Gray's spirits rose when he had left the station behind him and found himself riding along the well-worn track towards the hills, that showed themselves in clear outline against the brightening morning sky.
With a good horse under him and the fresh wind blowing on his face, he found it easy to convince himself that it would not have made any difference if he had gone back with the dog. He found it easy to look forward instead of backward, to make resolutions about using the money well, instead of indulging in vain repentance for the past.
It was a clear beautiful morning. The country Gray was riding through was very unlike the level pastures he had lived on for months. It was undulating and richly wooded. Here and there a stream, full and strong in this joyous spring-time, flashed white in the dawn. Westwards rose the great hills, blue in the distance, the hills towards which Gray was riding. It was a country to make glad the heart of man, where he might richly enjoy the fruits of his labour.
It was not thickly settled as yet. Gray passed but few houses in that day's far ride, and it was long past dusk when he rode up to Mr. Macquoid's, who owned the run next to Mr. Morton's, and where Mr. Morton had advised him to stop that night.
Gray received a warm welcome. Tea was brought for him into the pleasant sitting-room, where Mr. Macquoid's wife and daughters were eager to hear Gray's account of Harding's disappearance. Mr. Macquoid had sent out a search-party on his own account, for he knew Harding well.
It irritated Gray savagely to find how warm and eager an interest they all took in the lost man. He could have spent such a delightful evening in that charming house, with those pretty girls. The piano was open, and Gray was fond of music and could sing well. It would have delighted him to prove to them his musical abilities. And the books in the low book-cases, the etchings and engravings on the walls, the periodicals and newspapers fresh from England, that lay heaped on the round table by the window, showed that the Macquoids had a keen cultured interest in literature and art. Gray could have talked to them of so many things, showed them so easily how wide his knowledge was, how correct his taste.
But they would talk of nothing but Harding. They seemed to think it was the only subject Gray could feel any interest in just then. He was thankful when the evening was over.
His next resting-place was a small station close under the shadow of the hills. Here only vague rumours of Harding's loss had come, and Gray found it easy to say nothing of his connection with the lost man.
A strange thing happened to him that night. He was put to sleep in a small room opening on the rough verandah that ran round the house. It was a hot still night, and the window was left open. Gray lay awake for the first part of the night. He was restless and excited and could not sleep. But towards morning he fell into a heavy dreamless slumber, from which he was roughly awakened by a sharp, sudden noise.
He started up in bed and looked round the room. A man was standing with his back to him in the act of picking up the chair he had just thrown over. In the dim starlight Gray could just see him as he bent over the chair. With a sharp exclamation Gray sprang out of bed and made a dash at him. But the man was too quick. He wriggled out of Gray's grasp as a snake might wriggle out of its captor's clutch, and keeping his head well down, that Gray might not see his face, he dashed out of the window and across the court-yard. Gray saw him disappear over the fence, and run swiftly down the hollow.
He struck a light and carefully examined the room. His purse was safe. Everything in his pocket was left intact.
Gray's story caused great excitement next morning. There had never been an attempt at robbery in the station before.
"It must have been a black fellow," Mr. Stuart said. But Gray was certain it was no black man. If it had not been absurd to think of such a thing, he would have said it was Lumley, the Mortons' gardener.
But he dismissed that idea as absurd and impossible.
His next day's ride took him into the heart of the hill-country. The track was far less clearly marked here, and often difficult to follow. It ran through deep lonely ravines walled in by precipitous heights of dark rock, and along the sides of mighty hills from which glimpses could be got of still higher hills, towering up into the still blue sky. Some of the hills were darkly wooded, others were clothed in rich grass and flowering shrubs almost to the summits; others again, and these more numerous as Gray rode on, were bare of blade or leaf, heaped with dark scarred rocks, waterless, desolate.
Gray missed his road once or twice that day; and once he was unable to cross a furious torrent which had swept down the frail bridge laid across it, and was forced to make a long round.
There was a small cottage in these parts kept by M'Pherson, an old stock-keeper of Mr. Macquoid's. Gray had hoped to leave it far behind him in this day's journey, but he was only too glad to see it when he had at last regained the track just after sunset. He and his horse were both tired out.
The old man came to his cottage door as Gray clattered up the hilly path. He looked at Gray, and then beyond him.
"Ye're kindly welcome, lad. But hasna your mate come up wi' ye?"
Gray looked involuntarily behind him. The path stretched away lonely and desolate in the gathering darkness.
"What do you mean?" he asked; turning a pale face on M'Pherson. "I am quite alone."
"Weel, weel; there was a callant here no' sae lang syne, speering after ye. Aye, 'twas you he meant. A weel set-up, black-haired chap, he said, riding a roan horse wi' a white blaze in front."
Gray got off his horse and stood with his hand upon the bridle.
"I know no one about here. You must be mistaken," he said. But he said it falteringly, and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow. The idea had flashed upon him that it might be Harding who was tracking his footsteps.
"What was he like?" he asked, as carelessly as he could.
"A soft-spoken callant wi' reddish hair—a puir thin sort o' body wi' a ferrety face. Sae ye didna luke for him? Weel, weel, maybe it's no a maitter for greeting that ye havena come across him. I wadna hae gi'en muckle for his honesty. But ye wull be wanting a meal, lad, and your bonnie horse too. Yon's the stable. A gude man is gude to his beastie, and ye'll no be wanting me to assist."
He bustled into the house without waiting for Gray to speak. He would have waited long, for Gray was too startled to speak. He began to think it must be Lumley who was following him. He slowly led his horse to the stable and made it comfortable, and then went back to the house. He stopped at the door to look back into the dusk.
The house was built in a green hollow carved out of the side of a steep hill. The ground rose steeply behind the place, rising up into a jagged ridge against the sky. In front there was a small flat meadow immediately before the house; then the ground fell almost precipitously and then rose again, with only a narrow ravine between. The opposite hills were higher than the hill under which the cottage was built, and frowned above it in heavy overhanging masses of rock. As Gray looked up he could only distinguish the vague dark outlines of the gloomy hills. A thousand men might have been hidden in the hollows and he would have been none the wiser. He listened intently, but there was no sound of human life. The wind had fallen, and the rush of the stream at the bottom of the ravine was the only sound that struck his ear.
M'Pherson had a comfortable meal prepared for him, late as it was. But Gray could not eat. He was too excited and uneasy. He tried to get a clear description of the man who had asked for him, but M'Pherson could tell him little more. The man had come to the door about four in the afternoon. He explained that he was expecting to come up with a friend along that road, and wanted to know how far he was ahead.
"He seemed verra oneasy when I told him I'd set eyes on naebody the day lang. I tauld him ye must hae gone the ither road."
