Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: cover art]
[Frontispiece: "SO YOU HAVEN'T LEFT ME TO THE CROWS" Page 159]
The Bushranger's Secret
BY
MRS. HENRY CLARKE
Author of "The Ravensworth Scholarship"
"The Mystery of the Manor House" &c.
_ILLUSTRATED BY W. S. STACEY_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
_Printed and bound in Great Britain_
BOOKS OF THIS SERIES
_BOYS_
The War of the Axe. J. Percy-Groves.
Hammond's Hard Lines. Skelton Kuppord.
The Bushranger's Secret. Mrs. Henry Clarke.
The Penang Pirate. John C. Hutcheson.
In the Hands of the Malays. G. A. Henty.
In the Hands of the Cave Dwellers. G. A. Henty.
Dick Chester. G. I. Whitham.
For the Old School. Florence Coombe.
Sturdy and Strong. G. A. Henty.
Marooned on Australia. E. Favenc.
In the Great White Land. Dr. Gordon Stables, R.N.
The Captured Cruiser. C. J. Cutcliffe Hyne.
Westward with Columbus. Dr. Gordon Stables, R.N.
Hal Hungerford. J. R. Hutchinson.
Dr. Jolliffe's Boys. Lewis Hough.
Olaf the Glorious. Robert Leighton.
_GIRLS_
The Two Dorothys. Mrs. Herbert Martin.
Susan. Amy Walton.
The Hawthorns. Amy Walton.
Penelope and the Others. Amy Walton.
The Ravensworth Scholarship. Mrs. Henry Clarke.
The Eversley Secrets. Evelyn Everett-Green.
The Mystery of Kittle-Boy. Jennie Chappell.
A Soldier's Daughter. G. A. Henty.
Comrades from Canada. May Wynne.
An Unexpected Hero. Elizabeth J. Lysaght.
The Ferry House Girls. Bessie Marchant.
Meg's Friend. Alice Corkran.
_BOYS AND GIRLS_
Into the Haven. Annie S. Swan.
A Pair of Clogs, and other Stories. Amy Walton.
That Merry Crew. Florence Coombe.
Our Friend Jim. Geraldine Mockler.
The House of the Five Poplars. Lucy Crump.
Three Bears and Gwen. May Wynne.
Tony's Chums. May Wynne.
When Auntie Lil took Charge. May Wynne.
The Eagle's Nest. S. E. Cartwright.
Three's Company. May Wynne.
The Lady Isobel. Eliza F. Pollard.
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW BOMBAY
CONTENTS.
Chap.
I. A Fugitive
II. Tempted!
III. At Warrandilla
IV. In Quest of Treasure
V. Deadman's Gully
VI. The Treasure Found
VII. Deserted!
VIII. Lost in the Bush
IX. Facing Death
X. A Grim Sort of Picnic
XI. A Ruthless Villain
XII. Under Green Boughs
ILLUSTRATIONS
"SO YOU HAVEN'T LEFT ME TO THE CROWS" . . . . . . _Frontispiece_
"HERE, GIVE IT ME BACK," SAID THE BUSHRANGER
THE MEETING IN "DEADMAN'S GULLY"
A TREACHEROUS BLOW
THE BUSHRANGER'S SECRET
CHAPTER I.
A FUGITIVE.
Two men were sitting together in a small outlying hut on one of the
great grazing farms of South Australia. The hut was a comfortless
place. The floor was of beaten earth. Two bunks for sleeping were
fixed to the log wall. Above one of the bunks hung the framed
photograph of a comely woman, with two bright-faced lads leaning
against her. It was the only picture on the walls. A rough table
stood opposite the window, and behind the table was a wooden bench.
Above the bench there was a shelf, and a stand for guns.
The men were sitting on the bench. They had not long returned from a
hard day's riding. The elder man was leaning back against the wall in
a heavy sleep. The other, a slender, dark-eyed fellow, hardly more
than a lad, was looking at him with a gloomy contemptuous irritation in
his glance.
"Better asleep than awake, though," he muttered to himself, after a
moment. "What can he talk about but cattle and horses?"
