How Old Joe Went Home

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXX, Issue XXVI, 27 June 1903, Page 1827

How Old Joe Went Home

(Olive Tilly, A.C.) “Well, I’m not going to stand him and his interfering ways any longer, he’ll have to go!” and the new owner of Rutland’s Run got up out of his chair and stamped up and down the verandah. “But,” said Langdon, of Langdon’s Mile, as he leaned against the verandah post with his horse’s bridle over his arm, “he has been here so long, and helped your cousin to work up the run to what it is. Why, man, he’s part and parcel of the place!” “I don’t care,” said Rutland. “I’ve stood him as long as I can; I haven’t come out to New Zealand to be bossed round by an old man. It’s all very .well his giving advice when it’s asked, but doing things without my orders, just as though he owned the run; I won’t stand it. I don’t know what my cousin was thinking of to let his hands give themselves such airs.” “Well,” said Langdon, impatiently knocking the ashes out of his pipe against the post, “old Joe came with your late cousin when he bought the run; he’d been whaling, left it to come with him, and he was more your cousin’s friend than a mere station hand. He’s a grand old fellow, and everyone likes him. I’ll get him to come to me if you don’t like him looking after things.” “It’s not looking after things that I object to, it’s minding other people’s business instead of his own. Now, look here, he came to me this morning and told me he was going to shoot the white bull that’s with that mob up in the trig station paddocks. Said it was dangerous. Didn’t ask my advice. I told him he’d do no such thing, that the beast was to be let alone. He said it would kill someone yet, and I told him to go and mind his own business.” “Yes,” added the only son of the new Rutland, a shifty-eyed, cadaverous youth of sixteen, from the end of the verandah where he was teasing a collie puppy, “he’s ridden off somewhere. I saw him go up the red road in the trig direction.” “Did he have his gun?” shouted his father. “I don't know, 1 ’ muttered the boy. Langdon tightened up his saddle girth and mounted. “Good-morning,” he said. “I must be off.” “I thought you were going to stay to luncheon,” said Rutland. “No thanks. I’m going on to see Bell’s new polo pony, so I must get away. Good-bye.” “Bah!” he muttered to himself, as he got on to the road; “fancy that grand fellow, Tom Rutland, having a cousin of that breed. Been a London shopkeeper or something, I suppose. Don’t know one end of a horse from another. Fancy him stepping into Tom’s shoes. And that sly-looking son of his, called Tom, too. Poor old Joe! It will break the old man’s heart to leave the place. One thing, if the new Rutland takes to managing things he’ll break up the run in no time. Why can’t he let old Joe do as he’s always done? Bah! Step it out, Porangi Potae, and let’s get into clean air!” Four hours later old Joe was riding slowly up the track on the back of the ranges that led to the trig clearing. His grey head was sunk low on his broad chest, and his old collie walked soberly beside the horse. The dog knew that something was wrong, and looked wist-

fully up at his master. At last the old man raised his head. “Ah, Raupo,” he said, “it’s no good; we’ll have to go. old dog. The new master isn’t like the old one. But where’ll we go, old dog, when we leave the old home? A home I thought it was going to be to us always. We’re both getting old, Raupo, so’s the nag. But the good God saw fit to take the young master first. And he wasn’t so young either, but he always seemed young to me. Home! Shall we try the Old Country, Raupo 1” and old Joe’s head fell again, and before his misty eyes rose a vision of a little fishing village on the wild Cornish coast. “Ah, old dog,” he replied, “we can’t go home. They’ll all be dead and gone. We’ll have to ” at the sognd of a gun he broke off and started upright in his saddle. They had reached the gate at the head of the road that led through the clearing up to the trig station. “Raupo,” he said, in amazement, “that was my gun. I could tell the sound anywhere, and ” he broke off. as his eyes fell on a horse tied to the fence—“that’s young Tom Rutland’s horse. What the ”

