CHAPTER II.
TEMPTED!
Dearing died next day just after sunrise. They buried him down by the creek, out of sight of the hut.
"So that's the end of Mr. Tom Dearing," said Gray, as they turned away and walked back towards the hut. "He didn't manage well, did he?"
Harding gave him one of his pained, wondering looks.
"Don't talk like that, dear lad," he said, "you don't mean it, you know."
Gray gave a laugh that had not much mirth in it
"What a fellow you are, Harding! You insist on everybody being as virtuous as yourself. But I mean exactly what I say. Why did Mr. Tom Dearing take to robbing his neighbour unless he could insure himself against being found out? It may be bad to be a rogue; it's unpardonable to be known for one."
"What difference does it make in the sin, lad?" said Harding, with a sorrowful look at him. "And it's the sin we've got to think of."
"Yes, I know that's your view," said Gray, with a scarcely concealed sneer. "But it's a sadly old-fashioned one, my dear fellow."
Harding was silent.
"It's only the fear of being found out that keeps men honest," Gray went on after a moment. "We're told, from our youth up, that 'Honesty is the best policy,' and most of us are sensible enough to believe it—and so we're honest."
"Don't you believe it, lad?" burst with emphasis from Harding; and not even Gray's flippant rejoinder, "Not believe that 'Honesty is the best policy?' you can't mean that?" was able to check his eagerness to speak. He stopped in the path and laid his hand on Gray's arm, more moved than Gray had ever seen him before.
"You wouldn't talk like that if you'd seen that poor fellow die, Gray," he said. "There's more difference between doing right and doing wrong than just that you get punished for wrong-doing if you're found out. Sin drags a man down, lad; it eats the manhood out of him. It makes a ruin of what's best in him."
The words fell on ears dull to their meaning. And Harding was quickly silent; speech was always a difficult thing to him. He had never spoken so earnestly to Gray before.
When they came back to the hut Harding took out the tattered sheet of yellow paper from his breast-pocket and placed it in the small desk upon the shelf.
"One of us must take that over to the station," he said. "The bank authorities will be glad enough to get it."
Gray had heard enough of the conversation between Harding and Dearing to know what the paper was about, though Harding had not mentioned it before.
He stood at the door, swinging his heavy stock-whip in his hand.
"I should like to have a look at it," he said carelessly.
"So you shall, lad. And I think you'd better go over with it. But we'll talk of that to-night."
"What made him hide the money, do you know?" he asked.
"He didn't say. The police were after him, I expect, and he hoped to be able to get back sometime and dig it up."
"I wonder if he had told any of his friends and acquaintances?" said Gray, looking up at the desk where Harding had put the map. "If so, I wouldn't give much for the bank's chance of getting the money."
"He hadn't told a soul," was Harding's answer. "He wanted me to send the map to some mate of his, but he thought better of that afterwards."
"Better?" Gray lifted his dark eyebrows. "What does the bank want with the money? It's rich enough to stand the loss. It isn't as if he had robbed a poor man, you know. It's the best thing I've heard of him, his wanting to send that map to his mate."
"Stolen money does no good to anybody," said Harding rather shortly.
"It didn't do any good to him at any rate," said Gray. He moved from the door to let Harding pass. "I suppose we must start," he went on with a yawn. "Another day of this hateful stock-riding! and another day of it to-morrow, and the next day, and the next day! How am I going to stand it, I wonder?"
Harding had disappeared into the stable, and Gray said the last words to himself. There was a heavy frown on his handsome young face, bitter discontent in his dark eyes. When Harding brought his horse to him he scarcely thanked him, and he rode away by his side in sullen silence.
When they returned that night, Harding was too fagged out to talk of anything. He went off into a heavy sleep directly after supper, and Gray found it impossible to wake him sufficiently for rational conversation.
The desk in which he had placed the paper was not locked, and Gray took out the paper and sat down by the lamp to study it. It was very easy to understand. Anyone who knew Deadman's Gully could not fail to find the treasure, Gray thought to himself.
