The Bushranger's Secret Part 12

A light heat-mist was quivering over the plains. The air was intensely hot and dry.

Lumley stopped his horse too.

"Thought you were never goin' to speak again," he said jeeringly. "I know the track well enough. We shall see water in another twenty-four hours, take my word for it."

Gray marvelled within himself how it was possible to follow any track in such a place as this. They had been riding for miles and miles without seeing a tree or a hillock, or even a dry water-course. One mile was exactly like any other mile. But he said nothing more to his companion. Silence was a boon Gray craved almost as much as he longed for water. At first Lumley had thrust his talk upon him, and found pleasure in the misery he inflicted on Gray by his coa.r.s.e jokes and cruel jeers. But he had grown more silent lately, and for the last hour or so had not spoken at all.

He was riding now a little in advance of Gray, looking round him with somewhat anxious eyes. He was looking for a group of cypress-trees.

He felt sure they were riding in the right direction, but he had a strong reason for wishing to see them rise on the horizon before another halt. When once he saw them his course would be clear and easy. He would know his position exactly, and reach water in an hour or two.

Gray saw that his companion was looking for some landmark; but Lumley said nothing of the object of his search. He had never mentioned the cypress-trees to Gray. Gray had asked him once how he would guide himself across the desert, and he had refused to answer.

"You'd like to make off by yourself, wouldn't you?" he had said with a jeering laugh; "stick a knife into me, and leave me for the flies to feed on? No, no, partner; we'll jog on together. You sha'n't serve me as you served your mate. Not if I know it."

Gray had given up a.s.serting his innocence of Harding's actual murder.

His words had not the slightest effect on Lumley. It was not that he pretended to believe in Gray's guilt Gray saw, and saw truly, that his companion actually believed that he had murdered Harding in cold blood and buried him in some secret place. Clay had only laughed at his declarations of innocence.

"What's there to make such a fuss about, partner? I never did see such a cove for making believe. But you can't take Bill Clay in, my lad. I can tell a rogue directly I set eyes on him. By fellow-feeling, you see."

The day grew hotter and hotter. The air that blew against their faces as they rode along was dry and scorching. It was like riding in a heated furnace. Suddenly Lumley gave a shout. He had seen on the horizon, through the quivering heat-mist, three cypresses pointing with black fingers to the sky. He knew as he looked that it was but an illusion, a mirage. But he knew, too, that the real cypresses, of which he saw the shadows, were in that direction, and not so very far off.

Gray saw the cypresses in the same moment.

"Trees!" he cried eagerly--for where trees grew water must be near.

"You're a pretty fellow to go bush-riding," grumbled Lumley. "They ain't trees--not real ones, so to speak. They're clouds."

And Gray saw for himself how misty the dark outlines were; and even as he looked he saw the mirage disappear. But he marked the point in the horizon at which the mirage had appeared, and was astonished to see Lumley suddenly turn his horse in a totally different direction.

"Surely it would be better to go that way. There must be water near."

"Go by yourself, then," snarled Lumley, over his shoulder; "and a good riddance too."

He rode sulkily on and Gray followed him. When they had gone a few miles Clay's horse gave a stumble, and Clay sprang off.

"He's dead beat," he said. "We'll rest here."

"But---" Gray began, and then he stopped. What was the use of speaking? He was forced to trust to Lumley's guidance.

They lay down on the baked scorched soil, hobbling their horses that they might not wander far. Gray flung himself on the sand, face downwards, careless of the hot sun that poured upon him. Lumley went a few paces off to a bed of polygonum, the gloomy leafless bramble of the wilderness. He scooped out a hollow in the sand below the bramble and lay down there in the tiny oasis of shadow he had thus obtained.

Unseen of Gray he took a bottle he had secreted in his pocket and drank the few drops remaining in it, then corked it and put it back. Then he turned upon his side and slept.

He was sleeping still when Gray roused himself from the heavy stupor of despair that had come upon him and sat up. There lay the grim horrible wilderness all about him. A short distance off the horses were standing with drooping heads and panting sides. In the scanty shadow of the bramble Lumley lay asleep.

Gray got up and walked to Lumley's side, and stood looking down on the evil face as if his eyes were drawn there by some horrible fascination.

The convict slept heavily, his face turned upwards to the sky. Gray saw that his lips were wet. He had water, then! Gray had suspected that he had, but he did not try to find out where it was hidden. He turned away with a shudder and flung himself down upon the ground again.

