“There never was a daughter of Eve, but once ere the tale of her years be done,Shall know the scent of the Eden rose—but once beneath the sun!Though the years may bring her joy or pain, fame, sorrow, or sacrifice,The hour that brought her the scent of the Rose—she lived it in Paradise!”
The horse’s hoof-beats kept time to the rhythm of the song. “The hour that brought her the scent of the Rose—she lived it in Paradise!”
“An’ I guess,” said the driver’s voice—breaking in on my reverie—“that’s about all there is to tell. Them’s the lights of Wongonilla over there. The rest of the story—Lord bless you, it all ‘us ended where the gal died. The men I guess did’nt feel much inclined for fighting after that. Anyhow I b’lieve Ben Fisher came back dazed like to camp an’ told ‘em what ‘d happened. But though they scoured the country, Gentleman Jim got clean away. Fisher? Oh, he weren’t no account after it, I b’lieve—gave him a sort a’ shock, same as if he ‘d killed her hisself. He was speared by the blacks on the Lachlan three years later, they say. He never took up with another gal. The other? Lord, yes—he did—Woa, mare, will you? She’s a bit tired, you see—we ‘ve come the pace. Yes, it was all along o’ a woman Jim Newton was taken—wanted for a bushranging job, over on the Queensland border—that was fifteen years after. I ‘ve heard my father tell the story. He was one of the troopers that took him, and it was a gal that sold him. Mighty set on her he was. She? Oh, she was gone on another man. A woman’s only gone like that once in a way, ye see, an’ then, Lord! she is a fool—same as Nellie Durham, an’ she was a mighty fool all through, for Fisher was a decent sort of a chap—while the other fellow was an’ out-an’-out blaggard. But ye see, if there’s a ghost at all, it ‘s the gal that walks, though they call the place Trotting Cob, and Trotting Cob it’ll be till the end of the chapter.”
It was a comfortable place, the wide verandah at Warwingie, a place much used by the Warners on all occasions, save during the heat of the day—but the long hot day was drawing to a close now. Slowly the sun was sinking over the forest-clad hills. The heat haze which had hung all day over the eastern outlet to the gully cleared, the faraway blue ranges grew more distinct, and the creeper-covered verandah was once more a pleasant place to lounge in. From the untidy, half-reclaimed garden, came the sound of children’s voices, subdued by the distance, and the gentle lowing of the milkers in the stockyard behind the house. But no one came on to the verandah to disturb Tom Hollis and Bessie Warner, the eldest daughter of the house—perhaps they knew better—and yet these two did not seem to have much to say to each other. He leaned discontentedly against one of the posts, moodily staring out into the blue distance, and every now and again flicking his riding boot with his whip; but she looked happy enough as she swung herself slowly backwards and forwards in a rocking-chair, her hands clasped behind her head. Such a pretty girl, oh, such a pretty girl, she was—so dainty and pink and white. Her rosy lips were just parted in a smile; the long, level beams of the setting sun, falling on her through the passion vine, lingered lovingly in her golden hair, and made a delicate tracery as of fine lace work, on her pink gingham gown. Such a pretty picture she made, rocking slowly backwards and forwards, thought her companion, but he dared not say so. And then too it was so hot and so still it was hardly wonderful they were silent.
Silence seemed more in keeping with the quiet evening. They could not agree, and yet they could not quarrel openly. He brought his eyes back from the hills at length to the girl’s fair face.
“Oh, Bessie,” he said almost in a whisper, “oh, Bessie—”
“Now, Tom,” she interrupted, “now, Tom, do be quiet; whatever is the good of going all over it again?”
“If you could only like me a little,” he sighed miserably.
“Like you a little! I have liked you a good deal more than a little all my life—but there’s where it is. I know you a great deal too well. I like you, oh yes, I believe I may say I love you quite as well even as my own brothers, but—marry you, no thank you. I have lived all my life up here at Warwingie, up among the hills, and I ‘m just tired of the monotony of it. Nothing ever happens, nothing ever will happen, I suppose; it’s most horribly unexciting; but anyhow I don’t see I ‘d better matters by going and living alone with you at Tuppoo, even if you ‘d take me on such terms, which, of course, you wouldn’t.”
“You know I would,” he said drearily.
“Don’t be so foolish, Tom Hollis,” said Bessie sharply, rocking away faster than ever. “You know you wouldn’t do any such thing. You ‘d despise yourself if you did. Why don’t you despise me?—I’m sure I ‘m showing myself in an extremely disagreeable light for your benefit.”
“But I know you, you see. I know you so thoroughly,” he said; “and I’d give—I’d give—”
“There, for goodness’ sake, stop, and let’s hear no more of it. I can’t and won’t marry you—it ‘d be too slow. I don’t want to live on the other side of the ranges all the rest of my life. If I ‘ve got to live here at all, this is the nicest side, and I ‘ve Lydia and the children for company, to say nothing of papa and the boys—besides, you ‘ll come over sometimes.”
“I shan’t,” he said, sullenly, “I shan’t. If you don’t take me, I ‘ll not come here to be made a fool of. I shan’t come again.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” she said calmly; “you will; you ‘ll forget all this rubbish, and be my own dear old Tom again. I should miss you so dreadfully if I didn’t see you three or four times a week.”
A gleam of hope Hashed into his sad brown eyes, and passionate words of love and tenderness trembled on his lips, but, for once in his love-making, he was wise, and turning, gazed silently down the gully again. She would miss him—very well then, she should; he would go away, and not come back for a month at least. The only fear was lest in the meantime some one else might not woo and win her. Those brothers of hers were always bringing some fellow to the house. However—
A bell inside rang furiously, and five boys and girls, ranging between the ages of twelve and three, came racing in from all corners of the garden. Bessie rose from her chair, and shook out her skirts.
“That’s tea,” she said; “you won’t mind a nursery tea with the children, will you? Lydia and I always have it when papa’s away. The Campbell girls are here too. Harry, you know, is very much in love with Dora, and, like a good sister, I ‘m helping on the match. Aren’t you coming?”
He had intended to decline, but she put her hand on his arm in the old familiar way, and he weakly gave in.
“Aren’t you dull, all you women alone?” he asked.
“No, sir, of course not; besides, they ‘ll all be home to-morrow for Christmas.”
“They ‘ve at Kara, aren’t they?”
“Yes, that bothering old Wilson always has a muster at the most inconvenient times. They want to be home, of course, so they Ve taken every man on the place to help. Dick, at the mature age of ten, is our sole male protector.”
“They can be back to-morrow, though?”
“Oh, yes; they Ve bound to be here pretty early too. It’s Christmas Day, you know—at least—. Why, what was that?”
She paused on the doorstep and listened.
