Glen jumped up from his seat, so did Jim. They took a hand each and almost pulled Bill's arms off.
"Do it!" cried Glen. "Do it! We wantyou. If the three can't make headway in Sydney we're not the men I fancy we are."
"Yes, come with us," put in Jim heartily.
"Stop, you fellows, stop," said Bill. "It's easier said than done. I'll tell you something. I've had an offer for my shanty, a damned good offer, more than it's worth. I can't think why he's made it, or where he's got the money from. I never knew Craig Bellshaw to give much money away, and I don't see where else it could have come from."
"Craig Bellshaw!" exclaimed Glen in surprise, "has he made a bid for it?"
"Not likely. What'd he want with a place like mine? It's Garry Backham, Bellshaw's overseer. He came into my place and wanted to know if I'd sell out. He said he wanted the place and was tired of Mintaro. I was never more surprised in my life. You could have pushed me over with a blade of grass."
"I met him several times. He seems a taciturn sort of man, sullen, bad tempered—not one of my sort," said Glen.
"I fancy he's had a roughish time at Mintaro," Bill surmised, "but he must have saved money. Bellshaw wouldn't lend it him in hundreds."
"He was a pal of Calder's; about the only one he had," Jim remarked.
"I never knew that," said Bill.
"They used to meet on the track, and talk and smoke. He bought Calder drink at times," explained Jim.
"Birds of a feather," said Glen.
"He made no fuss about Calder being shot," Bill commented.
"It was no use. He's dead and gone, and there's no proof that he was shot; he probably did it himself as you have said," decided Glen.
The woman stirred, murmuring some words in her sleep; with a start she sat up, stared at the group, stretched out her arms, and in a pleading voice uttered the one word, "Come."
"I'm not superstitious," said Bill, "but that settles it; she said 'come' as plainly as she could, although she's fast asleep. I can't get over that. I'll sell out to Backham, and join you. We'll make things gee in Sydney, I reckon."
They were delighted at this decision, for they knew Bigs was a good man of business, who had his head screwed on right, and if there was anything to be made he'd be on to it straight.
"She'll want some clothes. She can't go in those things," said Glen.
"I'll fix that up. I can get sufficient garments in Boonara for her to reach Sydney in and there's no occasion for her to arrive like the Queen of Sheba," Bill replied.
They laughed. Things were more cheerful.The decision to abandon the fence livened them up.
When Bill left he promised to return in a week, and see how the woman was progressing.
"It'll be longer than that before we can travel with her," he said.
Away in Sydney, the great city, vast even in those days, life was going on very differently from the solitudes round Boonara. There were hundreds, nay, thousands, of people in that beautiful city who had never heard of Boonara, or knew there were such men as the keepers of the fence. As far as the majority of the inhabitants were concerned such men as Glen Leigh, Jim Benny, and Bill Bigs, might not have existed. Had the story of the woman in the hut been told it would have been laughed to scorn, and counted impossible, but there is nothing impossible in the world, however improbable it may seem.
Sydney was pulsating with life in this year of grace 18—. There is no occasion to be exact. It might partially spoil matters, and what's a year or two to a story, so long asthe interest is maintained, and the characters are living beings? Late in the nineteenth century Sydney flourished exceedingly. The last twenty years of that remarkable era saw it going ahead by leaps and bounds, and it has been growing ever since until men who left it years ago, and have revisited it, can hardly recognise the place. Long may it flourish, most beautiful of many beautiful cities!
There was a crowd in Pitt Street, outside Tattersalls, and over the way at the marble bar streams of people were passing in and out, for it was hot, and there were many parched throats. Moreover, it had been the winding up day of the A.J.C. Meeting at Randwick, and every favourite had got home, much to the disgust of the bookmakers.
It was ten at night and sultry; there was no air to speak of. The keepers of the fence would have thought it cool, but they were used to being burnt up and parched, and lived in a land where water was often flavoured with the taste of dead things, and not cooled with iceand fragrant with lemon. Not one of this crowd knew what took place on the border line of glittering wire. Boonara was as far off as, and more strange than, Timbuctoo.
Not one of this crowd? Stay. There was one—probably the only one—who knew all about it, and he stood smoking a cigar and chatting to a man outside a tobacconist's shop, not far from the Club on the opposite side of the road. He was a man nearly six feet high, with black hair and eyebrows, and a sunburnt face. Not a pleasant face, but strong, determined, with a rather cruel mouth and dark cat-like eyes; a man dangerous both to friend and enemy if he willed. He was well-dressed, but somewhat carelessly; he had a slouch hat, dark grey clothes, and his tie was awry. He stood with his legs slightly apart, gesticulating with one hand as he talked. The man to whom he was speaking was the leviathan of the Australian turf, who had made his position by a mixture of shrewd business qualities and bold gambling, who betted in thousands, and took "knocks" that would have sent a less plucky man outof the ring. But he always came up smiling, and his luck was proverbial. He had been known to play hazards for twelve hours at a stretch and never have a hand tremble when he lost thousands. He was ostensibly a dealer in choice cigars, etc., in fact in all the paraphernalia of a tobacconist's, and it was his shop they had just come out of as they stood talking on the pavement. He was not so tall as his companion, and had a much more kindly face. He was popular because he was cheerful and honest, and the little backer could always get a point over the odds from him.
The taller man was Craig Bellshaw, of Mintaro Station. The bookmaker was Nicholas Gerard, always called Nick by everybody.
Craig Bellshaw was, as before mentioned, probably the only man who knew there were such men as the keepers of the fence, who had heard of Boonara, and was acquainted with the vast solitudes in the West. He was a wealthy man, and could afford to leave Mintaro to the men he employed, and cometo Sydney in search of pleasure. When he was away he still had his grip on his place, as some of his hands found to their cost. They put it down to the spying of Garry Backham, the overseer.
