Robbery Under Arms - Rolf Boldrewood (most important books of all time .TXT) 📗

now it’s too late, we ought to have made better use of it. After school broke up father said Jim and I knew quite as much as was likely to be any good to us, and we must work for our living like other people. We’d always done a pretty fair share of that, and our hands were hard with using the axe and the spade, let alone holding the plough at odd times and harrowing, helping father to kill and brand, and a lot of other things, besides getting up while the stars were in the sky so as to get the cows milked early, before it was time to go to school.

All this time we had lived in a free kind of way⁠—we wanted for nothing. We had plenty of good beef, and a calf now and then. About this time I began to wonder how it was that so many cattle and horses passed through father’s hands, and what became of them.

I hadn’t lived all my life on Rocky Creek, and among some of the smartest hands in that line that old New South Wales ever bred, without knowing what “clearskins” and “cross” beasts meant, and being well aware that our brand was often put on a calf that no cow of ours ever suckled. Don’t I remember well the first calf I ever helped to put our letters on? I’ve often wished I’d defied father, then taken my licking, and bolted away from home. It’s that very calf and the things it led to that’s helped to put me where I am!

Just as I sit here, and these cursed irons rattle whenever I move my feet, I can see that very evening, and father and the old dog with a little mob of our crawling cattle and half-a-dozen head of strangers, cows and calves, and a fat little steer coming through the scrub to the old stockyard.

It was an awkward place for a yard, people used to say; scrubby and stony all round, a blind sort of hole⁠—you couldn’t see till you were right on the top of it. But there was a “wing” ran out a good way through the scrub⁠—there’s no better guide to a yard like that⁠—and there was a sort of track cattle followed easy enough once you were round the hill. Anyhow, between father and the dog and the old mare he always rode, very few beasts ever broke away.

These strange cattle had been driven a good way, I could see. The cows and calves looked done up, and the steer’s tongue was out⁠—it was hottish weather; the old dog had been heeling him up too, for he was bleeding up to the hocks, and the end of his tail was bitten off. He was a savage old wretch was Crib. Like all dogs that never bark⁠—and men too⁠—his bite was all the worse.

“Go and get the brands⁠—confound you⁠—don’t stand there frightening the cattle,” says father, as the tired cattle, after smelling and jostling a bit, rushed into the yard. “You, Jim, make a fire, and look sharp about it. I want to brand old Polly’s calf and another or two.” Father came down to the hut while the brands were getting ready, and began to look at the harness-cask, which stood in a little back skillion. It was pretty empty; we had been living on eggs, bacon, and bread and butter for a week.

“Oh, mother! there’s such a pretty red calf in the yard,” I said, “with a star and a white spot on the flank; and there’s a yellow steer fat enough to kill!”

“What!” said mother, turning round and looking at father with her eyes staring⁠—a sort of dark blue they were⁠—people used to say mine and Jim’s were the same colour⁠—and her brown hair pushed back off her face, as if she was looking at a ghost. “Is it doing that again you are, after all you promised me, and you so nearly caught⁠—after the last one? Didn’t I go on my knees to ye to ask ye to drop it and lead a good life, and didn’t ye tell me ye’d never do the like again? And the poor innocent children, too, I wonder ye’ve the heart to do it.”

It came into my head now to wonder why the sergeant and two policemen had come down from Bargo, very early in the morning, about three months ago, and asked father to show them the beef in his cask, and the hide belonging to it. I wondered at the time the beast was killed why father made the hide into a rope, and before he did that had cut out the brand and dropped it into a hot fire. The police saw a hide with our brand on, all right⁠—killed about a fortnight. They didn’t know it had been taken off a cancered bullock, and that father took the trouble to stick him and bleed him before he took the hide off, so as it shouldn’t look dark. Father certainly knew most things in the way of working on the cross. I can see now he’d have made his money a deal easier, and no trouble of mind, if he’d only chosen to go straight.

When mother said this, father looked at her for a bit as if he was sorry for it; then he straightened himself up, and an ugly look came into his face as he growled out⁠—

“You mind your own business; we must live as well as other people. There’s squatters here that does as bad. They’re just like the squires at home; think a poor man hasn’t a right to live. You bring the brand and look alive, Dick, or I’ll sharpen ye up a bit.”

The brand was in the corner, but mother got between me and it, and stretched out her hand to father as if to stop me and him.

“In God’s name,” she cried out, “aren’t ye satisfied with losing your own soul