Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  “Is he ruined?” asked Stingaree.

  “Not irrevocably — not yet; but he may be any moment. He must be before long.”

  “But — but what ails him, madame?”

  “Villain-worship!” cried the lady, with a tragic face stripped of all its humor, and bare without it as a winter’s tree.

  “I remember! Yes — I understand. He was mad about — Stingaree.”

  “It is madness now,” said the bitter mother. “It was only a stupid, hare-brained fancy then, but now it is something worse. You’re the first to whom I have admitted it,” she continued, with illogical indignation, “because it’s all through you!”

  “All through me?”

  “You told him a tale. You made that villain a greater hero in his eyes than ever. You made him real.”

  “He is real enough, God knows!”

  “But you made him so to my son.” The keen eyes softened for one divine instant before they filled. “And I — I am talking my own boy over with — with — —”

  Stingaree stood in twofold embarrassment. Did she know after all who he was? And what had he said he was, the time before?

  “The lowest of the low,” he answered, with a twitch of his unshaven lips.

  “No! That you were not, or are not, whatever you may say. You—” she hesitated sweetly— “you had been unsteady when you were here before.” He twitched again, imperceptibly. “I am thankful to see that you are now more like what you must once have been. I can bear to tell you of my boy. Oh, sir, can you bear with me?”

  Stingaree twitched no more. Rich as the situation was, keenly as he had savored its unsuspected irony, the humor was all over for him. Here was a woman, still young, sweet and kind, and gentle as a childish memory, with her fine eyes full of tears! That was bad enough. To make it worse, she went on to tell him of her son, him an outlaw, him a bushranger with a price upon his skin, as she might have outlined the case to a consulting physician. The boy had been born in the trouble of her early exile; he could not help his temperament. He had countless virtues; she extolled him in beaming parentheses. But he had too much imagination and too little balance. He was morbidly wrapped up in the whole subject of romantic crime, and no less than possessed with the personality of this one romantic criminal.

  “I should be ashamed to tell you the childish lengths to which he has gone,” she went on, “if he were quite himself on the point. But indeed he is not. He is Stingaree in his heart, Stingaree in his dreams; it is as debasing a form as mental and temperamental weakness could well take; yet I know, who watch over him half of the night. He has an eye-glass; he keeps revolvers; he has even bought a white mare! He can look extremely like the portraits one has seen of the wretched man. But come with me one moment.”

  She took the lamp and led the way into the little room where Oswald Melvin slept. He had slept in it from that boyhood in which the brave woman had opened this sort of shop entirely for his sake. Music was his only talent; he was obviously not to be a genius in the musical world; but it was the only one in which she could foresee the selfish, self-willed child figuring with credit, and her foresight was only equalled by her resource. The business was ripe and ready for him when he grew up. And this was what he was making of it.

  But Stingaree saw only the little bed that had once been far too large, the Bible still by its side, read or unread, the parents’ portraits overhead. The mother was looking in an opposite direction; he followed her eyes, and there at the foot, where the infatuated fool could see it last thing at night and first in the morning, was an enlarged photograph of the bushranger himself.

  It had been taken in audacious circumstances a year or two before. A travelling photographer had been one of yet another coach-load turned out and stood in a line by the masterful masterless man.

  “Now you may take my photograph. The police refuse to know me when we do meet. Give them a chance.”

  And he had posed on the spot with eye-glass up and pistols pointed, as he saw himself now, not less than a quarter life-size, in a great gaudy frame. But while he stared Mrs. Melvin had been rummaging in a drawer, and when he turned she was staring in her turn with glassy eyes. In her hands was an empty mahogany case with velvet moulds which ought to have been filled by a brace of missing revolvers.

  “He kept it locked — he kept them in it!” she gasped. “He may have done it this very night!”

  “Done what?”

  “Stuck up the Deniliquin mail. That is his maddest dream. I have heard him boast of it to his friends — the brainless boys who alone look up to him — I have even heard him rave of it in his dreams!”