Craig Bellshaw was a man of about fifty years of age, but did not look it. He had led a hardy life, and been successful. He owned miles upon miles of land, thousands of cattle, and his sheep ran into hundreds of thousands. Horses he had in abundance; how many he had no idea. He claimed all within reach of his land round Mintaro district, but never missed a dozen when they were taken. It pleased him to say they were his, so he did not grumble when Boonara men, and fencers, claimed a few. Bellshaw was difficult to understand, but one thing was certain: once he got his hold on a thing, he seldom let go.
He was a bachelor, but had a house in Sydney which cost him a considerable sum to keep up; he found it handy when he came to town. He owned racehorses, and his trainer was Ivor Hadwin, who had stableson the hill at Randwick. Hadwin was completely under Bellshaw's thumb, and was heavily in his debt. It was owing to pecuniary difficulties that he became connected with him. This was often the case with Craig Bellshaw. For once in a way the A.J.C. Meeting proved successful to the stable, and Bellshaw's horses had won four races, one on each day; all were heavily backed, and the bulk of the money had either been laid by Nick Gerard, or he had worked the commission. This was the subject of their conversation, and as they talked in the flare of the gaslights and the shops, many people turned to look at them, for both were well-known figures in the sporting world.
"Yes, Nick, I've had a pretty good meeting," said Craig.
Nick Gerard smiled.
"I should say you had. There are several thousands to your credit," he rejoined.
"What do you think of the dark bay—the fellow that won to-day?"
"Barellan? Oh, he's all right. A pretty fair horse I should say."
"Yes, he is, a good deal better than you think."
"Is he? I've seen him at work on the track. He won to-day, but I don't think he's the best you've got."
"No? Which is?"
"Flash."
Bellshaw smiled in his peculiar way as he said, "Perhaps he's a better track horse, but I'm sure Barellan is the better horse in a race, especially over a distance."
"He may be. When are you going back West?"
"Not yet. I'm sick of it. We've had such a long dry spell, but now we've had rain, a real soaker. We wanted it badly enough."
"It must be terrible when you have no rain for months."
"It is. You're lucky to be here always."
"Why don't you give it up now you've made your pile?"
"Throw it up? I can't afford it. You don't know what's hanging to Mintaro."
"A good deal, no doubt, but you're a singleman, with no one dependent on you. It seems to me you're wasting your time. You've worked hard enough," argued Nick.
"So I have, but I couldn't live in Sydney always, any more than I could at Mintaro."
They talked for some little time. Eventually Gerard bade him good night and went over to Tattersalls. The squatter walked along Pitt Street, then hailing a cab drove to Surrey Hills. He called at a house, remained some time, then drove to Circular Quay, catching the last boat to Manley. It was beautiful on the harbour; a cool breeze was blowing from the heads. The moon shone, and as he leaned over the side he saw his face reflected in the water. This was peculiar. He did not remember having seen such a thing before. As he looked he clutched the rail with both hands, turned pale, and gasped. Reflected beside his face was another face, that of a young woman—he had not noticed a lady standing a short distance away from him who was also looking over the side of the boat.
He staggered away and went to the forepart of the steamer, where there was more breeze, and sat down. The perspiration broke out all over him. He felt faint for the first time in his life.
"I saw it. I'm sure of it, and it was like her face. I'm a fool to be frightened at a shadow on the water," and he laughed harshly, a mirthless sound.
Three men and a woman arrived in Sydney by the mail train from Bourke; there were not many passengers, and they attracted some attention. It was evident they came from out back, their appearance denoted it; they were clothed in a rough country style. They were Glen Leigh, Jim Benny, Bill Bigs, and the woman. They had very little luggage; it was contained in a couple of bundles, "swags," that could be strapped on the back, slung over a shoulder, or carried in the hand. Many people in Sydney have seen the once familiar figure of a tall Queensland millionaire walking along George Street with a similar outfit. In appearance Glen Leigh was not unlike him, only younger.
A porter watched them as they walked out of the station. They all seemed solicitousabout the woman. The man understood the three, the female he was puzzled about.
"They can't have picked her up coming in the train. She belongs to one of them. I wonder which. The tall chap, perhaps. He's a big 'un; I fancy I've seen him before. I wonder where they're bound for?"
The porter's attention was claimed and he forgot all about them.
"There's a coffee place in Lower George Street that will do us for a time," said Glen, "till we've had a look round."
The woman stared about her wonderingly. If she had ever been in a large city it was evident she had forgotten all about it.
Since her illness, which was not yet shaken off, she had developed in body and mind, although as regards the latter it was to a great extent blank as to the past. She had some colour in her cheeks. There were signs that she would be pretty, with a good figure, and be an attractive woman.
She made no remarks as Glen and Jim walked on either side of her, Bigs following behindwith the larger bundle. Several people turned to look at them as they went along.
The coffee house was large, but unpretentious, the locality being none of the best. It was at the Circular Quay end of George Street, and Chinamen's shops and dens abounded—dull dirty places, with a few empty tea chests in the windows, and bits of paper with Chinese characters scrawled, or printed on, in various colours, like cracker coverings on a table after a riotous Boxing Day dinner. In several of the shop doorways Chinamen leaned against the posts, seldom moving when a customer pushed by them into the shop, bent on playing fan tan, or smoking opium.
"The Chinkies might have been propped up there since I was here last, and that's a few years ago," laughed Bigs.
"Rotten lot," said Jim.
"Most of 'em. I've met one or two decent pigtails out West," Bill answered.
When the woman caught sight of the Chinaman it had a most peculiar effect upon her. She shrank close to Glen, pushing himon to the roadway, and almost slipping down herself. He saw by her face that she was terrified, and followed the direction of her glance. It was fixed on a fat Chinaman standing in his shop door looking across at them. He was not exactly repulsive, but he was sleek and oily. His face shone, his cheeks hung low, he had a double chin, and his eyes were like nuts fixed in slits.
