CHAPTER VIII.
LOST IN THE BUSH.
Gray lost no time in starting forwards. The choice of direction made by him was determined by remembering the cypresses of which they had seen the mirage. He believed that they had been a landmark to Clay, and that his turning in another direction was but a feint.
It was difficult for Gray to decide the exact direction. The sky was heavy with clouds, and no sun could be seen behind them. But he carefully calculated as well as he could whereabouts on the horizon the trees had appeared, and turned towards that point.
He knew enough of Bush stories to know the tendency of wanderers there to travel in a circle; and in this sterile waste, where every mile was like every other mile, Gray felt he might travel round and round and never know it. To prevent this he dug shallow holes with his knife here and there, and stuck boughs of the bramble in them, so that he might recognize the spot if he came to it again.
Towards noon the clouds gradually dispersed and the sun blazed down upon him. This bettered his position in one way, as he could now be sure of walking forward, but it increased the torment of thirst until it became almost unendurable agony. He struggled on till past noonday, but no dark cypresses lifted themselves on the sky-line. The desert stretched round him in its blank, dreadful loneliness. The blazing sun beat down upon him, making sight a torture. He could go no further. He flung himself down on the unsheltered burning sand and hid his eyes from the light.
Towards evening the clouds gathered again, and he rose and struggled on. He walked many miles that night, and towards dawn lay down and slept. The second day passed much as the first had done. The sky cleared again, and the fury of the sun beat down upon him. He struggled on for a time, and again gave up the struggle and lay down and waited for evening.
On the third day his agony of thirst had become unbearable. He knew that in a few more hours death must end his sufferings if he could not reach water. With grim determination he battled on that day through the flaming sunshine and gave himself no rest. Every moment he expected to see the cypresses rise on the horizon; and he was sweeping it with his glance when his eye fell on a white object fluttering on the wind from shrub to shrub. At first he could not discern what it was—his bloodshot weary eyes refused their office—-but on approaching nearer he saw it was a piece of paper. It fluttered across his path. He picked it up with a horrible foreboding. It was Lumley's letter, written on the back of the map he had drawn in the hut.
It was just possible the wind had carried it onwards to cross his path. Gray made an effort to think that this was so. But a few staggering steps further on brought him to the shallow holes in which the brambles stood upright. He had come back to the place from which he had started! All hope died within him as he saw those hollows. He sank down on the sand to wait for death.
He was lying face downwards on the sand, with his arms flung out before him, when a low distant sound suddenly broke the stillness. He started up and looked wildly round. The twilight had fallen, and he could not distinguish objects clearly; but as he strained his gaze from side to side the sound came again to his ears—the sound of a horse galloping at full speed across the desert.
Gray could now distinguish from what direction the sound came, and he hurried forward, hope once more rising up in him. Was it Lumley come back to help him, repentant for his desertion? Or was it some lost traveller like himself, seeking a way out of these dreadful wilds? Or had Lumley sent a party to search for him from the nearest station, while going onwards himself to safety? Gray asked himself these questions as he hurried on through the gathering darkness. He still could hear the galloping hoofs, and for a time they seemed to come nearer and nearer. But suddenly he became aware that they were receding from him—the sound was becoming fainter and fainter, it was dying away in the distance.
Gray stopped. A cry of despair broke from him, and then, summoning all his strength, he raised a loud "Coo-ee!"
The shrill shout died away upon the air and left profound stillness behind it. Gray could no longer hear the faintest sound of the horse's hoofs. Either the rider had stopped to listen to his call or had gone on beyond hearing. Gray moistened his baked and blistered lips, and then again shouted. The shout again died away, leaving intense stillness behind it. But this time the stillness only lasted for a moment. There came a faint answering cry, far-off and indistinct, but unmistakably the cry of a human voice.
Gray once more hurried forward. The ground was growing rougher; it was broken up into hillocks, and his progress was less rapid. After a time he stopped and called again, and again heard the answering call. He was no longer alone in the wilderness; friendly help was near.
