The Bushranger's Secret

by Albert Bigelow Paine

  CHAPTER IV.

  IN QUEST OF TREASURE.

  Gray's spirits rose when he had left the station behind him and foundhimself riding along the well-worn track towards the hills, that showedthemselves in clear outline against the brightening morning sky.

  With a good horse under him and the fresh wind blowing on his face, hefound it easy to convince himself that it would not have made anydifference if he had gone back with the dog. He found it easy to lookforward instead of backward, to make resolutions about using the moneywell, instead of indulging in vain repentance for the past.

  It was a clear beautiful morning. The country Gray was riding throughwas very unlike the level pastures he had lived on for months. It wasundulating and richly wooded. Here and there a stream, full and strongin this joyous spring-time, flashed white in the dawn. Westwards rosethe great hills, blue in the distance, the hills towards which Gray wasriding. It was a country to make glad the heart of man, where he mightrichly enjoy the fruits of his labour.

  It was not thickly settled as yet. Gray passed but few houses in thatday's far ride, and it was long past dusk when he rode up to Mr.Macquoid's, who owned the run next to Mr. Morton's, and where Mr.Morton had advised him to stop that night.

  Gray received a warm welcome. Tea was brought for him into thepleasant sitting-room, where Mr. Macquoid's wife and daughters wereeager to hear Gray's account of Harding's disappearance. Mr. Macquoidhad sent out a search-party on his own account, for he knew Hardingwell.

  It irritated Gray savagely to find how warm and eager an interest theyall took in the lost man. He could have spent such a delightfulevening in that charming house, with those pretty girls. The piano wasopen, and Gray was fond of music and could sing well. It would havedelighted him to prove to them his musical abilities. And the books inthe low book-cases, the etchings and engravings on the walls, theperiodicals and newspapers fresh from England, that lay heaped on theround table by the window, showed that the Macquoids had a keencultured interest in literature and art. Gray could have talked tothem of so many things, showed them so easily how wide his knowledgewas, how correct his taste.

  But they would talk of nothing but Harding. They seemed to think itwas the only subject Gray could feel any interest in just then. He wasthankful when the evening was over.

  His next resting-place was a small station close under the shadow ofthe hills. Here only vague rumours of Harding's loss had come, andGray found it easy to say nothing of his connection with the lost man.

  A strange thing happened to him that night. He was put to sleep in asmall room opening on the rough verandah that ran round the house. Itwas a hot still night, and the window was left open. Gray lay awakefor the first part of the night. He was restless and excited and couldnot sleep. But towards morning he fell into a heavy dreamless slumber,from which he was roughly awakened by a sharp, sudden noise.

  He started up in bed and looked round the room. A man was standingwith his back to him in the act of picking up the chair he had justthrown over. In the dim starlight Gray could just see him as he bentover the chair. With a sharp exclamation Gray sprang out of bed andmade a dash at him. But the man was too quick. He wriggled out ofGray's grasp as a snake might wriggle out of its captor's clutch, andkeeping his head well down, that Gray might not see his face, he dashedout of the window and across the court-yard. Gray saw him disappearover the fence, and run swiftly down the hollow.

  He struck a light and carefully examined the room. His purse was safe.Everything in his pocket was left intact.

  Gray's story caused great excitement next morning. There had neverbeen an attempt at robbery in the station before.

  "It must have been a black fellow," Mr. Stuart said. But Gray wascertain it was no black man. If it had not been absurd to think ofsuch a thing, he would have said it was Lumley, the Mortons' gardener.

  But he dismissed that idea as absurd and impossible.

  His next day's ride took him into the heart of the hill-country. Thetrack was far less clearly marked here, and often difficult to follow.It ran through deep lonely ravines walled in by precipitous heights ofdark rock, and along the sides of mighty hills from which glimpsescould be got of still higher hills, towering up into the still bluesky. Some of the hills were darkly wooded, others were clothed in richgrass and flowering shrubs almost to the summits; others again, andthese more numerous as Gray rode on, were bare of blade or leaf, heapedwith dark scarred rocks, waterless, desolate.

  Gray missed his road once or twice that day; and once he was unable tocross a furious torrent which had swept down the frail bridge laidacross it, and was forced to make a long round.