  Stingaree was heavy for a moment with a mental calculation. His head was a time-table of Cobb’s coaches on the Riverina road-system; he nodded it as he located the imperilled vehicle.

  “A dream it shall remain,” said he. “But there’s not a moment to lose!”

  “Do you propose to follow and stop him?”

  “If he really means it.”

  “He may not. He will ride at night. He is often out as late.”

  “Going and coming about the same time?”

  “Yes — now I think of it.”

  “Then his courage must have failed him hitherto, and it probably will again.”

  “But if not!”

  “I will cure him. But I must go at once. I have a horse not far away. I will gallop and meet the coach; if it is still safe, as you may be sure it will be, I shall scour the country for your son. I can tell him a fresh thing or two about Stingaree!”

  “God bless you!”

  “Leave him to me.”

  “Oh, may God bless you always!”

  His hands were in a lady’s hands once more. Stingaree withdrew them gently. And he looked his last into the brave wet eyes raised gratefully to his.

  The villain-worshipper was indeed duly posted in a certain belt of trees through which the coach-route ran, about half-way between the town and the first stage south. It was not his first nocturnal visit to the spot; often, as his prototype divined, had the mimic would-be desperado sat trembling on his hoary screw, revolvers ready, while the red eyes of the coach dilated down the road; and as often had the cumbrous ship pitched past unscathed. The week-kneed and weak-minded youth was too vain to feel much ashamed. He was biding his time, he could pick his night; one was too dark, another not dark enough; he had always some excuse for himself when he regained his room, still unstained by crime; and so the unhealthy excitement was deliciously maintained. To-night, as always when he sallied forth, the deed should be done; he only wished there was a shade less moon, and wondered whether he might not have done better to wait. But, as usual, the die was cast. And indeed it was quite a new complication that deterred this poor creature for the last time: he was feverishly expecting the coach when a patter of hoofs smote his ear from the opposite quarter.

  This was enough to stay an older and a bolder hand. Oswald tucked in his guns with unrealized relief. It was his last instinct to wait and see whether the horseman was worth attacking for his own sake; he had room for few ideas at the same time; and his only new one was the sense of a new danger, which he prepared to meet by pocketing his pistols as a child bolts stolen fruit. There was no thinking before the act; but it was perhaps as characteristic of the naturally honest man as of the coward.

  Stingaree swept through the trees at a gallop, the milk-white mare flashing in the moonlit patches. At the sight of her Oswald was convulsed with a premonition as to who was coming; his heart palpitated as even his heart had never done before; and yet he would have sat irresolute, inert, and let the man pass as he always let the coach, had the decision been left to him. The real milk-white mare affected the imitation in its turn as the coach-horses never had; and Oswald swayed and swam upon a whinnying steed. . . .

  “I thought you were Stingaree!”

  The anti-climax was as profound as the weakling’s relief. Yet there was a strong dash of indignation in his tone.

  �
�What if I am?”

  “But you’re not. You’re not half smart enough. You can’t tell me anything about Stingaree!”

  He put his eye-glass up with an air.

  Stingaree put up his.

  “You young fool!” said he.

  The thoroughbred mare, the eye-glass, a peeping pistol, were all superfluous evidence. There was the far more unmistakable authority of voice and eye and bearing. Yet the voice at least was somehow familiar to the ear of Oswald, who stuttered as much when he was able.

  “I must have heard it before, or have I dreamt it? I’ve thought a good deal about you, you know!”

  To do him justice, he was no longer very nervous, though still physically shaken. On the other hand, he began already to feel the elation of his dreams.

  “I do know. You’ve thought your soul into a pulp on the subject, and you must give it up,” said Stingaree, sternly.

  Oswald sat aghast.

  “But how on earth did you know?”

  “I’ve come straight from your mother. You’re breaking her heart.”

  “But how can you have come straight from her?”