"I missed my way."
"Aye, 'twas that made ye sae late. And sae ye arena acquent wi' the man? 'Tis verra strange."
Yes, it was very strange. The more Gray thought of it the more alarming it seemed. And then quite suddenly an explanation came to him, which, while it did not remove the annoyance of the occurrence, robbed it of all its more alarming elements. The explanation was this:—
Lumley had evidently conceived an absurd dog-like affection for him. The fellow had not taken his refusal to have him as a servant as a final one, and was following him in the hope that he might still be taken on. He had not dared to come face to face with Gray. Perhaps when he had entered the room at Mr. Stuart's (for Gray was now convinced that it was Lumley he saw) he intended to make one more appeal, but Gray's sudden wakening had startled him too much.
Gray's face cleared as he forced himself to accept this explanation as the true one. He stretched himself with the air of one who throws off a burden.
"I'll turn in," he said, yawning as he spoke. "But I'll have another look at my horse first."
"Aye, do, my lad. But ye needna feel oneasy aboot your horse. Sandy here"—and he looked down at the old sheep-dog at his knee—"wull hear ony step that comes near the house, be it e'er sae saft."
Gray shuddered as his glance fell on the dog. He was looking up at his master just as Watch used to look at Harding.
"Ye arena that fond o' dogs," said the old man quickly. He had noticed Gray's look. "But Sandy's nae common dog. I could tell you mony a tale o' his cleverness."
He patted the dog's head and looked across at Gray, who had resumed his seat and was staring fixedly into the fire. He had turned deadly pale. M'Pherson's shrewd kindly eyes dwelt on him for a moment. Gray was conscious of the look and roused himself with an effort.
"How far is it to Daintry's Corner?" he asked abruptly.
Daintry's Corner was close to Rodwell's Peak, and Gray was making that the apparent end of his journey.
"Aboot a maitter o' twal mile or sae. Ye'll win it by mid-day the morn." He paused a moment and then added: "Ye look ower pale, my lad, for sic journeying amang the hills. Ye wad do weel to tak' a bit rest; and it's lang since I've set een on a braw lad like you. A day or twa's rest wi' me wad freshen you up."
Gray hastily declined the invitation, and then, feeling he had been too abrupt, he said:
"I am sailing for England in a month, and I want to get a good idea of your hill scenery. I've lived on the plains a great deal, and this is my first opportunity."
"Eh! I ken what the plains are. I lived nigh the allotted span o' life upon them—saxty years I lived there. I cam from Scotland a bairn o' seven, and I lived on the Macquoid estate till I cam up here."
"Whatever made you leave your home for this lonely spot?" Gray asked, glad to keep the old man talking about himself to prevent any more curious inquiries about his own doings.
"Ye wadna understand if ye werena born amang the hills, lad. The gudewife, she kent how I felt, and when the Lord took her hame the hills seemed to ca' more and more on me. It's no lonely here; there's voices everywhere. Did ye ever think, my lad, o' the way the Bible speaks of hills an' a' high places. 'The shadow o' a great rock in a weary land.' Yon's a grand passage; but the fu' meaning naebody can understand wha hasna kent the thirst and heat o' a waterless desert. Were ye ever lost in the Bush, lad?"
Gray stared across at him in angry bewilderment.
"Never," he said abruptly.
"Ye may be thankful; 'tis a terrible place. The skies like brass abune your head; the grund like parchment under your feet. I was a lost man amang those deserts once. Four days I wandered through dry and thirsty places. Eh, sirs, 'twas a terrible time! But the Lord brought me through; thanks be to His holy name!"
Gray did not speak. The old man's words had called up in clear vision those endless deserts of scorched sand, where the very herbage was hateful to look upon, and the blessed light became a consuming fire. Had Harding, faint with his wounds, wandered helplessly there till he fell to rise no more?
M'Pherson got up and reached down the great Bible that lay by itself on the shelf above his head.
"'Tis time for evening worship, my lad. I'll read ye a chapter."
He sat down and placed the Bible on the table, and put on his silver-rimmed spectacles. Gray leant back in his chair and folded his arms, and prepared himself to listen. The old man looked at his face, and then turned over the leaves of his Bible with a sigh.
"I'll read ye what has often been a comfort to me, my lad," he said.
But Gray's eyes had fallen on the sheepdog, and he had seen it drag itself up, with ears upraised and head pointed at the door, in the very attitude of Watch that night the fugitive Dearing had been outside the hut.
"Look at the dog!" he stammered out to M'Pherson. "He hears someone outside the house."
"That's verra onlikely," said M'Pherson with a calmness that was intensely irritating to Gray.
"He isn't much use as a dog if he makes that fuss for nothing," Gray returned.
"Weel, weel, we are baith getting auld thegither."
M'Pherson rose as he spoke and went to the door to open it.
"You are not going out?" Gray cried.
The old man turned a wondering face upon him.
"Wad ye keep the door barred on sic a nicht as this, if there's onybody outside i' the wind and rain? A braw laddie like you suld hae nae fears: ye suld leave that to the women, puir feeble folk."
Gray's face grew scarlet at the rebuke. He said no more, and M'Pherson opened the door and peered out into the dark, stormy night. He shouted once or twice, but there was no answer nor sound of footsteps. If the dog had heard footsteps they had now ceased; and only the voices of wind, and rain, and rushing torrent came up the glen.
Gray reached Daintry's Corner before noon on the following day. For some miles before reaching his destination his road had lain through a deep narrow gorge, with gigantic walls on each side of almost perpendicular rock. Much of the rock was bare, and of a sullen, cheerless brown, but here and there trees sprang out of hollows and showed green against the rock, and dark-leaved climbing plants flung their long arms from crevice to crevice, and hung in gloomy wreaths along the broken ground.
The morning had come with sunshine and gentle breezes, but no sunshine reached this frowning ravine, and the air there was damp, and heavy, and close.
The ravine had run in an almost straight line for some miles, and Gray was beginning to weary for its end, when he suddenly checked his horse with a start of amazement and dismay. Some few hundred yards before him the ravine apparently came to a full stop. A great precipice rose up before him closing up the end of the gorge—a precipice far too steep for any track to run over it.
Gray began to think he had come to a cul de sac, and that he should be obliged to retrace his steps, but before doing so he determined to ride on to the foot of the precipice before him and examine the ground carefully.
A new surprise awaited him there. He found that the gorge took a sudden turn here, in fact, ran on at right angles to its former course, though considerably narrower and closed in by walls of rock higher and gloomier than ever.