  There was a small cottage in these parts kept by M'Pherson, an oldstock-keeper of Mr. Macquoid's. Gray had hoped to leave it far behindhim in this day's journey, but he was only too glad to see it when hehad at last regained the track just after sunset. He and his horsewere both tired out.

  The old man came to his cottage door as Gray clattered up the hillypath. He looked at Gray, and then beyond him.

  "Ye're kindly welcome, lad. But hasna your mate come up wi' ye?"

  Gray looked involuntarily behind him. The path stretched away lonelyand desolate in the gathering darkness.

  "What do you mean?" he asked; turning a pale face on M'Pherson. "I amquite alone."

  "Weel, weel; there was a callant here no' sae lang syne, speering afterye. Aye, 'twas you he meant. A weel set-up, black-haired chap, hesaid, riding a roan horse wi' a white blaze in front."

  Gray got off his horse and stood with his hand upon the bridle.

  "I know no one about here. You must be mistaken," he said. But hesaid it falteringly, and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow. Theidea had flashed upon him that it might be Harding who was tracking hisfootsteps.

  "What was he like?" he asked, as carelessly as he could.

  "A soft-spoken callant wi' reddish hair--a puir thin sort o' body wi' aferrety face. Sae ye didna luke for him? Weel, weel, maybe it's no amaitter for greeting that ye havena come across him. I wadna hae gi'enmuckle for his honesty. But ye wull be wanting a meal, lad, and yourbonnie horse too. Yon's the stable. A gude man is gude to hisbeastie, and ye'll no be wanting me to assist."

  He bustled into the house without waiting for Gray to speak. He wouldhave waited long, for Gray was too startled to speak. He began tothink it must be Lumley who was following him. He slowly led his horseto the stable and made it comfortable, and then went back to the house.He stopped at the door to look back into the dusk.

  The house was built in a green hollow carved out of the side of a steephill. The ground rose steeply behind the place, rising up into ajagged ridge against the sky. In front there was a small flat meadowimmediately before the house; then the ground fell almost precipitouslyand then rose again, with only a narrow ravine between. The oppositehills were higher than the hill under which the cottage was built, andfrowned above it in heavy overhanging masses of rock. As Gray lookedup he could only distinguish the vague dark outlines of the gloomyhills. A thousand men might have been hidden in the hollows and hewould have been none the wiser. He listened intently, but there was nosound of human life. The wind had fallen, and the rush of the streamat the bottom of the ravine was the only sound that struck his ear.

  M'Pherson had a comfortable meal prepared for him, late as it was. ButGray could not eat. He was too excited and uneasy. He tried to get aclear description of the man who had asked for him, but M'Pherson couldtell him little more. The man had come to the door about four in theafternoon. He explained that he was expecting to come up with a friendalong that road, and wanted to know how far he was ahead.

  "He seemed verra oneasy when I told him I'd set eyes on naebody the daylang. I tauld him ye must hae gone the ither road."

  "I missed my way."

  "Aye, 'twas that made ye sae late. And sae ye arena acquent wi' theman? 'Tis verra strange."

  Yes, it was very strange. The more
Gray thought of it the morealarming it seemed. And then quite suddenly an explanation came tohim, which, while it did not remove the annoyance of the occurrence,robbed it of all its more alarming elements. The explanation wasthis:--

  Lumley had evidently conceived an absurd dog-like affection for him.The fellow had not taken his refusal to have him as a servant as afinal one, and was following him in the hope that he might still betaken on. He had not dared to come face to face with Gray. Perhapswhen he had entered the room at Mr. Stuart's (for Gray was nowconvinced that it was Lumley he saw) he intended to make one moreappeal, but Gray's sudden wakening had startled him too much.

  Gray's face cleared as he forced himself to accept this explanation asthe true one. He stretched himself with the air of one who throws offa burden.

  "I'll turn in," he said, yawning as he spoke. "But I'll have anotherlook at my horse first."

  "Aye, do, my lad. But ye needna feel oneasy aboot your horse. Sandyhere"--and he looked down at the old sheep-dog at his knee--"wull hearony step that comes near the house, be it e'er sae saft."

  Gray shuddered as his glance fell on the dog. He was looking up at hismaster just as Watch used to look at Harding.