  “I’ve come down for another melodeon. I’ve got to have one, too.”

  “Another — —”

  And Oswald Melvin knew his drunken whim-driver for what he had really been.

  “The yarn I told you about myself was true enough,” continued Stingaree. “Only the names were altered, as they say; it happened to the other fellow, not to me. I made it happen. He is hardly likely to have lived to tell the tale.”

  “Did he really try to betray you after what you’d done for him?”

  “More or less. He looked on me as fair game.”

  “But you had saved his life?”

  Stingaree shrugged.

  “We rode across him.”

  “And you think he perished of dust and thirst?”

  Stingaree nodded. “In torment!”

  “Then he got what he jolly well earned! Anything less would have been too good for him!” cried Oswald, and with a boyish, uncompromising heat which spoke to some human nature in him still.

  But Stingaree frowned up the moonlit track. There was still no sign of the coach. Yet time was short, and the morbid enthusiast was not to be disgusted; indeed, he was all enthusiasm now, and a less unattractive lad than the bushranger had hoped to find him. He looked the white screw and Oswald up and down as they sat in their saddles in the moonshine: it seemed like sunlight on that beaming fool.

  “And you think of commencing bushranger, do you?”

  “Rather!”

  “It’s a hard life while it lasts, and a nasty death to top up with.”

  “They don’t hang you for it.”

  “They might hang me for the man I put back in the vile dust from whence he sprung. They’d hang you in six months. You’ve too many nerves. You’d pull the trigger every time.”

  “A short life and a merry one!” cried the reckless Oswald. “I shouldn’t care.”

  “But your mother would,” retorted Stingaree, sharply. “Don’t think about yourself so much; think about her for a change.”

  The young man turned dusky in the moonlight; he was wounded where the Bishop had wounded him, and Stingaree was quick to see it — as quick to turn the knife round in the wound.

  “What a bushranger!” he jeered. “Put your plucky little mother in a side-saddle and she’d make two of you — ten of you — twenty of a puny, namby-pamby, conceited young idiot like you! Upon my word, Melvin, if I had a mother like you I should be ashamed of myself. I never had, I may tell you, or I shouldn’t have come down to a dog’s life like this.”

  The bushranger paused to watch the effect of his insults. It was not quite what he wanted. The youth would not hang his head. And, if he did not answer back, he looked back doggedly enough; for he could be dogged, in a passive way; it was his one hard quality, the knot in a character of green deal. Stingaree glanced up the road once more, but only for an instant.

  “It is a dog’s life,” he went on, “whether you believe it or not. But it takes a bull-dog to live it, and don’t you forget it. It’s no life for a young poodle like you! You can’t stick up a better man than yourself, not more than once or twice. It requires something more than a six-shooter, and a good deal more than was put into you, my son! But you shall see for yourself; look over your shoulder.”

  Oswald did so, and started in a fashion that set the bushranger nodding his scorn. It was only a pair of lamps still close together in the distance up the road.

  “The coach!” exclaimed the excited youth.

  “Exactly,” said Stingaree, “and I’m going to stick it up.”

  Excitement grew to frenzy in a flash.

  “I’ll help you!”

  “You’ll do no such thing. But you shall see how it’s done, and then ask yourself candidly if it’s nice work and if you’re the man to do it. Ride a hundred yards further in, tether your horse quickly in the thickest scrub you can find, then run back and climb into the fork of this gum-tree. You’ll have time; if you’re sharp I’ll give you a leg up. But I sha’n’t be surprised if I don’t see you again!”

  There is no saying what Oswald might have done, but for these last words. Certain it is that they set him galloping with an oath, and brought him back panting in another minute. The coach-lamps were not much wider apart. Stingaree awaited him, also on foot, and quicker than the telling Oswald was ensconced on high where he could see through the meagre drooping leaves with very little danger of being seen.

  “And if you come down before I’m done and gone — if it’s not to glory — I’ll run some lead through you! You’ll be the first!”