And his thoughts ran on something like this:
"Suppose I had found this map, not knowing whose it was, and had gone to dig in Deadman's Gully on the chance, what a wonderful and blessed change it would have made in my life? No more hateful stock-riding; no more dreary days spent with this dull-witted Harding; but a glad return to civilized England, and a rich cultured life in congenial society. If it only had happened so! Yet, even now—?"
But there Gray's thoughts took pause. The secret was not his alone. It was shared by Harding. Even if Harding would allow him to— But Harding would not, and there was an end of it.
They arranged at breakfast next morning that Gray should ride over to the station the day after and carry the paper with him. From the station it could be easily sent in to the inspector of police with the report of Dearing's death.
Gray got the paper down for another look at it.
"I believe I've heard you speak of Deadman's Gully, Harding."
"That's most likely, old man. I know the place well. I was stationed within a mile of it once. You know Rodwell's Peak?"
"Haven't the honour," said Gray flippantly. He got up and put the paper back in the desk. "Rodwell's Peak and Deadman's Gully! The Australian mind isn't gifted with imagination in regard to names."
"Deadman's Gully got its name rightly enough. It was the haunt of a gang of bushrangers. A track runs right by the mouth of it, and they buried the travellers there that they waylaid. That wasn't in my time, but I've heard old Jebb speak of it. He went with the police there once. A lonely dismal spot, he said, between high rocks, with a few trees in the middle."
"Our friend Dearing knew the spot well, it seems."
"Yes; but he didn't belong to that lot. He used it as a hiding-place, I fancy. He'd had a miserable life from what he told me."
Gray was putting on his boots, and apparently paying but little attention to Harding's remarks.
"I suppose you could find it, though?" he said carelessly.
"Easily enough. You've just got to follow the track till Rodwell's Peak is right in front of you. You've never been in the uplands, have you, Gray?" Harding broke off to say. "It's grand scenery. You ought to go there one day."
"Suppose we go there now."
Gray had finished putting on his boots, and was taking his whip down from the nail. He said it laughingly, looking back at Harding over his shoulder. Harding, who was washing the dishes at the table, returned his laughing look with a wondering glance.
"How could we? Who'd look after the stock?"
"Leave them to take care of themselves, the ugly brutes," went on Gray in the same laughing way. "Let us run up to Deadman's Gully and appropriate that coin, Harding. What do you say to that plan, eh?"
Harding laughed, but half-sadly.
"I believe you'd make a joke of anything, lad. But don't joke about that money. It don't seem right."
"It isn't a joke the bank would appreciate at any rate," returned Gray, with another laugh.
He did not continue the subject
"You get a talk with Mr. Morton, lad," said Harding to him, as they stood outside the hut, ready to start for their day's work. "He'll listen to you, I know. Tell him you're tired of the work here."
"What's the good of telling him that?" returned Gray, with a shrug of his shoulders. "I'm tired of work everywhere—tired and sick of this horrible country, and everything and everybody in it."
"Well, Morton might help you to a post in Adelaide," said Harding, who had been much troubled by Gray's constant despondency of late. "You'd have better company there. It's more like England, you know."
"What post could he get me in Adelaide?" returned Gray, with a bitter irony in his tone. "And do you think it would be any pleasure to me to sit in an office and see the carriages driving by? I had enough of that in England. No, I'd be off to the diamond fields if I'd the cash for the journey. Do you think Morton would lend me that?"
Harding shook his head sorrowfully.
"I wish I knew how I could help you, lad. I can't bear to see you like this. I wish Polly was here. She'd know how to talk to you better than I do."
Gray cast a scornful look at his companion's troubled face. It rankled in his heart that Harding should pity him.
"Are we going to stand talking here all day?" he said irritably. "Aren't you going to get the horses out?"
They rode off in different directions that morning.
