CHAPTER I.
A FUGITIVE.
Two men were sitting together in a small outlying hut on one of the great grazing farms of South Australia. The hut was a comfortless place. The floor was of beaten earth. Two bunks for sleeping were fixed to the log wall. Above one of the bunks hung the framed photograph of a comely woman, with two bright-faced lads leaning against her. It was the only picture on the walls. A rough table stood opposite the window, and behind the table was a wooden bench. Above the bench there was a shelf, and a stand for guns.
The men were sitting on the bench. They had not long returned from a hard day's riding. The elder man was leaning back against the wall in a heavy sleep. The other, a slender, dark-eyed fellow, hardly more than a lad, was looking at him with a gloomy contemptuous irritation in his glance.
"Better asleep than awake, though," he muttered to himself, after a moment. "What can he talk about but cattle and horses?"
He shrugged his shoulders, and got up from his seat and stretched himself. The dog lying at the older man's feet, with its paw resting on one of them, raised its head sharply at Gray's movement, but did not attempt to get up even when Gray went to the door and opened it, letting the light of their lamp flow out in a steady stream.
All round the hut stretched the gray level grass-lands, rolling away in vast monotony to a far horizon. A wide sky arched over them, in which the stars were shining with a soft yet brilliant splendour. Gray glanced carelessly up at that glorious sky. He believed himself to be endowed with a keen sense of the beautiful. He prided himself on his distaste for ugly surroundings. When he had earned the fortune he had come to Australia to earn he meant to prove to the world how keen and true his artistic tastes were. But he glanced carelessly up at the shining stars. They had no message for him.
After standing in the doorway a moment he turned back into the hut, shutting the door behind him with a sudden bang that made Harding start up, rubbing his eyes.
"Why, I must have been asleep!" he said with a surprised air. He drew himself up to his full height, towering like a good-tempered giant over Gray's slight figure. "I'm tired out, and that's a fact," he added apologetically. "I think I'll turn in." Gray did not answer. He flung himself down on the bench and began to pare his finger-nails, looking at each finger critically as he finished it, and taking no notice of Harding. The elder man regarded him doubtfully.
"In a wax, old man?" he said in a deprecating voice. Gray flung him a vicious look over his shoulder, and returned to his nails. Harding's face had a very tender expression in it as he advanced a step and put out his hand to touch the young man's shoulder.
"If it's anything I've done," he began in a shuffling, awkward, kindly tone—
Gray turned upon him with startling suddenness.
"Anything you've done?" he demanded, squaring his arms on the table, and fixing his dark glance on Harding. "You needn't flatter yourself that I care a rap for what you do or don't do. Turn in, and leave me to myself."
"Come, come, Gray, don't take a fellow like that. You're tired out; I can see you're just tired out."
"I am tired out," responded Gray grimly. "Tired of it all. Tired and sick of you along with the rest of it. A pretty life this is to live. A pretty companion you make, don't you?"
"Well, well, things may better soon," said the other soothingly. "I wish I was more book-learned for your sake, old fellow. But that's past wishing for, ain't it? And you'll have to make the best of me for a spell."
"Best or worst, I can't endure this life any longer," returned Gray impatiently. "I'll ride over to the station to-morrow and give it up; or end it quicker than that perhaps;" and he glanced up with a dark look at the loaded gun lying across the shelf.
Harding knew Gray well enough to be able to disregard that look, but he spoke very seriously.
"You'll not be such a foolish lad as to throw up your berth in a fit of temper. This won't last much longer. You will be called in to the station in a week or two and given a better post; and it's your duty to stick on here till you're called in, you see."
"Duty!" Gray flung the word at him like a missile.
Harding's mild eyes looked at him in gentle reproof.
"It's a fine thing to do, my lad. No man can do more if he lived in a king's palace. And a man who does his duty is greater than a king."
"That's all rubbish, talk like that," returned Gray sharply. "You just drop it, Harding."
He got up, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, and leant against the wall. His eyes went round the hut.
"A king's palace!" he said with a hard laugh. "Verily it needs strong imagination to think of such a place here. What a hole to live in! But I'll not stand it much longer."
Harding did not answer this time. He went up to his bunk and took from under the pillow his little shabbily bound Bible and sat down to read his evening chapter.
Gray watched him moodily; but in a moment his attention was drawn off by the strange behaviour of the dog, which, when Harding had sat down on his bunk, had crawled under it.
