It was just then that two riders, who fancied they had heard a voice, struck an undoubted trail before it vanished, and followed it to the great sprawling body in which the dregs of life pulsed feebly. The thing groaned as it was lifted and strapped upon a horse; it gurgled gibberish at the taste of raw spirits later in the same hour. It was high noon before Vanheimert opened a seeing eye and blinked it in the unveiled sun.
He was lying on a blanket in a treeless hollow in the midst of trees. The ground had been cleared by no human hand; it was a little basin of barren clay, burnt to a brick, and drained by the tiny water-hole that sparkled through its thatch of leaves and branches in the centre of a natural circle. Vanheimert lay on the eastern circumference; it was the sun falling sheer on his upturned face that cut short his sleep of deep exhaustion. The sky was a dark and limpid blue; but every leaf within Vanheimert’s vision bore its little load of sand, and the sand was clotted as though the dust-storm had ended with the usual shower. Vanheimert turned and viewed the sylvan amphitheatre; on its far side were two small tents, and a man in a folding chair reading the Australasian. He closed the paper on meeting Vanheimert’s eyes, went to one of the tents, stood a moment looking in, and then came across the sunlit circle with his newspaper and the folded chair.
“And how do you feel now?” said he, setting up the chair beside the blanket, but still standing as he surveyed the prostrate man, with dark eyes drawn together in the shade of a great straw sombrero.
“Fine!” replied Vanheimert, huskily. “But where am I, and who are you chaps? Rabbiters?”
As he spoke, however, he searched for the inevitable strings of rabbit skins festooned about the tents, and found them not.
“If you like,” replied the other, frowning a little at the immediate curiosity of the rescued man.
“I don’t like,” said Vanheimert, staring unabashed. “I’m a rabbiter myself, and know too much. It ain’t no game for abandoned stations, and you don’t go playin’ it in top-boots and spurs. Where’s your skins and where’s your squatter to pay for ’em? Plucky rabbiters, you two!”
And he gazed across the open toward the further tent, which had just disgorged a long body and a black beard not wholly unfamiliar to Vanheimert. The dark man was a shade darker as he followed the look and read its partial recognition; but a grim light came with quick resolve, and it was with sardonic deliberation that an eye-glass was screwed into one dark eye.
“Then what should you say that we are?”
“How do I know?” cried Vanheimert, turning pale; for he had been one of the audience at Mrs. Clarkson’s concert in Gulland’s store, and in consecutive moments he had recognized first Howie and now Stingaree.
“You know well enough!”
And the terrible eye-glass covered him like a pistol.
“Perhaps I can guess,” faltered Vanheimert, no small brain working in his prodigious skull.
“Guess, then!”
“There are tales about a new chum camping by himself—that is, just with one man—”
“And what object?”
“To get away from the world, sir.”
“And where did you hear these tales?”
“All along the road, sir.”
The chastened tone, the anxious countenance, the sudden recourse to the servile monosyllable, were none of them lost on Stingaree; but he himself had once set such a tale abroad, and it might be that the present bearer still believed it. The eye-glass looked him through and through. Vanheimert bore the inspection like a man, and was soon satisfied that his recognition of the outlaw was as yet quite unsuspected. He congratulated himself on his presence of mind, and had sufficient courage to relish the excitement of a situation of which he also perceived the peril.
“I suppose you have no recollection of how you got here?” at length said Stingaree.
“Not me. I only remember the dust-storm.” And Vanheimert shuddered where he lay in the sun. “But I’m very grateful to you, sir, for saving my life.”
“You are, are you?”
“Haven’t I cause to be, sir?”
“Well, I dare say we did bring you round between us, but it was pure luck that we ever came across you. And now I should lie quiet if I were you. In a few minutes there’ll be a pannikin of tea for you, and after that you’ll feel a different man.”
