FACING DEATH
Lumley paused a moment before answering that last speech of Gray's.
Then his tone was mild and smooth.
"What's the good of talking like that, mate? But just look there." He
pointed to his foot again as he spoke. "Does it look as if 'twould
carry me half a dozen miles? Or a mile? Or a couple of yards? And
I've hurt my side as well. Broke a rib or two, maybe. I tried
crawlin' a while ago, but I couldn't even manage that. I'm no better
than a log--only fit for the crows, partner. What's the good of water
to me when I can't get at it?"
His tone was so mild and reasonable that Gray felt no difficulty in
answering him.
"But half a dozen miles is nothing to me. Give me that bottle. I'll
be back before sunrise." He paused a moment, and then as he saw the
expression in the other's face he added impetuously, "I swear it. Good
heavens, Lumley, you don't think I would desert you? You don't think
that?"
The fury that had once or twice swept away Lumley's coolness had come
upon him again, and he no longer cared to restrain it. He lifted
himself, shaking one clenched fist towards Gray.
"Do you think I'd trust you for a single minute, you smooth-tongued
hypocrite!" he screamed. "You'd be glad enough to leave me lyin' here,
wouldn't you? But you're not going to get the chance, Mr. Gentleman
Gray. We'll stick together, like partners should. The crows sha'n't
feast on me alone, I'll tell you that."
Gray made no attempt to answer him just then. When Lumley stopped
speaking and sank back with a groan of pain on the sand, Gray turned
and walked away a few paces, and stood trying to get some mastery over
the trembling sick misery that seemed ready to overpower him. There
was no anger in his heart against the man whose deep, laboured breaths
he could still hear behind him. It was only natural, Gray said to
himself, that he should believe him capable of deserting him. He had
deserved to be thought willing to commit even such a baseness as that.
Yet if he could not convince Lumley that he was to be trusted, there
was nothing but death for both of them. Gray had felt incapable of
reasoning with his companion for the moment, incapable even of speech.
He had felt ready to give up the struggle--to let it all end there.
But as he stood fighting manfully with his weakness, strength came to
him--power to will and act as a brave man should. The far-off
moon-clear skyline, the stars faintly shining in the upper blue, the
solemn moonlight, the rustle of the wind in the dry grasses, all seemed
to have a message for him--to whisper hope, to lift him out of himself,
to give him courage to make another fight for life.
He went back to Lumley, and sat down again where he had sat before.
"Listen to me a moment, Lumley," he said. "You say you know where
water is?"
"_Say_ I know? I _do_ know, partner; you may lay your life to that,"
responded Lumley harshly.
He had been lying watching Gray, wondering what his next move would be.
Gray's quiet manner was a surprise to him.
"Very well, you do know. Now, I will tell you what I am going to do.
I shall wait a few moments for you to tell me where it lies--"
"You may wait a hundred years if you like," broke in Lumley with a
savage look.
"And then I mean to set off to try and find it for myself," went on
Gray, as if Lumley had not spoken. "You have told me too much if you
did not mean to tell me more. I shall walk six miles in one direction,
and if I do not get in sight of the trees, I shall walk back and try
again. I must hit upon them at last, you know."
"You'd never do it," said Lumley scoffingly. "You're nigh beat
already. You'd die in your tracks."
"You're wrong there," returned Gray, with a quiet confidence that had
its due effect on his companion. "I shall not be walking aimlessly,
you see, and in this moonlight there's no fear of going over the same
ground again. I am convinced I shall reach the water in time enough
for myself. It is you who will probably suffer for keeping back the
information you possess."
"What d'ye mean by that?" broke from Lumley fiercely.
"Just this," said Gray, keeping his glance steadily fixed upon him: "if
I could reach this water without delay I should be able to get back to
you with a supply; but if I wear out my strength in getting there, I
may not be able to get back to you in time. Surely you can see that?"
Lumley glared at him like a trapped beast.
"You're just the one to come back, ain't you?" he exclaimed. "A cove
what murdered his own mate for a bit of flimsy. You're one to be
trusted, ain't you?"
"You must believe that if you will," said Gray calmly. His voice
faltered as he went on after a momentary pause. "I betrayed my
mate--the truest, best mate man ever had; but I'll be true to you,
Lumley, if you'll give me the chance. I am not the man I was."
The only answer Lumley vouchsafed to that was a harsh mocking laugh.
