The Bushranger's Secret by Albert Bigelow Paine
CHAPTER I.
A FUGITIVE.
Two men were sitting together in a small outlying hut on one of thegreat grazing farms of South Australia. The hut was a comfortlessplace. The floor was of beaten earth. Two bunks for sleeping werefixed to the log wall. Above one of the bunks hung the framedphotograph of a comely woman, with two bright-faced lads leaningagainst her. It was the only picture on the walls. A rough tablestood opposite the window, and behind the table was a wooden bench.Above the bench there was a shelf, and a stand for guns.
The men were sitting on the bench. They had not long returned from ahard day's riding. The elder man was leaning back against the wall ina heavy sleep. The other, a slender, dark-eyed fellow, hardly morethan a lad, was looking at him with a gloomy contemptuous irritation inhis glance.
"Better asleep than awake, though," he muttered to himself, after amoment. "What can he talk about but cattle and horses?"
He shrugged his shoulders, and got up from his seat and stretchedhimself. The dog lying at the older man's feet, with its paw restingon one of them, raised its head sharply at Gray's movement, but did notattempt to get up even when Gray went to the door and opened it,letting the light of their lamp flow out in a steady stream.
All round the hut stretched the gray level grass-lands, rolling away invast monotony to a far horizon. A wide sky arched over them, in whichthe stars were shining with a soft yet brilliant splendour. Grayglanced carelessly up at that glorious sky. He believed himself to beendowed with a keen sense of the beautiful. He prided himself on hisdistaste for ugly surroundings. When he had earned the fortune he hadcome to Australia to earn he meant to prove to the world how keen andtrue his artistic tastes were. But he glanced carelessly up at theshining stars. They had no message for him.
After standing in the doorway a moment he turned back into the hut,shutting the door behind him with a sudden bang that made Harding startup, rubbing his eyes.
"Why, I must have been asleep!" he said with a surprised air. He drewhimself up to his full height, towering like a good-tempered giant overGray's slight figure. "I'm tired out, and that's a fact," he addedapologetically. "I think I'll turn in." Gray did not answer. Heflung himself down on the bench and began to pare his finger-nails,looking at each finger critically as he finished it, and taking nonotice of Harding. The elder man regarded him doubtfully.
"In a wax, old man?" he said in a deprecating voice. Gray flung him avicious look over his shoulder, and returned to his nails. Harding'sface had a very tender expression in it as he advanced a step and putout his hand to touch the young man's shoulder.
"If it's anything I've done," he began in a shuffling, awkward, kindlytone--
Gray turned upon him with startling suddenness.
"Anything you've done?" he demanded, squaring his arms on the table,and fixing his dark glance on Harding. "You needn't flatter yourselfthat I care a rap for what you do or don't do. Turn in, and leave meto myself."
"Come, come, Gray, don't take a fellow like that. You're tired out; Ican see you're just tired out."
"I _am_ tired out," responded Gray grimly. "Tired of it all. Tiredand sick of you along with the rest of it. A pretty life this is tolive. A pretty companion you make, don't you?"
"Well, well, things may better soon," said the other soothingly. "Iwish I was more book-learned for your sake, old fellow. But that'spast wishing for, ain't it? And you'll have to make the best of me fora spell."
"Best or worst, I can't endure this life any longer," returned Grayimpatiently. "I'll ride over to the station to-morrow and give it up;or end it quicker than that perhaps;" and he glanced up with a darklook at the loaded gun lying across the shelf.
Harding knew Gray well enough to be able to disregard that look, but hespoke very seriously.
"You'll not be such a foolish lad as to throw up your berth in a fit oftemper. This won't last much longer. You will be called in to thestation in a week or two and given a better post; and it's your duty tostick on here till you're called in, you see."
"Duty!" Gray flung the word at him like a missile.
Harding's mild eyes looked at him in gentle reproof.
"It's a fine thing to do, my lad. No man can do more if he lived in aking's palace. And a man who does his duty is greater than a king."
"That's all rubbish, talk like that," returned Gray sharply. "You justdrop it, Harding."
He got up, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, and leant againstthe wall. His eyes went round the hut.
"A king's palace!" he said with a hard laugh. "Verily it needs strongimagination to think of such a place here. What a hole to live in!But I'll not stand it much longer."
Harding did not answer this time. He went up to his bunk and took fromunder the pillow his little shabbily bound Bible and sat down to readhis evening chapter.