"There's nothing to be afraid of," said Glen. "If he is a nasty-looking beggar I daresay he's harmless."
Jim and Bill noticed her agitation and scowled at the Chinaman, who returned the challenge with a broad grin, showing his yellow teeth.
She trembled violently. Her hand shook as it clasped Glen's arm with a tight squeeze. He hurried her on; she was quite willing. It was not until they were inside the coffee house that she recovered.
"You don't like the Chinamen?" asked Glen.
"I hate them. They frighten me," she said.
I wonder why? thought Glen, as a maid came to show her her room.
She looked back and asked, "Where is your room?"
"I don't know yet," returned Glen.
"Please don't go far away from me. Please don't."
"All right," replied Glen. "I'll see to that."
The maid smiled, but Glen's scowl quickly frightened it away.
"We'll have to fix something up," he said. "She'd better be somebody's sister. I'm too old; you take it on, Jim."
"Yes, Jim's most suitable. He's not much older—a matter of three or four years," agreed Bill.
"His sister!"
Jim didn't like the relationship. Once it was established it might be difficult to induce her to change the feeling. He must accept, however; there was no excuse for not doing so.
"Very well, that's settled. I'll tell her about it," went on Glen. "Try and explain to her, but she's as simple as a child, and won't understand the reason for it."
She was tired. The maid, who regarded her curiously, saw she was weak, and asked her if she had been ill. She said she had been very ill, for a long time, and she wanted rest.
"Lie down on the bed. Let me take your boots on. I'll draw the curtain round, and you can have a sleep. It will do you good. Have you travelled far?"
"From Bourke."
"Where's that?"
"In the West. Some hundreds of miles away."
This excited the maid's compassion. She was a good-natured kind girl, but fond of admiration, and she had seen a great deal of life since she came out as an emigrant from the old country.
"I'll be back in a minute," she said as she left the room. She went to ask if she could remain with her for a short time, and receiving a reply in the affirmative returned, after telling Glen she had persuaded her to rest.
"She's my friend's sister," and he pointed to Jim. "She's been very ill; take care of her."
"I'll look after her. I'm sorry I smiled as I did, but—"
"But what?" asked Glen.
"Oh, nothing. We see some queer folks here sometimes," she said.
"I daresay you do," replied Glen, "but we're all right. You needn't be afraid of any of us."
"I'm not," she retorted, unable to resist laughing at him.
"That girl's better than I thought," he remarked when she had gone.
"They often are, if you'll only take time to find it out," said Bill.
"Where's Jim?"
"He must have just gone out. I don't think he liked the sister business."
"Why not?" Glen asked, surprised.
"That remains to be seen," Bill answered, and the remark made Glen thoughtful.
Jim came in again and they had a council of ways and means.
Bill Bigs had a considerable sum of money. He had not half-poisoned the inhabitantsof Boonara, and the keepers of the fence, and others, without making a handsome profit on his concoctions. His dealings in hay and provender of various kinds had been another source of income. Occasional loans, at heavy risks, and corresponding interest, had also brought grist to the mill.
The sale of his shanty to Garry Backham brought him in several hundred pounds, about twice the amount he valued it at, and he had not yet recovered from the surprise at his good luck, or at the fact that Garry had found the ready money in a lump sum. Altogether he had a few thousands at his back.
Glen Leigh had more money than the other two would have thought possible. He had it stowed away in a bank in Sydney, where it had remained, and been added to, ever since he had been on the fence.
Jim Benny had a few pounds which he carried with him.
"I'll look round," said Bill. "I'm the business man. I reckon I'd best stick to myown line and buy a 'house' if I can find a decent one at a fair price."
"It's about the best thing you can do," agreed Glen.
"And if I succeed, you two, and the girl, must put up with me until you find work," went on Bill.
Glen laughed.
"What sort of work?" he asked.
"That's a bit difficult, but two fellows who ride like you can ought to find some sort of occupation. Start a buckjumping show. Give 'em a taste of your quality; that's the game; I've hit on a little gold mine. We can get horses, and it won't cost a deal to run it."
"You mean have a real genuine show of buckjumping, and riding, in Sydney, and other places?" Glen queried.
"Yes, that's the idea."
"How much would it cost to start it?"
"A few hundreds. I'll find the money."
"I must have a share in it, and we'll let Jim come in. He can take it out in hard work," said Glen smiling.
"I'm willing to do anything you wish," Jim declared.
"If I manage to make the necessary arrangements," said Bill, "you'll have to go and find the horses, the very worst buckers you can get. There must be no faking about it."
"There'll be none where I am concerned," replied Glen, "I'll pick up some rough 'uns, you may depend on that, I say, Bill, I believe you've hit on the right thing."
"I'm sure I have. You're the best rider I ever saw sit a horse," said Bill.
Bill Bigs met a good many Chinamen, and had dealings with them, always finding them keen business fellows, moderately honest, though some were arrant rogues.
He went out of the coffee house to look round, and saw the fat Chinaman still standing in his doorway like a statue, as though he had not moved since they saw him before entering the house.
The name on the shop was Lin Soo. Probably this was the name of the man at the door; at any rate something prompted Bill to cross the road and look in at the shop window. He saw three tea chests, which he guessed were empty, a couple of Chinese bowls, a vase with strange hideous dragons painted or burnt on, an ivory-handled stick, a hat, a pile of chop-sticks, a bundle of red papers,and a cat slumbering serenely among the miscellaneous collection.
"Is the cat for sale?" he asked the man.
The Chinaman smiled.
"Not for sale. A good cat; he catchee mice, cockroaches."
"I didn't know there were any mice here."
"He catchee them if they were here," grinned the man.
"Your name is Lin Soo?"
The Chinaman nodded.
"You speak very good English," said Bill.
"Been in Sydney years," he replied.