The moon rose as Gray hurried on, rose in full splendour, making the plain almost as light as day. Gray looked in vain for what he had hoped to see—the outline of horse and rider against the pale silvery glow of the sky. There was no horse anywhere to be seen; there was nothing to be seen but the low bushes and the bunches of dry grass, and the great circle of the desert against the horizon. But as Gray stared round him, refusing to believe the evidence of his own eyes, the shout came again—came with a mocking ring in it that made Gray's blood run suddenly cold. He knew the voice now: it was Lumley's voice. But it was as cruel and mocking as ever. Gray's dream of help from him vanished like a breath as he heard it.
He stumbled on across the sand hillocks, and presently could discern a huddled figure on the ground, with its back propped up against a hillock. The moonlight was full on the haggard blistered face that looked up at Gray with twitching lips.
"Welcome, partner," were Lumley's first words. "You didn't expect to see me again, did you now?"
Gray made no answer. He was too far gone in despair to have even a flicker of curiosity as to how Lumley came to be lying there. But Lumley proceeded to enlighten him. He thrust forward his foot, from which he had cut away the boot, and Gray could see that it was discoloured and badly swollen.
"I owe that to your cursed horse," he said, in a sulky, vindictive tone. "Just as I'd hit upon the track again, too."
Gray cast a wide glance over the moonlit plains before he spoke. But no horse was visible.
"He flung you, I suppose?" he said, in a quiet, expressionless tone. "I could have warned you not to play any tricks with him. Where is your own horse?"
The absence of vindictiveness from Gray's manner puzzled Lumley. He stared up at him, wondering what it meant.
"Dead," he said sulkily after a moment. "I'd better have stuck to you after all, you see, mate. But I'd have sent after you the first chance I had. I meant to do that all along."
He had paused before adding the last sentence, and his manner had suddenly altered, had become smooth and conciliating.
Gray did not attempt to answer him. He moved away a few paces and flung himself down on the ground, and sat with his head propped on his hands, staring straight in front of him. Lumley watched him in silence. His face showed none of the dull despair that had settled on Gray's, but was alight with fierce excitement. And the glance he bent on Gray was a strange one. There was hate in it, and longing, and a torturing doubt.
"You're pretty bad, ain't you, partner?" he said at last. "Had a bad time since we parted, I daresay."
"Did you expect me to have a good time?" Gray answered without looking at him.
"Missed the track? Been wanderin' round and round? Just what happened to me, you see, though I thought I was dead sure of my way. But I got my right bearings again—if it hadn't been for that horse of yours—"
He was tearing up fiercely the scanty grass beside him as he spoke, and there broke out a sudden fury in his face. But he thrust back the oath that came to his lips, and spoke, after a pause, in the same conciliating tone.
"We've had bad luck, both on us, haven't we, partner? And my bad luck's been yours; for I'd have sent back for you. I only meant to frighten you a bit."
"What's the good of talking about it?" Gray said wearily. "It'll soon be over for both of us now. Another day must see the last of it."
He just turned his head to speak, and then went back to his old position, his eyes staring hopelessly across the silent waste. His apathy seemed to rouse Lumley to a sort of frenzy again. With an effort that forced a groan from him he dragged himself a pace forwards and plucked Gray by the sleeve.
"You'd not sit there long if you knew what I know, you fool," he burst out. "Didn't I tell you I found my bearings again? Didn't you hear me say it?"
His excitement communicated itself to Gray. He turned round with a wild questioning glance.
"Do you mean—For God's sake tell me the truth! Do you know where we are? Is that it?"
He had not sprung up, but life and energy had come back to him. His hands clenched, his shoulders straightened themselves. He had it in him, he felt, to make a good fight for life yet.
Lumley grew cool as he saw the hope leap into Gray's face. He let go his sleeve and sank back against the hillock.
"Suppose I do know," he said in the old mocking tone; "what then, partner?"
Gray stared at him without speaking, and Lumley repeated the question:
"What then, partner?"
