DESERTED!
A vast sun-scorched plain stretching away in endless miles under a
blazing sky. A waterless desert, where the horses sunk fetlock-deep in
shifting sand, or were cruelly pricked by the thorny leafless shrub
which was the only living plant to be seen. No trees; no flowers; no
grass; no sparkle of water far or near. Such was the land Gray and
Lumley were riding through, four days after leaving Deadman's Gully.
In dull despair Gray had submitted to Lumley's plan for escaping the
police. It had never occurred to him to disbelieve Lumley's statement.
There seemed no reason for the lie, and he remembered Mr. Morton's
sudden keen glance at him the night he left the station. If it had
leaked out that he had gone searching for Dearing's hidden treasure,
they might well suspect him of ridding himself of Harding.
Gray's confidence in himself had altogether gone. Dull despair had
taken possession of him. The past he could not bear to think of. The
future made him shudder when he looked along the dreary years. What
was there left for him to live for?
They had passed the hill-country on the second day, and were now
crossing a portion of that arid region which lies to the north-west of
the mountains. Clay had brought with him a stock of food sufficient
for a week or more. There was no danger of starvation. It was water
that failed them.
A consuming thirst came upon Gray as the sun rode higher and higher in
the heavens. It was ten hours since he had tasted water, and his lips
and throat were becoming baked and painful.
"You are sure you know the track?" he said to Lumley, checking his
horse to look round him.
A light heat-mist was quivering over the plains. The air was intensely
hot and dry.
Lumley stopped his horse too.
"Thought you were never goin' to speak again," he said jeeringly. "I
know the track well enough. We shall see water in another twenty-four
hours, take my word for it."
Gray marvelled within himself how it was possible to follow any track
in such a place as this. They had been riding for miles and miles
without seeing a tree or a hillock, or even a dry water-course. One
mile was exactly like any other mile. But he said nothing more to his
companion. Silence was a boon Gray craved almost as much as he longed
for water. At first Lumley had thrust his talk upon him, and found
pleasure in the misery he inflicted on Gray by his coarse jokes and
cruel jeers. But he had grown more silent lately, and for the last
hour or so had not spoken at all.
He was riding now a little in advance of Gray, looking round him with
somewhat anxious eyes. He was looking for a group of cypress-trees.
He felt sure they were riding in the right direction, but he had a
strong reason for wishing to see them rise on the horizon before
another halt. When once he saw them his course would be clear and
easy. He would know his position exactly, and reach water in an hour
or two.
Gray saw that his companion was looking for some landmark; but Lumley
said nothing of the object of his search. He had never mentioned the
cypress-trees to Gray. Gray had asked him once how he would guide
himself across the desert, and he had refused to answer.
"You'd like to make off by yourself, wouldn't you?" he had said with a
jeering laugh; "stick a knife into me, and leave me for the flies to
feed on? No, no, partner; we'll jog on together. You sha'n't serve me
as you served your mate. Not if I know it."
Gray had given up asserting his innocence of Harding's actual murder.
His words had not the slightest effect on Lumley. It was not that he
pretended to believe in Gray's guilt Gray saw, and saw truly, that his
companion actually believed that he had murdered Harding in cold blood
and buried him in some secret place. Clay had only laughed at his
declarations of innocence.
"What's there to make such a fuss about, partner? I never did see such
a cove for making believe. But you can't take Bill Clay in, my lad. I
can tell a rogue directly I set eyes on him. By fellow-feeling, you
see."
The day grew hotter and hotter. The air that blew against their faces
as they rode along was dry and scorching. It was like riding in a
heated furnace. Suddenly Lumley gave a shout. He had seen on the
horizon, through the quivering heat-mist, three cypresses pointing with
black fingers to the sky. He knew as he looked that it was but an
illusion, a mirage. But he knew, too, that the real cypresses, of
which he saw the shadows, were in that direction, and not so very far
off.
Gray saw the cypresses in the same moment.
"Trees!" he cried eagerly--for where trees grew water must be near.
"You're a pretty fellow to go bush-riding," grumbled Lumley. "They
ain't trees--not real ones, so to speak. They're clouds."
And Gray saw for himself how misty the dark outlines were; and even as
he looked he saw the mirage disappear. But he marked the point in the
horizon at which the mirage had appeared, and was astonished to see
Lumley suddenly turn his horse in a totally different direction.
"Surely it would be better to go that way. There must be water near."
"Go by yourself, then," snarled Lumley, over his shoulder; "and a good
riddance too."
He rode sulkily on and Gray followed him. When they had gone a few
miles Clay's horse gave a stumble, and Clay sprang off.
"He's dead beat," he said. "We'll rest here."
"But---" Gray began, and then he stopped. What was the use of
speaking? He was forced to trust to Lumley's guidance.
They lay down on the baked scorched soil, hobbling their horses that
they might not wander far. Gray flung himself on the sand, face
downwards, careless of the hot sun that poured upon him. Lumley went a
few paces off to a bed of polygonum, the gloomy leafless bramble of the
wilderness. He scooped out a hollow in the sand below the bramble and
lay down there in the tiny oasis of shadow he had thus obtained.
Unseen of Gray he took a bottle he had secreted in his pocket and drank
the few drops remaining in it, then corked it and put it back. Then he
turned upon his side and slept.