Vanheimert lay quiet enough; there was much to occupy his mind. Instinctively he had assumed a part, and he was only less quick to embrace the necessity of a strictly consistent performance. He watched Stingaree in close conversation with Howie, who was boiling the billy on a spirit-lamp between the two tents, but he watched them with an admirable simulation of idle unconcern. They were talking about him, of course; more than once they glanced in his direction; and each time Vanheimert congratulated himself the more heartily on the ready pretence to which he was committed. Let them but dream that he knew them, and Vanheimert gave himself as short a shrift as he would have granted in their place. But they did not dream it, they were off their guard, and rather at his mercy than he at theirs. He might prove the immediate instrument of their capture—why not? The thought put Vanheimert in a glow; on the blanket where they had laid him, he dwelt on it without a qualm; and the same wide mouth watered for the tea which these villains were making, and for their blood.
It was Howie who came over with the steaming pannikin, and watched Vanheimert as he sipped and smacked his lips, while Stingaree at his distance watched them both. The pannikin was accompanied by a tin-plate full of cold mutton and a wedge of baking-powder bread, which between them prevented the ravening man from observing how closely he was himself observed as he assuaged his pangs. There was, however, something in the nature of a muttered altercation between the bushrangers when Howie was sent back for more of everything. Vanheimert put it down to his own demands, and felt that Stingaree was his friend when it was he who brought the fresh supplies.
“Eat away,” said Stingaree, seating himself and producing pipe and tobacco. “It’s rough fare, but there’s plenty of it.”
“I won’t ask you for no more,” replied Vanheimert, paving the way for his escape.
“Oh, yes, you will!” said Stingaree. “You’re going to camp with us for the next few days, my friend!”
“Why am I?” cried Vanheimert, aghast at the quiet statement, which it never occurred to him to gainsay. Stingaree pared a pipeful of tobacco and rubbed it fine before troubling to reply.
“Because the way out of this takes some finding, and what’s the use of escaping an unpleasant death one day if you go and die it the next? That’s one reason,” said Stingaree, “but there’s another. The other reason is that, now you’re here, you don’t go till I choose.”
Blue wreaths of smoke went up with the words, which might have phrased either a humorous hospitality or a covert threat. The dispassionate tone told nothing. But Vanheimert felt the eye-glass on him, and his hearty appetite was at an end.
“That’s real kind of you,” said he. “I don’t feel like running no more risks till I’m obliged. My nerves are shook. And if a born back-blocker may make so bold, it’s a fair old treat to see a new chum camping out for the fun of it!”
“Who told you I was a new chum?” asked Stingaree, sharply. “Ah! I remember,” he added, nodding; “you heard of me lower down the road.”
Vanheimert grinned from ear to ear.
“I’d have known it without that,” said he. “What real bushmen would boil their billy on a spirit-lamp when there’s wood and to spare for a camp-fire on all sides of ’em?”
Now, Vanheimert clearly perceived the superiority of smokeless spirit-lamp to tell-tale fire for those in hiding; so he chuckled consumedly over this thrust, which was taken in such excellent part by Stingaree as to prove him a victim to the desired illusion. It was the cleverest touch that Vanheimert had yet achieved. And he had the wit neither to blunt his point by rubbing it in nor to recall attention to it by subtle protestation of his pretended persuasion. But onc
e or twice before sundown he permitted himself to ask natural questions concerning the old country, and to indulge in those genial gibes which the Englishman in the bush learns to expect from the indigenous buffoon.
In the night Vanheimert was less easy. He had to sleep in Howie’s tent, but it was some hours before he slept at all, for Howie would remain outside, and Vanheimert longed to hear him snore. At last the rabbiter fell into a doze, and when he awoke the auspicious music filled the tent. He listened on one elbow, peering till the darkness turned less dense; and there lay Howie across the opening of the tent. Vanheimert reached for his thin elastic-sided bushman’s boots, and his hands trembled as he drew them on. He could now see the form of Howie plainly enough as it lay half in the starlight and half in the darkness of the tent. He stepped over it without a mistake, and the ignoble strains droned on behind him.