The bottom of this new part of the gorge was not open and grassy, but studded thickly with enormous trees clad in dark heavy foliage. It was a gloomy spot to enter, and Gray hesitated; yet it was evident the track went this way. There was the mark of a horse's footstep just before him, freshly made too!
Gray's eyes fell on this as he was looking along the ground, and he sprang off his horse to more closely examine it. Some one had evidently passed here quite lately. As Gray looked he saw that the footsteps ceased a short way up the glen, and that when they ceased the ground was slightly broken away as if horse and rider had tried to climb the cliff. With a rush of sudden, unexplainable terror, Gray looked up the steep impassable wall of rock. Horse and rider had gone that way! But how?—and for what purpose? He listened intently, but no sound came to his ear that spoke of a living presence. An oppressive silence reigned on every side.
Gray was no coward, but the blood forsook his cheek and his knees trembled under him. Who was it that was haunting him thus? He dared not make any answer to himself. He dared not stay longer in that dark and silent spot. Taking his horse by the bridle he led him hastily onwards, picking his way with difficulty through the mighty tree-trunks and among the wave-worn boulders that lay between them. The trees grew so near together that it was impossible to see more than a yard or so ahead.
Gray was stumbling blindly on, with the belief growing in him that the gorge was impassable, and that he would be forced to go back past that spot in the cliffs which chilled him to think of; when suddenly the light grew brighter through the trees, a keen breeze blew upon his face; in a few steps, the trees ended, and the gorge ceased. Gray found himself standing on a rocky platform commanding a glorious view. There lay the hills, rising range after range before him, bathed in the sunshine of early noon. It was a wonderful prospect—a sight to make one's heart leap up; and Gray stood entranced, drinking in all its beauty, forgetting himself and his errand.
But not for long. He had soon to consider his path; and, as he looked round him with that purpose in his mind, all the glory seemed to die out of the scene, and his pleasure in it passed away. For this must be Daintry's Corner, Gray concluded. He must be very near the end of his journey.
He looked keenly along the ranges of hills in front of him, but he could not see the towering battlements of Rodwell's Peak. That must lie behind him. M'Pherson had directed him to a small settlement some miles beyond Daintry's Corner. Gray could see the roofs of the houses over the slope of one of the lower hills to the right of him. He determined he would spend the night there if he could reach it in time, but his first business was to find Rodwell's Peak, and then to search for Deadman's Gully. Once the exact spot was reached, he hoped soon to find the treasure. Gray did not anticipate much difficulty in taking it away.
The robbery of the Bank at Adelaide by Dearing had made a great sensation at the time. He had carried off more than £30,000 in gold and notes; and he had managed to change much of the gold and all the notes for Bank of England notes, whose numbers were not known. The notes Gray could easily carry away and much of the gold. The remainder he had determined to leave behind him safely buried. It was better to lose a part than run the risk of discovery by weighting himself too much. A few hours would suffice for this, he thought, then he determined to go down to the settlement for the night, and make his way to Adelaide by another route. Nothing should prevail upon him to go back the same way: he had long ago decided that, and recent events had made his determination more fixed than ever.
But now to reach Rodwell's Peak! Gray carefully examined the ground, and made up his mind that his road lay along the rocky platform or terrace on which the gorge had ended, and which seemed to run along the hills through which the gorge had cleft its way. He made a rough calculation, and then decided to follow the terrace in its westerly direction. He called his horse, which had begun to graze on the short sweet grass that clothed the gentle slopes above the terrace, and set off on the road he had chosen.
If he had looked backwards down the gloomy ravine he had just left behind him, he might have seen a face looking cautiously out through the dark boughs of the trees—an evil sallow face with reddish slanting eyebrows. But Gray did not look back. He was too excited at the near fruition that awaited his hopes. All the fears that had assailed him, all the remorse that had been growing up in him disappeared as mists disappear before the morning sun. He mounted his horse and rode gaily along the broad even platform, whistling as he went. The platform or ledge continued for some time, sloping almost imperceptibly downwards till it ended in a wide, grassy, meadow-like valley, with a giant eucalyptus in the midst of it. Through the valley a stream went singing—every ripple making a line of silver in the sunshine.
Gray crossed the valley, stopping to let his horse drink at the stream, and to take a draught himself. The hills beyond the valley were strewn in places with great boulders, but it was easy to find a path, and Gray made good progress for a time. Then the way became rougher and more precipitous, but Gray pushed hurriedly on; for over the shoulder of the next hill rose the jagged crest of Rodwell's Peak. He knew the knife-like edge of the lower summit, the towering outlines of the peak itself. Now a well-defined track began to disclose itself running in easy curves down the hill and along the rocky bottom.
Gray rode more slowly, his heart beating wildly. This must be the track Harding had spoken of, leading from the settlements below. He kept a sharp look-out, but no sign of a gully disclosed itself, though Rodwell's Peak rose well in front.
The valley, at the bottom of which the track ran, had been wide at first, with sloping shelving sides, richly covered with foliage. But now it was narrowing fast; the sides were growing steeper and steeper, and the vegetation less abundant Gray rode slowly, stopping every now and then to examine the rocks for an opening between them. It could not be far off. Looking down the valley the towering crest of Rodwell's Peak was all that could be seen. It rose at the mouth of the valley like a mighty sentinel guarding the fortress of the hills. But though Gray carefully examined the rocks on either side, he could find no trace of a gully running between them.
He rode on until he reached the point where the valley ended, and the land began to shelve upwards before him. He saw that the track ran across the shoulder of Rodwell's Peak, but he did not follow it. It was useless to do that. He felt certain that the opening into Deadman's Gully lay in the valley behind him.
He turned his horse and rode backwards. As he turned, a sharp sound caught his ears, and he checked his horse to listen. It ceased instantly, and though he stopped there for some moments listening intently it did not recur. The sound had been like the beat of a horse's hoofs against hard rock. But there was no sign of horse or rider to be seen. The valley was silent, save for the hoarse cry of a magpie among the trees and the rush of a stream in the distance.
Gray rode slowly back, but he did not pursue his search with any vigour; he had been too much startled by that sudden sound. He tried to reason himself into believing that it was a mere hallucination of hearing, that the fall of a stone down the steep hill had been mistaken by him for the clatter of a horse's feet. But reason as he would the conviction remained strong within him that it was a horse he had heard, and he was looking more carefully, as he rode down the valley, for other signs of a horseman's presence, than for the opening into Deadman's Gully.
It was quite accidentally that, about half-way down the valley, he noticed a crevice in the rocks, on his left hand, thickly hung with creepers. It was more a crack in the rock than a crevice, so narrow was it, and only by looking some distance up could it be seen at all, for its lower portion was entirely hidden by a curtain of hanging foliage. But it was the only opening of any sort that Gray had discovered, and he determined to examine it more closely, though it seemed absurd to suppose that this could be the entrance he sought.