He shrugged his shoulders, and got up from his seat and stretched
himself. The dog lying at the older man's feet, with its paw resting
on one of them, raised its head sharply at Gray's movement, but did not
attempt to get up even when Gray went to the door and opened it,
letting the light of their lamp flow out in a steady stream.
All round the hut stretched the gray level grass-lands, rolling away in
vast monotony to a far horizon. A wide sky arched over them, in which
the stars were shining with a soft yet brilliant splendour. Gray
glanced carelessly up at that glorious sky. He believed himself to be
endowed with a keen sense of the beautiful. He prided himself on his
distaste for ugly surroundings. When he had earned the fortune he had
come to Australia to earn he meant to prove to the world how keen and
true his artistic tastes were. But he glanced carelessly up at the
shining stars. They had no message for him.
After standing in the doorway a moment he turned back into the hut,
shutting the door behind him with a sudden bang that made Harding start
up, rubbing his eyes.
"Why, I must have been asleep!" he said with a surprised air. He drew
himself up to his full height, towering like a good-tempered giant over
Gray's slight figure. "I'm tired out, and that's a fact," he added
apologetically. "I think I'll turn in." Gray did not answer. He
flung himself down on the bench and began to pare his finger-nails,
looking at each finger critically as he finished it, and taking no
notice of Harding. The elder man regarded him doubtfully.
"In a wax, old man?" he said in a deprecating voice. Gray flung him a
vicious look over his shoulder, and returned to his nails. Harding's
face had a very tender expression in it as he advanced a step and put
out his hand to touch the young man's shoulder.
"If it's anything I've done," he began in a shuffling, awkward, kindly
tone--
Gray turned upon him with startling suddenness.
"Anything you've done?" he demanded, squaring his arms on the table,
and fixing his dark glance on Harding. "You needn't flatter yourself
that I care a rap for what you do or don't do. Turn in, and leave me
to myself."
"Come, come, Gray, don't take a fellow like that. You're tired out; I
can see you're just tired out."
"I _am_ tired out," responded Gray grimly. "Tired of it all. Tired
and sick of you along with the rest of it. A pretty life this is to
live. A pretty companion you make, don't you?"
"Well, well, things may better soon," said the other soothingly. "I
wish I was more book-learned for your sake, old fellow. But that's
past wishing for, ain't it? And you'll have to make the best of me for
a spell."
"Best or worst, I can't endure this life any longer," returned Gray
impatiently. "I'll ride over to the station to-morrow and give it up;
or end it quicker than that perhaps;" and he glanced up with a dark
look at the loaded gun lying across the shelf.
Harding knew Gray well enough to be able to disregard that look, but he
spoke very seriously.
"You'll not be such a foolish lad as to throw up your berth in a fit of
temper. This won't last much longer. You will be called in to the
station in a week or two and given a better post; and it's your duty to
stick on here till you're called in, you see."
"Duty!" Gray flung the word at him like a missile.
Harding's mild eyes looked at him in gentle reproof.
"It's a fine thing to do, my lad. No man can do more if he lived in a
king's palace. And a man who does his duty is greater than a king."
"That's all rubbish, talk like that," returned Gray sharply. "You just
drop it, Harding."
He got up, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, and leant against
the wall. His eyes went round the hut.
"A king's palace!" he said with a hard laugh. "Verily it needs strong
imagination to think of such a place here. What a hole to live in!
But I'll not stand it much longer."
Harding did not answer this time. He went up to his bunk and took from
under the pillow his little shabbily bound Bible and sat down to read
his evening chapter.
Gray watched him moodily; but in a moment his attention was drawn off
by the strange behaviour of the dog, which, when Harding had sat down
on his bunk, had crawled under it.
But it had come out again almost at once, and now stood in the middle
of the hut, with its head bent and its ears upraised in the attitude of
intent listening.
"What's the matter with the dog?" said Gray. "He hears somebody."
Harding looked up.
"Nobody ever comes this way; it's out of the track. Come here, Watch.
You're dreaming, old fellow."
The dog turned its head and looked at its master, gave a slow wag of
its tail to show that it heard his voice, and then with a dash it
sprang at the door, barking fiercely.
