think ofit any more, Stevie. It was just to worry you, he said that."

  "Oh, it's a wonderful girl you are!" He clung to her hand, fondling it,tears streaming down his cheeks. "Nobody here to save us, your fatherand me, but you, Deirdre! And you to deal with McNab--send him away witha smile--pleased with himself."

  No idea of the terms McNab was likely to have made with her occurred tohim.

  "If only there'd been someone here to help us," she cried passionately."If only father, or Davey, or even Conal, had been here! But to have hadto meet it alone."

  Her voice broke. She began to cry, finding relief in utter abandonment.Steve put his arms round her, trying to comfort her.

  "Deirdre! Deirdre!" he muttered distressfully. "Don't cry! It's yourfather's own girl you are. So brave! Meetin' the devil himself with yourclear eyes, 'n me no more than a shiverin' old corpse where he is!"

  Deirdre lifted her eyes. She looked into the pathetic quiveringlychildish, old face bent over her.

  "It's the best thing you could have said to me--that I'm my father's owngirl, Uncle Stevie," she said, "My father's girl shouldn't be cryinglike this when there's work--and a lot of thinking to do."