The news that a small mob of cattle had been bought by Vale, and were to
arrive on the following day, caused great satisfaction to the diggers,
and that night the “Roan Pack-Horse” was crowded with diggers, who had
not for many months tasted meat of any kind, except now and then a
scrub wallaby. Game of any kind was scarce, and hard to shoot, and
the diggers, although they cheerfully paid adventurous packers three
shillings for a small tin of sardines, and five for a tin of American
salmon, wanted beef of some kind--even if it were that of a worn-out
working bullock--if such a treasure could have been found. Vale, for
business and other purposes, had carefully avoided telling any one until
the last moment that he had sent a letter to Gerrard, offering him ten
pounds per head for one or two hundred young cattle, delivered to him in
fair condition. A “cute” man of business, he had the idea of forming the
nucleus of a herd with which to stock some adjacent country to “Hansen's
Rush,” and being also in his rough way a sentimentalist, he meant to
give the diggers a surprise--for a satisfactory _quid pro quo_. He would
sell them fresh beef at two shillings a pound, when they were willing
to pay double, instead of eating “tinned dog,” as they termed the New
Zealand and American canned beef and mutton they bought from the packers
at exorbitant prices, and often cast aside with disgust and much vivid
language.
At nine o'clock on the following morning, Gerrard and his three black
stockmen appeared, driving before them the mob of young cattle--steers,
young heifers, and a few bulls; and the diggers gave him an uproarious
welcome, for work on the claims had been stopped for that day at least,
and they had been waiting for him.
“Good morning, boys,” cried Gerrard, as the mob of cattle was rounded
up by his black stockmen, and he, swinging his right foot up out of the
stirrup, sat sideways on his saddle. “Just show me those you want for
killing, Vale, and I'll cut them out for you right away. Then I'll turn
the rest over to you to tail.{*} I've had enough of 'em, and want a
drink.”
* “Tail”--a drover or stockman who is set to keep a mob of
cattle from straying “tails” them--i.e., follows at their
tails.
“Here you are, Mr Gerrard,” cried a big, hairy-faced digger, who was
holding a bottle of beer in one hand, and a tin pannikin in the other;
“a bottle of genuine Tennant's India Ale, acceptable to the most tender
stomach, and recommended by the faculty for nuns, nurses, bullock
drivers, and other delicate persons.”
The crowd laughed, and then Gerrard, after satisfying his thirst, “cut
out” (separated from the rest of the mob) three fat steers indicated by
Vale; they were at once taken to the killing yard, and the remainder
of the animals driven down to the creek to drink, and Gerrard's
responsibility ceased.
Amongst those who watched the arrival of the cattle were Aulain and
Forreste. They were on the outskirts of the crowd, leaning against the
rough “chock and dog leg” fence which served to enclose an acre or so
of ground used as a horse-paddock by the diggers. Early in the day as it
was, Aulain's sallow face was flushed from drinking. He and Forreste had
come to an understanding the previous night. The gentlemanly “Captain”
did not take long to discover the cause of Aulain's hatred of Gerrard,
and he inflamed it still further by telling him a well-connected
series of lies about his frequently having seen Kate Fraser clasped in
Gerrard's arms on the deck of the _Gambier_, when they imagined that
they were unobserved, and Aulain, who was now hardly sane, believed him
implicitly.
“Let me deal with him first,” he had said; “you can have your turn after
I have finished with him.”
“You don't mean to kill him?” asked Forreste; “if you do, I'm out of it
I have a score to settle with him, but not in that way.”
“Settle it in any way you like,” said Aulain savagely, “but don't
interfere with me. I'm not going to kill him, but I am going to make him
suffer for his treachery to me. But,” and he turned to Forreste with a
sneer, “you seem very diffident in the matter of killing any one just
now. Perhaps you and your friends acted rather impulsively in the matter
of Trooper Angus Irving.”
“What do you mean?” cried Forreste hoarsely, and his face blanched with
mingled rage and terror.
“I have not been five years in the Native Police without gaining some
experience. And when you and your friends galloped after the black
tracker, one of your number lost his moleskin saddle-cloth, did he not?”
Forreste made no answer, though his lips moved.