Just then a piercing shriek rang out, following by the bellow of cattle and the thud and trample of many hoofs. Then round a clump of fern-trees at a bend in the road he saw the flying form of Tom Rutland, as gun in hand he fled down the road, and behind him bellowed and stampeded a mob of terrified cattle, led by the white bull which was bleeding badly from a flesh wound on the shoulder. In an instant old Joe was off his horse and through the rails. Running up the road at a speed wonderful for an old man, he shouted with all his might. The mob paused, and then, panicstricken, turned and crashed away through the clearing, all but the white bull, which tore madly down the road. “Get behind a stump!” yelled Joe, keeping to the road himself. The boy had sense enough left to obey, flinging away the gun as he did so. Then as old Joe saw him jump behind a fallen tree he turned to do the same, but his foot caught in a root, he stumbled, fell, and the bull was on him. Tossing him aside as though he had been a twig, the beast rushed on, swerved through the stumps and rushing down the gully, crashed through a raupo swamp and disappeared in the bush on the opposite hill. When the boy saw that the bull was safely away he ran to old Joe. The old man lay with closed eyes, a great gash in his side. Terrified, young Rtitlnud left him, and rushing to his horse, srang on it and galloped down the range to the homestead. Rutland senior was in the stockyard, talking to Langdon, whom he had waylaid on his return, to hear his opinion of the new polo pony, when the boy, with a white face, galloped in. “Father,” he gasped, “old Joe’s been trying to shoot the white bull, and its killed him. I was coming in from the paddock on the other side of the range where the calves are and I saw it. Tell the men to get the cart and go quickly. He’s lying by the big stump not far from the gate!” “I’ll ride straight up,” said Langdon, “while you get the cart. Come with me, Tom.” “No,” said the boy; “I’m not going.” “No,” interrupted Rutland, “Tom’s not going. I’m not going to have a son of mine running about after a disobedient old man. It serves him right. It’s lucky for him that Tom was up there. The men can go after him with the cart.” Langdon bit his lips to keep back a torrent of bitter words and rode off. Quickly the men followed with the cart and as gently as possible brought the old man down and laid him in his room in one of the out-buildings. Langdon bound up the gash as well as he could. "Don’t talk, Joe,” he said, "Lay as still as possible. We’ll soon get the doctor in from Bruce. Try and keep quiet till he comes.” "Rutland,” he said, as they both went out, leaving one of the men watching him, "you’ll have to send a fast horse to Bruce. I doubt if he’ll hold out till morning.” "Send to Bruce!” said Rutland, angrily. “Do you think I’m going to kill my best horse on a thirty mile ride for an officious servant? Why, the old man’s as good as dead already. How-