“Some one coming into the yard,” said Hollis. “They must have got away earlier than they expected.”
“No—they—.”
A sharp cry—an exclamation of fear and terror, and men’s voices raised, loud and peremptory.
“That’s not—” began Bessie, but Hollis pushed past her into the house. It was a bush house built in the usual primitive style of bush architecture, with all the rooms opening one into the other and dispensing with passages altogether. The dining-room, a big sparsely furnished room, had doors both front and back, and looked on the yard behind as well as on the garden. The table was laid for a substantial tea. Mrs. Warner, Bessie’s stepmother, a good-looking woman of thirty, was at the head of the table with the tea-pot in her hand, but the children had left their places and clustered round her; two other girls of sixteen and eighteen were clinging to one another in a corner, and two women servants, raw Irish emigrants, were peering curiously out into the yard, where half a dozen horses and men were now standing. The cook, an old assigned servant, had taken in the situation at once, had made for the dining-room followed by the other two, and was now sitting in the arm-chair, her apron over her head, beating the ground with her feet.
Hollis saw it all at a glance—the big dining-room, the frightened women, the silent children, the sunlit yard beyond, the horses hitched to the post and rail fence, the half dozen bearded blackguardly men, with pistols and knives in their belts—noted it all, even to the blue and white draped cradle in the corner of the room, and the motes dancing in the sunbeams that poured in through the end windows—noted it all, and looked down on the girl at his side.
“Oh, my God!” he muttered, “it’s the Mopoke’s gang, and—.”
He was unarmed, but he looked round vaguely for a second. Two of the men stepped into the doorway and covered him with their pistols.
“Bail up, you ——-,” said the shorter of the two, a man in a dirty red shirt and torn straw hat, who was evidently the leader of the party, “bail up; throw up your hands, or—,” and he added such a string of vile oaths that Bessie, shuddering, covered her face with her hands. Hollis did not at once obey, and in a second a shot rang out and his right hand fell helpless at his side—shot through the wrist.
“If the gent prefers to keep ‘em down, I ‘m sure we ‘re alius ready to oblige,” said the little man, with grim pleasantry, interlarding his speech with a variety of choice epithets. “Now then, mate, back you steps agin that wall—and Bill,” to the other man, “you just let daylight in if he so much as stirs a finger.”
Hollis leaned up against the wall, stunned for a moment, for the bullet had smashed one of the bones of his wrist, and torn a gaping wound from which the blood was trickling down his fingers on to the carpet, but with the armed bushranger in front of him he realized the utter hopelessness of his position. Help himself he could not, but he never thought of himself, he never thought even of the other helpless women and children; his heart had only room for one thought—Bessie, pretty dainty Bessie, the belle of the country side. How would she fare at the hands of ruffians like these? He would die for her gladly, gladly, but his death could be of no avail. The men had come in now, and he scanned them one by one, brutal, cruel, convict faces, sullen and lowering; the only one that showed signs of good humour was that of the leader of the band, and his good humour was the more terrible as it seemed to prove how certain he was of them and how utterly they were in his power.
“You will kindly all stand round the room, with your backs to the wall, so I can take a good look at you, an’ you can impress my ‘aughty features on your minds—kids an’ all, back you go. I ‘m sorry to inconvenience you, Mrs. Warner, but you must just let the babby cry a bit. I can’t have you a-movin about a-obstructin’ my men in the execution of their dooty.”
The baby in the cradle had wakened up at the shot, had cried uneasily, and now not having been noticed was wailing pitifully, but its mother dared not move. She stood by the window, the two youngest children hanging on to her skirts, a strong-minded, capable woman, who had all her wits about her, but she too saw clearly they were caught in a trap. She looked across at Hollis, but he could only shake his head. There was nothing to be done, nothing.
A man stood on guard at each door, while the other four went through the house; they could hear them yelling and shouting to one another, pulling the furniture about, and every now and then firing off a shot in simple devilment, as if to show their prisoners that they had made sure of their prey and feared no interruption. The baby cried on, and the sunshine stole gradually up the wall; up and up it crept to the ceiling, and the clock ticked noisily on the mantelshelf—but there was no change, no hope for them. A crash of broken wood and glass told them that the bushrangers had found the store-room, and had made short work of bolts and bars. There were spirits stored there, brandy in plenty, as Bessie and her stepmother knew full well, and Hollis scanning their faces read clearly their thoughts—what chance would they have once these men began to drink! Ghastly stories of the bushranging days of Van Diemen’s Land rose before him, of innocent children murdered, of helpless women, and a groan burst from his lips as he thought that the woman he loved was in the power of men like these.
Bessie started forward, though the man at the door pointed his pistol straight at her.
“Oh, Tom,” she cried, “oh, Tom!”
“You go back,” ordered the guard angrily.
“Don’t be so hard,” said Bessie, suddenly. “You’ve got us safe enough. What can a lot of women and a wounded man do against you? You look kind,” she added, “do let me give baby to his mother, it’s wearying to everybody to hear him crying like that, and let me bind up Mr. Hollis’s hand, oh, please do.”
Her voice trembled at first, but she gained courage as she went on. She looked the man straight in the face, and she was very pretty.
He told her so with a coarse oath that sent the shamed blood to her face, and then crossed the room and spoke to the other man.
They whispered for a moment, and then curtly told the woman they intended to hold Hollis surety for them. If any one attempted to escape, they would, they said, “take it out of his skin.” Then one rejoined his comrades, while the other lolled against the doorpost, his pistol in his hand.
Lydia Warner crossed the room and gathered her baby in her arms, and Bessie stepped to Hollis’s side.
“Oh, Tom,” she whispered, “oh, Tom—” “Hush, dear, hush—here they come.” They came trooping in with coarse jokes and rough horseplay, bearing with them spoils from Lydia Warner’s well-filled storeroom, among them an unopened case of battle-axe brandy. This was the centre of attraction. For a moment even the man on guard craned his neck to watch, as the leader of the gang, the man they called the Mopoke, produced a chisel and a hammer and proceeded to open it.
Their prisoners took the opportunity to whisper together, Mrs. Warner joining her stepdaughter and Hollis.
“What can we do, Tom, oh, what can we do? They are beginning to drink now, and—”
“Slip away if you can, you and Bessie.” “No, no, they will shoot you—besides, we can’t.”
Bessie was binding up his wrist, and Mrs. Warner, bending over it, seemed to be giving her advice. The bushrangers had opened the case and were knocking off the heads of the bottles and drinking the brandy out of tea-cups, but the Mopoke looked over his shoulder almost as if he had heard them, and briefly reminded them that he held Hollis responsible, and that if any of them “sneaked off” he ‘d shoot Hollis “an’ make no bones about it, for we ain’t a-come here to be lagged.”