He rode up to the bottom of the fissure and dragged aside the heavy creepers. A wild thrill went through him as he discovered that the crack widened towards the ground into an opening just large enough for a man and horse to pass through. Gray could not see where the dark passage before him led, for after a few yards it took a sudden turn to the right, but he determined at once to make a thorough investigation.
He got off his horse and cut away with some difficulty enough of the curtaining foliage to allow an easy passage through. Then, with a long fearful look up and down the lonely valley, he entered the cleft. His entrance disturbed a vast number of bats, that flew shrieking out of the damp hollows of the rocks and whirled wildly round him. Their cries had an eerie sound well in keeping with the gloomy spot. But Gray pushed doggedly on, soothing his good horse with voice and hand, and becoming more and more convinced that he was on the right track.
After some distance the passage widened, and he began to see broad daylight ahead of him. A few yards more and he came out into a narrow valley heaped with rocks.
It was a gloomy, dreadful place, shut in by high, bare, precipitous cliffs. The passage by which Gray had just entered seemed to be the only mode of access: no human foot could scale those dark overhanging cliffs. There was but little vegetation. Some coarse grass grew in the hollows and on the ledges of the rocks, and a gray-leaved repulsive-looking bramble spread its gnarled branches thickly along the uneven bottom of the gully.
But Gray looked in vain for the mighty tree he had expected to see, towering up in the midst of the valley. There were no trees of any kind in the place. Yet Gray felt sure that he had reached the right spot, and a discovery he made after a brief survey supported his opinion. This was a ruined hut built under the shelter of a shelving piece of rock. It was a hut built of logs; the roof was partly off and the roughly made door was lying rotting on the ground. This deserted, ruinous hut only added a new touch of desolation to the dreary gully. Gray involuntarily shivered as he stood before it and his horse tugged restlessly at the bridle.
He fastened the horse securely to the door-post and stepped into the hut. The floor was of beaten earth. It was heaped up now with thedébrisof the fallen roof, but Gray could see where the rude hearth had been and where a half-smouldered log still lay. The walls were intact. They were strongly built of heavy logs fastened securely together. The hut might have been built for a miniature fortress, so strong were its walls.
Who had built the hut? Where had the logs come from that formed its walls? Gray carefully considered these questions. He remembered now that Harding had told him of some big trees that were in the gully when a gang of bushrangers, who had made the place their home, had been broken up. There were trees in the gully then. What had become of them?
Gray stepped hastily out and carefully examined the ground. It did not take him long to find the scarred trunks of a few trees hidden by the brambles. He cut away the brambles, and tried by measuring to decide which had been the largest tree. But he could not decide. The trunks were all about the same size. Either the trunk of the largest tree had been taken away altogether, or it had not been much larger than the trunks of the other trees.
Wearied out by his search, Gray returned to the hut. He sat down on one of the fallen rafters of the roof and considered what it was best to do next. He was beginning to feel hopeless. The direction had seemed so clear on Dearing's map. He had been so certain that he would easily find the treasure if he once could reach the gully. Yet here he was, apparently as far off as ever from the attainment of his hopes.
Some hours had now passed since Gray entered the gully. The afternoon was drawing to a close. There were only a few hours of daylight before him.
Gray had brought a little food with him, pressed upon him by the kindly old Scotsman. He took down his knapsack and ate the food. It was no matter of regret to him that he had only a sufficient store for one meal. Nothing would have induced him to spend the night in the gully. Even now, in the broad daylight, an unreasoning terror was taking hold of him. Every little sound, the movement of his horse, the cry of a bird as it flapped its way across the sky, the rustle of the long grass in the hollows of the cliffs, even his own footsteps as he moved to and fro, struck upon him with a sense of fear. He could have sworn once that he had heard a footstep that was not his own, a slow and wary footstep, among the brambles. So sure was he, that he sprang to the door and looked out. There was nothing to be seen. And with a bitter laugh at his own fears he went back and sat down. But he made up his mind there and then that he would not stay much longer in the gully. He would not have spent the night there for all the wealth the world could offer him.
He had now to consider what was best to do in the short period of daylight that lay before him. It seemed a hopeless task to dig south of each of the trunks in the gully, yet what else was there to be done? It was best for him to set about it at once. He decided this, and yet he sat still. He could not make up his mind to go out into the gully again. The place was becoming a horror to him.
As he sat thus on the broken rafter, thinking miserably of the task before him, his eyes fixed themselves on the little window of the hut. It was the only window and was very small. It was, in fact, a hole drilled in one of the beams.
With that strange power the mind has, of carrying on two trains of thought at once, Gray found himself, in the midst of his weary thoughts about the hidden treasure, wondering why the window had been made so small and such an odd round shape. The explanation quickly occurred to him. The hut had been built by men who were in daily fear of capture. It had been built not so much as a shelter from the weather, for there were deep caves in the rocks that would have served that purpose, but as a means of defence. Safe inside the hut, with the door shut and that small window guarded by a good rifle, one man might have defied a score.
Gray guessed, and guessed truly, that Dearing had built the hut. The gang of bushrangers who had formerly used the gully for their lurking-place had lived in the caves. The gully was an unknown place then, and having once reached it all fear of detection was over. But when once the place was discovered, some means of defence within it was necessary, and Dearing had built this place.
Gray remembered Dearing's face as he staggered into the hut, the look of abject horrible fear upon it. What days and nights he must have spent in this gully, watching, waiting, no rest, never safe for a single moment!
"Poor wretch!" Gray murmured to himself. "What a life to live!" And his thoughts went back, by force of sudden contrast, to the life of another lonely man. He remembered how M'Pherson had answered, with a glad, deep peace in his old face, "It's no lonely here. There's voices everywhere."
Gray would not dwell on that. He rose, throwing back his head and straightening himself with a quick proud gesture. He told himself he had no part or lot with the fears of Dearing, any more than with that strange faith that kept M'Pherson glad in his lonely old age. There was no need for him, he said to himself, to have the fear of man before his eyes; and if he need not fear man, what was there to fear? Nothing. He repeated it to himself. Nothing. It was only women and uneducated men who believed in the supernatural.
Yet even as he said it his face turned an ashy white; the great sweat-drops broke out upon his brow, his knees trembled under him. He had heard again the sound of a cautious footstep and the rustle of the brambles as if some hand was moving them. He rushed to the door of the hut and looked round; but as before all was still and silent. He gave a loud shout, but no answer came, save the echo from the rocks. He waited there some moments, but he saw no sign of a human presence.
