Suddenly he left the track at a tangent; but there was no symptom of the sudden thought. Rigden sat loosely in his saddle, careless but alert, a man who knew every inch of the country, and his own mind to an irreducible nicety. A clump of box rose in his path; a round-shot would have cut through quicker, but not more unerringly. Rigden came out on the edge of a chain of clay-pans, hard-baked by the sun, and shining under the moon like so many water-holes.
Rigden rode a little way upon the nearest hard, smooth surface; then he pulled up, and, looking back, could see scarcely any trace of his horse’s hoofs. He now flung a leg across the saddle, and sat as the ladies while his quiet beast stood like bronze. A night-horse is ex officio a quiet beast.
Rigden wondered whether any man had ever before changed his boots on horseback. When he proceeded it was afoot, with his arm through the reins, and the pockets of the dust-coat bulging more than ever. From his walk it was manifest that the new shoes pinched.
But they left no print unless he stamped with all his might. And that was a very painful process. Rigden schooled himself to endure it, however, and repeated the torture two or three times on his way across the clay-pans. On such occasions the night-horse was made to halt (while the stamping was done under its nose) and to pirouette in fashion that must have astonished the modest animal almost as much as each fresh inspiration astonished Rigden himself.
On the sandy ground beyond he merely led the horse until a fence was reached. Here some minutes were spent, not only in strapping down the wires and coaxing the night-horse over, but in some little deliberation which ended in the making of mock footprints with his own boots, without, however, putting them on. Rigden had still another mile to do in the tight shoes for this his sin. It brought him to the pouting lips of a tank (so called) where the moon shone in a mirror of still water framed in slime. Here he gave his horse a drink, and, remounting, changed his boots once more. A sharp canter brought him back to the fence; it was crossed as before; the right horses were discovered and cut out with the speed and precision of a master bushman; and at half-past eleven exactly the thunder of their hoofs and the musketry of Rigden’s stock-whip were heard together in the barracks, where the rest had gathered for a final pipe.
“Good time,” said the sergeant, who was seated with his subordinate on the storekeeper’s bed.
“Not for him,” said Spicer. “He said he’d be back by eleven. He’s generally better than his word.”
“A really good man at his work — what?”
Bethune had been offered the only chair, and was not altogether pleased with himself for having accepted it. It was rather a menagerie, this storekeeper’s room, with these policemen smoking their rank tobacco. Theodore had offered them his cigars, to put an end to the reek, but his offer had come too late. He hardly knew why he remained; not even to himself would he admit his anxiety to know what was going to happen next. A criminal case! It would teach him nothing; he never touched criminal work; none of your obvious law and vulgar human interest for him.
“Good man?” echoed Spicer the loyal. “One of the best on God’s earth; one of the straightest that ever stepped. Don’t you make any mistake about that, Bethune! I’ve known him longer than you.”
The testimonial was superfluous in its warmth and fulness, yet not uncalled for if Bethune’s tone were taken seriously. It was, however, merely the tone in which that captious critic was accustomed to refer to the bulk of humanity; indeed, it was complimentary for him. Before more could be added, “the straightest man that ever stepped” had entered, looking the part. His step was crisp and confident; there was a lively light in his eye.
“Have a job to find them?” inquired his champion.
“Well,” said Rigden, “I found something else first.”
“The man?” they all cried as one.
“No, not the man,” said Rigden smiling. “Where’s your tracker, sergeant?”
“Put him in your travellers’ hut, Mr. Rigden.”
“Quite right. I only wanted to ask him something, but I dare say you can tell me as well. Get that track pretty plain before you lost it this afternoon?”
“Plain as a pikestaff, didn’t we?” said the sergeant to his sub.
“My oath!” asseverated the trooper, who was a man of few words.
“Notice any peculiarity about it, Harkness?”
“Yes,” said the sergeant.
“What?” pursued Rigden.
“That,” said Harkness; and he produced a worn heel torn from its sole and uppers.
“Exactly,” said Rigden, nodding.
The sergeant sprang from the bed.
“Have you struck his tracks?”
“I won’t say that,” said Rigden. “All I undertake is to show you a distinct track with no left heel to it all down the line. No, I won’t shake hands on it. It may lead to nothing.”
All was now excitement in the small and smoky bedroom. The jackeroo had appeared on the scene from his own room, to which his sensitive soul ever banished him betimes. All were on their feet but Bethune, who retained the only chair, but with eyes like half-sheathed blades, and head at full-cock.
“Did you follow it up?” asked the sergeant.
“Yes, a bit.”
“Where did you strike it?”
“I’ll tell you what: you shall be escorted to the spot.”
“Um!” said the sergeant; “not by all hands, I hope?”
“By Mr. Spicer and nobody else. I’d come myself, only I’ve found other fish to fry. Look here, Spicer,” continued Rigden, clapping the storekeeper on the shoulder; “you know the clay-pans in the horse-paddock? Well, you’ll see my tracks there, and you’d better follow them; there are just one or two of the others; but on the soft ground you’ll see the one as plain as the other. You’ll have to cross the fence into Butcher-boy; you’ll see where I crossed it. That’s our killing-sheep paddock, Harkness; think your man could kill and eat a sheep?”