"And made a heap of money," said Bill.
"No. Chinaman no chance with the white man," said Lin solemnly.
Bill laughed.
"You yellow heathen, I know better than that. Are you a tea dealer?"
Lin Soo nodded; it was a habit, and when he did so his cheeks flapped and his eyelids fell up and down like trap doors.
"Sell me half a pound of good tea," said Bill.
Lin Soo turned and walked into the shop. Bill followed. He did not want any tea, and Lin Soo knew it.
The Chinaman went behind the counter, leaning on it with his elbows.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Tea."
Lin Soo grunted.
"You no fool," he said.
Bill laughed.
"How do you know?"
"You want no tea."
"What do I want?"
Lin Soo's head wagged again.
"Guess," said Bill.
"Give it up," replied Lin.
"Why did you leer at the girl we had with us? You frightened her, you oily beast," said Bill.
Lin Soo started back. This was evidently unexpected, and Bill was a formidable fellow to tackle.
Lin Soo protested he had not stared at her. Lots of silly women were frightened at Chinamen—whyhe didn't know. They had no cause to be.
"They have every cause," said Bill. "Chinamen have ruined many white women. Some of you yellow dogs buy and sell our girls, and trade them to human beasts, who disgrace their colour. They're worse than you fellows."
"Much worse," agreed Lin. "You know about it?"
"About what?"
"Trading in white girls."
"Yes, you scoundrel. I expect you've been at it."
Lin Soo protested. He was a good Chinaman,—not one of that sort.
Bill noticed the leer in his eyes, and concluded he was a deep-dyed rogue.
"Have you ever been out West?" he asked out of curiosity.
Lin Soo said he had. A few years ago he had business in Bourke.
Bill became interested. What took him to Bourke?
Dealings with a big man, a man of money.He did not live at Bourke, but he met him, Lin Soo, there.
"What sort of dealings?" queried Bill.
Lin Soo would not disclose them.
Bill questioned him for some time, and discovered that he might smoke opium there if he wished; also that he might gamble for a considerable sum if he so desired.
He left the shop, wondering what had induced him to waste his time there.
Lin Soo watched him go up the street, scowled after him, called him bad names and cursed him in some horrible guttural way.
"You sneaking round me," he said. "Better take care. Lin Soo stand no fool play. Me stare at white woman! Why not? Me had dealings with many white women. Business in Bourke with what you call squatter and white woman. Tell him? Not muchy!"
Bill walked into Pitt Street. When he came to the corner of Market Street he stopped and stared.
That looks uncommonly like Craig Bellshaw, he thought.
The man he had seen turned round and came towards him. It was Bellshaw. He saw Bill Bigs and recognised him.
"You here, Bigs? What brings you to Sydney?"
"I've sold out."
"Have you? Tired of Boonara, eh?"
"It's hardly a paradise as you know, and I got a good price for the place, so I thought I'd quit."
"I expect you've knocked up a nice little pile out of the natives, the fencers, and my men, shearers, and so on. I had a nip or two at your shanty. I can taste it yet. What horrible stuff you sold," said Craig.
"No worse than others sell. No worse than the man who bought me out will sell."
"Who bought you out?"
"Don't you know?"
"How should I?"
"Garry Backham. He paid cash down, too. I wonder where he came by it? I don't suppose you've been over liberal with him," said Bill. He watched Bellshaw as he spoke,and the squatter returned his glance without a flicker.
"Garry's bought you out? I wondered why he wanted to leave me," replied Bellshaw.
He's lying, thought Bill, and wondered why.
"He'll not find it all profit," said Bill.
Bellshaw laughed.
"I don't expect he will," he agreed. "Who's there now looking after the place?"
"He is."
"You mean he's left Mintaro and gone to Boonara?"
"That's about it. He was in the house when I came away."
"The scoundrel. He's neglected my interests. He shall pay for it. He'd no business to leave Mintaro until I returned."
"I expect Mintaro will be all right. You've plenty of hands there."
Bellshaw laughed again.
"I daresay they'll pull through somehow," he said.
When Craig Bellshaw left him Bill wentback to the coffee house, and told them he had seen him.
"Did he say when he was returning?" asked Glen. "I don't want to meet him. He's not my kind. Besides he might try and make it nasty over leaving the fence. He's one of that sort."
"He's sure to be going back soon. He's been here some time I fancy. I wonder why he tried to make me believe he knew nothing about Garry Backham taking my place? It's all bunkum. He knew right enough, but he must have some reason for trying to hide it," said Bill.
"If all I've heard about Mintaro is correct there are some queer goings on at times. I've never been there, but one of the fellows on the fence, Abe Carew, was employed by him for a long time. He offended Bellshaw, who kicked him out, and he was very sore about it. He gave him a nice character. I didn't believe it all, of course, but no doubt a lot of it's true," Glen remarked.
"Bellshaw's one of those queer sorts, younever know what they are up to, never know when you've got 'em. He's been in my place and said things I knew were lies, and he seemed to have no reason for it, but he must have had," said Bill.
"Some fellows lie for the sake of lying," Glen answered.
The woman slept all night until late next morning. When she came into the large room Glen was the only one in it. She went straight up to him, holding out both hands. When he took them she kissed him. The hot blood surged in his veins. Was she always going to do this? He was glad no one saw it.
"You feel much better?" he asked when he had recovered his equanimity.
"Almost well. Sleep is wonderful. Are we going to live here?" she returned.
"No. This is a sort of hotel. We are staying here until we find a home."
"Why did we leave home?" she asked.
"It was impossible to stay there; there was only one room in the hut."
"Wasn't it always like that?" she asked as though trying to recall something.
"No, not always. Can't you remember?"
"Remember—what?"
"Where you came from when you came to the hut."
She laughed.
"How funny you are. You know I always lived there."
"With me, and Jim, and Bill?" he asked.
She seemed puzzled.