Yet he was now absolutely certain he had heard a footstep. The very hair began to rise on Gray's head, a freezing terror seized hold of him. A moment before he had feigned to disbelieve in the supernatural, but now, in an agony of mortal fear, he cried out to himself that it was no living man who was dogging him thus. A living man he could have faced, but not this mysterious visitant from the world beyond the grave.
In a calmer moment Gray might have reasoned with himself, but he did not stop to reason now. He felt he must escape from this horrible place at once, or madness would come upon him. His horse was still tied to the door-post, and was cropping the thin grass that grew up between the crevices in the rocky platform on which the hut was built. Gray hurriedly unfastened him and led him towards the entrance to the gully. He had gone a short distance when he remembered he had left his knapsack and pistol-case on the floor of the hut. All the money he had, a scanty store, was in the knapsack. He could not leave it behind.
Still holding the horse by the bridle he went hurriedly back. He flung the rein over the door-post and made one step into the hut. Then he fell back with a sharp and sudden exclamation. The hut was no longer empty. Leaning in an easy attitude against the window with a revolver in his hand stood Lumley, the ex-gardener of the Mortons.
THE MEETING IN "DEADMAN'S GULLY"THE MEETING IN "DEADMAN'S GULLY"
There was a sardonic grin on his thin peaked face.
"So you have come back of your own accord, Mr. Gentleman Gray," he said. "I was just about to order you back."
Gray's first feeling was one of intense, overpowering relief. That dreadful terror which had beset him left him when he saw that it was indeed Lumley who had followed him. He spoke sharply:
"What do you mean by following me up like this, and skulking in the brambles? It was a dangerous game, mind you! I might have sent a shot into them just now, you know."
Lumley looked at him and laughed.
"You're a pretty fellow to go bushranging. When did you look at your pistols last, eh?"
Gray caught up his pistols and looked at them. The charges had been tampered with. They were useless.
Lumley stood regarding him with vicious amusement in his foxy eyes.
"You'd best have stuck at an honest trade, mate," he said. "You're no good at bushranging at all. It's been too easy to take you in. You needn't look at 'em any more, you know. I made 'em safe enough at Stuart's place."
Gray dropped the pistols on the ground.
"How dare you?" he began in a choked voice. Then he checked himself. "I'll trouble you to tell me what you mean," he said. "And—"
He made a dash to snatch the revolver from Lumley's hand, but Lumley was too quick for him. He jumped back and levelled the weapon full at Gray.
"Stand where you are or I'll fire," he said coolly. "Move a limb, and you'll have a bullet into you."
Gray stood still. A cold sweat broke out upon his brow. Lumley had dropped all disguise now. The evil soul of the man looked out from his face.
"That's better," he said. "Just stand there, will you?" He seated himself on some of the fallendébris, still keeping his revolver pointed at Gray.
"Now we'll have a comfortable little talk together, mate," he said. "You can sit down now if you like."
Gray looked round and carefully chose a seat. The pallid look of terror had gone from his face. He had recovered his calmness and his power of thought. He saw clearly enough that he was in Lumley's power. He guessed his reason for following him; and he had determined on his course of action. If Lumley chose to insist upon it, he would tell him Dearing's secret and leave him to get the money if he could; and he would go straight to the nearest station and inform against him. Not for all the money in the world, Gray declared to himself, would he put his reputation into this man's keeping.
"That's right, mate. Now we'll be comfortable," said Lumley, with a grin, "and we'll talk about the business that's brought me here. You know what it is well enough."
"Well, I can make a pretty good guess," Gray said, carefully selecting a cigar and proceeding to light it. "But you'll have to tell me plainly, you know, before going any further."
The change in Gray's manner was too striking to escape Lumley. He looked at him with a steady crafty look before answering.
"There ain't no money hid here, I s'pose? You're on a pleasure toor, ain't you? That pick in your knapsack is for ge'logical specimens, ain't it?"
Gray carefully flicked a little ash from the end of his cigar, and then looked up.
"You are quite wrong, Lumley. That pick is not meant for geological specimens at all. It's meant to be used for digging up a large sum of money hidden somewhere about here. Unfortunately I don't know where."
"You don't?"
"I haven't the faintest idea. Perhaps you know?"
Lumley glared at him like a wild beast.
"Was that why you were going away?"
Gray nodded.
"Tom Dearing didn't tell you where 'twas hid? Don't you try to deceive me, man. I'll not stand it. I'll have that swag if I've got to swing for it to-morrow. What made you go proddin' and pryin' round those old trunks for, eh? You tell me that."
"With all the pleasure in life, my man. But I should like to hear a few things from you first. How did you get to know of this money? I may not be far wrong in supposing you an accomplice of our good friend, lately deceased, Mr. Tom Dearing?"
"I'd wring your neck for tuppence," Lumley muttered savagely.
Gray looked up at him with a pleasant smile.
"What did you say?"
Gray was beginning to feel thoroughly satisfied with himself again. He felt himself very much more than a match for Mr. Lumley.
That individual made no reply to his last inquiry.
"So you want to know how I got on this job. I'll tell you quickly enough. Dearing made a dying speech and confession, didn't he?"
"Something of the kind."
"He'd do that for sure and certain. That was his way. He was always half-hearted, Tom was. P'r'aps he didn't mention a pal of his, Bill Clay, eh?"
"I think he did, now I come to think of it. I suppose you are that gentleman. Is Clay your real name, or one of your many aliases?"
"You're right, mate. I'm Bill Clay, as you'll find out before you're done with me," said Lumley, with a savage look. "I wasn't in that business with the bank, but Tom told me he'd hidden the money; but he didn't tell me where he'd hid it, d'you see.You'vegot to tell me that, Mr. Gentleman Gray."
Gray leisurely took his cigar from his mouth and said:
"With pleasure, my man, if I knew it myself; but you see I don't."
Lumley gave him a savage frown.
"Think I'm going to believe that? Look here, I'm in a hurry, and you've just got to tell me all you know. If you don't, I'll—"
He lifted the revolver again with a significant gesture.
Gray did not speak for a moment. His hand might have trembled slightly as he stroked his moustache, but he showed no other sign of agitation. Lumley watched him narrowly.
"Ain't you goin' to tell me?" he said.
"Yes I am," said Gray; "on one condition."
"What's that?"
"Unload that pretty little weapon of yours, and hand it over to me. I don't trust you, you see, Mr. Lumley, alias Clay. You might find it convenient to leave this place all by yourself. Dead men tell no tales."
"Good for you they don't, ain't it?" Lumley answered darkly.
Gray looked sharply up.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I don't mean anything. But you're a pretty fellow, ain't you, to crow over me?"