The stars seemed unnaturally bright and busy as Vanheimert stole into their tremulous light. At first he could distinguish nothing earthly; then the tents came sharply into focus, and after them the ring of impenetrable trees. The trees whispered a chorus, myriads strong, in a chromatic scale that sang but faintly of the open country. There were palpable miles of wilderness, and none other lodge but this, yet the psychological necessity for escape was stronger in Vanheimert than the bodily reluctance to leave the insecure security of the bushrangers’ encampment. He was their prisoner, whatever they might say, and the sense of captivity was intolerable; besides, let them but surprise his knowledge of their secret, and they would shoot him like a dog. On the other hand, beyond the forest and along the beaten track lay fame and a fortune in direct reward.
Before departure Vanheimert wished to peep into the other tent, but its open end was completely covered in for the night, and prudence forbade him to meddle with his hands. He had an even keener desire to steal one or other of the horses which he had seen before nightfall tethered in the scrub; but here again he lacked enterprise, fancied the saddles must be in Stingaree’s tent, and shrank from committing himself to an action which nothing, in the event of disaster, could explain away. On foot he need not put himself in the wrong, even with villains ready to suspect that he suspected them.
And on foot he went, indeed on tiptoe till the edge of the trees was reached without adventure, and he turned to look his last upon the two tents shimmering in the starlight. As he turned again, satisfied that the one was still shut and that Howie still lay across the opening of the other, a firm hand took Vanheimert by either shoulder; otherwise he had leapt into the air; for it was Stingaree, who had stepped from behind a bush as from another planet, so suddenly that Vanheimert nearly gasped his dreadful name.
“I couldn’t sleep! I couldn’t sleep!” he cried out instead, shrinking as from a lifted hand, though he was merely being shaken playfully to and fro.
“No more could I,” said Stingaree.
“So I was going for a stroll. That was all, I swear, Mr.—Mr.—I don’t know your name!”
“Quite sure?” said Stingaree.
“My oath! How should I?”
“You might have heard it down the road.”
“Not me!”
“Yet you heard of me, you know.”
“Not by name—my oath!”
Stingaree peered into the great face in which the teeth were chattering and from which all trace of color had flown.
“I shouldn’t eat you for knowing who I am,” said he. “Honesty is still a wise policy in certain circumstances; but you know best.”
“I know nothing about you, and care less,” retorted Vanheimert, sullenly, though the perspiration was welling out of him. “I come for a stroll because I couldn’t sleep, and I can’t see what all this barney’s about.”
Stingaree dropped his hands.
“Do you want to sleep?”
“My blessed oath!”
“Then come to my tent, and I’ll give you a nobbler that may make you.”
The nobbler was poured out of a gallon jar, under Vanheimert’s nose, by the light of a candle which he held himself. Yet he smelt it furtively before trying it with his lips, and denied himself a gulp till he was reassured. But soon the empty pannikin was held out for more. And it was the starless hour before dawn when Vanheimert tripped over Howie’s legs and took a contented header into the corner from which he had made his stealthy escape.
The tent was tropical when he awoke, but Stingaree was still at his breakfast outside in the shade. He pointed to a bucket and a piece of soap behind the tent, and Vanheimert engaged in obedient ablutions before sitting down to his pannikin, his slice of damper, and his portion of a tin of sardines.
“Sorry there’s no meat for you,” said Stingaree. “My mate’s gone for fresh supplies. By the way, did you miss your boots?”
The rabbiter looked at a pair of dilapidated worsted socks and at one protruding toe; he was not sure whether he had gone to bed for the second time in these or in his boots. Certainly he had missed the latter on his second awakening, but had not deemed it expedient to make inquiries. And now he merely observed that he wondered where he could have left them.
“On your feet,” said Stingaree. “My mate has made so bold as to borrow them for the day.”