  "Ye arena that fond o' dogs," said the old man quickly. He had noticedGray's look. "But Sandy's nae common dog. I could tell you mony atale o' his cleverness."

  He patted the dog's head and looked across at Gray, who had resumed hisseat and was staring fixedly into the fire. He had turned deadly pale.M'Pherson's shrewd kindly eyes dwelt on him for a moment. Gray wasconscious of the look and roused himself with an effort.

  "How far is it to Daintry's Corner?" he asked abruptly.

  Daintry's Corner was close to Rodwell's Peak, and Gray was making thatthe apparent end of his journey.

  "Aboot a maitter o' twal mile or sae. Ye'll win it by mid-day themorn." He paused a moment and then added: "Ye look ower pale, my lad,for sic journeying amang the hills. Ye wad do weel to tak' a bit rest;and it's lang since I've set een on a braw lad like you. A day ortwa's rest wi' me wad freshen you up."

  Gray hastily declined the invitation, and then, feeling he had been tooabrupt, he said:

  "I am sailing for England in a month, and I want to get a good idea ofyour hill scenery. I've lived on the plains a great deal, and this ismy first opportunity."

  "Eh! I ken what the plains are. I lived nigh the allotted span o'life upon them--saxty years I lived there. I cam from Scotland a bairno' seven, and I lived on the Macquoid estate till I cam up here."

  "Whatever made you leave your home for this lonely spot?" Gray asked,glad to keep the old man talking about himself to prevent any morecurious inquiries about his own doings.

  "Ye wadna understand if ye werena born amang the hills, lad. Thegudewife, she kent how I felt, and when the Lord took her hame thehills seemed to ca' more and more on me. It's no lonely here; there'svoices everywhere. Did ye ever think, my lad, o' the way the Biblespeaks of hills an' a' high places. 'The shadow o' a great rock in aweary land.' Yon's a grand passage; but the fu' meaning naebody canunderstand wha hasna kent the thirst and heat o' a waterless desert.Were ye ever lost in the Bush, lad?"

  Gray stared across at him in angry bewilderment.

  "Never," he said abruptly.

  "Ye may be thankful; 'tis a terrible place. The skies like brass abuneyour head; the grund like parchment under your feet. I was a lost manamang those deserts once. Four days I wandered through dry and thirstyplaces. Eh, sirs, 'twas a terrible time! But the Lord brought methrough; thanks be to His holy name!"

  Gray did not speak. The old man's words had called up in clear visionthose endless deserts of scorched sand, where the very herbage washateful to look upon, and the blessed light became a consuming fire.Had Harding, faint with his wounds, wandered helplessly there till hefell to rise no more?

  M'Pherson got up and reached down the great Bible that lay by itself onthe shelf above his head.

  "'Tis time for evening worship, my lad. I'll read ye a chapter."

  He sat down and placed the Bible on the table, and put on hissilver-rimmed spectacles. Gray leant back in his chair and folded hisarms, and prepared himself to listen. The old man looked at his face,and then turned over the leaves of his Bible with a sigh.

  "I'll read ye what has often been a comfort to me, my lad," he said.

  But Gray's eyes had fallen on the sheepdog, and he had seen it dragitself up, with ears upraised and head pointed at the door, in the veryattitude of Watch that night the fugitive Dearing had been outside thehut.

  "Look at the dog!" he stammered out to M'Pherson. "He hears someoneoutside the house."

  "That's verra onlikely," said M'Pherson with a calmness that wasintensely irritating to Gray.

  "He isn't much use as a dog if he makes that fuss for nothing," Grayreturned.

  "Weel, weel, we are baith getting auld thegither."

  M'Pherson rose as he spoke and went to the door to open it.

  "You are not going out?" Gray cried.

  The old man turned a wondering face upon him.

  "Wad ye keep the door barred on sic a nicht as this, if there's onybodyoutside i' the wind and rain? A braw laddie like you suld hae naefears: ye suld leave that to the women, puir feeble folk."

  Gray's face grew scarlet at the rebuke. He said no more, and M'Phersonopened the door and peered out into the dark, stormy night. He shoutedonce or twice, but there was no answer nor sound of footsteps. If thedog had heard footsteps they had now ceased; and only the voices ofwind, and rain, and rushing torrent came up the glen.