Harding got up and flung back the door. His movement was so sudden,
that a man who had crept up to the hut and was now leaning against the
door had no time to recover himself, and staggered forward into the
hut. Watch retreated, still growling fiercely, but restrained from
attacking the stranger by a gesture of its master. Gray made a clutch
at the gun above his head, but the next moment withdrew his hand. That
pitiful, abject, trembling fugitive was not a man to take arms against.
The stranger staggered across the hut and crouched down against the
opposite wall, breathing in short hurried pants. His face was
painfully thin, and as white as death. From a long jagged wound, half
hidden by his matted hair, blood was trickling in a dark slow stream.
The clothes he wore were torn to tatters. You could see his skin
through the rents.
He crouched back against the wall, hugging his arms against his breast,
and looking from Gray to Harding with a wild agonized entreaty in his
eyes. It was the look of a hunted animal appealing for mercy rather
than the look of a man asking help of fellow-men. He was evidently
unable to speak. He tried to articulate something, but his baked,
blistered lips refused their office.
"He's just done for," said Gray. Harding nodded, and going up to the
pannikin of cold tea on the shelf took out some in a cup and held it to
the stranger's lips. He drank it up greedily and then words came to
him.
"Don't give me up," he cried out in a strange hoarse scream, and fell
along the floor huddled up in a dreadful heap.
The two men looked at each other.
"It's plain enough to see what he is," said Gray with a slight shrug of
the shoulders. "Shall we have to entertain the rest of the gang, do
you think?"
"The police, more likely, lad. They're close on his track, I fancy."
He bent over the man and straightened him out. Gray did not attempt to
help him; he stood looking down at the wretched fugitive with a cold
unsympathizing curiosity in his handsome face as he said:
"He isn't dead, is he?"
As he spoke the man opened his eyes and gazed up at them. Wild
gleaming dark eyes they were, looking all the darker for the haggard
pallor of his face. He raised himself on his elbow and made a clutch
at his breast. There was something hidden there, and he kept his hand
closed upon it.
Harding put the cup with more tea to his lips again, and again he drank
greedily. Then he tried to raise himself into a sitting posture, but
sank back on the floor.
"I'll cheat the beaks after all," he said hoarsely. A grim smile
flickered over his face. "I swore I'd never be caught."
He looked from one man to the other.
"They'll make no gallows-bird o' me," he added with a sort of hoarse
chuckle. He still kept his hand clutched upon his breast. Gray
noticed the action, and a vivid curiosity rose up in him to know what
the man kept so jealously hidden there. He must have shown this in his
face, for the man addressed him sharply.
"What are you starin' at, eh? Do you think I've got the Kohinoor
hidden about me? Well, I ain't got it."
"I don't think anything about you, my man," replied Gray loftily. He
turned to Harding. "What are we going to do with him?"
"Lend me a hand and we'll lift him on my bunk," said Harding.
"I'll lie here," broke from the man. "You just leave me alone." He
pushed away the food Harding offered him. "I can't swallow. Just
leave me alone."
Gray shrugged his shoulders and walked to the door. The man's eyes
followed him with a suspicious glance.
"Thinks himself a fine gentleman, it's plain," he muttered. Then he
beckoned to Harding. "Do you know Princes Street, Adelaide, mate?" he
whispered.
Harding nodded.
"No. 5 Princes Street, top floor. You give two knocks. Write that
down."
Harding took out his worn pocket-book and wrote it down. The man lay
staring up at him, then with a sudden effort, as if his mind was at
last made up, he dragged a tattered scrap of yellow paper from his
breast and held it up to Harding.
"Send it--_there_," and he feebly nodded at the pocket-book in
Harding's hand.
Gray was still standing in the doorway, looking out over the level
pastures. He half expected to hear the gallop of well-trained horses,
the shout of authoritative voices; but all was still, the police had
missed the track. He shut the door and came back into the hut.
"Make your mind easy, my friend," he said in a half-sneering tone.
"It's all quiet outside."
The man gave him a dark look and raised himself towards Harding.
"Here, give it me back," he said, with a hasty snatch at it. "Your
pal's no call to see it."