But it had come out again almost at once, and now stood in the middle of the hut, with its head bent and its ears upraised in the attitude of intent listening.
"What's the matter with the dog?" said Gray. "He hears somebody."
Harding looked up.
"Nobody ever comes this way; it's out of the track. Come here, Watch. You're dreaming, old fellow."
The dog turned its head and looked at its master, gave a slow wag of its tail to show that it heard his voice, and then with a dash it sprang at the door, barking fiercely.
Harding got up and flung back the door. His movement was so sudden, that a man who had crept up to the hut and was now leaning against the door had no time to recover himself, and staggered forward into the hut. Watch retreated, still growling fiercely, but restrained from attacking the stranger by a gesture of its master. Gray made a clutch at the gun above his head, but the next moment withdrew his hand. That pitiful, abject, trembling fugitive was not a man to take arms against.
The stranger staggered across the hut and crouched down against the opposite wall, breathing in short hurried pants. His face was painfully thin, and as white as death. From a long jagged wound, half hidden by his matted hair, blood was trickling in a dark slow stream. The clothes he wore were torn to tatters. You could see his skin through the rents.
He crouched back against the wall, hugging his arms against his breast, and looking from Gray to Harding with a wild agonized entreaty in his eyes. It was the look of a hunted animal appealing for mercy rather than the look of a man asking help of fellow-men. He was evidently unable to speak. He tried to articulate something, but his baked, blistered lips refused their office.
"He's just done for," said Gray. Harding nodded, and going up to the pannikin of cold tea on the shelf took out some in a cup and held it to the stranger's lips. He drank it up greedily and then words came to him.
"Don't give me up," he cried out in a strange hoarse scream, and fell along the floor huddled up in a dreadful heap.
The two men looked at each other.
"It's plain enough to see what he is," said Gray with a slight shrug of the shoulders. "Shall we have to entertain the rest of the gang, do you think?"
"The police, more likely, lad. They're close on his track, I fancy."
He bent over the man and straightened him out. Gray did not attempt to help him; he stood looking down at the wretched fugitive with a cold unsympathizing curiosity in his handsome face as he said:
"He isn't dead, is he?"
As he spoke the man opened his eyes and gazed up at them. Wild gleaming dark eyes they were, looking all the darker for the haggard pallor of his face. He raised himself on his elbow and made a clutch at his breast. There was something hidden there, and he kept his hand closed upon it.
Harding put the cup with more tea to his lips again, and again he drank greedily. Then he tried to raise himself into a sitting posture, but sank back on the floor.
"I'll cheat the beaks after all," he said hoarsely. A grim smile flickered over his face. "I swore I'd never be caught."
He looked from one man to the other.
"They'll make no gallows-bird o' me," he added with a sort of hoarse chuckle. He still kept his hand clutched upon his breast. Gray noticed the action, and a vivid curiosity rose up in him to know what the man kept so jealously hidden there. He must have shown this in his face, for the man addressed him sharply.
"What are you starin' at, eh? Do you think I've got the Kohinoor hidden about me? Well, I ain't got it."
"I don't think anything about you, my man," replied Gray loftily. He turned to Harding. "What are we going to do with him?"
"Lend me a hand and we'll lift him on my bunk," said Harding.
"I'll lie here," broke from the man. "You just leave me alone." He pushed away the food Harding offered him. "I can't swallow. Just leave me alone."
Gray shrugged his shoulders and walked to the door. The man's eyes followed him with a suspicious glance.
"Thinks himself a fine gentleman, it's plain," he muttered. Then he beckoned to Harding. "Do you know Princes Street, Adelaide, mate?" he whispered.
Harding nodded.
"No. 5 Princes Street, top floor. You give two knocks. Write that down."
Harding took out his worn pocket-book and wrote it down. The man lay staring up at him, then with a sudden effort, as if his mind was at last made up, he dragged a tattered scrap of yellow paper from his breast and held it up to Harding.
"Send it—there," and he feebly nodded at the pocket-book in Harding's hand.
Gray was still standing in the doorway, looking out over the level pastures. He half expected to hear the gallop of well-trained horses, the shout of authoritative voices; but all was still, the police had missed the track. He shut the door and came back into the hut.
"Make your mind easy, my friend," he said in a half-sneering tone. "It's all quiet outside."
The man gave him a dark look and raised himself towards Harding.