“Nevertheless,” muttered Hollis, “one of you must go—Bessie, I think. They’ll be mad with drink soon, and once drink’s in them there’s no knowing what they ‘ll do to any of us—go, dear, go—”
“I can’t, I can’t.” The girl’s hands were trembling, as she bound her handkerchief round his wrist, and the tears were in her eyes. Creep away to safety and leave him to die—how could she!
He said again, “Go, Bessie, go, they’ll never miss you; it’s really our only chance—you don’t know what they’ll do by and by.”
“Lydia, you go.” Bessie slipped her hand into Hollis’s uninjured one and held it tight. Even in his anxiety and misery he felt in her clasp, he read in her eyes, a something that had not been there half an hour ago. Oh, to be safe once more, to be free to woo and win her.
“I can’t leave the children,” said Mrs. Warner; “the Campbell girls are no good, and besides, Tom wants you to go, don’t you, Tom?”
He nodded. It was true enough; he was wild with anxiety to get her away. He would risk his life gladly—thankfully lay it down, if only he could be assured that Bessie was across the ranges safe in the Commissioner’s camp at Tin-pot Gully, and for the other women, their danger would be the same whether she went or stayed.
Bessie clasped his hand tighter and leaned her face against his arm for one brief second, while her stepmother went on.
“As soon as it’s dark slip out, and I must try and keep them amused. Dora can sing a little and I can play. Go straight across the ranges, and if—and if—I mean, tell your father. Oh, Bessie dear, make haste.”
She left them and joined the others, pausing a moment like a brave woman to speak to the leader of the band, and so give Bessie a chance of a last word with Hollis.
The sun had gone down now and darkness had fallen. The room was wrapped in gloom, and Bessie mechanically watched her stepmother draw down the blinds and light a couple of candles on the table, which, while they illuminated the circle of bushrangers, only threw into deeper darkness the corners of the room.
“You will go, dear,” muttered Hollis, “if only for the sake of that plucky woman.”
“I will do what you tell me,” she whispered. “I can’t bear to leave you, Tom; if they should find out they will kill you. Oh, Tom, Tom!”
“They won’t find out,” he said soothingly. “They haven’t counted you, nor noticed you much yet. And Mrs. Warner is wonderfully plucky. You ought to try and save her and those girls. Bessie, you don’t know what fiends those men can be.”
“Yes I do,” she said, and he felt her hand tremble; “that is why I don’t want to anger them. They have made you responsible, and I ‘m afraid—I ‘m afraid to leave. Don’t you think they ‘ll go in an hour or two—just take what they want and go?”
“No, I don’t,” he said. “They are in for a drinking bout now, and God knows what they’ll do before it’s ended. Darling, for your own sake—for the sake of the others, for my sake, even—you must risk it and get away if you can. We ought to have help before midnight.”
“Bessie,” said Mrs. Warner, “come and help me to put the two little ones to bed. Mr.—I beg his pardon—Captain Mopoke says he doesn’t mind.”
“None of your larks now, missis,” said the Mopoke; “you jest mind what yer about, or I ‘ll let daylight into yer gallant defender there.”
“That’s the way,” whispered Hollis tenderly; “go now—go, dear.”
She lifted his hand to her breast in the obscurity, and stooping, laid her face against it.
“My darling,” he said passionately, “God bless you, my darling; it will be all right, I know. And remember, dear—you won’t be angry—remember, I have loved you so. I think I have always loved you, Bessie.”
The men round the table were in high good humour, joking with each other and the two Irish servants, who were beginning to think that being “stuck up” was not so terrible after all, while the cook took her apron from her face and joined in the chaff. Hollis was thankful for it. It enabled him to say what he had to say unobserved, for even his guard, feeling sure of him, gave more heed to his comrades’ sayings and doings. His broken wrist made him feel sick and faint, and it was only by a strong effort of will he kept his senses at all. If only he could see Bessie safe out of it!
“Go, dear,” he whispered again, “go to Mrs. Warner.”
“Tom,” she whispered, her face still against his hand, “I love you, Tom. I did not know it this afternoon, but I do now. I love you, I love you.”
“Bessie!” Mrs. Warner’s voice sounded imperative. “Are you never coming?”
“God bless you, my darling!”
He pushed her gently from him, but at the bedroom door, where her stepmother stood waiting for her, she looked back into the dimly-lighted room. The light from the two candles shone on the bushrangers’ faces, gleamed on the pistol barrels in their belts, on the dainty china, the glass, and the silver, but all the rest of the room was in gloom. She knew the other women were there, knew the children were there—they were dimly discernible in the corners. She could even see Hollis, but when she looked again the candles stretched out in long beams which reached her eyes and blinded her, and she turned to wipe away her tears.
“Now then, Bessie,” said her stepmother, “go, dear—quick, quick. You’ll never be missed in the dark, and I ‘ll light plenty of candles now, and dazzle the Mopoke. Go, Bessie, go.”
There was no time for words. They were very fond of one another, those two—fonder than women in their position often are—and Lydia Warner drew her husband’s daughter towards her and kissed her tenderly.
“Everything depends on you, Bessie,” she said, with a break in her voice, and then she opened the long French window of her bedroom, and Bessie stepped outside, and the door was softly shut behind her.
It was very dark now, very dark indeed, and very still. Quite plainly she could hear the voices and laughter within, and she stood still on the verandah for a moment to collect her thoughts, and let her eyes get accustomed to the gloom. It was a perfect summer’s night, hot and still—not a breath of wind stirred the leaves on the trees. Far away from the reed beds at the bottom of the gully came the mournful wail of the curlews, and the whimper of the dingoes rose over the ranges. Overhead in the velvety sky the stars hung low like points of gold. It was so peaceful, so calm this glorious summer’s night, this eve of the great festival which should bring to all men good tidings of peace and joy. Could it possibly be that murder and rapine were abroad on such a night as this? Could it possibly be that those nearest and dearest to her were in deadly danger?
