Beyond The Blue Mountains - Plaidy Jean (бесплатные онлайн книги читаем полные .TXT) 📗

She put her hands to her mouth and called: “Coo-eeeI Coo-ccc!”

She laid her ear to the ground; she could still heat the thud-thud of hoofs. Did they sound louder, of was that just hope?

“Coo-ccc!” she called again, and it seemed to her that, over the scrub, came an answering shout.

“Coo-ccc! Coo-ccc!” she called again, and the voice called back. It was like a duet; she called, and the voice answered, and it went on like that for the best part of an hour. Once there was a frightening gap between her call and the answer, and she began to sob and laugh with relief when she heard the call again.

She watched the speck on the horizon until her eyes ached. It disappeared, and she thought she had imagined it. It came again. It did not grow any larger. It could not be a horse and rider. Then what was it?”

“Coo… eel’ she called, and the voice called back; the speck grew a little bigger, and hope swelled up again.

It was a horse and rider, and she was astonished, as they came nearer and nearer, to see that the rider was a boy not much older than herself. He looked startled to see her, but he said casually enough, as though he spent his life answering Coo-ees in the bush: “Hello! You lost?”

“Well,” she said, “I’m found now!”

He was attending to his horse, loosening the girths, removing the bit for the horse to graze. She felt irritated because he was more concerned for his mount than he was for her. Country manners, she thought haughtily, for she knew at once that he did not come from Sydney. She told him she did, hoping to command his respect.

He whistled.

“That’s a goodish way to come!” His cool blue eyes took in each detail of her well-cut clothes.

“What made them let you out alone?”

“I often come out alone.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“Ever heard of bushrangers?” he asked.

“Yes, I have then!”

“Well’ he said mocking.

“Well, what would you say if I told you I was one?”

“I shouldn’t believe you.”

“Oh, and why not?”

“Because you’re only a boy.”

“There are boy bushrangers…”

“Well, if you were one, you’d have cut my throat by now or put a bullet through my heart.”

“Look here,” he said, crestfallen, ‘who’s lost?”

“Nobody now. I was, but I’m found.”

“You’re city smart, ain’t you!” His skin was bronzed with the sun; through slits, brilliant blue eyes peeped out at her.

“Your mother shouldn’t let you out,” he said.

“She didn’t.”

“Suppose I was to kidnap you, and not let you go home?”

“What would you do with me?”

“Take you back to the station and make you work.”

“You live on a station then? I tell you what if you kidnapped me, you would be clapped in jail. My Papa would see to that!”

“Don’t you be too sure. Who is your Papa?”

“Mr. Masterman.”

The boy laughed at her dignity.

“He’s very important,” she persisted.

“And a very clever man!”

“I bet he’s not half as important as his daughter!”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean I don’t care … that’ he snapped his fingers with a fine display of indifference ‘for your father. And I’ll tell you something else I’m no bushranger. If you like, I’ll take you back to the station and give you something to eat. We don’t get many visitors.”

“Ate you a convict?” she asked.

“No. But Father was, and my mother was.”

“Are they desperate?”

“Very desperate!” he said mockingly. He was a very fascinating, but very arrogant young person. He didn’t mean half he said though, and that made it exciting because you had to separate the things he did mean from the things he didn’t.

“Please take me there,” she said, “I am hungry and thirsty.” Which meant of course that she didn’t care how desperate his family was.

“It’s a long ride,” he said.

“Feel fit for it? But I can promise something good to eat at the end of it. They’re killing a fat calf today, and there’s plenty of meat.”

“What is your name?” she asked him. He told her it was Henry Jedborough, but he wouldn’t tell her how old he was. That was his own grim secret. She had told him she was ten, and he seemed to think that was very little to be. He was only about her height, but broader, more sturdy; he looked strong, and his skin was almost as brown as a native’s.

He told her that yesterday they had had a very successful muster. He loved a muster. As he talked she could almost see him, cracking his stock-whip, riding magnificently, darting here and there amongst the straying herds bullocks and calves and heifers going where he insisted they should.

She told him that she had longed to cross the mountains.

“But no one ever has,” she said.

“They will..” he said.

“There are evil spirits in the mountains,” she told him.

“And they have decreed that no one shall pass.”

He laughed shrilly, mockingly, and his laughter both angered and humiliated her.

“You are a silly girl! You’ve been listening to natives.”

“I did talk to Wando.”

“And you believe that?”

“Not’ she lied, blushing to the red roots of her hair.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said.

“There are no evil spirits in the mountains; it is the dangerous ravines that make it so hard to get across. But one day men will get across … My father will be one of them.”

“Your father… the convict?”

“Ex-convict!” he reminded her.

“He went on an expedition; it failed, but he says one day someone will find the way across, and then … and then…”

“Yes?” said Katharine breathlessly.

“We shall see what is on the other side.”

“Do you think it will be very wonderful on the other side?”

“Of course! My father says we are shut off here, confined to a small space. He wants to find new land. My father always wants to find new places.”

“He sounds nice.”

“Nice!” He was scornful again. What could a little town girl know of the magnificence of his father!

She caught his excitement; she wanted to meet this man, the ex-convict who not only wanted to find new lands but set out with an expedition to do so.

She was a little disappointed in him when she saw him. He was lying in a hammock on a veranda; his shirt was open, showing a chest the colour of mahogany. His dark hair waved slightly, and his blue eyes peered out through even narrower slits than Henry’s, and there were masses of wrinkles round them. They were very merry eyes, and it was a very merry face. But she had expected a giant, from Henry’s talk.

Henry said: “Father, this is a girl I found. She was lost in the bush.”

He rolled himself out of the hammock.

“Well, well!” he said, and looked at her as though he knew a lot about her. Then he said: “This is an honour. We don’t often get visitors on our lonely station. Go and tell your mother to have an extra place laid for our guest. Henry.”

Henry went in, and she and the man stood looking at each other, she smiling shyly.

“What is your name, little girl?” he asked.

“Katharine Masterman.”

Something queer happened to his face then; his eyes seemed to open a bit wider.

“Of Sydney?” he asked in a voice that didn’t tell her anything.

“Yes. How did you know?”

“Ah!” he said mysteriously.

“You have a look of Katharine Masterman of Sydney.”

“What do you mean?”

“It did not surprise me to hear you are Katharine Masterman of Sydney. Just that.”

“Then perhaps you know my Papa?”

“No, I cannot claim that honour. I once knew your mother.”

“She did not tell me.”

“Did she not? That was a little remiss of her, I fear. You are astonishingly like her.”

“Margery says that.” % “Ah! Margery.”

“You knew Margery too?”

“Well, yes, I knew Margery.” She clapped her hands. This was indeed coming among friends.

“Though,” he went on, ‘it is many years since I set eyes on her.”