Gray went on a long round. His ride took him to a distant part of the run, from which he could get a glimpse of the far-off mountains. The peak towering up in the blue air so far above its fellows was Rodwell's Peak. Gray remembered now that Harding had pointed it out to him when they had been together at this spot. He checked his horse and paused for some time gazing at the peak. Close under it was Deadman's Gully! Gray knew well enough how deceptive distance was in that clear air. He knew how far off those hills really were; but the sight of Rodwell's Peak seemed to bring the money close within his grasp, to give the convict's story a reality it had wanted before. It was with a darker face, and a heart overflowing with bitterness, that he left that spot and turned his horse's head homewards.
Harding was not at home when he returned. This was a new cause for vexation, for Gray had to light the fire and prepare the tea, a task he hated. It was with a muttered curse against Harding that he set about it, and he was ready with a very unpleasant greeting for him when he should at last appear.
Gray was very slow and awkward over his unaccustomed work; but tea was at last got ready. Gray finished his meal, and still Harding had not come.
It was getting dark now; the stars were coming out; the wide outlines of the pastures were growing indistinct. Gray went outside the hut and looked searchingly in the direction from which he expected Harding to come. But there were no signs of him.
Up to this point Gray had not even wondered at his lateness; he had only felt annoyed at it. But now a wild thrill went over him. Had something happened? Had Harding met with some accident?
Gray caught hold of the top rail of the fence to steady himself as the thought swept over him. It brought such a throbbing of wild hope with it that Gray recoiled at his own feelings, but the feelings remained. He could not crush them out. He knew—even while the knowledge horrified him—he knew that if Harding did not return, if some dark fate had overtaken him, that he would be glad—yes, glad! For then the secret would be his alone. Then there would be nothing to prevent him from taking possession of the buried treasure.
But it was early yet. He and Harding, Gray reflected, had often been out together as late; only, Harding had said so decidedly that he should be back long before dusk. What could be keeping him?
Gray left the hut and walked for some distance along the grassy plain, but he could see nothing, hear nothing. He "coo'eed" once or twice, but there was no answer. All was dark and still under the starry sky.
He went back, and sat down in the hut and waited. Once or twice he thought of taking his horse and riding out to search for Harding. But that would be of no use, he reflected. Harding had had a wide stretch of country to cover. It was a million chances to one that he could find him. So Gray sat still and waited.
Towards midnight he rose, drawn by a horrible sort of fascination, and took the paper from Harding's desk. He spread it out on the table, and sat down to study it. The more he looked at it the more easy it all seemed to be. It was such an absolutely safe thing. No one could possibly know the contents of that paper but himself and Harding. If Harding never came back he would be the sole owner of the secret.
Gray made his plans as he sat there with his eyes fixed on the faded, dirty sheet.
He would destroy the paper—he did not need to keep it now; he knew its contents too well. Then he would give up his work at the first opportunity, and after waiting a certain time would make his way to Deadman's Gully, get the money, and be off to England. Then he would begin to live his life in earnest.
Dazzling visions of that new life began to rise before Gray. Not a life of vulgar dissipation—Gray was not that sort of man; he loathed coarseness and riot—but a life of cultured ease, of refined luxury, rich in all the beautiful things that wealth could bring him.
A sudden noise without brought him back with a shock to present surroundings. He rose hurriedly and pushed the paper back in the desk. He thought Harding had returned. But it was only his own horse moving uneasily in the stable. It was missing its companion, and was restless and unhappy.
Gray soothed it as well as he could, and then went out once more to look across the plain. But dark and silent the land lay beneath the stars. No sound, no movement.
Gray went back into the hut and sat down again; but he did not touch the paper any more. The certainty that Harding would never return began to grow upon him, and he was frightened at himself. It was as if his half-formed wishes had brought about Harding's fate.
The hours passed, and at last the dawn came—a clear, beautiful dawn, with a fresh wind blowing over the grass and a rosy radiance flooding the sky.
Gray went out once more to look along the horizon. This time his search was not in vain. Almost at once he discerned a small moving object against the sky. It was moving slowly towards the hut. Gray knew at once what it was. It was the dog, and Harding must be close behind.
