The Bushranger's Secret

  CHAPTER II.

  TEMPTED!

  Dearing died next day just after sunrise. They buried him down by thecreek, out of sight of the hut.

  "So that's the end of Mr. Tom Dearing," said Gray, as they turned awayand 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, youknow."

  Gray gave a laugh that had not much mirth in it

  "What a fellow you are, Harding! You insist on everybody being asvirtuous as yourself. But I mean exactly what I say. Why did Mr. TomDearing take to robbing his neighbour unless he could insure himselfagainst being found out? It may be bad to be a rogue; it'sunpardonable to be known for one."

  "What difference does it make in the sin, lad?" said Harding, with asorrowful 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 concealedsneer. "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," Graywent on after a moment. "We're told, from our youth up, that 'Honestyis the best policy,' and most of us are sensible enough to believeit--and so we're honest."

  "Don't you believe it, lad?" burst with emphasis from Harding; and noteven Gray's flippant rejoinder, "Not believe that 'Honesty is the bestpolicy?' you can't mean that?" was able to check his eagerness tospeak. He stopped in the path and laid his hand on Gray's arm, moremoved 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 wrongthan 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 aruin of what's best in him."

  The words fell on ears dull to their meaning. And Harding was quicklysilent; speech was always a difficult thing to him. He had neverspoken so earnestly to Gray before.

  When they came back to the hut Harding took out the tattered sheet ofyellow paper from his breast-pocket and placed it in the small deskupon the shelf.

  "One of us must take that over to the station," he said. "The bankauthorities will be glad enough to get it."

  Gray had heard enough of the conversation between Harding and Dearingto know what the paper was about, though Harding had not mentioned itbefore.

  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. Butwe'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 tobe able to get back sometime and dig it up."

  "I wonder if he had told any of his friends and acquaintances?" saidGray, looking up at the desk where Harding had put the map. "If so, Iwouldn'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 sendthe map to some mate of his, but he thought better of that afterwards."

  "Better?" Gray lifted his dark eyebrows. "What does the bank wantwith the money? It's rich enough to stand the loss. It isn't as if hehad robbed a poor man, you know. It's the best thing I've heard ofhim, 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 fromthe door to let Harding pass. "I suppose we must start," he went onwith a yawn. "Another day of this hateful stock-riding! and anotherday of it to-morrow, and the next day, and the next day! How am Igoing to stand it, I wonder?"

  Harding had disappeared into the stable, and Gray said the last wordsto himself. There was a heavy frown on his handsome young face, bitterdiscontent in his dark eyes. When Harding brought his horse to him hescarcely thanked him, and he rode away by his side in sullen silence.

  When they returned that night, Harding was too fagged out to talk ofanything. He went off into a heavy sleep directly after supper, andGray found it impossible to wake him sufficiently for rationalconversation.

  The desk in which he had placed the paper was not locked, and Gray tookout the paper and sat down by the lamp to study it. It was very easyto understand. Anyone who knew Deadman's Gully could not fail to findthe 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 goneto dig in Deadman's Gully on the chance, what a wonderful and blessedchange it would have made in my life? No more hateful stock-riding; nomore dreary days spent with this dull-witted Harding; but a glad returnto 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-- ButHarding would not, and there was an end of it.

  They arranged at breakfast next morning that Gray should ride over tothe station the day after and carry the paper with him. From thestation it could be easily sent in to the inspector of police with thereport 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 stationedwithin a mile of it once. You know Rodwell's Peak?"

  "Haven't the honour," said Gray flippantly. He got up and put thepaper back in the desk. "Rodwell's Peak and Deadman's Gully! TheAustralian mind isn't gifted with imagination in regard to names."

  "Deadman's Gully got its name rightly enough. It was the haunt of agang of bushrangers. A track runs right by the mouth of it, and theyburied 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 thereonce. A lonely dismal spot, he said, between high rocks, with a fewtrees 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 littleattention 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'sPeak is right in front of you. You've never been in the uplands, haveyou, Gray?" Harding broke off to say. "It's grand scenery. You oughtto go there one day."