“_I_ found that saddle-cloth two months ago, and recognised it as
belonging to your mate Cheyne, for he once lent it to me. It was a
great mistake of his to gallop over rough country with loose
girths--especially upon such an occasion as that. Fifty ounces of gold
was not worth it.”
Forreste, a coward at heart, collapsed. “We could not help it We were
trying to unbuckle his valise from his saddle when he awoke, and----
“And--I understand. So please say no more of what followed. It does not
concern me, and you need not look so ghastly white.”
Then he walked away to his tent, for he did not wish to be seen by
Gerrard--at that time.
But a few hours later the latter learnt quite accidentally from Vale
that his one-time friend was at Hansen's, and had been one of the
card-playing party of the previous night Vale was speaking of the great
yields from some of the claims on the field, and mentioned that “Aulain,
who had been in the Nigger Police,” had a pretty rich one. Gerrard
was surprised to hear of his being at Hansen's, for he and the Frasers
thought he had gone to the new rush at Cape Grenville on the east coast.
Of her quarrel with him Kate had told Gerrard but little, but her father
had given him the story in detail, and it had angered him greatly.
“Would you care to go over to his claim, and have a yarn with him?” said
Vale; “it's only about a mile away. I think he wants to sell out.”
“No, I don't want to see him. I know him very well, and he was once a
great friend of mine, but he is not now, and I don't think it would be
advisable for us to meet. He nurses an imaginary grievance against me.”
Vale nodded. “He's a queer fellow, and I am sure he's not quite right
in the upper story. Sometimes he won't speak to a soul for a week at
a time; then he has a drinking bout, and goes off his head entirely.
I feel sorry for him, for it is a pity to see a gentleman come down
so low, and associate with spielers and card-sharpers. The men he was
playing with last night are a shady lot--a man called Forreste, and his
mates Cheyne and Capel----”
“Ha!” cried Gerrard, “so that gang is here? I know a good deal about
_them,_” and he told Vale of what had occurred on board the _Gambier_
when Fraser had thrown Capel across the deck.
“I thought they were a fishy crowd, and there are lots of men here who
believe they are gold-stealers, but so far they have been too clever and
have escaped detection.”
“Well, I can tell you that Capel, otherwise Barney Green, is one of the
most notorious gold thieves in Australia, and served a sentence in New
South Wales.”
“Can I make that known?”
“Certainly. It should be known. You can call upon me to repeat what I
have told you to the whole camp.”
“Very well, but not to-day. They'll be sure to be here to-night at the
shivoo, and as some of the boys are certain to be pretty groggy they
might half-kill the whole gang. But I'll go for them in the morning, if
you'll back me up.”
“Of course I will. But I don't think they will show up to-night, if they
know I am here.”
In this surmise Gerrard was correct, for Forreste and his companions
kept away, being particularly anxious not to come into personal contact
with him, and in pursuance of a plan of their own. After the cattle
had been killed, they sent a neighbouring digger to buy some beef, and
remained at their claim for the rest of the day. Forreste, however,
went to several of the other claims, and told the owners that he and his
mates thought of clearing out in a day or so, and would sell their claim
cheap.
In an hour or two he came back, and found Cheyne outside the tent,
repairing their saddles. Green and Pinkerton were busy at the claim,
cradling the last of the wash-dirt taken out.
“What luck?” asked Cheyne.
“Better than I expected. Old Sandy MacParland and his party are coming
here to-morrow morning, and are going to give the claim a day's trial.
If they like it, they will buy us out for one hundred pounds.”
“Pity we haven't got time to salt it,{*} and get a bigger price.”
* “Salting” a gold mine is a common practice of dishonest
miners not entirely unknown even to magnates of the Stock
Exchange--as the records of the London Law Courts have shown
for many years past.
“MacFarland is too old a hand to be got at that way,” replied the
captain, as he walked on to the claim to tell Green and Pinkerton his
news.
“We can get away to-morrow evening before sunset,” he said, after he had
told them the result of his negotiations with MacParland. “Cheyne
says we can camp at Leichhardt Ponds that night, push on early in the
morning, and wait for our man at Rocky Waterholes, where he is sure to
camp for the night.”
“He'll want a good rest if Aulain does him up to-night,” said Capel with
an evil grin.