It was seven miles, at the very least, to Tin-pot Gully, or, as it was beginning to be called, Toroke—seven miles round by the road, though it was only three across the ranges. But then she did not know the way across the ranges, the bush was dense and close, there was no track, and she might easily be lost for a week there. The only alternative was the road, and it would take her two hours at least to walk, and what might not happen in two hours? She could dimly see the buildings in the yard now, the stable, the cowshed, her father’s office, the men’s hut, the post-and-rail fence of the stockyards beyond, with the bushrangers’ horses hitched to it all in a row. It struck her forcibly how secure, how safe, they must have felt thus to have left their horses, their only means of escape, alone and unguarded. Should she let them go? Should she drive them away? And then another thought flashed into her mind. Why not make use of one of these horses? Whatever she did must be done quickly, and if only she could ride she might bring help in very little over the hour. In an hour not much harm could happen, surely. Surely they might spend their Christmas yet at Warwingie in peace and happiness. Her father would not return to find his home desolate, and Tom—Tom—but no, she dared not think of Tom. Only this afternoon she had laughed his love to scorn, and now there came back to her his face drawn with pain, but full of love and tenderness and thought for her—the sun-bronzed face with soft brown eyes, giving not one thought to himself, not one thought to the life he was risking for her sake. The danger was lest she should be heard. And then, if they shot him, as she most firmly believed they would, what would her life be worth. Not worth living, thought Bessie Warner, as she stole softly up to the horse nearest the slip panels that led out into the home paddock. She had not been born and bred in the bush for nothing, and if she could once get the horse out of the yard half her troubles would be over.
“Woa, horse,” she said softly, putting out her hand and patting his neck, “woa, good horse;” but he started back to the utmost limit of his halter, and showed his fear so plainly that she shrunk back in terror lest the noise of his movements should bring out one of the gang. Trembling she took shelter inside the open stable door, her heart beating so hard it seemed to deafen her. The big chestnut settled down quietly again before she ventured out, and this time she picked out a little dark horse. There was a big, quiet-looking white beside him, but though he stretched out his nose to be patted she rejected him because of his colour. Even in the dim light he was clearly visible across the yard, and his absence would be noted at once, while possibly the darker horse would not be so soon missed. He was fairly quiet as she unfastened the reins, which were buckled round one of the rails in the fence. Then she paused with them in her hand, and the desperateness of the venture nearly overwhelmed her. The night seemed quite light to her now. The outlines of the house were plainly marked against the sky, and all the windows were brilliantly lighted up—evidently Lydia had promptly carried out her intentions. Then a child’s cry, loud and shrill, broke on the air, and Bessie started. Woa, good horse, go softly now, for life and death hang on the next few moments. The beating of her own heart nearly choked her—her own light footsteps sounded in her ears like the march of a hundred men, and every moment she expected one of those long windows to open and the bushrangers to come rushing out, for not a regiment of cavalry, it seemed to her, could have made more noise than that solitary horse moving quietly behind her. She kept on the grass as much as possible, but it seemed an age before she had reached the slip-panels. They were down as the bushrangers had left them, and she looked back. No, it was impossible to distinguish anything in the yard. The horses even were one blurred mass; unless they inspected them closely her theft could not be detected. It was so still and so dark—never in her life had she been out at night alone before. The noises frightened her, and the silence was still more terrifying. The cry of the curlews was like a child in pain, and the deep, loud croak of a bullfrog from a water-hole close at hand seemed ominous of disaster. She shrank up close beside the dumb animal for companionship and gave another frightened glance back. Then she pulled herself together—this would never do. For Tom’s sake, for Lydia’s sake, for the children’s sake, but most of all for Tom’s sake, she must be brave and cool. If she would save them she must not give way to such vague imaginings. Surely she might venture to mount now. She led the horse up to one of the numerous logs that lay strewn about the paddock, and flinging the off-stirrup to the near side to form a rest for her right foot, she climbed on the log and prepared to mount. Often and often she had ridden so—a man’s saddle presented no difficulties; but now to her dismay the horse started back in affright at the first touch of her woman’s draperies. If he refused to carry her what should she do? Should she let the horse go? No, that would never do. She made another effort, and at last scrambled into the saddle, how she could not have told herself, but once there she kept her seat, for the black, though he plunged and snorted for a moment, soon settled down into a rough canter towards the main road.
It was not easy going on the run, and even when she reached the road it was not much better, for it was only a bush road, unreclaimed, full of stones and stumps and holes, while the heavy bush on either side made it so dark there was very little chance of seeing the danger. Lucky for the girl she was a good horsewoman. She kept urging her horse on, and he responded gallantly, but more than once he stumbled, and had she not had an excellent seat she must have fallen. But he picked himself up sturdily and pushed on. Good horse, brave horse, it can’t be more than four miles now. On either side stood the tall trees dimly outlined against the dark sky, and the Southern Cross—the great constellation of Australasian skies—hung right in front of her. She caught sight of it the moment she turned into the road. It was there every night of the year of course, but looking straight at the golden stars it seemed to Bessie it had been sent to her this Christmas Eve to comfort and encourage her—a sign and a token that all would be well with her and hers.
Then she heard sounds of voices ahead and the gleam of a fire, and she drew rein smartly. No one would she trust, no one dared she trust, save the Commissioner at Toroke, and who would these people be camped by the roadside? The district had a bad name, the times were troubled, and a helpless woman might well be excused for pausing; but she had no time to waste, she must take all risks, and she brought her reins down smartly across her horse’s neck, and he started forward at a gallop. There was a shout and a curse, and she saw three figures start up round the fire, and then she found bullocks rising up all round her, and knew that she had come on a bullock driver’s camp. A regular volley of curses burst on her as she scattered the bullocks in all directions, but she dared not stop—how could she trust herself to men like these?—and faster and faster she urged her horse forward. He stumbled more than once in the rough roadway, but at last the sound of voices died away, and looking back the fire was but a bright speck in the darkness. On again, up a steep hill where for very pity’s sake she must needs draw rein and let her horse pick his way carefully, up and up, till after what seemed interminable now she found herself on top of the ridge overlooking Tin-pot Gully. The gully was but a narrow cleft among the surrounding ranges, where in winter flowed a creek the banks of which had proved wonderfully rich in gold, and the rush had been proportionately great It had been a pretty creek a year ago, trickling down amidst ferns and creeper-covered rocks, and so lonely that only an occasional boundary rider in search of stray cattle had visited it; but now it was swarming with life, and was reduced to the dull dead level of an ordinary diggers’ camp. The tall forest trees had been cut down, and only their blackened stumps were left; the dainty ferns and grasses and creepers had all disappeared before the pick and shovel, and rough windlasses, whips, and heaps of yellow earth marked the claims, while along the banks of the creek, now a mere muddy trickle, stood the implements of the diggers’ craft, cradle and tub, and even here and there a puddling machine. The diggers’ dwellings, tents and slab-huts, and mere mia-mias of bark and branches, were dotted up the hill-sides wherever they could get a foothold, and of course as close to their claims as possible. There was no method, no order; each man built how he pleased and where he pleased; even the main road wound in and out between the shafts, and its claims to be considered permanent were only just beginning to be recognized.