[Illustration: "HERE, GIVE IT ME BACK," SAID THE BUSHRANGER]
Harding had raised the paper towards the lamp-light, and was looking
scrutinizingly at it. It seemed to be a rough map. There was a wavy
line that evidently represented the course of a ravine or gully, and on
each side were jagged marks that betokened rising ground. Right across
the paper ran the words in large ill-formed characters:
"_Deadman's Gully._"
About the middle of the paper there was a sort of big blot, and
underneath in smaller words was written:
"_Big gum. Dig five feet due south from hole._"
Gray came leisurely up to Harding's side.
"What is it?" he said, holding out his hand for the paper.
A scowl came over the face of the man on the ground. He flung himself
upward and snatched the paper from Harding's hand with a violent oath.
The effort was too much for him, and he fell back groaning and
helpless. But he still kept the paper clutched in his right hand, and
his eyes fixed themselves on Gray with something of the look of a
trapped wild beast.
"Keep off, can't you!" he gasped out. "A pretty gentleman you are,
pryin' and sneakin' like that."
Gray stood over him, looking down upon him with a cold cynical regard
that seemed to madden the man.
"Better step back and leave him to me," whispered Harding.
Gray laughed.
"All right! but play fair, old fellow."
Harding's mild eyes looked their wonder at him, but Gray only laughed
again and went back to the table, where he sat with his head propped on
his hands watching the two.
Harding dragged his box out from under his bunk and sat down on it.
The man lay still for a moment and then painfully raised himself into a
sitting posture against the wall.
"Look here," he said. "Do you think I'm dyin'?"
"Yes," said Harding briefly.
"Before mornin'?"
"I don't believe you have many hours to live."
"Right, that's what I think myself. I've cheated the beaks, eh?"
Harding was silent. The man looked sharply at him.
"You've got that address written down?"
"Yes, but I can't send that paper."
"You can't send it?"
The words dropped slowly from the man's lips.
"Of course I can't," returned Harding. "You know that well enough."
"You won't send it," repeated the man again, with a dull rage in his
voice. The paper was still clutched in his hand, and he looked at it
and then up at Harding. "There's a fortin in it," he whispered under
his breath. "Bill 'ull go shares. Here, you take it. You go to 5
Princes Street, top floor, and ask for Bill Clay. He'll go shares, and
thankful."
Harding made no attempt to take the paper. He merely said:
"Tear it up if you like, but if you give it to me I shall hand it over
to the police."
The man stared at him with a fierce incredulity in his gleaming dark
eyes.
"There's a fortin in it," he repeated, as if the words must convince
Harding of his foolishness--"a fortin, mate. And you carn't miss the
place. Bill, he knows Deadman's Gully."
He held out the paper, but Harding shook his head and said:
"You are wasting your words."
"You won't send it? Look here, just look here." He stopped to moisten
his dry lips, and then went on:
"You've heard of Tom Dearing?"
Harding nodded. It was the name of a noted bushranger, whose last
crime had been a daring robbery of the chief bank of Adelaide.
"Well, I'm Tom Dearing. Now you know."
Harding gazed silently at him. He could not get the right words to
speak, but it did not need words to make Dearing understand the intense
ardent desire to help him that was flooding Harding's soul. It
affected the man strangely. He forgot the buried treasure for a
moment. The paper fluttered out of his hand and fell on the floor as
he cried:
"You're sorry for me; sorry for _me_!"
"I'm dead sorry for you, lad," said Harding with slow fervent
utterance. "You've been spending your life in getting trash like
that"--he waved his hand toward the paper. "And now you've got to die,
and go before God. He'll be sorry for you too. If I'm sorry, a man
like me, what must God's sorrow be for such a life as yours has been!
Don't think about that hateful money, lad. Let it lie where you've
laid it if you like."
Harding took the paper up and thrust it back into the man's fingers as
he said:
"Tear it up. But you've got a chance to show you're ashamed for what
you've done. Give the money back to those you stole it from. 'Tis all
you can do now to make amends."
The man gazed irresolutely at him.
"You talk mighty fine, but what's to hinder you grabbin' the whole
blessed lot?"
"Nothing."
That single word said everything. Dearing stared fixedly at Harding
for a moment, and then thrust the paper into his hand.
"Here, take it," he said. "And if there's anything good you've got to
say to me, let's hear it. I'll listen to you, old man. You act up to
what you talk of."