Gray watched him moodily; but in a moment his attention was drawn offby the strange behaviour of the dog, which, when Harding had sat downon his bunk, had crawled under it.
But it had come out again almost at once, and now stood in the middleof the hut, with its head bent and its ears upraised in the attitude ofintent listening.
"What's the matter with the dog?" said Gray. "He hears somebody."
Harding looked up.
"Nobody ever comes this way; it's out of the track. Come here, Watch.You're dreaming, old fellow."
The dog turned its head and looked at its master, gave a slow wag ofits tail to show that it heard his voice, and then with a dash itsprang at the door, barking fiercely.
Harding got up and flung back the door. His movement was so sudden,that a man who had crept up to the hut and was now leaning against thedoor had no time to recover himself, and staggered forward into thehut. Watch retreated, still growling fiercely, but restrained fromattacking the stranger by a gesture of its master. Gray made a clutchat the gun above his head, but the next moment withdrew his hand. Thatpitiful, abject, trembling fugitive was not a man to take arms against.
The stranger staggered across the hut and crouched down against theopposite wall, breathing in short hurried pants. His face waspainfully thin, and as white as death. From a long jagged wound, halfhidden by his matted hair, blood was trickling in a dark slow stream.The clothes he wore were torn to tatters. You could see his skinthrough the rents.
He crouched back against the wall, hugging his arms against his breast,and looking from Gray to Harding with a wild agonized entreaty in hiseyes. It was the look of a hunted animal appealing for mercy ratherthan the look of a man asking help of fellow-men. He was evidentlyunable to speak. He tried to articulate something, but his baked,blistered lips refused their office.
"He's just done for," said Gray. Harding nodded, and going up to thepannikin of cold tea on the shelf took out some in a cup and held it tothe stranger's lips. He drank it up greedily and then words came tohim.
"Don't give me up," he cried out in a strange hoarse scream, and fellalong the floor huddled up in a dreadful heap.
The two men looked at each other.
"It's plain enough to see what he is," said Gray with a slight shrug ofthe shoulders. "Shall we have to entertain the rest of the gang, doyou think?"
"The police, more likely, lad. They're close on his track, I fancy."
He bent over the man and straightened him out. Gray did not attempt tohelp him; he stood looking down at the wretched fugitive with a coldunsympathizing curiosity in his handsome face as he said:
"He isn't dead, is he?"
As he spoke the man opened his eyes and gazed up at them. Wildgleaming dark eyes they were, looking all the darker for the haggardpallor of his face. He raised himself on his elbow and made a clutchat his breast. There was something hidden there, and he kept his handclosed upon it.
Harding put the cup with more tea to his lips again, and again he drankgreedily. Then he tried to raise himself into a sitting posture, butsank back on the floor.
"I
He looked from one man to the other.
"They'll make no gallows-bird o' me," he added with a sort of hoarsechuckle. He still kept his hand clutched upon his breast. Graynoticed the action, and a vivid curiosity rose up in him to know whatthe man kept so jealously hidden there. He must have shown this in hisface, for the man addressed him sharply.
"What are you starin' at, eh? Do you think I've got the Kohinoorhidden about me? Well, I ain't got it."
"I don't think anything about you, my man," replied Gray loftily. Heturned to Harding. "What are we going to do with him?"
"Lend me a hand and we'll lift him on my bunk," said Harding.
"I'll lie here," broke from the man. "You just leave me alone." Hepushed away the food Harding offered him. "I can't swallow. Justleave me alone."
Gray shrugged his shoulders and walked to the door. The man's eyesfollowed him with a suspicious glance.
"Thinks himself a fine gentleman, it's plain," he muttered. Then hebeckoned to Harding. "Do you know Princes Street, Adelaide, mate?" hewhispered.
Harding nodded.
"No. 5 Princes Street, top floor. You give two knocks. Write thatdown."
Harding took out his worn pocket-book and wrote it down. The man laystaring up at him, then with a sudden effort, as if his mind was atlast made up, he dragged a tattered scrap of yellow paper from hisbreast and held it up to Harding.
"Send it--_there_," and he feebly nodded at the pocket-book inHarding's hand.
Gray was still standing in the doorway, looking out over the levelpastures. He half expected to hear the gallop of well-trained horses,the shout of authoritative voices; but all was still, the police hadmissed the track. He shut the door and came back into the hut.
"Make your mind easy, my friend," he said in a half-sneering tone."It's all quiet outside."
The man gave him a dark look and raised himself towards Harding.