  "Suppose we go there now."

  Gray had finished putting on his boots, and was taking his whip downfrom the nail. He said it laughingly, looking back at Harding over hisshoulder. Harding, who was washing the dishes at the table, returnedhis 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 Grayin the same laughing way. "Let us run up to Deadman's Gully andappropriate 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 aboutthat 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 theystood outside the hut, ready to start for their day's work. "He'lllisten 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 ofhis shoulders. "I'm tired of work everywhere--tired and sick of thishorrible country, and everything and everybody in it."

  "
Well, Morton might help you to a post in Adelaide," said Harding, whohad been much troubled by Gray's constant despondency of late. "You'dhave better company there. It's more like England, you know."

  "What post could he get me in Adelaide?" returned Gray, with a bitterirony in his tone. "And do you think it would be any pleasure to me tosit in an office and see the carriages driving by? I had enough ofthat in England. No, I'd be off to the diamond fields if I'd the cashfor 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 likethis. I wish Polly was here. She'd know how to talk to you betterthan I do."

  Gray cast a scornful look at his companion's troubled face. It rankledin 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 therun, from which he could get a glimpse of the far-off mountains. Thepeak towering up in the blue air so far above its fellows was Rodwell'sPeak. Gray remembered now that Harding had pointed it out to him whenthey had been together at this spot. He checked his horse and pausedfor 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. Heknew how far off those hills really were; but the sight of Rodwell'sPeak seemed to bring the money close within his grasp, to give theconvict's story a reality it had wanted before. It was with a darkerface, and a heart overflowing with bitterness, that he left that spotand turned his horse's head homewards.

  Harding was not at home when he returned. This was a new cause forvexation, for Gray had to light the fire and prepare the tea, a task hehated. It was with a muttered curse against Harding that he set aboutit, and he was ready with a very unpleasant greeting for him when heshould at last appear.

  Gray was very slow and awkward over his unaccustomed work; but tea wasat last got ready. Gray finished his meal, and still Harding had notcome.

  It was getting dark now; the stars were coming out; the wide outlinesof the pastures were growing indistinct. Gray went outside the hut andlooked searchingly in the direction from which he expected Harding tocome. But there were no signs of him.

  Up to this point Gray had not even wondered at his lateness; he hadonly felt annoyed at it. But now a wild thrill went over him. Hadsomething happened? Had Harding met with some accident?

  Gray caught hold of the top rail of the fence to steady himself as thethought swept over him. It brought such a throbbing of wild hope withit that Gray recoiled at his own feelings, but the feelings remained.He could not crush them out. He knew--even while the knowledgehorrified him--he knew that if Harding did not return, if some darkfate had overtaken him, that he would be glad--yes, glad! For then thesecret would be his alone. Then there would be nothing to prevent himfrom taking possession of the buried treasure.

  But it was early yet. He and Harding, Gray reflected, had often beenout together as late; only, Harding had said so decidedly that heshould 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 hethought of taking his horse and riding out to search for Harding. Butthat would be of no use, he reflected. Harding had had a wide stretchof country to cover. It was a million chances to one that he couldfind him. So Gray sat still and waited.

  Towards midnight he rose, drawn by a horrible sort of fascination, andtook the paper from Harding's desk. He spread it out on the table, andsat down to study it. The more he looked at it the more easy it allseemed to be. It was such an absolutely safe thing. No one couldpossibly know the contents of that paper but himself and Harding. IfHarding 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 itscontents too well. Then he would give up his work at the firstopportunity, and after waiting a certain time would make his way toDeadman's Gully, get the money, and be off to England. Then he wouldbegin to live his life in earnest.

  Dazzling visions of that new life began to rise before Gray. Not alife of vulgar dissipation--Gray was not that sort of man; he loathedcoarseness 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 presentsurroundings. He rose hurriedly and pushed the paper back in the desk.He thought Harding had returned. But it was only his own horse movinguneasily in the stable. It was missing its companion, and was restlessand unhappy.

