CHAPTER VII.
DESERTED!
A vast sun-scorched plain stretching away in endless miles under ablazing sky. A waterless desert, where the horses sunk fetlock-deep inshifting sand, or were cruelly pricked by the thorny leafless shrubwhich was the only living plant to be seen. No trees; no flowers; nograss; no sparkle of water far or near. Such was the land Gray andLumley were riding through, four days after leaving Deadman's Gully.
In dull despair Gray had submitted to Lumley's plan for escaping thepolice. It had never occurred to him to disbelieve Lumley's statement.There seemed no reason for the lie, and he remembered Mr. Morton'ssudden keen glance at him the night he left the station. If it hadleaked 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 hadtaken possession of him. The past he could not bear to think of. Thefuture made him shudder when he looked along the dreary years. Whatwas there left for him to live for?
They had passed the hill-country on the second day, and were nowcrossing a portion of that arid region which lies to the north-west ofthe mountains. Clay had brought with him a stock of food sufficientfor a week or more. There was no danger of starvation. It was waterthat failed them.
A consuming thirst came upon Gray as the sun rode higher and higher inthe heavens. It was ten hours since he had tasted water, and his lipsand throat were becoming baked and painful.
"You are sure you know the track?" he said to Lumley, checking hishorse to look round him.
A light heat-mist was quivering over the plains. The air was intenselyhot and dry.
Lumley stopped his horse too.
"Thought you were never goin' to speak again," he said jeeringly. "Iknow the track well enough. We shall see water in another twenty-fourhours, take my word for it."
Gray marvelled within himself how it was possible to follow any trackin such a place as this. They had been riding for miles and mileswithout seeing a tree or a hillock, or even a dry water-course. Onemile was exactly like any other mile. But he said nothing more to hiscompanion. Silence was a boon Gray craved almost as much as he longedfor water. At first Lumley had thrust his talk upon him, and foundpleasure in the misery he inflicted on Gray by his coarse jokes andcruel jeers. But he had grown more silent lately, and for the lasthour or so had not spoken at all.
He was riding now a little in advance of Gray, looking round him withsomewhat anxious eyes. He was looking for a group of cypress-trees.He felt sure they were riding in the right direction, but he had astrong reason for wishing to see them rise on the horizon beforeanother halt. When once he saw them his course would be clear andeasy. He would know his position exactly, and reach water in an houror two.
Gray saw that his companion was looking for some landmark; but Lumleysaid nothing of the object of his search. He had never mentioned thecypress-trees to Gray. Gray had asked him once how he would guidehimself across the desert, and he had refused to answer.
"You'd like to make off by yourself, wouldn't you?" he had said with ajeering laugh; "stick a knife into me, and leave me for the flies tofeed on? No, no, partner; we'll jog on together. You sha'n't serve meas you served your mate. Not if I know it."
Gray had given up asserting his innocence of Harding's actual murder.His words had not the slightest effect on Lumley. It was not that hepretended to believe in Gray's guilt Gray saw, and saw truly, that hiscompanion actually believed that he had murdered Harding in cold bloodand buried him in some secret place. Clay had only laughed at hisdeclarations of innocence.
"What's there to make such a fuss about, partner? I never did see sucha cove for making believe. But you can't take Bill Clay in, my lad. Ican tell a rogue directly I set eyes on him. By fellow-feeling, yousee."
The day grew hotter and hotter. The air that blew against their facesas they rode along was dry and scorching. It was like riding in aheated furnace. Suddenly Lumley gave a shout. He had seen on thehorizon, through the quivering heat-mist, three cypresses pointing withblack fingers to the sky. He knew as he looked that it was but anillusion, a mirage. But he knew, too, that the real cypresses, ofwhich he saw the shadows, were in that direction, and not so very faroff.
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. "Theyain't trees--not real ones, so to speak. They're clouds."
And Gray saw for himself how misty the dark outlines were; and even ashe looked he saw the mirage disappear. But he marked the point in thehorizon at which the mirage had appeared, and was astonished to seeLumley 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 goodriddance too."
He rode sulkily on and Gray followed him. When they had gone a fewmiles 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 ofspeaking? He was forced to trust to Lumley's guidance.
They lay down on the baked scorched soil, hobbling their horses thatthey might not wander far. Gray flung himself on the sand, facedownwards, careless of the hot sun that poured upon him. Lumley went afew paces off to a bed of polygonum, the gloomy leafless bramble of thewilderness. He scooped out a hollow in the sand below the bramble andlay 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 drankthe few drops remaining in it, then corked it and put it back. Then heturned upon his side and slept.
He was sleeping still when Gray roused himself from the heavy stupor ofdespair that had come upon him and sat up. There lay the grim horriblewilderness all about him. A short distance off the horses werestanding with drooping heads and panting sides. In the scanty shadowof the bramble Lumley lay asleep.