The Government camp was on a little flattened eminence, overlooking the embryo township. They were all alike, those police camps of early gold-fields days. The flagstaff from which floated the union jack, the emblem of law and order, was planted in such a position as to be plainly visible in the mining camp. Opposite it stood the Commissioner’s tents, his office, his sitting-room, his bed tent, his clerk’s tent, comfortable and even luxurious for that time and place, for they were as a rule floored with hard wood and lined with baize; just behind was the gold tent, over which the sentries stood guard day and night, and behind it again were the men’s quarters and the horses’ stables. Down the creek, men of every rank were gathered together from all quarters of the globe; the diggers’ camp was untidy, frowsy, and unkempt, but here on the hill the Commissioner reigned, and law and order ruled supreme.
There was a blaze of light from the Miners’ Arms—the tumbledown shanty, half of bark and half of canvas, where the diggers assembled every night—and a crowd of men were at the door lustily shouting the chorus of a sea-song. Here was help in plenty, but she dared not trust them, and galloped on across the creek, dry now in the middle of summer, and up the hill again towards the tents of the police camp, which gleamed white against the dark hillside. A sentry started up and challenged her as she passed the gold tent, but she paid no heed, and the next moment she had slipped off her horse and was standing panting and breathless in the open door of the Commissioner’s tent. The light from the colza-oil lamps fell full on her white face, on her golden hair streaming over her shoulders, and on her dainty pink gown, somewhat torn and soiled now. Three young men were seated at the dinner-table, two of them in the uniform of Gold Commissioners—the braided undress coat of a cavalry officer—and all three sprang to their feet.
“Oh, Captain Cartwright,” she panted, “they have—‘stuck up’ Warwingie, and they’re going to shoot Tom Hollis.”
“What?”
But before she had time to explain, one man—she recognized him as the Commissioner from the Indigo Valley on the other side of the ranges—had forced on her a glass of wine, and while Captain Cartwright was shouting orders to his troopers, he drew from her the whole story.
“We ‘ll have to be careful, Cartwright,” he said, when five minutes later they were riding over the ranges at the head of ten stalwart troopers. “It appears Hollis is surety for the lot, but he insisted on Bessie Warner making her escape at all risks. He is a plucky fellow, Hollis, but it was the only thing to do. If they ‘d been let alone all night—well, when they’re sober I wouldn’t trust ‘em, and when they ‘ve drunk they ‘re fiends incarnate. Close up, men, close up a little to the right, sergeant, and we ‘ll dismount before we come to the stockyards.”
They rode across the ranges, and it was not long before the house came into view, ablaze with light, and the troopers crept round it. Then, when they were all assembled, Captain Cartwright with his revolver in his hand stepped on to the verandah and pushed open the door, while Bright, the Commissioner from the Indigo, entered at the other side.
“Bail up, throw up your hands now, or I’ll shoot every man jack of you.”
It was nearly an hour and a half since Bessie had left, but the bushrangers were still round the table. The dainty china was all smashed and broken, and the men were throwing cups and glasses at one another in very wantonness. There was no one on guard now, and the women were huddled together terrified in one corner, while still against the wall leaned Hollis, exactly where Bessie had left him.
“Hurrah!” he shouted as his glance met the Commissioner’s, and hardly had the word left his lips when the Mopoke turned, raised his pistol, and shot him right in the chest. He slipped to the floor with a great singing in his ears, and when he came back to consciousness again young Bright was standing over him holding a glass of brandy to his lips, and Mrs. Warner had her arm beneath his head.
“Better, old chap, eh?” said Bright, cheerily. “The Mopoke made a mistake this time, for Cartwright shot him like a dog, and the others will renew their acquaintance with her Majesty’s jails.”
“Bessie, Bessie, where is Bessie? If I can only live till she comes!”
“Of course you will. What nonsense Cartwright’s going to bring her back with him.”
“It’s all up with me, old man,” he gasped, “I know. But we ‘ve come out much better than I expected, and—and—if I don’t see—Bessie—you must tell her—it was worth it. Poor little Bessie, she said—she loved me—it was only a passing fancy—I hope—I think—”
His eyes closed wearily, and Bright touched Mrs. Warner’s shoulder.
“Put a pillow under his head,” he said, “and—oh, here’s Miss Bessie.”
No one asked how she had come so soon—only her stepmother silently resigned her place to her. Hollis seemed just conscious of her presence, but he was almost past speech, and they watched him silently. The doctor came, and shook his head.
“A very short time now,” he said. Ten o’clock, eleven o’clock; the moon had risen over the hills, the midsummer moon, and all the garden was bathed in the white light. They had opened the windows and drawn up the blinds to give him more air, but it was very near now—very near indeed—only a matter of minutes. The clock on the mantelshelf struck midnight, and he opened his eyes. He could see through the open door right away down the gully, just as he had seen that afternoon.
“How lovely it is,” he said.’ “Bessie, kiss me, Bessie. I—was that twelve o’clock? It is Christmas Day then. I wish you many happy Christmases, Bessie. Darling—don’t you grieve—it was worth it. Good-bye.”
“Don’t be a howling idiot, man. Lost! how could we be lost? Why, there’s the track right ahead, and pretty fresh too.”
But Anderson flung himself off his horse on to the dry crisp grass, and covered his face with his hands.
“I’ll tell you,” reiterated his mate, leaning forward in his saddle and shading his eyes, “I see hoof-marks quite plain. Why, they might have been made yesterday!”
“They were made yesterday,” groaned the other, hopelessly. “Don’t you see, my dear fellow, we made them ourselves.”
“What!”
Helm raised his head and swore a passionate oath, then sprang from his horse, stooped over the faint track, ran wildly along it for a few yards, turned back, and again cried out that the other was playing some ghastly joke off on him.
“It’s too bad, Anderson, too bad. Get up, man, and don’t be a fool. Come on, there ‘s very likely water on the other side of that ridge. You’ll feel better after you’ve had a good drink.”
“That’s the ridge we passed last night, I tell you. Water—oh, yes, there’s water there, but it’s as salt as the sea.”
“The salt-pan! No, by heaven, no, I won’t believe that. That’s miles behind us!”
“Nevertheless,” said the other man, drearily, “it’s the same old salt-pan. You ‘ll see it the moment we cross the ridge.”
“Come on, then, come on. Don’t sit groaning there: let’s know the worst. I can’t believe it, I won’t believe it till I see for myself.”
“The horses ought to have a spell if we’re ever to get out of this,” muttered Anderson; but he followed his companion’s lead, mounted his tired horse, and rode slowly on after him towards the still distant ridge.
