Had he not, in very purpose and act, been the murderer of his mate? The words of angry defence faltered on his tongue. He stood self-convicted, seeing for the first time all the horror of his act—unable to say a word to clear himself of the charge Lumley brought against him.
CHAPTER VII.
DESERTED!
A vast sun-scorched plain stretching away in endless miles under a blazing sky. A waterless desert, where the horses sunk fetlock-deep in shifting sand, or were cruelly pricked by the thorny leafless shrub which was the only living plant to be seen. No trees; no flowers; no grass; no sparkle of water far or near. Such was the land Gray and Lumley were riding through, four days after leaving Deadman's Gully.
In dull despair Gray had submitted to Lumley's plan for escaping the police. It had never occurred to him to disbelieve Lumley's statement. There seemed no reason for the lie, and he remembered Mr. Morton's sudden keen glance at him the night he left the station. If it had leaked out that he had gone searching for Dearing's hidden treasure, they might well suspect him of ridding himself of Harding.
Gray's confidence in himself had altogether gone. Dull despair had taken possession of him. The past he could not bear to think of. The future made him shudder when he looked along the dreary years. What was there left for him to live for?
They had passed the hill-country on the second day, and were now crossing a portion of that arid region which lies to the north-west of the mountains. Clay had brought with him a stock of food sufficient for a week or more. There was no danger of starvation. It was water that failed them.
A consuming thirst came upon Gray as the sun rode higher and higher in the heavens. It was ten hours since he had tasted water, and his lips and throat were becoming baked and painful.
"You are sure you know the track?" he said to Lumley, checking his horse to look round him.