He was sleeping still when Gray roused himself from the heavy stupor of
despair that had come upon him and sat up. There lay the grim horrible
wilderness all about him. A short distance off the horses were
standing with drooping heads and panting sides. In the scanty shadow
of the bramble Lumley lay asleep.
Gray got up and walked to Lumley's side, and stood looking down on the
evil face as if his eyes were drawn there by some horrible fascination.
The convict slept heavily, his face turned upwards to the sky. Gray
saw that his lips were wet. He had water, then! Gray had suspected
that he had, but he did not try to find out where it was hidden. He
turned away with a shudder and flung himself down upon the ground again.
It was growing dusk when Lumley woke from that heavy sleep. He started
up wildly and looked round him. For days he had kept awake fearing
treachery from Gray if he let sleep overcome him. Now he had been
sleeping for many hours. The sun had been blazing in a clear sky when
he fell asleep; now the sky was covered with thick gray clouds, and
night was close at hand. He looked round him and saw at once the two
horses. A second glance showed him Gray lying with his face upon one
arm not far from him. Lumley approached, and saw that he was asleep.
He bent over him to satisfy himself the sleep was not feigned, and then
turned towards the horses. It was not difficult to catch them, and he
had prepared to mount when an idea struck him. Taking a scrap from his
pocket, the page on which Gray had reproduced Dearing's map for him, he
scrawled a few words, putting the paper on his saddle to write. Then
he softly approached Gray, and stuck the paper into the sand by a
branch of bramble. When this was done he crept back again to the
horses.
He remained looking at them reflectively for a moment. His own horse
stood with drooping head and panting sides, evidently nearly done for,
but Gray's horse had borne the long journey well. Lumley had already
fastened the bag containing the money and the pistols to his own
saddle, but now he shifted it to the other. Gray's horse turned an
uneasy glance on him as he did so; and Lumley had a little difficulty
in mounting it. But he got into the saddle at last, and taking the
bridle of his own horse in his hand he rode away, giving a backward
look now and then to the man he was deserting.
Night came, a thick starless night with clouds hanging low over the
desert. A cool wind came with the clouds and blew on Gray, and he
slept. He was worn out, and he slept hour after hour. The dawn was
breaking when he at last awoke. His sleep had been so deep, so
dreamless, that in it he had forgotten all that had happened. But
memory came quickly back. He started up and looked round for Lumley
and the horses.
All was still, with a stillness unknown save in desert lands. The
silence was profound. In the gray dawn he could see the plains with
perfect distinctness. He looked round him from horizon to horizon.
There was no living thing in sight. He was alone.
He understood instantly what had happened. Lumley had deserted him.
His first feeling was one of absolute relief. He had escaped from that
hateful bondage. It was not for some moments that he realized the
hopelessness of his position. Ignorant of the track, alone, on foot,
without water or food, what hope was there for him of escaping from the
desert? Gray knew how little hope there was. As he had deserted
Harding, so he in turn had been deserted. As Harding had perished, so
he too would perish. He looked his fate in the face with the calmness
of despair.
Before he had fallen asleep he had made up his mind to give himself up
to the police and meet the charge brought against him if once he
escaped from the wilds. It seemed to him now as if God had refused him
a chance of proving his repentance. He was to perish in the
wilderness, an outcast from God and man.
He sank down on the ground again, and sat there with his elbows on his
knees, his head propped on his hands, staring steadily before him. In
the dawn the wide level spaces of the wilderness resembled the pastures
that had surrounded their hut. Gray found himself remembering his life
there with intense clearness. He saw Harding busy about the hut, ever
cheerful, ever ready. He saw him among the cattle, strong of hand,
alert of eye. He saw him riding home in the twilight, talking of his
wife and his little lads; turning in his stirrups to give a word of
cheer to Watch; or bearing Gray's grumbling talk with cheerful patience.
What depths of steadfast affection there were in the heart of that
rough man! Once when Gray was ill he had tended him like a woman. He
had sat beside him night after night in unwearying affection. Gray
remembered how he had lifted him from bed to chair, as he might have
lifted a child. He seemed to feel the pressure of his hand on his
shoulder still as he stood over him, pressing him to eat some dainty he
had prepared, to see his rugged kindly face bending over him. What
would he not give for a sight of that kind face now, and a touch of
that strong honest hand?
Gray's stony despair gave way; the hard, desperate look on his face
softened. He burst into bitter tears. His frame shook with the
strong, terrible crying of despairing grief.
But the tears did him good; they cleared his brain, and made it
possible for him to think of what was best for him to do. He no longer
felt inclined to give up without a struggle for life. He got up from
the ground and looked round him with a new strength. It was then he
saw the note Lumley had stuck into the sand beside him. He picked it
up and read it. It was only a few scrawled words:
"_The police ain't after you at all, Mr. Gentleman Gray, so you can
clear out of the Bush as soon as you like. I'll not split on you, and
you won't on me, I guess._
"_N.B. Dead men tell no tales._"
The words were perfectly clear in the pale morning light. Gray read
them and then threw the paper away with a shudder. He felt no anger
against Lumley, only a sick horror that made anger impossible. What
Lumley had done was what he himself had done. He deserved his fate.
The knowledge that the police held no warrant against him, that the
story was but a trick of Lumley's to get him into the Bush, affected
him strangely little. He had made up his mind to tell the whole story
if ever he got back to the haunts of men again. The confession he had
to make would be a purely voluntary one now; that was his chief thought
as he read Lumley's letter.