The taunt was more than Gray could bear.
"What do you mean?" he exclaimed again, with sharper emphasis as he leapt to his feet. "How dare you?"
Lumley laughed out—a rough, coarse, jeering laugh, which filled Gray with sickening, helpless rage.
"Don't you be afraid of me," he said; "a partner's always safe with me. I don't set up to be a virtuous cove like you, but a partner's always safe with me. We'll go shares, mate—share and share alike. That's a fair offer, ain't it?"
His manner was as coarse and offensive as he could make it. He seemed to find delight in the sort of torture he was inflicting on Gray.
Gray seated himself again and tried hard to recover his coolness. After all, he told himself, he had but to bear Lumley's insults for a time. He had but to wait till they reached a settlement for this hideous partnership to be over.
"It seems to me we are wasting good time, my man," he said, in the lofty tone that so nettled Lumley. "I don't pretend to understand your innuendoes, but let that pass. What you want is the money, isn't it?"
"WhatIwant? You don't want it; no, of course not? You didn't come here to get it?"
Lumley laughed.
"I certainly came here to get it. There's a considerable reward offered for its recovery, as I daresay you know. I intended to claim that reward."
Lumley looked at him in silence for a moment, and then burst out into another laugh.
"You are a cove!" he said, when his mirth would let him speak. "So that's your game, is it? Bah!"
He spat on the ground in fierce derision, and then with a sudden change of manner he came close up to Gray.
"Stow all that nonsense, lad. Tell me what Dearing said, and be quick about it. We're goin' to be fond partners, share and share alike. Come, shell out this minute!"
Gray looked up at him; then he took out his note-book and rapidly reproduced the map he had destroyed, and handed it to Clay without a word. The light was fading, and he took it to the door to examine it. Gray's eyes followed him with a savage concentrated hate in them.
It was the man's coarse scorn of himself that was hardest to bear—harder even than the knowledge that he had lost the money he had sacrificed so much to gain. Gray had been accustomed to the admiration of his fellow-men. He had been liked and respected wherever he had been. It was horrible to him to be the object of this convict's coarse taunts and sneers. He, who had so prided himself on his clean name and unblemished record, had fallen low indeed. And he could not feel that the taunts were undeserved. Slowly and grudgingly, just for a moment, the curtain that hid his true self was lifted for Gray, and with a shudder he confessed that Lumley did him no wrong in claiming partnership with him.
His gloomy thoughts were broken into by a chuckle from Clay.
"I always said he was the 'cutest of us all," he declared in an admiring tone, as he came back to Gray. "Too soft for me. We lost a goodish pile once because he wouldn't use these little beauties," and he touched the revolver in his hand. "But that 'cute he was; up to every trick of the profession. You couldn't understand this, couldn't you?"
He did not wait for an answer, but went on in a quicker tone.
"Of course you couldn't; you'd have been searching here for a month of Sundays if I hadn't kindly come to help you. 'Big Gum Tree.' Ha! ha! Tom was 'cute, to be sure."
Gray did not speak; he did not even look up.
"Don't be down on your luck, my lad," said Clay jocosely; "there's enough for both of us. It'll be more than the reward, any way," and he chuckled with a cruel sort of mirth. "You've got a handy little pick in that knapsack of yours; just fetch it, will you?"
"Get it yourself!"
Clay gave him a fierce threatening look.
"None of your airs and graces here, young man. You do what I tell you, or it'll be the worse for you."
He sat down on the block of wood opposite Gray, folded his arms and added:
"You're the junior partner, and you'll just wait on me, my fine fellow. You go and fetch me that pick to begin with."
Gray ground his teeth with helpless rage, but he got up and took the pick from his knapsack. It was a small slender tool, but very strong. Clay looked at it approvingly.
"Now, you dig up that hearth-stone, mate, and you'll see what you'll see."
"The hearth-stone?"
"You do what I tell you," returned Lumley with a nod. "You go and dig up that hearth-stone."
Gray flung down the pick.
"I won't do anything of the sort. I won't stand any more of this sort of treatment. You may shoot me if you like"—for Lumley had raised his revolver—"but do your bidding I won't."
Gray fully expected, even half-wished for, a shot from the revolver Lumley held up at him for a moment. But the convict changed his mind. He put the weapon in his pocket and got coolly up.
"Well, if you won't I must," he said, and went over to the hearth-stone that lay buried under a heap of earth and timber.
Gray sank down on the fallen rafter and buried his face in his hands. No man can look on death and bear an unchanged front, not even the bravest and the most prepared, and Gray was not of these. For a brief moment he had believed that death was close to him. It was to Lumley's interest to kill him now that he knew where the gold was, and there had been murder in his eyes as he had looked across at Gray. And Gray sat with his hands clasped over his eyes, in sick, horrible fear at the thought of himself lying cold and stiff, with eyes staring blindly up at the sky; his soul gone—where?
At the other end of the hut Clay was busy. He dashed away the heap of rubbish on the hearth-stone, and digging the pick into the loose earth round it, dragged it up without much difficulty. A cry of exultation broke from him as he did so. Embedded in the ground below the hearth-stone lay a small tin box, bound round and round with whipcord. To drag up the box, cut the already decaying cord, and wrench open the cover was the work of a moment. Two or three wrappings of thick brown paper lay over the contents of the box. He tore these off, and clutched at what lay beneath.
"Come here, partner," he shouted; "what do you say to this, eh?"
Gray slowly rose and came towards him. How he had anticipated the moment when this money should lie before him! There it was, and he looked at it with a shudder.
Lumley emptied the contents of the box on the floor before him, and began eagerly to count over the notes and gold.
"A prime catch, eh?" he remarked, as he caught up a handful of sovereigns and let them fall back in a glittering heap. "We'll be able to cut a dash on this, partner. Look at this nugget! And the flimsy is all safe— Tom took care of that; there ain't one of the numbers known." And he held up the banknotes to Gray with a grin. "Better than the reward after all, my boy, even the half of it, though notquiteso good as the whole lot. You thought you were going to grab it all, didn't you? You were a green un to think so. Why, I've followed you up from the moment I heard of Tom's death. I knew he'd leave some paper or other to tell where 'twas. Tom wasn't greedy, not he." He went on with the examination of the treasure while he spoke; counting the gold and notes, and putting the nuggets into a heap apart. Presently he looked up with his cunning smile at Gray's dark face.
"You don't ask me, partner, how I came to hit on the hearth-stone."
"How was it?" said Gray indifferently. The gold might have been withered leaves, the notes blank pieces of paper for all the interest he could feel in them.