"Here, give it me back," he said, with a hasty snatch at it. "Your pal's no call to see it."
"HERE, GIVE IT ME BACK," SAID THE BUSHRANGER
Harding had raised the paper towards the lamp-light, and was looking scrutinizingly at it. It seemed to be a rough map. There was a wavy line that evidently represented the course of a ravine or gully, and on each side were jagged marks that betokened rising ground. Right across the paper ran the words in large ill-formed characters:
"Deadman's Gully."
About the middle of the paper there was a sort of big blot, and underneath in smaller words was written:
"Big gum. Dig five feet due south from hole."
Gray came leisurely up to Harding's side.
"What is it?" he said, holding out his hand for the paper.
A scowl came over the face of the man on the ground. He flung himself upward and snatched the paper from Harding's hand with a violent oath. The effort was too much for him, and he fell back groaning and helpless. But he still kept the paper clutched in his right hand, and his eyes fixed themselves on Gray with something of the look of a trapped wild beast.
"Keep off, can't you!" he gasped out. "A pretty gentleman you are, pryin' and sneakin' like that."
Gray stood over him, looking down upon him with a cold cynical regard that seemed to madden the man.
"Better step back and leave him to me," whispered Harding.
Gray laughed.
"All right! but play fair, old fellow."
Harding's mild eyes looked their wonder at him, but Gray only laughed again and went back to the table, where he sat with his head propped on his hands watching the two.
Harding dragged his box out from under his bunk and sat down on it. The man lay still for a moment and then painfully raised himself into a sitting posture against the wall.
"Look here," he said. "Do you think I'm dyin'?"
"Yes," said Harding briefly.
"Before mornin'?"
"I don't believe you have many hours to live."
"Right, that's what I think myself. I've cheated the beaks, eh?"
Harding was silent. The man looked sharply at him.
"You've got that address written down?"
"Yes, but I can't send that paper."
"You can't send it?"
The words dropped slowly from the man's lips.
"Of course I can't," returned Harding. "You know that well enough."
"You won't send it," repeated the man again, with a dull rage in his voice. The paper was still clutched in his hand, and he looked at it and then up at Harding. "There's a fortin in it," he whispered under his breath. "Bill 'ull go shares. Here, you take it. You go to 5 Princes Street, top floor, and ask for Bill Clay. He'll go shares, and thankful."
Harding made no attempt to take the paper. He merely said:
"Tear it up if you like, but if you give it to me I shall hand it over to the police."
The man stared at him with a fierce incredulity in his gleaming dark eyes.
"There's a fortin in it," he repeated, as if the words must convince Harding of his foolishness—"a fortin, mate. And you carn't miss the place. Bill, he knows Deadman's Gully."
He held out the paper, but Harding shook his head and said:
"You are wasting your words."
"You won't send it? Look here, just look here." He stopped to moisten his dry lips, and then went on:
"You've heard of Tom Dearing?"
Harding nodded. It was the name of a noted bushranger, whose last crime had been a daring robbery of the chief bank of Adelaide.
"Well, I'm Tom Dearing. Now you know."
Harding gazed silently at him. He could not get the right words to speak, but it did not need words to make Dearing understand the intense ardent desire to help him that was flooding Harding's soul. It affected the man strangely. He forgot the buried treasure for a moment. The paper fluttered out of his hand and fell on the floor as he cried:
"You're sorry for me; sorry for me!"
"I'm dead sorry for you, lad," said Harding with slow fervent utterance. "You've been spending your life in getting trash like that"—he waved his hand toward the paper. "And now you've got to die, and go before God. He'll be sorry for you too. If I'm sorry, a man like me, what must God's sorrow be for such a life as yours has been! Don't think about that hateful money, lad. Let it lie where you've laid it if you like."
Harding took the paper up and thrust it back into the man's fingers as he said:
"Tear it up. But you've got a chance to show you're ashamed for what you've done. Give the money back to those you stole it from. 'Tis all you can do now to make amends."
The man gazed irresolutely at him.
"You talk mighty fine, but what's to hinder you grabbin' the whole blessed lot?"
"Nothing."
That single word said everything. Dearing stared fixedly at Harding for a moment, and then thrust the paper into his hand.
"Here, take it," he said. "And if there's anything good you've got to say to me, let's hear it. I'll listen to you, old man. You act up to what you talk of."