Gray was silent. He had fixed his eyes on Lumley's face, as if his glance could drag out the truth from him. Lumley gave him back glance for glance. Then he suddenly bent down and drew a rough circle on the sand. Gray drew close, bending towards the circle with intent eyes.
"That's where we are, partner, d'ye see?" said Lumley, making a hole with his finger in the middle of the circle; "and here's the moon," making another mark. "You're follerin' me so far, eh?"
"Yes, go on," said Gray breathlessly.
Lumley gave him a quick look from under his bushy eyebrows, and then bent over the plan again.
"Do you remember them trees we saw just afore we parted?" he said, looking on the ground as he spoke. "'Twas the sight of them made me sure we was in the right road. I made tracks for them when we parted company."
He looked up furtively at Gray again.
"You got that bit of a note I wrote you, partner?"
Gray hardly heard the words.
"Never mind that. Go on, go on!" he hurried out with passionate eagerness.
He was sure now that Lumley knew in which direction the trees lay, knew where water was to be obtained.
Lumley looked into his face with a sardonic grin. He had grown cooler and cooler as Gray's excitement rose.
"What's the hurry, partner?" he said; "there's nobody as I knows on who's likely to interrupt us. Well, as I was sayin', I made straight for them trees, but somehow I missed the track. That cloudy weather put me out, you see; and 'twasn't till near sundown last night I got sight of them."
He stopped, gave a rapid glance round the horizon, and then bent over the sand again.
"They can't be far off then?" asked Gray, who had followed his glance with breathless impatience.
"Too far off for me anyways," Lumley answered, with a quick upward look at him. "I'd tried that afore I answered your call, partner. Did you think 'twas me, now, when you got an answer? I knew 'twas you in a minute."
"I don't know; I forget. What's the good of wasting time like this?" cried Gray, getting suddenly on his feet. "Tell me which way to go. I can do it now, but in another hour or two it will be too late. Which way? Be quick!"
"It can't be more than half a dozen miles or so," returned Lumley in a slow reflective tone that almost drove Gray out of his senses with impatience. "You make a bee-line for the trees, and then strike off to the left where the ridge is, and it's just over the ridge that there's water. Yards of it, partner, all shining and sparkling in the moonlight. Why, you could be close to it in an hour almost. And there's no mistake about it; it isn't no salt-pan, but fresh water fit for a king to drink. I've seen it afore me all the time I've been lyin' here. Can't you see it, partner?"
It was a maddening vision which Lumley's words had called up before Gray. A cool stretch of limpid, shining water—there it lay before him, close to him. He was kneeling down by it, plunging his fevered face into it, slaking the thirst that was burning his life away. And it meant life, that cool, delicious draught; it meant more than life—it meant opportunity for atonement, for undoing, as far as in him lay, the wrong he had done, for proving his repentance a real and lasting one.
Lumley was stooping over the sand, but his eyes were on Gray's face, and he saw all the eagerness in it. He saw it, and interpreted it according to his own nature. He broke into a harsh laugh, and with a sweep of one hand on the sand, he destroyed the rough chart he had made.
"You'd like to start this minute, wouldn't you, partner? and the crows might make their meal off me. I saw a flock of them nigh here yesterday; they're waiting for their feast. You wouldn't like to disappoint them, would you?"
Gray did not comprehend him in the least.
"Don't waste time like this," he said imploringly; "let me be off at once. I could be back to you by sunrise if I have good luck. And you have a bottle about you, haven't you? Let me have it. And who knows?—I may fall in with the horse."
Lumley laughed again.
"So you may, partner, so you may. 'Twas the smell of the water that drove him frantic, I believe. He made straight for it. And there's the swag upon him, and the pistols, and the grub. You'll be well set up if you come across the horse."
A sudden terror had come upon Gray as he listened to this speech of Lumley's, and looked down upon his sneering, evil face.
"You are playing with me!" he burst out, and the cold sweat stood out upon his brow as he said it. "You know nothing of the water!"