"'Twas a good job for you I followed you," returned Lumley cheerfully. "You might have prodded round till doomsday. I knew what Tom meant by 'hole in Big Gum,' d'you see. That big log there with the window was from the biggest gum of the whole lot we cut down. And the window was the hole. Ain't it plain as daylight now, eh?"
"Plain enough."
It was getting dusk outside, and Lumley got up and went to the door of the hut.
"We'd best be starting, partner," he said over his shoulder. "There's nothing out against me that I know of, but I'd rather not be seen by daylight with you just at present, as you'll understand."
Gray hardly heard the words. He picked up his knapsack from the floor.
"I'll start this minute. I suppose you have got a horse?"
Lumley came back to the money before he answered. He began to divide it into two heaps.
"Yes, I've got a horse, partner, a pretty good one too. We scared you pretty well just now, eh? down along the track. My horse can climb like a 'possum, and I didn't want you to see me then."
The man's manner had changed again. It was smoother and more refined. It was as if he had slipped on a mask, and Gray's loathing of him increased as he marked the sudden easy transition. His coarseness was almost better than this oily softness. It maddened Gray.
"You needn't divide that money," he broke out in a sudden impulse of miserable rage. "I'll have none of it. And if I leave this place alive I'll give you over to the police. You mark my words!"
Lumley looked up at him with a quiet smile.
"Two of us can play at that game, my fine fellow!" Then his manner changed quickly from softness to ferocity. "You young fool, you! Don't you know the police are after you? They may be outside this, for aught I know, this minute. Anyway, they're close upon your track."
Gray stepped fiercely towards him.
"You lie!" he gasped out.
"You'd better ride down to Ford's to-night and find out," returned Lumley in a sulky, indifferent tone; "you'll have a warm welcome!"
"It's false!" Gray almost shouted the words. "They have no reason."
Lumley looked up at him with a grin.
"That's a pretty statement for you to make, partner. Anyway, there's a warrant out against you. Not for this pretty stuff alone, mind you—suspicion ofmurder!"
His crafty, cruel eyes fixed themselves on Gray's pallid twitching face.
"Murder of your mate, partner. 'Twas a pity you had to do it, for it's a hanging matter; but he was an obstinate chap, I expect. Pious and all that."
"They believe I murdered Harding?" Gray gasped out.
"Don't take on, partner," returned Clay cheerfully; "murder will out, as they say. And the police haven't got you yet. You trust to me: I know a track that'll take us out safe enough. I daresay you feel queer, though. It's unpleasant to be tracked by the police. I'm used to it, but I don't like it. I expect you wouldn't have done it if you'd thought you'd have been found out; eh, partner?"
It overwhelmed Gray to find that he could be suspected of a cold-blooded treacherous murder.
"You think—you dare to think—" he broke out, and then his voice failed him.
Had he not, in very purpose and act, been the murderer of his mate? The words of angry defence faltered on his tongue. He stood self-convicted, seeing for the first time all the horror of his act—unable to say a word to clear himself of the charge Lumley brought against him.
A vast sun-scorched plain stretching away in endless miles under a blazing sky. A waterless desert, where the horses sunk fetlock-deep in shifting sand, or were cruelly pricked by the thorny leafless shrub which was the only living plant to be seen. No trees; no flowers; no grass; no sparkle of water far or near. Such was the land Gray and Lumley were riding through, four days after leaving Deadman's Gully.
In dull despair Gray had submitted to Lumley's plan for escaping the police. It had never occurred to him to disbelieve Lumley's statement. There seemed no reason for the lie, and he remembered Mr. Morton's sudden keen glance at him the night he left the station. If it had leaked out that he had gone searching for Dearing's hidden treasure, they might well suspect him of ridding himself of Harding.
Gray's confidence in himself had altogether gone. Dull despair had taken possession of him. The past he could not bear to think of. The future made him shudder when he looked along the dreary years. What was there left for him to live for?
They had passed the hill-country on the second day, and were now crossing a portion of that arid region which lies to the north-west of the mountains. Clay had brought with him a stock of food sufficient for a week or more. There was no danger of starvation. It was water that failed them.
A consuming thirst came upon Gray as the sun rode higher and higher in the heavens. It was ten hours since he had tasted water, and his lips and throat were becoming baked and painful.
"You are sure you know the track?" he said to Lumley, checking his horse to look round him.
A light heat-mist was quivering over the plains. The air was intensely hot and dry.
Lumley stopped his horse too.
"Thought you were never goin' to speak again," he said jeeringly. "I know the track well enough. We shall see water in another twenty-four hours, take my word for it."
Gray marvelled within himself how it was possible to follow any track in such a place as this. They had been riding for miles and miles without seeing a tree or a hillock, or even a dry water-course. One mile was exactly like any other mile. But he said nothing more to his companion. Silence was a boon Gray craved almost as much as he longed for water. At first Lumley had thrust his talk upon him, and found pleasure in the misery he inflicted on Gray by his coarse jokes and cruel jeers. But he had grown more silent lately, and for the last hour or so had not spoken at all.
He was riding now a little in advance of Gray, looking round him with somewhat anxious eyes. He was looking for a group of cypress-trees. He felt sure they were riding in the right direction, but he had a strong reason for wishing to see them rise on the horizon before another halt. When once he saw them his course would be clear and easy. He would know his position exactly, and reach water in an hour or two.
Gray saw that his companion was looking for some landmark; but Lumley said nothing of the object of his search. He had never mentioned the cypress-trees to Gray. Gray had asked him once how he would guide himself across the desert, and he had refused to answer.
"You'd like to make off by yourself, wouldn't you?" he had said with a jeering laugh; "stick a knife into me, and leave me for the flies to feed on? No, no, partner; we'll jog on together. You sha'n't serve me as you served your mate. Not if I know it."
Gray had given up asserting his innocence of Harding's actual murder. His words had not the slightest effect on Lumley. It was not that he pretended to believe in Gray's guilt Gray saw, and saw truly, that his companion actually believed that he had murdered Harding in cold blood and buried him in some secret place. Clay had only laughed at his declarations of innocence.
"What's there to make such a fuss about, partner? I never did see such a cove for making believe. But you can't take Bill Clay in, my lad. I can tell a rogue directly I set eyes on him. By fellow-feeling, you see."
The day grew hotter and hotter. The air that blew against their faces as they rode along was dry and scorching. It was like riding in a heated furnace. Suddenly Lumley gave a shout. He had seen on the horizon, through the quivering heat-mist, three cypresses pointing with black fingers to the sky. He knew as he looked that it was but an illusion, a mirage. But he knew, too, that the real cypresses, of which he saw the shadows, were in that direction, and not so very far off.