Gray got up and walked to Lumley's side, and stood looking down on theevil face as if his eyes were drawn there by some horrible fascination.The convict slept heavily, his face turned upwards to the sky. Graysaw that his lips were wet. He had water, then! Gray had suspectedthat he had, but he did not try to find out where it was hidden. Heturned away with a shudder and flung himself down upon the ground again.
It was growing dusk when Lumley woke from that heavy sleep. He startedup wildly and looked round him. For days he had kept awake fearingtreachery from Gray if he let sleep overcome him. Now he had beensleeping for many hours. The sun had been blazing in a clear sky whenhe fell asleep; now the sky was covered with thick gray clouds, andnight was close at hand. He looked round him and saw at once the twohorses. A second glance showed him Gray lying with his face upon onearm 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 thenturned towards the horses. It was not difficult to catch them, and hehad prepared to mount when an idea struck him. Taking a scrap from hispocket, the page on which Gray had reproduced Dearing's map for him, hescrawled a few words, putting the paper on his saddle to write. Thenhe softly approached Gray, and stuck the paper into the sand by abranch of bramble. When this was done he crept back again to thehorses.
He remained looking at them reflectively for a moment. His own horsestood with drooping head and panting sides, evidently nearly done for,but Gray's horse had borne the long journey well. Lumley had alreadyfastened the bag containing the money and the pistols to his ownsaddle, but now he shifted it to the other. Gray's horse turned anuneasy glance on him as he did so; and Lumley had a little difficultyin mounting it. But he got into the saddle at last, and taking thebridle of his own horse in his hand he rode away, giving a backwardlook now and then to the man he was deserti
ng.
Night came, a thick starless night with clouds hanging low over thedesert. A cool wind came with the clouds and blew on Gray, and heslept. He was worn out, and he slept hour after hour. The dawn wasbreaking when he at last awoke. His sleep had been so deep, sodreamless, that in it he had forgotten all that had happened. Butmemory came quickly back. He started up and looked round for Lumleyand the horses.
All was still, with a stillness unknown save in desert lands. Thesilence was profound. In the gray dawn he could see the plains withperfect 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 thathateful bondage. It was not for some moments that he realized thehopelessness of his position. Ignorant of the track, alone, on foot,without water or food, what hope was there for him of escaping from thedesert? Gray knew how little hope there was. As he had desertedHarding, so he in turn had been deserted. As Harding had perished, sohe too would perish. He looked his fate in the face with the calmnessof despair.
Before he had fallen asleep he had made up his mind to give himself upto the police and meet the charge brought against him if once heescaped from the wilds. It seemed to him now as if God had refused hima chance of proving his repentance. He was to perish in thewilderness, an outcast from God and man.
He sank down on the ground again, and sat there with his elbows on hisknees, his head propped on his hands, staring steadily before him. Inthe dawn the wide level spaces of the wilderness resembled the pasturesthat had surrounded their hut. Gray found himself remembering his lifethere with intense clearness. He saw Harding busy about the hut, evercheerful, ever ready. He saw him among the cattle, strong of hand,alert of eye. He saw him riding home in the twilight, talking of hiswife and his little lads; turning in his stirrups to give a word ofcheer to Watch; or bearing Gray's grumbling talk with cheerful patience.
What depths of steadfast affection there were in the heart of thatrough man! Once when Gray was ill he had tended him like a woman. Hehad sat beside him night after night in unwearying affection. Grayremembered how he had lifted him from bed to chair, as he might havelifted a child. He seemed to feel the pressure of his hand on hisshoulder still as he stood over him, pressing him to eat some dainty hehad prepared, to see his rugged kindly face bending over him. Whatwould he not give for a sight of that kind face now, and a touch ofthat strong honest hand?
Gray's stony despair gave way; the hard, desperate look on his facesoftened. He burst into bitter tears. His frame shook with thestrong, terrible crying of despairing grief.
But the tears did him good; they cleared his brain, and made itpossible for him to think of what was best for him to do. He no longerfelt inclined to give up without a struggle for life. He got up fromthe ground and looked round him with a new strength. It was then hesaw the note Lumley had stuck into the sand beside him. He picked itup and read it. It was only a few scrawled words:
"_The police ain't after you at all, Mr. Gentleman Gray, so you canclear out of the Bush as soon as you like. I'll not split on you, andyou won't on me, I guess._
"_N.B. Dead men tell no tales._"
The words were perfectly clear in the pale morning light. Gray readthem and then threw the paper away with a shudder. He felt no angeragainst Lumley, only a sick horror that made anger impossible. WhatLumley had done was what he himself had done. He deserved his fate.
The knowledge that the police held no warrant against him, that thestory was but a trick of Lumley's to get him into the Bush, affectedhim strangely little. He had made up his mind to tell the whole storyif ever he got back to the haunts of men again. The confession he hadto make would be a purely voluntary one now; that was his chief thoughtas he read Lumley's letter.