  Oswald perched reflecting on this final threat; and the scene soon enacted before his eyes was viewed as usual through the aura of his own egoism. He longed all the time to be taking part in it; he could see himself so distinctly at the work — save for about a minute in the middle, when for once in his life he held his breath and trembled for other skins.

  There had been no unusual feature. The life-size coach-lamps had shown their mountain-range of outside passengers against moonlit sky or trees. A cigar paled and reddened between the teeth of one, plain wreaths of smoke floated from his lips, with but an instant’s break when Stingaree rode out and stopped the coach. The three leaders reared; the two wheelers were pulled almost to their haunches. The driver was docile in deed, though profane in word; and Stingaree himself discovered a horrifying vocabulary out of keeping with his reputation. In incredibly few minutes driver and passengers were formed in a line and robbed in rotation, all but two ladies who were kept inside unmolested. A flagrant Irishman declared it was the proudest day of his life, and Oswald’s heart went out to him, though it rather displeased him to find his own sentiments shared by the vulgar. The man with the cigar kept it glowing all the time. The mail-bags were not demanded on this occasion. Stingaree had no time to waste on them. He was still collecting purse and watch, when Oswald’s young blood froze in the stiffening limbs he dared not move.

  One of the ladies had got down from the coach on the off side, and behold! it was a man wrapped in a rug, which dropped from him as he crept round behind the horses. At their head stood the lily mare, as if doing her own nefarious part by her own kind. In a twinkling the mad adventurer was on her back, and all this time Oswald longed to jump down, or at least to shout a warning to his hero, but, as usual, his desires were unproductive of word or deed. And then Stingaree saw his man.

  He did not fire; he did not shift sight or barrel for a moment from the docile file before him. “Barmaid! Barmaid, my pet!” he cried, and hardly looked to see what happened.

  But Oswald watched the mare stop, prick her ears under the hammering of unspurred heels, spin round, bucking as she spun, and toss her rider like a bull. There in the moonlight he lay like lead, with leaden face upturned to the shuddering youngster in the tree.

  “One of you a doctor?” asked Stingaree, checking a fo
rward movement of the file.

  “I am.”

  The cigar was paling between finger and thumb.

  “Then come you here and have a look at him. The rest of you move at your peril!”

  Stingaree led the way, stepping backward, but not as far as the injured man, who sat up ruefully as the bushranger sprang into the saddle.

  “Another yard, and I’d have grabbed your ankles!” said the man on the ground.

  “You’re a stout fellow, but I know more about this game than you,” the outlaw answered, riding to his distance and reining up. “If I didn’t you might have had me — but you must think of something better for Stingaree!”

  He galloped his mare into the bush and Oswald clung in lonely terror to his tree. A snatch of conversation called him to attention. The plundered party were clambering philosophically to their seats, while the driver blasphemed delightedly over the integrity of his mails.

  The mare spun round, bucking as she spun.

  “That wasn’t Stingaree,” said one.

  “You bet it was!”

  “How much? He hardly ever works so far south.”

  “And he’s nuts on mails.”

  “But if it wasn’t Stingaree, who was it?”

  “It was him all right. Look at the mare.”

  “She isn’t the only white ‘orse ever foaled,” remarked the driver, sorting his fistful of reins.

  “But who else could it have been?”

  The driver uttered an inspired imprecation.

  “I can tell you. I chanst to live in this here township we’re comin’ to. On second thoughts, I’ll keep it to myself till we get there.”

  And he cracked his whip.

  Oswald himself rode back to the township before the moon went down. He was very heavy with his own reflections. How magnificent! It had all surpassed his most extravagant imaginings — in audacity, in expedition, in simple mastery of the mutable many by the dominant one. He forgave Stingaree his gibes and insults; he could have forgiven a horse-whipping from that king of men. Stingaree had been his imaginary god before; he was a realized ideal from this night forth, and the reality outdid the dream.