Gray saw the cypresses in the same moment.
"Trees!" he cried eagerly—for where trees grew water must be near.
"You're a pretty fellow to go bush-riding," grumbled Lumley. "They ain't trees—not real ones, so to speak. They're clouds."
And Gray saw for himself how misty the dark outlines were; and even as he looked he saw the mirage disappear. But he marked the point in the horizon at which the mirage had appeared, and was astonished to see Lumley suddenly turn his horse in a totally different direction.
"Surely it would be better to go that way. There must be water near."
"Go by yourself, then," snarled Lumley, over his shoulder; "and a good riddance too."
He rode sulkily on and Gray followed him. When they had gone a few miles Clay's horse gave a stumble, and Clay sprang off.
"He's dead beat," he said. "We'll rest here."
"But—-" Gray began, and then he stopped. What was the use of speaking? He was forced to trust to Lumley's guidance.
They lay down on the baked scorched soil, hobbling their horses that they might not wander far. Gray flung himself on the sand, face downwards, careless of the hot sun that poured upon him. Lumley went a few paces off to a bed of polygonum, the gloomy leafless bramble of the wilderness. He scooped out a hollow in the sand below the bramble and lay down there in the tiny oasis of shadow he had thus obtained. Unseen of Gray he took a bottle he had secreted in his pocket and drank the few drops remaining in it, then corked it and put it back. Then he turned upon his side and slept.
He was sleeping still when Gray roused himself from the heavy stupor of despair that had come upon him and sat up. There lay the grim horrible wilderness all about him. A short distance off the horses were standing with drooping heads and panting sides. In the scanty shadow of the bramble Lumley lay asleep.
Gray got up and walked to Lumley's side, and stood looking down on the evil face as if his eyes were drawn there by some horrible fascination. The convict slept heavily, his face turned upwards to the sky. Gray saw that his lips were wet. He had water, then! Gray had suspected that he had, but he did not try to find out where it was hidden. He turned away with a shudder and flung himself down upon the ground again.
It was growing dusk when Lumley woke from that heavy sleep. He started up wildly and looked round him. For days he had kept awake fearing treachery from Gray if he let sleep overcome him. Now he had been sleeping for many hours. The sun had been blazing in a clear sky when he fell asleep; now the sky was covered with thick gray clouds, and night was close at hand. He looked round him and saw at once the two horses. A second glance showed him Gray lying with his face upon one arm not far from him. Lumley approached, and saw that he was asleep.
He bent over him to satisfy himself the sleep was not feigned, and then turned towards the horses. It was not difficult to catch them, and he had prepared to mount when an idea struck him. Taking a scrap from his pocket, the page on which Gray had reproduced Dearing's map for him, he scrawled a few words, putting the paper on his saddle to write. Then he softly approached Gray, and stuck the paper into the sand by a branch of bramble. When this was done he crept back again to the horses.
He remained looking at them reflectively for a moment. His own horse stood with drooping head and panting sides, evidently nearly done for, but Gray's horse had borne the long journey well. Lumley had already fastened the bag containing the money and the pistols to his own saddle, but now he shifted it to the other. Gray's horse turned an uneasy glance on him as he did so; and Lumley had a little difficulty in mounting it. But he got into the saddle at last, and taking the bridle of his own horse in his hand he rode away, giving a backward look now and then to the man he was deserting.
Night came, a thick starless night with clouds hanging low over the desert. A cool wind came with the clouds and blew on Gray, and he slept. He was worn out, and he slept hour after hour. The dawn was breaking when he at last awoke. His sleep had been so deep, so dreamless, that in it he had forgotten all that had happened. But memory came quickly back. He started up and looked round for Lumley and the horses.
All was still, with a stillness unknown save in desert lands. The silence was profound. In the gray dawn he could see the plains with perfect distinctness. He looked round him from horizon to horizon. There was no living thing in sight. He was alone.
He understood instantly what had happened. Lumley had deserted him. His first feeling was one of absolute relief. He had escaped from that hateful bondage. It was not for some moments that he realized the hopelessness of his position. Ignorant of the track, alone, on foot, without water or food, what hope was there for him of escaping from the desert? Gray knew how little hope there was. As he had deserted Harding, so he in turn had been deserted. As Harding had perished, so he too would perish. He looked his fate in the face with the calmness of despair.
Before he had fallen asleep he had made up his mind to give himself up to the police and meet the charge brought against him if once he escaped from the wilds. It seemed to him now as if God had refused him a chance of proving his repentance. He was to perish in the wilderness, an outcast from God and man.
He sank down on the ground again, and sat there with his elbows on his knees, his head propped on his hands, staring steadily before him. In the dawn the wide level spaces of the wilderness resembled the pastures that had surrounded their hut. Gray found himself remembering his life there with intense clearness. He saw Harding busy about the hut, ever cheerful, ever ready. He saw him among the cattle, strong of hand, alert of eye. He saw him riding home in the twilight, talking of his wife and his little lads; turning in his stirrups to give a word of cheer to Watch; or bearing Gray's grumbling talk with cheerful patience.
What depths of steadfast affection there were in the heart of that rough man! Once when Gray was ill he had tended him like a woman. He had sat beside him night after night in unwearying affection. Gray remembered how he had lifted him from bed to chair, as he might have lifted a child. He seemed to feel the pressure of his hand on his shoulder still as he stood over him, pressing him to eat some dainty he had prepared, to see his rugged kindly face bending over him. What would he not give for a sight of that kind face now, and a touch of that strong honest hand?
Gray's stony despair gave way; the hard, desperate look on his face softened. He burst into bitter tears. His frame shook with the strong, terrible crying of despairing grief.
But the tears did him good; they cleared his brain, and made it possible for him to think of what was best for him to do. He no longer felt inclined to give up without a struggle for life. He got up from the ground and looked round him with a new strength. It was then he saw the note Lumley had stuck into the sand beside him. He picked it up and read it. It was only a few scrawled words:
"The police ain't after you at all, Mr. Gentleman Gray, so you can clear out of the Bush as soon as you like. I'll not split on you, and you won't on me, I guess.
"N.B. Dead men tell no tales."
The words were perfectly clear in the pale morning light. Gray read them and then threw the paper away with a shudder. He felt no anger against Lumley, only a sick horror that made anger impossible. What Lumley had done was what he himself had done. He deserved his fate.
The knowledge that the police held no warrant against him, that the story was but a trick of Lumley's to get him into the Bush, affected him strangely little. He had made up his mind to tell the whole story if ever he got back to the haunts of men again. The confession he had to make would be a purely voluntary one now; that was his chief thought as he read Lumley's letter.