"It must have been so, and yet—" she put her hand to her head.
He watched her. Would she remember, or would he have to wait? That it would all come back to her some day he was certain, and then—
She was at the window, looking into the street. Lin Soo's shop was nearly opposite, but he was not visible.
A dark man walked rapidly along, and was about to enter Lin Soo's when a cab horse slipped and fell. This attracted his attention. He turned round with the intention of going to assist the driver, but the horse struggled to his feet unaided.
As the man looked across the road the woman at the window gave a faint cry. Glen was at her side in a moment.
"What is it?" he asked.
"That man, the dark man, looking this way. I've seen him before. Who is he? Do you know?" she said in an agitated voice.
It was Craig Bellshaw.
"Have you seen him before? Do you know him? His name is Craig Bellshaw. He lives at Mintaro, a big homestead, some miles from the hut, the home we left," said Glen.
The fear, or whatever it was, passed. She smiled. No, she did not know him, nor had she heard the name.
"Perhaps you knew someone like him?" Glen suggested.
She shook her head. She did not remember.
Much to Glen's surprise he saw Bellshaw go into Lin Soo's shop. He came out again in about a quarter of an hour, hailed a passing hansom, and drove away.
Why had he gone into the Chinaman's? It was about the last place Glen would have expected to see him in. He told Bill what had happened. They could make nothing of it, but it made a deep impression on them.
Craig Bellshaw was uneasy. The face on the water troubled him; it haunted him as he walked about. He left Sydney suddenly and returned to Mintaro, where he arrived unexpectedly. He found everything going on as usual. Garry Backham had put a man in charge of the shanty at Boonara, and returned to his duties until such time as Bellshaw came back.
"I met Bigs in Sydney," said Bellshaw. "He told me you went into his place the day he left, and handed it over to you. I suppose you came back when he had gone?"
"Yes. I thought it best to make sure of the place. Bigs is a shifty customer. If I'd left him in charge he might have done me out of no end of things," returned Garry.
"Probably he would. He seemed surprised when I told him I didn't know you had bought him out."
Garry grinned.
"Of course you didn't know. How should you?"
The two men looked hard at each other.
"Joe Calder's dead," said Garry.
Bellshaw started.
"Dead," he exclaimed.
"Murdered. Shot through the heart."
"Who did it?"
"Nobody knows, but I have a suspicion," Garry answered. "He's buried, and so far as that goes it's done with, but he was a friend of mine, and yours, and we ought to do something."
"I shan't. Let it be, man. What's the good of kicking up a fuss?" argued Bellshaw.
"Two men have cleared out from the fence."
"Who are they?"
"Glen Leigh and Jim Benny."
"Good riddance to them. They were rotters—no good to me."
"You don't like Leigh. He's been one too many for you once or twice."
"I hate him. It was Leigh who kicked up a fuss about that mob of cattle that broke the fencing down. He complained that I ought to have them driven off, and said it was not the duty of the keepers of the fence."
"It's part of their duty. They are a lazy lot of beggars," replied Garry. "I fancy Glen Leigh and Jim Benny know a good deal about Joe Calder's death."
"Do you think that's why they have cleared out?"
"Yes. Don't you?"
"It may have something to do with it; I wish I could find out."
"You said a minute or two back it was best left alone," said Garry.
"But this is different. I'd like to put a halter round Leigh's neck."
"Why? Have you any strong reason?"
"I'm told Abe Carew and he were pals, and that Abe told him a good many things about Mintaro. Calder gave me the information," Bellshaw answered.
"Did he now, and Abe wouldn't spare you, would he?"
"Spare me? What do you mean? He'd tell a lot of infernal lies about me, the scoundrel."
"You should be more careful how you sendmen away. You were not over polite to him," said Garry.
"He didn't deserve it. He robbed me right and left."
"I don't think he did. I told you so at the time."
Bellshaw made an impatient gesture.
"You know nothing about it; I shan't be sorry when you're gone, Garry. You've been getting above yourself for some time."
"You think so, do you? I shan't be sorry to get away from Mintaro. There's some things a fellow can't stand."
Bellshaw laughed harshly.
"I didn't think you were soft, or chicken-hearted," he said.
"I'm not, but I'd like to know what became of the woman," retorted Garry.
"I told you I took her away with me because I was tired of her, and that she was going back to Sydney with me," said Bellshaw.
"Did she go to Sydney with you?"
"Yes."
"And she's there now?"
"Yes."
"With her mother, I suppose," sneered Garry.
"Never mind who she's with. She's all right."
"I don't believe you took her to Sydney," said Garry.
Bellshaw glared at him.
"Where else could I take her?" he asked fiercely.
"Nowhere."
"What do you mean by that?"
"It's pretty lonely about here. One woman would not be missed."
Bellshaw caught him by the arm in a fierce grip and raised his fist.
"Be careful, or I'll make it hot for you," he snarled.
Garry wrenched himself free.
"Let me alone. I guess I'm a match for you, and I'm not afraid of you, if other people are," he cried. "You lent me the money to buy Bill Bigs out. Well, it will be better for you to make me a present of it."
Craig Bellshaw started back.
"Look," he said, "see that?" and he pointed to the wide verandah, built round the house.
"There's nothing there," answered Garry, thinking he must have been doing it heavy in Sydney and that the effects had not died out.
"No, of course not," said Bellshaw, trying to laugh it off. "So you say I had better make you a present of it. Why?"
"Because I know you did not take her to Sydney," said Garry slowly.
"It's a lie," roared Bellshaw.
"No it isn't, and you know it. Where is she now?"
"That's my affair."
"You can't tell me. I'm worth a few hundreds. I'll bet them you can't tell me," Garry persisted.
"This is foolishness. What the deuce have you got into your head?"
"More than you think. I know you travelled to Sydney alone," replied Garry.