The dog came slowly on, moving with heavy, dragging steps, very unlike its usual joyous bounds; and it was quite alone. Gray could see no other moving thing along the plains. The dog had come back, but not its master.
Gray hurried forward to meet it. He saw the dog leap up when it caught sight of him, and make a dash forwards, but before it had gone a dozen steps it slackened its pace again and began to drag itself slowly forward as if utterly worn out.
It was a pitiable object to look at. Its beautiful coat was matted with blood and dust. One of its ears was almost torn away, and its body was covered with wounds. But it dragged itself onward, moaning now and then, until it got near Gray. Then it sank down on the grass and lay there, faintly wagging its tail, and fixing its eyes on Gray with a pathetic, supplicating glance.
It was plain to see that the dog had been attacked and sorely wounded. Gray surmised that one or more of the herd had turned savage, and in conflict with them Watch had got his wounds. He bent over the dog and unfastened its spiked collar.
"Poor old fellow, what—?"
He broke off suddenly. A scrap of paper fastened by a string to the collar caught his eye. Some words were scrawled on it:
"Badly hurt. Watch will show—"
There was an attempt at another word or two but they were illegible.
Gray read the paper and let it flutter from his fingers to the ground. The next moment he picked it up again, and crushed it between his fingers.
He had not made up his mind what to do; but the thought flashed through him as he saw the paper lying on the ground, that it might be necessary to destroy it, if—
If what? Gray hardly dared finish the thought, even in the secrecy of his own soul.
The dog followed his actions with a dumb pathetic glance, and then slowly struggled to its feet. It stood looking up at Gray, lifting one paw towards him with an indescribable air of supplication in its whole attitude. Then it turned, and began to move in the direction it had come from, looking round at every painful step to see if Gray would follow.
A rush of pitiful feeling swept over Gray. He ran back towards the hut with one thought uppermost in his mind, to get his horse and go with the dog. Everything else was forgotten. When he had run a short distance he looked round at Watch and whistled. The dog was lying on the grass regarding him, but it refused to come at his whistle.
Gray stood still, and began to argue with himself. It was absurd to start at once. Watch would die on the way. It would be far better to wait for some hours till the poor creature was rested. Harding, in all probability, was already dead. Still he would go—of course he would go; but not just yet. It would be the height of absurdity to start just now. He would fetch Watch some water and food where it lay, if he could not get the dog to go back to the hut.
He whistled again, but Watch made no response. It lay with its head between its paws, and its eyes still fixed on Gray.
"Stay there, then," muttered he impatiently, and went on towards the hut. The dog was still lying in the same place when he brought the food and water for it. It ate and drank greedily, and then rose and shook itself with a glad, eager movement, and ran a few steps forward. It was pitiful to see the change that went over the dog when on turning its head it saw that Gray was walking steadily back towards the hut. It lay down again, and gave a series of short barks and then a long pitiful howl when it found that Gray still went steadily on.
Gray did not turn round this time. He went into the hut, and sat down to think the matter over. What was the use of going with the dog at all? he began to say to himself. Would it not be better to go over to the station at once? or, better still, go later on in the day, so as to reach the station in the evening when the men would have come in from their work? Yet—was not every moment precious? If he went at once with the dog, might he not be in time?
He sat thus, swaying to and fro between different decisions, till a violent scratching at the door roused him. He got up and flung back the door. Watch stood there with drooping tail, and eyes full of dumb entreaty. Gray shut the door sharply on him. "Lie down, sir!" he exclaimed imperatively. The sight of the dog filled him with rage. Watch whined once or twice; but then came silence.
Gray sat down again at the table. "I will not go," he said to himself. And he put the thought of Harding from him, and tried to plan how he would carry out his scheme. But suddenly, before he was aware, a wave of remorseful shame came over him, and he sprang to his feet as one awaking from some hideous dream. He grasped his whip and hurried to the door; but,—
The dog was gone.