Out back beyond the Mulligan is No Man’s Land. They had gone out to seek new country, crossed the Queensland border into South Australia, and now, old bushman as he was, Anderson had only the vaguest idea of their whereabouts. Ever since they started it had been the same trouble; the season had been exceptionally dry, and everywhere the waters were dried up. First one horse had died, then another, until at last they were reduced to only three; still they had pushed on, for the blacks told a tale of a magnificent waterhole where the water was permanent, and Anderson had a certain amount of faith in the unerring wisdom of the children of the soil where water was concerned. So he pushed on, hoping against hope, till the younger man, more fearful, perhaps more prudent, persuaded him to turn back. But it was too late. The weakest horse, the one they had used as a packhorse, gave in, and had to be left behind the first day of their return journey; and now, on the fourth, they had just made the terrible discovery they were going round on their own tracks. They had been so thankful—so hopeful—when they struck that track in the morning.
Anderson knew there was another party out better appointed than they were; these might be their tracks, and possibly they had water with them. They might even have come across water—and water—water—if only they had a little water. And so they had pushed on, eagerly, hopefully, till the terrible truth began to dawn on the older and more experienced bushman. The weather for the last two days had been dull and cloudy, they had not caught a glimpse of the sun, and hourly they had expected a thunderstorm, which would not only clear the air, but would supply them with the water they needed; but to-day the clouds had all cleared away, and the only effect of their presence had been that they had lost their bearings completely. Where and when they had lost them Anderson could not say even now, and he was loth at first to share his misgivings with his mate; but the sight of the ridge decided him. If they found, as he fully expected to, the salt-pan they had passed the night before on the other side, then most surely were they lost men—lost in a cruel thirsty land where no water was.
He pondered it over in his mind as he rode slowly after his companion. “There was no hope. There could possibly be no hope.” Over and over again he said it to himself as a man who hardly realizes his own words—and then they topped the low ridge, and right at his feet lay the salt-pan glittering in the sun.
“Cruel—cruel—cruel!” Helm had flung himself face downwards on the hard ground now, and given way to a paroxysm of despair all the more bitter for his former hopefulness. Anderson looked down on him pityingly for a moment, as one who had no part in his trouble, then he looked away again. Save for the sunshine, it was exactly the same scene, the very same they had looked upon last night—there lay the glittering salt-pan, white as driven snow, above it the hard blue cloudless sky, and all around the dreary plain, broken only by the ridge on which they stood. And yet in different circumstances he might have admired the landscape, for it had a weird beauty all its own; miles and miles he could see in the clear bright atmosphere, far away to the other side of the wide lake, where a dark clump of trees or scrub was apparently raised in the sky high above the horizon. He knew it was only the effect of the mirage, another token, had he needed a token, that there was no moisture, no water, not the faintest chance of a drop of rain. And yet there had been some rain not so very long ago, for the mesembryanthemum growing in dark green patches close to the edge of the salt was all in flower, pink, and red, and brightest yellow, such gorgeous colouring; and by that strange association of ideas, for which who shall account, his thoughts flew back to the last Cup Day, and he saw again the Flemington racecourse, and heard in fancy the shouts of the people as the favourite passed the winning-post, On the ground in front of him were long lines of crows, perched in the stunted boxwood trees above his head, filling the air with their monotonous cawing. He laughed at the mockery of the thing. The other man raised his head.
“Old man, what is it? Is it possible that—”
What wild imaginings for the moment had passed through his brain he could not himself have told; but whatever his hopes might have been, they were gone the moment he looked in his mate’s face.
“Man,” he said, sharply, “are you mad?”
Anderson was sobered in a second.
“No,” he said, bitterly, “but as far as I can see, it must come to that before we ‘ve done.”
“No, no, we won’t give up hope yet. Is there no hope?”
Anderson sat down beside him, and pointed silently to the horses. If ever poor beasts were done, were at their last gasp, they were, as they stood there, their noses touching the ground. The bushman’s slender equipment had been reduced to its scantiest proportions, and yet it seemed cruelty to force them to carry even those slender packs; even the canvas water-bags, dry as tinder now, hanging at their necks, were a heavy burden. Wiser than their masters they had crawled beneath the shade, scanty as it was, of the boxwood trees, and stood there patiently waiting—For what? For death and the pitiless crows patiently waiting overhead.
“Exactly,” Helm answered his companion’s unspoken thought, “but we can’t sit and wait like that. Man, we must try to get out of this at any rate. We cant sit here and wait for the crows.”
Anderson sighed heavily.
“What can we do?” he asked. “We must spell a bit. The horses are done. As it is I ‘m afraid yours will have to be left and well have to go on foot. There must be water about somewhere, for look at the crows; but we can’t find it, and we couldn’t have searched more carefully.”
“Why not shoot the old horse if he’s no good? His blood might—”
“Nonsense, man. Aren’t you bushman enough yet to know that drinking blood ‘s only the beginning of the end? Once we dothat—”
“Well, after?” asked Helm.
But the other did not answer, for he, too, in his heart, was asking, “After?” And their lips were dry and parched, and their tongues swollen, and before them lay the salt-pan, with right in the centre a little gleam of dark blue water which mocked their misery. There was nothing for it but to lie down beneath the scanty shade and rest. They were too weary to push on, all their energy had departed, and Helm, lying on his back looking up at the patches of blue sky that peeped through the branches, said with a sigh,
“If we ‘re done for, I wish to heaven the end would come now. I can’t stand the thought of—of—What’s it like, old man? Is it very bad, do you think?”
“As bad as bad can be.”
“And is there no hope?”
What could he say, this man who had lived in the bush all his life? What hope could he give, when practically his experience told him there was no hope—that if they would save themselves from needless pain they would turn their pistols against themselves and die there and at once. But the love of life is strong in us all, and the hope of life is as strong. How could they die, these strong men with life in every vein? No, no, surely it was impossible. An iguana scuttled across in front of them and Helm started up eagerly.
“There,” he said, “there—and I never thought. Look at that beast. There must be water somewhere or how could he live.”
Anderson sighed.
“Yes, there’s the bitterness of it. I know there’s water about if only we could find it; but as we didn’t find any when we had everything in our favour there’s not much good in our wasting time looking now. After all I believe those beasts must live without, though they say they don’t. No, old chap, our only hope lies in pushing on to the nearest water we know of.”
“Then don’t let us lie here wasting precious minutes. Every minute is of consequence; let’s make a start. We must push on.”
Push on! They had been pushing on ever since they left Yerlo station ten days ago, and this is what it had brought them to.
“It’s no good wearing ourselves out in the heat of the day,” said Anderson, “wait till evening and we’ll do twice as much.”
“Which way?”
“South-east, I think. If we can only hold out we ought to fetch Gerring Gerring Water. As far as I know this must be Tamba salt lake, and if so—”
“Karinda’s just to the north there.”
“A hundred and twenty miles at the very least and not a drop of water the whole way. No, that’s out of the question, old man; our only hope lies in reaching Gerring Gerring.”