“I could kill and eat you,” said the sergeant cordially, “for the turn you’ve done me.”
“Thanks; but you wait and see how it pans out. All I guarantee is that the tracks are there; how far they go is another matter. I only followed them myself as far as the tank in Butcher-boy. And that reminds me: there’ll be a big muster to-morrow, Spicer. The tank in Butcher-boy’s as low as low; the Big Bushy tanks always go one worse; we’ll muster Big Bushy to-morrow, whether or no. I’ve been meaning to do it for some time. Besides, it’ll give you all the freer hand for those tracks, sergeant: we shall be miles apart.”
“That’s all right,” said the sergeant. “But I should have liked to get on them to-night.”
“The moon’s pretty low.”
Harkness looked out.
“You’re right,” he said. “We’ll give it best till morning. Come, mate, let’s spell it while we can.”
The rest separated forthwith. Bethune bade his future brother-in-law good-night without congratulation or even comment on the discovery of the tracks. Rigden lingered a moment with his lieutenants, and then remarked that he had left his coat in the harness-room; he would go and fetch it, and might be late, as he had letters to write for the mail.
“Can’t I get the coat, sir?” asked the willing jackeroo.
Rigden turned upon him with unique irritation.
“No, you can’t! You can go to bed and be jolly well up in time to do your part to-morrow! It’s you I am studying, my good fellow,” he made shift to add in a kindlier tone; “you can’t expect to do your work unless you get your sleep. And I want you to round up every hoof in the horse-paddock by sunrise, and after that every man in the hut!”
VI
BELOW ZERO
“May I come in?”
It was her brother at Moya’s door, and he began to believe she must be asleep after all. Theodore felt aggrieved; he wanted speech with Moya before he went to bed. He was about to knock again when the door was opened without a word. There was no light in the room. Yet the gir
l stood fully dressed in the last level rays of the moon. And she had been crying.
“Moya!”
“What do you want?”
“Only to speak to you.”
“What about?”
“Yourself, to begin with. What’s the trouble, my dear girl?”
He had entered in spite of her, and yet she was not really sorry that he had come. She had suffered so much in silence that it would be relief to speak about anything to anybody. Theodore was the last person in whom she could or would confide. But there was something comfortable in his presence just there and then. She could tell him a little, if she could not tell him all; and he could tell her something in return.
She heard him at his match-box, and shut the door herself as he lit the candles.
“Don’t speak loud, then,” said Moya. “I — I’d rather they didn’t hear us — putting our heads together.”
“No fear. We’ve got the main building to ourselves, you and I. Rather considerate of Rigden, that.”
Indeed it was the best parlour that had been prepared for Moya, for in your southern summers the best parlour of all is the shadiest verandah. Theodore took to the sofa and a cigarette.
“Do you mind?” he said. “Then do please tell me what’s the matter with you, Moya!”
“Oh, can’t you see? I’m so unhappy!”
Her eyes had filled, but his next words dried them.
“Had a row with Rigden?”
And he was leaning forward without his cigarette.
Moya hated him.
“Is that all that occurs to you?” she asked cuttingly. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, I’m sure! I should have thought even you could have seen there was enough to make one unhappy, without the consummation you so devoutly — —”
“Good, Moya! That’s all right,” said her brother, as he might have complimented her across the net at lawn-tennis.
“It’s quite unpleasant enough,” continued Moya, with spirit, “without your making it worse. The police in possession, and a runaway convict goodness knows where!”
“I agree,” said Theodore. “It is unpleasant. I wonder where the beggar can be?”
“It’s no use asking me,” said Moya; for the note of interrogation had been in his voice.
“You didn’t see any suspicious-looking loafers, I suppose? I mean this afternoon.”
“How could I? I was with Pelham all the time.”
She would never marry him, never! That was no reason why she should give him away. She would never marry a man with discreditable secrets which she might not share, not because they were discreditable, but for the other reason. Yet she must be a humbug for his sake! Moya felt a well-known eye upon her, felt her face bathed in fire; luckily her explanation itself might account for that, and she had the wit to see this in time.
“I mean,” she stammered, “one was on the verandah all the afternoon. Nobody could have come without our seeing them.”
“I don’t know about that. Love is blind!”
His tone carried relief to Moya. The irony was characteristic, normal. It struck her as incompatible with any strong suspicion. But the ground was dangerous all the same.
“If we are made uncomfortable,” said Moya, shifting it, “what must it be for Pelham! It’s on his account I feel so miserable.”
And she spoke the truth; indeed, a truism; but she would be still more miserable if she married him. She would never marry a man —— the haunting sentence went for once unfinished. Theodore was favouring her with a peculiar scrutiny whose import she knew of old. She was on her guard just in time.
“You haven’t heard the latest development, I suppose?”
