The Bushranger's Secret Part 14

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!"

CHAPTER IX.

FACING DEATH

Lumley paused a moment before answering that last speech of Gray's.

Then his tone was mild and smooth.

"What's the good of talking like that, mate? But just look there." He pointed to his foot again as he spoke. "Does it look as if 'twould carry me half a dozen miles? Or a mile? Or a couple of yards? And I've hurt my side as well. Broke a rib or two, maybe. I tried crawlin' a while ago, but I couldn't even manage that. I'm no better than a log--only fit for the crows, partner. What's the good of water to me when I can't get at it?"

His tone was so mild and reasonable that Gray felt no difficulty in answering him.

"But half a dozen miles is nothing to me. Give me that bottle. I'll be back before sunrise." He paused a moment, and then as he saw the expression in the other's face he added impetuously, "I swear it. Good heavens, Lumley, you don't think I would desert you? You don't think that?"

The fury that had once or twice swept away Lumley's coolness had come upon him again, and he no longer cared to restrain it. He lifted himself, shaking one clenched fist towards Gray.

"Do you think I'd trust you for a single minute, you smooth-tongued hypocrite!" he screamed. "You'd be glad enough to leave me lyin' here, wouldn't you? But you're not going to get the chance, Mr. Gentleman Gray. We'll stick together, like partners should. The crows sha'n't feast on me alone, I'll tell you that."

Gray made no attempt to answer him just then. When Lumley stopped speaking and sank back with a groan of pain on the sand, Gray turned and walked away a few paces, and stood trying to get some mastery over the trembling sick misery that seemed ready to overpower him. There was no anger in his heart against the man whose deep, laboured breaths he could still hear behind him. It was only natural, Gray said to himself, that he should believe him capable of deserting him. He had deserved to be thought willing to commit even such a baseness as that.

Yet if he could not convince Lumley that he was to be trusted, there was nothing but death for both of them. Gray had felt incapable of reasoning with his companion for the moment, incapable even of speech.

He had felt ready to give up the struggle--to let it all end there.

But as he stood fighting manfully with his weakness, strength came to him--power to will and act as a brave man should. The far-off moon-clear skyline, the stars faintly shining in the upper blue, the solemn moonlight, the rustle of the wind in the dry gra.s.ses, all seemed to have a message for him--to whisper hope, to lift him out of himself, to give him courage to make another fight for life.

He went back to Lumley, and sat down again where he had sat before.

"Listen to me a moment, Lumley," he said. "You say you know where water is?"

"_Say_ I know? I _do_ know, partner; you may lay your life to that,"

responded Lumley harshly.

He had been lying watching Gray, wondering what his next move would be.

Gray's quiet manner was a surprise to him.

"Very well, you do know. Now, I will tell you what I am going to do.

I shall wait a few moments for you to tell me where it lies--"

"You may wait a hundred years if you like," broke in Lumley with a savage look.

"And then I mean to set off to try and find it for myself," went on Gray, as if Lumley had not spoken. "You have told me too much if you did not mean to tell me more. I shall walk six miles in one direction, and if I do not get in sight of the trees, I shall walk back and try again. I must hit upon them at last, you know."

"You'd never do it," said Lumley scoffingly. "You're nigh beat already. You'd die in your tracks."

"You're wrong there," returned Gray, with a quiet confidence that had its due effect on his companion. "I shall not be walking aimlessly, you see, and in this moonlight there's no fear of going over the same ground again. I am convinced I shall reach the water in time enough for myself. It is you who will probably suffer for keeping back the information you possess."

"What d'ye mean by that?" broke from Lumley fiercely.

"Just this," said Gray, keeping his glance steadily fixed upon him: "if I could reach this water without delay I should be able to get back to you with a supply; but if I wear out my strength in getting there, I may not be able to get back to you in time. Surely you can see that?"

Lumley glared at him like a trapped beast.

"You're just the one to come back, ain't you?" he exclaimed. "A cove what murdered his own mate for a bit of flimsy. You're one to be trusted, ain't you?"

"You must believe that if you will," said Gray calmly. His voice faltered as he went on after a momentary pause. "I betrayed my mate--the truest, best mate man ever had; but I'll be true to you, Lumley, if you'll give me the chance. I am not the man I was."

The only answer Lumley vouchsafed to that was a harsh mocking laugh.

Gray did not speak again, and they sat in silence for some moments, while Lumley dragged up his injured foot and rubbed it, keeping a furtive scrutiny on Gray's determined face. When he had first heard Gray's call and answered it, he had not made up his mind as to whether he should trust him or no, and through their first talk he had wavered to and fro--now feeling ready to risk the chance that Gray would come back to him, now savagely vowing within himself that they should both die, almost within sight of the water that would be life to them, rather than Gray should alone escape. At the last this savage mood had conquered, and he had felt it impossible to trust Gray with his precious secret.

But now he began to see clearly enough that he had outwitted himself.

The trees were so near, and such a striking landmark, that Gray was certain to find them if he had strength enough to persevere for some hours in the search; and that he had strength enough, Lumley could not but believe as he looked at his quiet resolute face.

The silence continued for some moments. It was broken by Gray.

"I think I have given you time enough," he said, getting deliberately on his feet. "Now, which is it to be, Lumley? I shall start in another moment."

A fierce oath escaped Lumley's lips.

"I'll not be left to rot here," he snarled out. "I'll walk it somehow.

Give me your arm, partner."

He made a clutch at it, and dragged himself slowly and painfully to his feet. The agony of movement turned Lumley's face to the clammy hue of death, but he would not give way to the pain. He essayed to walk forward, but after the first step Gray stood still.

"You can't do it, Lumley. It is madness to attempt it."

Lumley glared at him for a moment, and then suddenly yielded.