"Here, give it me back," he said, with a hasty snatch at it. "Yourpal's no call to see it."
"HERE, GIVE IT ME BACK," SAID THE BUSHRANGER]
Harding had raised the paper towards the lamp-light, and was lookingscrutinizingly at it. It seemed to be a rough map. There was a wavyline that evidently represented the course of a ravine or gully, and oneach side were jagged marks that betokened rising ground. Right acrossthe paper ran the words in large ill-formed characters:
"_Deadman's Gully._"
About the middle of the paper there was a sort of big blot, andunderneath in smaller words was written:
"_Big gum. Dig five feet due south from hole._"
Gray came leisurely up to Harding's side.
"What is it?" he said, holding out his hand for the paper.
A scowl came over the face of the man on the ground. He flung himselfupward and snatched the paper from Harding's hand with a violent oath.The effort was too much for him, and he fell back groaning andhelpless. But he still kept the paper clutched in his right hand, andhis eyes fixed themselves on Gray with something of the look of atrapped wild beast.
"Keep off, can't you!" he gasped out. "A pretty gentleman you are,pryin' and sneakin' like that."
Gray stood over him, looking down upon him with a cold cynical regardthat seemed to madden the man.
"Better step back and leave him to me," whispered Harding.
Gray laughed.
"All right! but play fair, old fellow."
Harding's mild eyes looked their wonder at him, but Gray only laughedagain and went back to the table, where he sat with his head propped onhis hands watching the two.
Harding dragged his box out from under his bunk and sat down on it.The man lay still for a moment and then painfully raised himself into asitting posture against the wall.
"Look here," he said. "Do you think I'm dyin'?"
"Yes," said Harding briefly.
"Before mornin'?"
"I don't believe you have many hours to live."
"Right, that's what I think myself. I've cheated the beaks, eh?"
Harding was silent. The man looked sharply at him.
"You've got that address written down?"
"Yes, but I can't send that paper."
"You can't send it?"
The words dropped slowly from the man's lips.
"Of course I can't," returned Harding. "You know that well enough."
"You won't send it," repeated the man again, with a dull rage in hisvoice. The paper was still clutched in his hand, and he looked at itand then up at Harding. "There's a fortin in it," he whispered underhis breath. "Bill 'ull go shares. Here, you take it. You go to 5Princes Street, top floor, and ask for Bill Clay. He'll go shares, andthankful."
Harding made no attempt to take the paper. He merely said:
"Tear it up if you like, but if you give it to me I shall hand it overto the police."
The man stared at him with a fierce incredulity in his gleaming darkeyes.
"There's a fortin in it," he repeated, as if the words must convinceHarding of his foolishness--"a fortin, mate. And you carn't miss theplace. Bill, he knows Deadman's Gully."
He held out the paper, but Harding shook his head and said:
"You are wasting your words."
"You won't send it? Look here, just look here." He stopped to moistenhis dry lips, and then went on:
"You've heard of Tom Dearing?"
Harding nodded. It was the name of a noted bushranger, whose lastcrime had been a daring robbery of the chief bank of Adelaide.
"Well, I'm Tom Dearing. Now you know."
Harding gazed silently at him. He could not get the right words tospeak, but it did not need words to make Dearing understand the intenseardent desire to help him that was flooding Harding's soul. Itaffected the man strangely. He forgot the buried treasure for amoment. The paper fluttered out of his hand and fell on the floor ashe cried:
"You're sorry for me; sorry for _me_!"
"I'm dead sorry for you, lad," said Harding with slow ferventutterance. "You've been spending your life in getting trash likethat"--he waved his hand toward the paper. "And now you've got to die,and go before God. He'll be sorry for you too. If I'm sorry, a manlike me, what must God's sorrow be for such a life as yours has been!Don't think about that hateful money, lad. Let it lie where you'velaid it if you like."
Harding took the paper up and thrust it back into the man's fingers ashe said:
"Tear it up. But you've got a chance to show you're ashamed for whatyou've done. Give the money back to those you stole it from. 'Tis allyou can do now to make amends."
The man gazed irresolutely at him.
"You talk mighty fine, but what's to hinder you grabbin' the wholeblessed lot?"
"Nothing."
That single word said everything. Dearing stared fixedly at Hardingfor a moment, and then thrust the paper into his hand.
"Here, take it," he said. "And if there's anything good you've got tosay to me, let's hear it. I'll listen to you, old man. You act up towhat you talk of."