  Gray soothed it as well as he could, and then went out once more tolook across the plain. But dark and silent the land lay beneath thestars. No sound, no movement.

  Gray went back into the hut and sat down again; but he did not touchthe paper any more. The certainty that Harding would never returnbegan to grow upon him, and he was frightened at himself. It was as ifhis 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 floodingthe sky.

  Gray went out once more to look along the horizon. This time hissearch was not in vain. Almost at once he discerned a small movingobject against the sky. It was moving slowly towards the hut. Grayknew at once what it was. It was the dog, and Harding must be closebehind.

  The dog came slowly on, moving with heavy, dragging steps, very unlikeits usual joyous bounds; and it was quite alone. Gray could see noother moving thing along the plains. The dog had come back, but notits master.

  Gray hurried forward to meet it. He saw the dog leap up when it caughtsight of him, and make a dash forwards, but before it had gone a dozensteps it slackened its pace again and began to drag itself slowlyforward as if utterly worn out.

  It was a pitiable object to look at. Its beautiful coat was mattedwith blood and dust. One of its ears was almost torn away, and itsbody was covered with wounds. But it dragged itself onward, moaningnow and then, until it got near Gray. Then it sank down on the grassand lay there, faintly wagging its tail, and fixing its eyes on Graywith 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 inconflict with them Watch had got his wounds. He bent over the dog andunfastened its spiked collar.

  "Poor old fellow, what--?"

  He broke off suddenly. A scrap of paper fastened by a string to thecollar 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 hisfingers.

  He had not made up his mind what to do; but the thought flashed throughhim as he saw the paper lying on the ground, that it might be necessaryto destroy it, if--

  If what? Gray hardly dared finish the thought, even in the secrecy ofhis own soul.

  The dog followed his actions with a dumb pathetic glance, and thenslowly struggled to its feet. It stood looking up at Gray, lifting onepaw towards him with an indescribable air of supplication in its wholeattitude. Then it turned, and began to move in the direction it hadcome from, looking round at every painful step to see if Gray wouldfollow.

  A rush of pitiful feeling swept over Gray. He ran back towards the hutwith one thought uppermost in his
mind, to get his horse and go withthe dog. Everything else was forgotten. When he had run a shortdistance he looked round at Watch and whistled. The dog was lying onthe grass regarding him, but it refused to come at his whistle.

  Gray stood still, and began to argue with himself. It was absurd tostart at once. Watch would die on the way. It would be far better towait for some hours till the poor creature was rested. Harding, in allprobability, was already dead. Still he would go--of course he wouldgo; but not just yet. It would be the height of absurdity to startjust now. He would fetch Watch some water and food where it lay, if hecould not get the dog to go back to the hut.

  He whistled again, but Watch made no response. It lay with its headbetween its paws, and its eyes still fixed on Gray.

  "Stay there, then," muttered he impatiently, and went on towards thehut. The dog was still lying in the same place when he brought thefood and water for it. It ate and drank greedily, and then rose andshook 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 turningits 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 longpitiful howl when it found that Gray still went steadily on.

  Gray did not turn round this time. He went into the hut, and sat downto think the matter over. What was the use of going with the dog atall? he began to say to himself. Would it not be better to go over tothe station at once? or, better still, go later on in the day, so as toreach the station in the evening when the men would have come in fromtheir work? Yet--was not every moment precious? If he went at oncewith the dog, might he not be in time?

  He sat thus, swaying to and fro between different decisions, till aviolent scratching at the door roused him. He got up and flung backthe door. Watch stood there with drooping tail, and eyes full of dumbentreaty. Gray shut the door sharply on him. "Lie down, sir!" heexclaimed 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 hewould carry out his scheme. But suddenly, before he was aware, a waveof remorseful shame came over him, and he sprang to his feet as oneawaking from some hideous dream. He grasped his whip and hurried tothe door; but,--

  The dog was gone.