"And supposing I did, you fool, do youexpect I'd travel in the same carriage with her?"
"Maybe not, but you'd have been only too glad to have gone anywhere with her a couple of years back," Garry retorted.
"It was her own fault. She was tired of my company. She behaved badly. I treated her well," said Bellshaw.
"When you first brought her from Bourke you did, but I don't think she ever forgave, or forgot, how she came here. It was a blackguardly trick to play her."
"What trick?"
"Oh, stow that. Do you mean to say you think I don't know? I'm no fool. She was dazed, drugged, or something, when she came. Why it was more than a week before she found out where she was, and she had to stay because she couldn't get away. There was nowhere to go."
"We'll drop all that. She's safe enough now. Don't bother your head about her."
"But that's just what I do. I might have saved her. I could have done so if I'd hadthe pluck, but you bought me off, and I hate myself for it. Do you know what I think?"
"No."
"You can have it whether you like it or not—I think you've done away with her."
Bellshaw stepped up to him in a threatening attitude.
"Stand back," said Garry, pulling out his revolver. "I found this near the big water hole when I was having a ride round."
He pulled a handkerchief and a piece of ribbon out of his pocket.
"Well?" Bellshaw asked.
"There'd been a struggle near the water hole, but she wasn't in there. I made sure of that, but you left her there, and she's as dead as if you'd shoved her in. She'd starve, die of thirst, go mad wandering about. It would have been more merciful to strangle her. I saw her tracks for some distance, but I couldn't follow them far; the ground soon dries up. She's no more in Sydney than I am, and you've done a brutal, cowardly act, Craig Bellshaw!"
Bellshaw made no answer, and Garry went on, "It'll come home to you some day, mark my words if it doesn't. If I thought she was alive I'd be mighty glad, for I feel as though I had a hand in it. When I saw her drive away with you something told me you meant mischief, but I never thought you'd kill her by inches. Hadn't she suffered enough at your hands that you must let her die such a terrible death?"
"Have you done?" asked Bellshaw quietly. His tone surprised Garry.
"Yes, I've said enough, and you know the bulk of it's true."
"You may think it is, although it's a poor recompense for all I have done for you. However, I bear you no malice. I have only one request to make."
"What is it?" asked Garry.
"Keep your thoughts to yourself. The law is powerful. There's more than that—in this part of the country I am the law, and I can take it into my own hands without fear of being called to account. You've seenme do it; you know I'm not a man to be cowed, that I do not fear you, or any other man, nor what you say, or do. Listen to me, Garry Backham. There are men round Mintaro who will do my bidding for money, no matter what it is I ask. You know the sort of men, desperate, some of them, the worst of criminals. If I hear any of the lies you have said repeated I will burn your place to the ground, and you with it. You had best keep a still tongue."
Garry knew he was capable of carrying out his threats, and that he had the men to do what he willed. He believed the accusation he had brought, but he had no wish to run into grave danger.
"You'll think about that money, Mr. Bellshaw," he said.
"You mean giving it you, not lending it?"
"Yes."
"It depends upon yourself," was the reply.
In a small house, in a side street, on Moore Park, the woman who came to Sydney with Glen Leigh, and the other two, had rooms. It had been decided to call her Clara Benny, as it was necessary she should have a name, and to install her here. Mrs. Dell, who kept the house, was a widow, a respectable woman in reduced circumstances, and she had promised to do what she could for her lodger. Clara could not understand it. She wanted the three to be with her. They had always been together. Why should they leave her alone? It was useless to try and explain, and no attempt was made. Glen said it was necessary because they had to work, and it would be better for her to have a kind motherly woman to look after her; this made her more contented, and one ofthem called to see her every day. Mrs. Dell was puzzled over her lodger; she fancied she suffered from some brain trouble, but she liked her from the first, and quickly came to love her; she looked upon her as a substitute for her own girl, who had died of consumption at about the same age. Clara repaid this affection, and in a very short time they became inseparable. The money she received for her board and lodging was a great help to Mrs. Dell, and Glen Leigh was always supplying some delicacy for the table.
Bill Bigs succeeded in finding a small hotel to his liking in Castlereagh Street. The seller came into some money, and sailing for England, was glad to find a buyer at a reasonable price. The house was in bad condition, but Bill, with his usual energy, quickly set to work, and in a few weeks it was spick and span, clean and inviting. There was a steady trade, and a fair number of customers frequented the place—many theatrical, sporting and pressmen, with whom he became popular.
Jerry Makeshift, of "The Sketch," foundgood copy in Bill. Jerry was one of the most popular men in Sydney, a wonderfully clever black and white artist, a born joker, and an excellent writer of highly sensational news, in paragraphs, or columns, as required. He had one failing, not an unusual one in these days. He was fond of his glass and hilarious company, and as he always had a lot of admirers following in his wake he soon brought genial customers to "The Kangaroo," as Bill curiously named the place. Jerry Makeshift extracted from Bill much interesting press matter about Boonara, and the district surrounding it; also about the keepers of the fence.
The clever journalist was astounded at what he heard, especially about the men on the rabbit-proof fence. In a hazy sort of way he had heard of them before, but when Bill began to talk about them, with intimate knowledge, Jerry opened his eyes.
"I'll introduce you to two of 'em," said Bill. "They are staying with me. In fact they came to Sydney with me from the forsaken place. They found the life too muchfor 'em, and you bet it must be awful when such men as they throw it up."
"I'd like to meet them," replied Jerry. "How is it I have not done so before?"
"Well, it's this way. They're busy. They've got a scheme in hand that I suggested, and I think it's just the thing for 'em and will pay well," and he explained about the buckjumping exhibition.
"By Jove, that's a capital idea," said Jerry, who saw the possibilities at once.
"You might be able to give it a lift," suggested Bill cautiously.
"Probably. I will if I can, but I must hear more about it," Jerry answered.