It was growing dusk when Lumley woke from that heavy sleep. He started up wildly and looked round him. For days he had kept awake fearing treachery from Gray if he let sleep overcome him. Now he had been sleeping for many hours. The sun had been blazing in a clear sky when he fell asleep; now the sky was covered with thick gray clouds, and night was close at hand. He looked round him and saw at once the two horses. A second glance showed him Gray lying with his face upon one arm not far from him. Lumley approached, and saw that he was asleep.

He bent over him to satisfy himself the sleep was not feigned, and then turned towards the horses. It was not difficult to catch them, and he had prepared to mount when an idea struck him. Taking a sc.r.a.p from his pocket, the page on which Gray had reproduced Dearing's map for him, he scrawled a few words, putting the paper on his saddle to write. Then he softly approached Gray, and stuck the paper into the sand by a branch of bramble. When this was done he crept back again to the horses.

He remained looking at them reflectively for a moment. His own horse stood with drooping head and panting sides, evidently nearly done for, but Gray's horse had borne the long journey well. Lumley had already fastened the bag containing the money and the pistols to his own saddle, but now he shifted it to the other. Gray's horse turned an uneasy glance on him as he did so; and Lumley had a little difficulty in mounting it. But he got into the saddle at last, and taking the bridle of his own horse in his hand he rode away, giving a backward look now and then to the man he was deserting.

Night came, a thick starless night with clouds hanging low over the desert. A cool wind came with the clouds and blew on Gray, and he slept. He was worn out, and he slept hour after hour. The dawn was breaking when he at last awoke. His sleep had been so deep, so dreamless, that in it he had forgotten all that had happened. But memory came quickly back. He started up and looked round for Lumley and the horses.

All was still, with a stillness unknown save in desert lands. The silence was profound. In the gray dawn he could see the plains with perfect distinctness. He looked round him from horizon to horizon.

There was no living thing in sight. He was alone.

He understood instantly what had happened. Lumley had deserted him.

His first feeling was one of absolute relief. He had escaped from that hateful bondage. It was not for some moments that he realized the hopelessness of his position. Ignorant of the track, alone, on foot, without water or food, what hope was there for him of escaping from the desert? Gray knew how little hope there was. As he had deserted Harding, so he in turn had been deserted. As Harding had perished, so he too would perish. He looked his fate in the face with the calmness of despair.

Before he had fallen asleep he had made up his mind to give himself up to the police and meet the charge brought against him if once he escaped from the wilds. It seemed to him now as if G.o.d had refused him a chance of proving his repentance. He was to perish in the wilderness, an outcast from G.o.d and man.

He sank down on the ground again, and sat there with his elbows on his knees, his head propped on his hands, staring steadily before him. In the dawn the wide level s.p.a.ces of the wilderness resembled the pastures that had surrounded their hut. Gray found himself remembering his life there with intense clearness. He saw Harding busy about the hut, ever cheerful, ever ready. He saw him among the cattle, strong of hand, alert of eye. He saw him riding home in the twilight, talking of his wife and his little lads; turning in his stirrups to give a word of cheer to Watch; or bearing Gray's grumbling talk with cheerful patience.

What depths of steadfast affection there were in the heart of that rough man! Once when Gray was ill he had tended him like a woman. He had sat beside him night after night in unwearying affection. Gray remembered how he had lifted him from bed to chair, as he might have lifted a child. He seemed to feel the pressure of his hand on his shoulder still as he stood over him, pressing him to eat some dainty he had prepared, to see his rugged kindly face bending over him. What would he not give for a sight of that kind face now, and a touch of that strong honest hand?

Gray's stony despair gave way; the hard, desperate look on his face softened. He burst into bitter tears. His frame shook with the strong, terrible crying of despairing grief.

But the tears did him good; they cleared his brain, and made it possible for him to think of what was best for him to do. He no longer felt inclined to give up without a struggle for life. He got up from the ground and looked round him with a new strength. It was then he saw the note Lumley had stuck into the sand beside him. He picked it up and read it. It was only a few scrawled words:

"_The police ain't after you at all, Mr. Gentleman Gray, so you can clear out of the Bush as soon as you like. I'll not split on you, and you won't on me, I guess._

"_N.B. Dead men tell no tales._"

The words were perfectly clear in the pale morning light. Gray read them and then threw the paper away with a shudder. He felt no anger against Lumley, only a sick horror that made anger impossible. What Lumley had done was what he himself had done. He deserved his fate.

The knowledge that the police held no warrant against him, that the story was but a trick of Lumley's to get him into the Bush, affected him strangely little. He had made up his mind to tell the whole story if ever he got back to the haunts of men again. The confession he had to make would be a purely voluntary one now; that was his chief thought as he read Lumley's letter.

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 pa.s.sed 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.