“And you don’t see much probability of our doing that?”
“Well, we can try.”
He felt a great pity, this older man, for the lad—he called him a lad for all his four-and-twenty years—doomed to die, nay, dying at this very moment, in the prime of his manhood. They could but try, he said over and over again, they could but try.
And then as they rested they fell to talking of other things—talked of their past lives and of their homes as neither, perhaps, had ever talked before.
“My old mother ‘ll miss me,” said Charlie Helm with a sigh, “though Lord knows when she’ll ever hear the truth of the matter.”
“Umph, I don’t know, but I guess if we do peg out, it’ll be some considerable time before they can read the store account over us. Have you got any paper about you?”
“Not a scrap. We can leave a message on the salt though.”
“It’ll be blown away before to-morrow. Who do you want to write to? Your mother? That girl?”
Helm turned his face away. The man had no right to pry into his private concerns.
“Write to your mother, lad, write to your mother by all means. Mothers are made of different clay to other women; but don’t you bother about the other. Women are all alike, take my word for it. It’s out of sight out of mind with all of them. But write to your mother.”
“Some one may pass this way,” pondered the younger man, hardly heeding his words. “It’s just worth trying,” and he lay silent while Anderson talked on or rather thought aloud.
“It’s of the boy I’m thinking,” he said. “The poor helpless little one. He never throve since his mother died. She didn’t go much on me, but the boy was everything to her though he was a cripple. Well—well—if I were only certain he was dead now it wouldn’t be half so hard. He’d be better dead, I know, but I couldn’t think it before; he was all I had, and the last time I saw him he put up his little hand—such a mite of a hand—and clutched his daddy’s beard. He was all I had, how could I wish him dead? But now—now—my God!—if I were certain he was dead and it hadn’t hurt much.”
Helm sprang to his feet, and swore an oath.
“We’re not going to die,” he cried, “not as easily as all that. Come on, we have wasted enough precious time.
“Not till it’s a little cooler. It’s no good, I tell you, wearing ourselves out in the heat.”
And Helm, seeing the advice was good, lay down again. Lay down and tried not to listen to the cawing of the crows, the only sound that broke the stillness—tried not to think of cool waters; not to think of a household down south; not to think of the girl who, notwithstanding his mate’s cynical warning, filled all his thoughts. He dozed a little and dreamed, and wakened with a start and a strong feeling upon him that it had been something more than a dream, that some one had really called him, was calling him still. Was it his mother’s voice, or that girl’s, or was it Anderson’s? Anderson was sleeping heavily, and strong man as he was, sobbing in his sleep. Helm stretched out a hand to awaken him and then paused. Why should he? What had he better to offer than these broken dreams?
He broke a branch from a tree, thereby scattering the crows and stepped down to the edge of the glittering white salt. It crunched beneath his feet like sand, and he went on till the hard crust began to give way beneath him and the thick mud oozed up. Then when he thought it was moist enough to resist the fierce hot wind, which was blowing from the north like a breath from an oven, he prepared to write his last message. And then came the difficulty.
What was he to say? What could he say? Not that he had so little, but so much. And it might never be read after all, or at best it would only be read by some station hand who, once they were dead, would give but a passing thought to their message, only a passing thought to their sufferings. They had found a skeleton, he remembered, the first year he had been on Yerlo, a skeleton that must have been lying there years, a poor wind-tossed, sunbaked thing from which all semblance of humanity had long since departed, and he, in his carelessness, had thought so little of it, had never realized the awful suffering that must have been before the strong man came tothat.
And now—and now—he took his stick and wrote in large printed letters on the crisp salt—
STOP. LOST.
“James Anderson and Charles Helm were lost on the 20th October. They have gone S.E. from the salt-pan. Will you kindly send word to Mrs. Helm, The Esplanade, St. Kilda, and to Miss Drysdale, Gipps Street, East Melbourne.”
Then he wrote his name, “Charles Helm.”
It seemed so feeble, so inadequate, not a hundreth part of what he felt did it express, and yet what could he say? Not even in his extremity could he write tender messages to his loved ones there. They would know, surely they would know, they would understand, that his thoughts had been full of them when he wrote that cold message. What more could he say? But would they ever know the love and longing that had filled his heart? Would his mother ever know that her boy had thought of her at the last? Would Mabel Drysdale understand how he had cared for her?—all he had meant to convey by the mere mention of her name? He stepped slowly back and wakened his companion.
“Mate,” he said, “don’t you think we’d better be travelling? It’s a little cooler now, and it ‘s getting late.”
Anderson struggled to his feet wearily and then went down to the salt-pan.
“So you ‘ve been leaving a last message,” he said; “I ‘m afraid it’s not much good. Who ‘s likely to pass this way?”
“It’s only a chance, of course,” said Helm, “but—well—I ‘d like them, if possible, to know I ‘d thought of them.”
“And a woman, too,” laughed Anderson cynically, “if we get out of this you ‘ll learn, I expect, just about how little value she sets on your care for her.”
“You ‘ve been unlucky,” said the younger man gently; “there are women who—but there, I don’t suppose we’ll come through. Anyhow, it’s time we started.
“Well—well, keep your faith and I’ll keep mine. Perhaps here and there, there may be a woman worth caring about, but they ‘re few and far between.”
“Don’t you want to say anything?” asked Helm.
“Who? I? No. Who is there to care a straw whether I leave my carcase to the crows or not? There’s only the boy, and he’s too young to understand. But, I say, you might have mentioned the name of the station,” and taking the stick from Helm’s hand, he walked out on the salt and wrote;
LOST
“Please let them know at Yerlo,” and signed his name, “James Anderson.”
“There’s my last will and testament,” he said. “Come on now.”
Helm went up to the horses.
“It’s no go,” he said. “My poor old beggar’s done.”
“I expected it, old chap. We’ll have to foot it; mine’s only a shade better than yours. Clearly we’ll have to leave yours behind. Mine can carry the pack a little farther, but I really don’t think he can carry me.”
It was still very hot, but the shadows of the boxwood trees had grown longer, and there was just a promise of the coming night in the air. They must walk, for they had only the one horse now, and it did not seem likely he could hold out long. The other had lain down to die, and whether this one could crawl on under the slender pack was a question Anderson asked himself more than once. That he could carry either of them was out of the question. They put a blanket or two on his back, their pistols, and the empty waterbags, and then it seemed cruelty to force the poor beast to move, but necessity knows no law, and they started slowly on their hopeless journey round the salt-pan, Anderson leading the way, Helm following with the horse. So slowly they went, and their only hope lay in speed. Helm looked back a little sadly at the dying horse, which had made an effort to rise, as if in mute protest against being left.
