Part 38 (2/2)

As he worked the doctor muttered: 'He shot his horse. That's what gits me. The fool might have lain there for a week. I'd never have suspected spite in that carca.s.s, and I ought to know men.'

But as Job came round a little Doc. Wild was enlightened.

'Where's the filly?' cried Job suddenly between groans.

'She's all right,' said the doctor.

'Stop her!' cried Job, struggling to rise--'stop her!--oh G.o.d! my leg.'

'Keep quiet, you fool!'

'Stop her!' yelled Job.

'Why stop her?' asked the doctor. 'She won't go fur,' he added.

'She'll go home to Gerty,' shouted Job. 'For G.o.d's sake stop her!'

'O--h!' drawled the doctor to himself. 'I might have guessed that. And I ought to know men.'

'Don't take me home!' demanded Job in a semi-sensible interval. 'Take me to Poisonous Jimmy's and tell Gerty I'm on the spree.'

When Mac. and Mrs Spencer arrived with the waggonette Doc. Wild was in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, his Chinese silk coat having gone for bandages. The lower half of Job's trouser-leg and his 'lastic-side boot lay on the ground, neatly cut off, and his bandaged leg was sandwiched between two strips of bark, with gra.s.s stuffed in the hollows, and bound by saddle-straps.

'That's all I kin do for him for the present.'

Mrs Spencer was a strong woman mentally, but she arrived rather pale and a little shaky: nevertheless she called out, as soon as she got within earshot of the doctor--

'What's Job been doing now?' (Job, by the way, had never been remarkable for doing anything.)

'He's got his leg broke and shot his horse,' replied the doctor. 'But,'

he added, 'whether he's been a hero or a fool I dunno. Anyway, it's a mess all round.'

They unrolled the bed, blankets, and pillows in the bottom of the trap, backed it against the log, to have a step, and got Job in. It was a ticklish job, but they had to manage it: Job, maddened by pain and heat, only kept from fainting by whisky, groaning and raving and yelling to them to stop his horse.

'Lucky we got him before the ants did,' muttered the doctor. Then he had an inspiration--

'You bring him on to the shepherd's hut this side the station. We must leave him there. Drive carefully, and pour brandy into him now and then; when the brandy's done pour whisky, then gin--keep the rum till the last' (the doctor had put a supply of spirits in the waggonette at Poisonous Jimmy's). 'I'll take Mac.'s horse and ride on and send Peter'

(the station hand) 'back to the hut to meet you. I'll be back myself if I can. THIS BUSINESS WILL HURRY UP THINGS AT THE STATION.'

Which last was one of those apparently insane remarks of the doctor's which no sane nor sober man could fathom or see a reason for--except in Doc. Wild's madness.

He rode off at a gallop. The burden of Job's raving, all the way, rested on the dead filly--

'Stop her! She must not go home to Gerty!... G.o.d help me shoot!...

Whoa!--whoa, there!... ”Cope--cope--cope”--Steady, Jessie, old girl....

Aim straight--aim straight! Aim for me, G.o.d!--I've missed!... Stop her!'

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