"Come in to-night, and I'll introduce you to Glen Leigh. He's the chap, a wonderful man, as straight as a die, big, strong, a rough customer, but with the heart of a child when anything appeals to his better nature. Why he went on the fence the Lord only knows. I remember him arriving in Boonara. It caused quite a sensation. No one could make him out then, and no one made himout before he left. A mystery man, that's what he is. Don't forget to-night. I'll have a decent dinner for you, and a bottle of the right stuff, and you can talk in my room to your heart's content."
"That will suit me," said Jerry as he went out.
"He's a good sort," thought Bill. "He ought to be able to boom the show when it starts."
Glen Leigh was averse to talking with strangers, but Bill persuaded him to meet Jerry Makeshift.
"It's the fellow who draws those funny things that catch the eye on the front page of 'The Sketch.' They're the cleverest things out, and 'The Sketch' is the best paper of its kind in Australia. It goes all over the place. It even got as far as Boonara," said Bill.
"And I've had many a copy in my hut," answered Glen. "I don't mind meeting a man like that. He's out of the common. He can teach you something."
"That's settled," said Bill. "He'll be here at seven, and mind you pitch it him strongabout the show. He'll ask you about work on the fence. Tell him what it's like; he'll appreciate it."
Jerry Makeshift was punctual. He loved a good dinner and he sniffed appreciatively as he came into the house. Jim Benny was away, so Glen went upstairs with his companion, and they did full justice to Bill's good things, which he laid himself out to supply.
Jerry at once saw that Glen Leigh was no ordinary man, and that he would have to be handled in anything but an orthodox fashion. With his usual skill in such matters he set to work to propitiate him, and succeeded so well that at the end of the dinner Glen was talking freely to him. He told him all about the glittering wire, of the awful loneliness of the life, the terrible droughts, the millions of rabbits, how they died in hundreds of thousands from lack of food, and their bones were piled up in great heaps. He told of the losses of sheep and cattle, how squatters were almost ruined, and had to borrow money to go on with. He pictured the thousandsof square miles of desolate land without a blade of grass; then suddenly the rain fell in torrents and in twenty-four hours came the glorious change from baked brown to verdant glistening green which covered the earth like a brilliant carpet, dazzling the eyes, that had been accustomed to dead colours for months at a stretch.
Then he went on to describe the life on the fence, the men, their varied characters; some strange stories he told of crime and criminals that he heard when he was one of the keepers. His language was plain and simple so that every word hit home.
Jerry Makeshift listened with his eyes fixed intently on Glen Leigh's face. As he talked he seemed to forget where he was; he was back again in his old surroundings, in the hut, in Bill's shanty at Boonara. He stopped suddenly. There must be no mention of Clara Benny, the woman in the hut, or how they came to Sydney.
"I never heard such a thrilling, interesting, story before," said Jerry, who knew he haddiscovered a storehouse of fresh copy in Glen Leigh. Apart from this Leigh had won his wayward, roving nature completely. Here was a man after his own heart, a man who had seen much and done more, a worker at the hardest kind of work, who went grinding on in solitude with no word of encouragement from a living soul.
Glen Leigh had made a staunch friend. He did not think he had done anything, or said anything, out of the common. That was where he proved so attractive to Jerry. The practised journalist knew every word he heard was true, that no exaggeration was here. On the contrary the reality must have been ten times worse than it was described.
"Tell me about this buckjumping show Bigs mentioned," said Jerry.
Glen smiled.
"Bill's sanguine, too sanguine, about that."
"I don't think he is. There are great possibilities in it," Jerry answered.
"Maybe so, but it'll take a lot of working up."
"I'll do what I can for you," promised Jerry.
"You will! That's good of you. I reckon a few words from you, or a sketch from your pen, goes a long way with the public," replied Glen.
Jerry laughed. There was not an atom of conceit about him.
"I do my best to amuse the public. I fancy I manage it all right somehow, but heaven knows where the talent I possess comes from, for I never had much education. I'm what they call self-taught."
"Then you were a better teacher than hundreds of men who profess to know a heap of things," declared Glen.
"Perhaps so. A battle with the world when you're young is a good education in itself," replied Jerry.
Glen told him how "The Sketch," and Jerry's drawings, were to be found even on the fence and in Boonara.
"I've spent hours over 'em," he said. "The man who can make a keeper of the fence laugh deserves a big pension for life."
Jerry pulled "The Sketch" out of his pocket.
"That's the latest. Just off the press. I'll leave it you."
A paper fell on the floor. Jerry picked it up.
"Have you seen this?" he asked.
"What is it?"
"Tattersalls' Hundred Thousand Pound Sweep on the Melbourne Cup. You ought to try your luck in it," said Jerry.
"I think I'll risk a pound," said Glen laughing.
"A hundred thousand pound sweep is not bad, and the winner takes about a fourth of it," Jerry answered.
"Twenty-five thousand. That would do me all right. No occasion for more work. I'd buy a nice little property and be comfortable for the remainder of my life," said Glen.
They parted in a very cordial manner. It was not often Glen let himself go like this, but he liked Jerry, and when he was fond of a man he was not slow to show it.
Glen went West next day and forgot all about the ticket, but there was plenty of time as the sweep did not close for several weeks.
He went on a purchasing expedition, to buy horses for the show, while Bill Bigs and JimBenny were preparing the way in Sydney for an opening in the exhibition building, which had already been secured. Jim had no desire to go into the Boonara district again after what had happened. There was no telling what rumours might be about. As a matter of fact Garry Backham was sorry he had thrown out a hint to Craig Bellshaw. He might be inclined to follow it up.
Garry was very much surprised one morning when Glen Leigh walked into his place and bade him the time of day as though he had seen him a few hours before. Leigh was a cool hand and never flustered, except on special occasions, when he knew he had been put upon, or someone tried to bounce him. When he flared up there were ructions, as more than one man on the fence had found out during his time there.