“Has there been something fresh since I came away?”
And even Theodore did not know that she was holding her breath.
“Something as fresh as paint,” said he dryly. “Rigden thinks he’s got on the fellow’s tracks.”
Moya had braced herself against any sudden betrayal of alarm; she was less proof against the inrush of a new contempt for her lover.
“You don’t mean it!” she cried with indignation.
“Why not?” asked Theodore blandly.
“Oh, nothing. Only it’s pretty disgraceful — on the part of the police, I mean — that they should spend hours looking for what a mere amateur finds at once!”
The brother peeped at her from lowered lids. He was admiring her resource.
“I agree,” he said slowly, “if — our friend is right.”
“Whom do you mean?” inquired Moya, up in arms on the instant.
“Rigden, of course.”
“So you think he may be mistaken about the tracks, do you?”
“I think it’s possible.”
“You know a lot about such things yourself, of course! You have a wide experience of the bush, haven’t you? What do the police think?”
“They’re leaving it till the morning. They hope for the best.”
“So everybody is pleased except my brilliant brother! I want to know why — I want to know more about these tracks.”
He told her more with unruffled mien; he rather enjoyed her sarcasm; it both justified and stimulated his own. Sarcasm he held to be the salt of intercourse. It was certainly a game at which two Bethunes could always play.
“But we shall see in the morning,” concluded Theodore. “The heathen is to be put upon the scent at dawn; if he passes it, well and good.”
“Meanwhile you don’t?”
“No, I’m hanged if I do,” said Theodore, bluntly.
“Because you haven’t been to see?”
Theodore smiled.
“Because you wouldn’t know a man’s track from a monkey’s if you went?”
Theodore laughed.
“Why drag in Darwin, my dear girl? No, I’ve not been to look, and yet I’m not convinced. I just have my doubts, and a reason or so for them; then I haven’t your admirable ground of belief in the infallibility of our host’s judgment. He may be mistaken. Mistakes do get made by moonlight. Let’s put it at that.”
But Moya knew that he was not putting it at that in his mind, and she made up hers to learn the worst of his suspicions.
“If the tracks are not his, whose are they?” she demanded, as though it mattered. “If the creature is not somewhere about the run, where is he?”
And this did matter.
“If you ask me,” said Theodore, with great gravity for him, “I should say that he was within a few yards of us all the time!”
“A few yards?”
“I should say,” repeated Theodore, “that he was somewhere about the homestead, not the run. And you know perfectly well that you agree!”
“I?”
She jumped up in a fury.
“How dare you say that to me? How dare you, Theodore?”
“My dear Moya, I’m at a loss to understand you!” and his eyebrows underlined the words into largest capitals. “How on earth have I offended? I’m quite sure that you have the same suspicion — not to call it fear — that I entertain myself. If not, why be in such a state? Why not go to bed and to sleep like a rational person? I confess I don’t feel like doing so myself — with the chance of waking up to find an escaped criminal on your chest. I prefer to sit up and keep watch. I’m convinced he’s somewhere about; all these huts afford far better cover than the open paddocks, bless you! He could easily have slipped among them without either of you seeing him, and the chances are he has.”
“If you think that,” said Moya, “why didn’t you suggest it?”
“I did — to Rigden. Wouldn’t listen to me; so, of course, I can’t expect you to be so disloyal as to do so either.”
But Moya had no more of that kind of fight in her. “So you intend to sit up and watch?” was her sole rejoinder.
“I do.”
“Then so do I!”
Theodore looked dubious, but only for an instant.
“You begin to think there may be something in my theo
ry?”
“I think there — may be.”
“Then I’ll tell you more!” exclaimed Theodore with decision: “I believe the fellow’s over yonder in that store!”
His eyes were waiting for her face to change. But it changed very little. Moya was beginning to wonder whether her terrible brother did not already know all. One moment she thought he did, the next that he did not; indifference was creeping over her with the long-drawn strain of the situation. What did it matter if he did know? It would make no difference between her and Pelham. That was at an end, in any case; all that was at an end for ever.
Meanwhile she humoured Theodore just a little, particularly in the matter of her sitting up. He begged her not to do so, and she feigned consent. One of his objects in sitting up himself was to secure her safety. He might be wrong in all his conjectures, and Rigden might be right. Theodore was none the less virtuously determined not to give a chance away.
“And if I am right I’ll nab him the moment he shows his nose; and the credit will belong to your humble brother. It isn’t as if I hadn’t mentioned my general ideas to Rigden; otherwise it might be rather much to take upon one’s self; but as it is I have no scruples. If nothing happens, I’ve simply been sleeping on the verandah, because it’s cooler there, and that long chair’s as good as any bed. Do you mind doing something for me, Moya?”
“What is it?”
“My room’s at the back, as you know; do you mind keeping a look-out while I go round and get into my pyjamas?”
“No, I don’t mind.”
“Particularly on the store, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“If anything happens come straight to me, but as quietly as possible.”
“Very well.”
“I mean if you see anybody.”
Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 172