“Poor old beggar,” he said, “wouldn’t it be kinder to put him out of his misery?”
“Oh, give him a chance for his life,” said Anderson. “I ‘ve known horses to recover in the most wonderful way. After he ‘s had a spell he may find water for himself; anyhow, we ‘ll give him the chance.”
It was a blessed relief when the sun sank beneath the horizon; the night was still and hot, but the wind dropped at sundown, and the men found it easier to walk in the dark. The crows had followed them as long as it was day, but they, too, left as soon as the darkness fell. They were unaccustomed to walking, and it would have been hard work under the most favourable circumstances; as it was, it was cruel. They did not talk much, for what had they to say? An hour or two, and the moon rose, a full moon, red and fiery, and as she rose slowly to the zenith, silvering as she rose, the plain grew light as day. Every little stick and stone, every little grass blade, was clearly outlined, the low ridge which they were leaving behind, the ridge where they had found their worst fears realized, loomed large behind them, while the salt-pan to their left stretched away one great lake of glittering white, which it seemed to Helm they could never round.
“How long, Anderson,” he asked, “before we can hope to reach the other side?”
“Not before morning, man. I don’t see we can do it before morning.”
Then they plodded on a little further, neither liking to be the first to give in, though their mouths were parched, and burning thirst was consuming them. But still they walked steadily on till more than half the night was gone; at last Helm flung himself down on the ground.
“I must rest,” he said, “if I die for it;” and Anderson sat down quietly beside him.
Then sleep, merciful sleep, came to them in their weariness, and they slept till the first faint streaks of dawn began to appear in the eastern sky. It was a dreary, hopeless waking, the salt lake was behind them now, and all around was the plain, bare hard earth in some places, patches of grass in others, not a living thing visible, even the crows had gone, and, though the foul birds had filled Helm with a shrinking horror, their absence was still more terrible, for did it not show that they were plunging farther and farther into the desert, farther and farther from the water without which they could not live out another day. The sun rose higher and higher, till the full force of his rays seemed more than they could bear, and yet the nearest shade was miles away, a line of trees or scrub dim on the horizon.
Neither mentioned the significance of the absence of the crows, though both were thinking of it, but at last Helm said,
“The trees, let’s go for the trees. This is past bearing.”
But Anderson shook his head.
“They ‘re clean out of the way, man,” he said sadly. “Try to hold out a little longer. The old horse is keeping up wonderfully. I never thought he ‘d hold out so long.”
“He’s very nearly at his last gasp,” said Helm, and they relapsed into silence again.
On, and on, and on, the thirst was so bad now they could hardly speak to one another, still they pushed on under the burning rays of the almost vertical sun, every step it seemed must be their last. Was it really only last night they discovered they were lost, only last night? Another mile, and another, and the heat grew unbearable, and Helm, without a word, turned to the left, and made for the trees. Anderson paused a moment, and then followed him, though to him it was giving up the struggle. If they turned out of the path which led to the only water they knew of, turned into this pathless wilderness, what possible chance was there for them, and yet how could they stand this terrible heat any longer?
“I tell you I shall go mad,” moaned Helm. “I didn’t think I was a coward, but I can’t stand this. Old chap, don’t let me go mad; shoot me if you see I ‘m going mad.”
“Mad,” said the other bravely, “nonsense, man, you’re all right. You’ll feel better presently when you’ve had a spell.”
The lines of trees resolved itself on closer inspection into close-growing gidya scrub, and long before they reached it the crows had again made their appearance. A little flock kept them company, waiting on in front, rushing up behind as if perchance they might be late, wheeling round on either side.
“There must be water there,” said Helm eagerly, “look at the crows again.”
“Don’t build on it, old chap,” said the other. “The scrub is too thick for us to find it.”
But Helm was not to be dissuaded, and he wasted his energies in a frantic search for water. His mate looked more soberly, because more hopelessly, but the result was the same, and finally they lay down in the shade and slept again, slept soundly too, in spite of the crows, which were more confident, more impudent, than ever. Night fell, and with the darkness grew in Helm an intense desire to be on the way again.
“We ‘re wasting time,” he kept saying hoarsely, for his tongue was so swollen he could hardly speak at all, “wasting time. Don’t you see they ‘ll be expecting us in to supper at Gerring Gerring, and I shouldn’t like the crows to get there first. They might frighten her, you know, she’s only a girl and she hasn’t seen so much of them as you and me. Those knowing old crows! they ‘re not here now. Don’t you see that’s why they want to get there first?”
“Be quiet, man. You ‘re dreaming.”
“Dreaming, was I? Anderson, Anderson, mate, I ‘m not going mad. For God’s sake, don’t let me go mad.”
“No, no, old man, it’s all right. We ‘re on the right track now. Here, I ‘ll take the horse and you give me your arm. There, now then, if we ‘ve luck we may hit Gerring Gerring before morning.”
They walked on in silence, but Helm kept stumbling, and but for his companion’s supporting arm would have fallen more than once. The moon rose up, and as it grew light as day again he stopped short and looked solemnly in his companion’s face. It was worn and haggard and weary, but not so wild, he felt instinctively, as his own.
“Anderson,” he said, “I know I ‘m done for. My head’s all wrong. It ‘s cooler now, but what’ll it be to-morrow? If—if—if I do anything mad before I die, don’t tell her, I ‘d like her to think well of me. Just say I died, don’t say how it hurt.”
“All right, mate,” said the other, for he had no comfort to give.
And then they walked on again in silence till the moon declined before the coming day, the cruel day, which brought the heat and the following crows again. Dawn brought them to a patch of “dead finish,” as the settlers call a dense and thorny scrub with pretty green leaves, through which it is well nigh impossible to force a way even under the most favourable circumstances; and which presented an utterly impassable barrier to men in their condition. They turned aside once more, and Anderson thought to himself that they must indeed have given up hope, to be stopped by an impassable barrier and yet to make no moan. It was surely the very depths of hopelessness when all ways were alike to them. He looked back on their tracks and dismay filled his heart; they were not firm and straight, but wavering and wandering like those of men in the last extremity. He had followed tracks like these before now, and they always led to the same thing. He wondered dully would any one ever follow those tracks. A little further on Helm let go his arm and ran on ahead.
“We’ll never do any good at this rate,” he gasped, “never—never;” and he pulled at the collar of his shirt till he tore it away. “We must have something to drink. We ‘ll die else, and I mean to have a fight for life. There’s the old horse, he can’t stagger a step further; what’s the good of keeping him? Let’s shoot him—and—and—There’s enough blood in him to—to—”
“No, no, man, no. I tell you that’s the beginning of the end—more than the beginning—the end in fact.”