"You're about the last man I expected to see in Boonara," said Garry.
"I daresay I am. I'm here on business. I can put some money in your way if you'll help me. We were never very friendly,but that's all over. I daresay you have no objections to earning money?"
"None at all. We're most of us that way inclined," replied Garry. "As to being bad friends, don't you think that was mostly your fault?"
"No. There was a good bit of underhand work on the fence, sneaking, and so on. Joe Calder and you were pretty thick. I fancy Bellshaw got some hints, true or untrue, from the pair of you."
"He never got any from me, whatever he did from Joe."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Yes."
"Well, I'll try and believe it. Joe Calder paid for all the wrong he did."
"Do you know what some folks say about here?"
"No."
"That either you, or Jim Benny, shot him, and that's why you both cleared out."
"They say that, eh?"
"Yes."
"They're wide of the mark. Why didn't they say it before we left, not when our backs were turned?" asked Glen.
Garry smiled.
"It wouldn't do for a man to accuse you to your face of murder," he answered.
"Then you don't hold me responsible for Calder's death?" Glen queried.
"Not likely, is it?" answered Garry. "What's the business you're here on?"
"I want a dozen of the worst bucking horses in the district. It swarms with bad 'uns of all sorts," said Glen.
"You're right. I never saw such brutes in my life. Mintaro's overrun with them, if one could only find them."
"Would Bellshaw sell some?" asked Glen.
"I should say he'd be only too glad to get rid of any you cared to pick."
"You can manage it, can't you? You were always on good terms with him," said Glen.
"I'm not now," replied Garry.
Glen looked surprised. He thought Bellshawfound the money with which Garry bought Bill Bigs out.
"You don't mind me saying it, but Bill fancied Bellshaw found you the money for this place," he said.
"He did, but he only lent it me. It's since I bought it we quarrelled."
"Serious?"
"Rather, but we've agreed to drop it. Still, we're not on good terms."
"Then I'd better go and see him alone," said Glen.
Garry hesitated. There was no telling how Bellshaw might act, as Glen ought to have sent in his notice to him before he left the fence. He knew, however, that Glen Leigh was capable of taking care of himself, and that he was more than a match for the squatter.
"Perhaps you had," he agreed. "I can tell you where the best horses for your purpose are to be found. I never saw such beasts, regular savages, half wild, unbroken, not even handled, and some of them six yearsold. They're most of 'em by old Tear'em, as they call him. Perhaps you've heard of him?"
"I've heard the name, but nothing much about him except that he's a savage."
"So he is, and so are all his lot. Tear'em has accounted for more than one man's life," said Garry.
"Why doesn't Bellshaw shoot him?"
"That's more than I can tell. It strikes me he rather likes the horse. It suits his temperament."
"Where are these horses to be found?"
"At the Five Rocks most likely. Do you know where that is?"
"No."
"To the south of Mintaro, a good twenty miles."
"And how the deuce am I to get at 'em? I shall want assistance."
"If you get Bellshaw's permission to bag a dozen or two I'll go with you to get 'em and take half a dozen men from here."
"That's a bargain," said Glen. "I expectit will be tough work getting 'em into the trucks when we have driven them as far as Bourke, if ever we get 'em there."
"Never fear about that. I know how to handle them. What are you going to do with 'em when they reach Sydney?"
Glen explained, and Garry thought the idea splendid. He was quite sure it would pay. He said he'd like to be in it.
"So you shall, Garry," said Glen, who was one of the quick forgiving kind. "How much?"
"A couple of hundred or so."
"It's as good as done. Of course, I must consult Bill. He's the prime mover, the originator of the scheme."
"You'll stay the night?" Garry asked.
"I've no time to spare. I must return as soon as possible, so if you'll let me have a fresh horse I'll ride on to Mintaro at once."
"You can have the best I've got. It'll be nothing very grand, but I'll find one that will take you there."
He went out, leaving him in the bar.
Glen as he looked round vividly recalled the day he rode in from the hut to see Bill on behalf of the woman. He wondered what she was doing. Was Jim Benny with her? He did not like the idea of Jim seeing too much of her. Yet it was foolish of him. Why should he not see her as often as he wished? She was supposed to be his sister.
Garry returned and said the horse would be round in a few minutes.
"Don't ruffle Bellshaw," he counselled. "He's not been in the best of tempers since he came home from Sydney."
"Bill had a talk with him in Pitt Street, and I saw him. Where do you think he was going?"
"I don't know. He's a queer sort."
"Into a Chinaman's shop in Lower George Street. A fellow named Lin Soo. A beastly-looking Johnnie. I wonder what he went there for?"
Garry was glad Glen was not looking at him or he might have seen his agitation and wondered at it.
"He knows a lot of curious people," he answered. "Probably he went to buy tea."
"It wasn't a tea shop, although that is what Lin Soo pretends it is. I expect, from what Bill said, it's an opium den, or worse."
"There are lots of 'em in Sydney," said Garry with an assumption of carelessness.
"Plenty in that quarter. They ought to root the whole lot out. It wouldn't be a bad job if the places were burned down."
Glen went out, mounted, and had a parting word with Garry, who said, "Remember what I told you about Bellshaw. There's something wrong with him, I'm certain."
"In what way?"
"He talks a bit wild, and seems to have something on his mind; he sees things," and he told Glen about the verandah incident. "I put it down to the spree he'd probably been on in Sydney."
"I'll humour him," replied Glen laughing. "If he turns rusty I'll have to try and get the horses elsewhere. There are plenty of 'em, I expect."
"Heaps, but none half so good for your purpose as those at the Five Rocks, by old Tear'em, or one of his sons," said Garry.
Glen waved his hand as he rode away. Garry watched him until horse and man became specks in the distance. As he went inside he muttered, "I think I can guess why Craig Bellshaw went into Lin Soo's shop."