ever, I’ll send—” “No you won’t, you cold-blooded cur!” burst out Langdon, furiously. “The old man’s life is worth a thousand of your’s or your cub of a son’s. I’m going myself,” and he strode out of the building. When Rutland had recovered from his amazement he went back to old Joe’s room. The man who sat watching him held up his hand. “He’s asleep, I think, sir,” he said, softly. “Well,” said Rutland, in no gentle voice, “you can leave him. He’s not so bad as Mr Langdon thinks. You can go and put those sheep in the next paddock.” Muttering something that Rutland did not hear, the man disappeared and Rutland followed. But old Joe was not asleep. He had heard every word that Rutland had said. His heart was breaking. It was not the wound that was killing him. What was he? Only on old man; what did it matter that he had given the best years of his life in working up the place that this man had stepped into, what matter that every stick and stone on the run were dear to him; what matter that everything reminded him of the master who had passed out over the ranges; w-hat matter that he had risked his life for the son of this man? He was only an old man; only an officious old servant, and the tears ran slowly down his white furrowed cheeks. Now the master was gone, nobody cared but Langdon, and Langdon could never be the master; better that he should die. And then an irresistable longing came over him to see the sea again. If only he could look at it once more. Then slowly a thought burned itself into his brain. Why not try and get up on the ranges, and die in sight of the sea. The master had loved the sea too. It had been a home to both of them long ago. He tried to raise himself and managed to get off his bed. The blood showed crimson through the bandages, but what did it matter? A low whinny came from the stockyard. It was his horse; he could see it from the window. They had forgotten to unsaddle it. No one was near, and he feebly opened the door and walked unsteadily to the stockyard, the blood bursting through the bandages at every step. With difficulty he mounted, and sitting unsteadily in his saddle, rode off, while Raupo, with an uneasy look in his big brown eyes, walked alongside. Quickly the horse stepped out, up, up, the winding road—up, up the ranges till they came to the trig station gate, which the men in their- excitement had left open. They passed through it, and old Joe, clutching feverishly' at the reins, swayed from side to side in his saddle as the horse, with sure, steady steps climbed the last steep bit of track on to the trig summit. Then it stopped by a huge fallen rata, and he stumbled off and leant feebly against the thick trunk. By this time his clothes were saturated with blood, but what did it matter? He had accomplished his desire. There, far away in the blue distance, was the sea, lying like a sheet of gold, behind the misty summit of old Pirongia. The sight of it seemed to put new life into the old man, and he stretched out his arms to it, calling to it, and laughing as he heard the thud of the long breakers, a thud that told of a storm coming. “Ah! Raupo,” he cried, as the dog gave a low whine, “there it is, there it is, what does anything matter now. We’re going, old dog. out over the ranges, out over the sea. But ” he said as a mist gathered over his eyes, “it’s getting dark, I cant see. The master’s calling us, Raupo, but I can’t see the track.” The dog began to whine but old Joe t< >k no heed; he was going over the m :ges. “Coming, master,” he called feebly, as his arms fell to his side, “coming. But the bush is so dark, it’s a blind track, and we’re old, me and the nag and the dog; we can’t get over the ground as we used to.” Then his mind wandered off to the whaling day, and the dog crouched beside him and whined. Then he began again. "I hear the master calling, but it’s so dark,” and then, as a look of wonder spread over his face, he suddenly raised his arms and cried: “No, it isn’t, it isn’t. It’s getting light! 'Look at the sun over the ranges!’ It’s red, red as the rata. Look! Paupo,

look! Look at the gully blazing red with the rata, brilliant, crimson rata everywhere. The master loved it. We’ll take some to him, and Raupo! Raupo! over the sea I see the master, away over the ranges, away beyond the red blaze of the hills. We’re coming, sir, we’re coming, we’re ,” and old Joe’s arms dropped to his side, and he sank down by the fallen tree, while the sun threw one last red gleam over him as it sank behind the sea and the shadows fell. The horse shivered, and the dog gave one long piteous howl, for they knew those two dumb brutes, that a human soul had set out on the last Long Trail. Langdon of Langdon’s Miie was waiting impatiently for the coach. “You’re awfully late,” he said to the half caste driver, as the coach pulled up amid a cloud of dust, and he swung his bag in. "Yes,” said the man. “Been at Rutland’s Run. Young Tom’s broken his neck.” “What!” “Young Tom Rutland’s broken kis neck. You know I’ve been with the Rotorua Maoris since last summer, and only came down to Rakaia yesterday. So I drove the eoach through instead of Nepia, and stayed out at the Karaka settlement last night. This morning coming in I met Rutland’s man Bailey riding up the Karaka side of the trig hill, and when we got to the gate we saw- young Tom’s horse standing inside the rails, with the saddle off and the bridle, smashed. We guessed something was up, so we went and had a look. Something made Bailey go straight up to the fallen rata at the top of the trig, and there we found young Tom lying, with his neck broken. Bailey said it was exactly on the spot where they found old Joe.” Then, as Langdon did not speak, he continued: “Old Joe never shot that bull.” “I never thought he did,” said Langdon. “I know he didn’t. I was going in to Rakaia that morning from the Karaka, and I saw old Joe looking after some calves down in the paddocks on the Karaka side. Then at the Trig gate I met Tom Rutland, and he had old Joe’s gun. I asked him what he was going to do with it, and he told me to go to the devil.” Then as he piloted his leaders round a nasty corner he added thoughtfully. “But lie’s gone first.”