“He’s welcome to them, I’m sure,” said Vanheimert with a sickly smile.
“I was sure you would say so,” rejoined Stingaree. “His own are reduced to uppers and half a heel apiece, but he hopes to get them soled in Ivanhoe while he waits.”
“So he’s gone to Ivanhoe, has he?”
“He’s been gone three hours.”
“Surely it’s a long trip?”
“Yes; we shall have to make the most of each other till sundown,” said Stingaree, gazing through his glass upon Vanheimert’s perplexity. “If I were you I should take my revenge by shaking anything of his that I could find for the day.”
And with a cavalier nod, to clinch the last word on the subject, the bushranger gave himself over to his camp-chair, his pipe, and his inexhaustible Australasian. As for Vanheimert, he eventually returned to the tent in which he had spent the night; and there he remained a good many minutes, though it was now the forenoon, and the heat under canvas past endurance. But when at length he emerged, as from a bath, Stingaree, seated behind his Australasian in the lee of the other tent, took so little notice of him that Vanheimert crept back to have one more look at the thing which he had found in the old valise which served Howie for a pillow. And the thing was a very workmanlike revolver, with a heavy cartridge in each of its six chambers.
Vanheimert handled it with trembling fingers, and packed it afresh in the pocket where it least affected his personal contour, its angles softened by a big bandanna handkerchief, only to take it out yet again with a resolution that opened a fresh sluice in every pore. The blanket that had been lent to him, and Howie’s blanket, both lay at his feet; he threw one over either arm, and with the revolver thus effectually concealed, but grasped for action with finger on trigger, sallied forth at last.
Stingaree was still seated in the narrowing shade of his own tent. Vanheimert was within five paces of him before he looked up so very quickly, with such a rapid adjustment of the terrible eye-glass, that Vanheimert stood stock-still, and the butt of his hidden weapon turned colder than ever in his melting hand.
“Why, what have you got there?” cried Stingaree. “And what’s the matter with you, man?” he added, as Vanheimert stood shaking in his socks.
“Only his blankets, to camp on,” the fellow answered, hoarsely. “You advised me to help myself, you know.”
“Quite right; so I did; but you’re as white as the tent—you tremble like a leaf. What’s wrong?”
“My head,” replied Vanheimert, in a whine. “It’s going round and round, either from what I had in the night, or lying too long in the hot tent, or one on top of the other. I thought I’d camp for a bit in the shade.”
“I should,” said Stingaree, and buried himself in his paper with undisguised contempt.
Vanheimert came a step nearer. Stingaree did not look up again. The revolver was levelled under one trailing blanket. But the trigger was never pulled. Vanheimert feared to miss even at arm’s length, so palsied was his hand, so dim his eye; and when he would have played the man and called desperately on the other to surrender, the very tongue clove in his head.
He slunk over to the shady margin of surrounding scrub and lay aloof all the morning, now fingering the weapon in his pocket, now watching the man who never once looked his way. He was a bushranger and an outlaw; he deserved to die or to be taken; and Vanheimert’s only regret was that he had neither taken nor shot him at their last interview. The bloodless alternative was to be borne in mind, yet in his heart he well knew that the bullet was his one chance with Stingaree. And even with the bullet he was horribly uncertain and afraid. But of hesitation on any higher ground, of remorse or of reluctance, or the desire to give fair play, he had none at all. The man whom he had stupidly spared so far was a notorious criminal with a high price upon his head. It weighed not a grain with Vanheimert that the criminal happened to have saved his life.
“Come and eat,” shouted Stingaree at last; and Vanheimert trailed the blankets over his left arm, his right thrust idly into his pocket, which bulged with a red bandanna handkerchief. “Sorry it’s sardines again,” the bushranger went on, “but we shall make up with a square feed tonight if my mate gets back by dark; if he doesn’t, we may have to tighten our belts till morning. Fortunately, there’s plenty to drink. Have some whiskey in your tea?”
The Raffles Megapack Page 75