Gray did not speak again, and they sat in silence for some moments,
while Lumley dragged up his injured foot and rubbed it, keeping a
furtive scrutiny on Gray's determined face. When he had first heard
Gray's call and answered it, he had not made up his mind as to whether
he should trust him or no, and through their first talk he had wavered
to and fro--now feeling ready to risk the chance that Gray would come
back to him, now savagely vowing within himself that they should both
die, almost within sight of the water that would be life to them,
rather than Gray should alone escape. At the last this savage mood had
conquered, and he had felt it impossible to trust Gray with his
precious secret.
But now he began to see clearly enough that he had outwitted himself.
The trees were so near, and such a striking landmark, that Gray was
certain to find them if he had strength enough to persevere for some
hours in the search; and that he had strength enough, Lumley could not
but believe as he looked at his quiet resolute face.
The silence continued for some moments. It was broken by Gray.
"I think I have given you time enough," he said, getting deliberately
on his feet. "Now, which is it to be, Lumley? I shall start in
another moment."
A fierce oath escaped Lumley's lips.
"I'll not be left to rot here," he snarled out. "I'll walk it somehow.
Give me your arm, partner."
He made a clutch at it, and dragged himself slowly and painfully to his
feet. The agony of movement turned Lumley's face to the clammy hue of
death, but he would not give way to the pain. He essayed to walk
forward, but after the first step Gray stood still.
"You can't do it, Lumley. It is madness to attempt it."
Lumley glared at him for a moment, and then suddenly yielded.
"You're right, partner; I'm beat. You've got the best of it this time.
Now help me back again, and I'll tell you all I know."
Gray helped him back to the hillock, and put his foot in as comfortable
a position as possible.
"I'll be back to you before many hours are over, Lumley. I'll make all
the haste I can," he said, his tone softened by a sudden pity for the
disabled man.
Lumley looked up at him with implacable eyes.
"Ill believe you when I see you, mate. But you've bested me all round,
and I've got to trust you, you see."
He dragged out the flat bottle from his pocket, and held it up to Gray.
"Turn your back on the moon and walk straight on; and if I ever see you
again you're a bigger fool than I take you for."
"I shall come back," Gray said briefly.
He pocketed the bottle, and turned sharply away in the direction Lumley
had pointed out.
He was hardly conscious of fatigue as he pressed across the sandy
waste. Even the torture of thirst had grown less since hope had come
to him. He hurried on with strong, eager footsteps, expecting every
moment to see the trees lift themselves against the sky. Once the
terrible thought came to him that Lumley had been deceiving him all the
time, and his story of the water was a lie; but as he remembered
Lumley's looks and words, and recalled the intensity of excitement in
his face when he had left him, he knew that there was indeed water
close at hand. Then, again, when he seemed to have been walking for a
long time, and the horizon still lay before him bare and unbroken, he
began to suspect that Lumley had wilfully misled him, and the water lay
in another direction.
But it was almost immediately after this that his foot struck against a
shrub, and looking down he saw he had come upon a banksia, a sign, as
he was bushman enough to know, that better country was close ahead.
The green leaves of the pretty little shrub were a welcome sight, and
it was shortly after passing this that he saw the tops of the cypresses
begin to show themselves against the sky-line, as the mast of a ship
lifts first above the sea-line.
Gray pushed on with renewed energy, and it was not long before he was
close to the gloomy trees. A cloud of birds, the crows Lumley had
spoken of, rose from the trees as Gray approached, and flew screaming
over his head. He listened to their harsh voices with a shudder, and
hastily struck away to the left, where a low ridge crossed the plain
and hid what lay beyond.
It took him some time to reach and breast the ridge, and his strength
was nearly at an end when he at last gained the top and looked down on
the shallow valley below. He could not see the shining stretch of
water Lumley had spoken of, the valley was too thickly covered with
shrubby undergrowth for that. But even in the moonlight Gray could see
that this undergrowth was densely green, and that the trees that sprang
above it were full of life and vigour.
And as he descended the ridge he came upon a faint track through the
underwood--a native track, Gray felt sure, and one that led to the
water. He hurried along it, piercing deeper and deeper into the dark
recesses of the wood. But the darkness had no terrors for Gray. He
felt the track under his feet, and pressed boldly onward, pushing away
the interlacing boughs with his hands as he went. And presently there
came a faint light through the trees ahead, and in a few more steps he
came out into a little open space, and saw the reflection of the
moonlight in a round, deeply-fringed pool close before him.
For the moment he saw nothing but the glimmering sheen of that water.
He flung himself down with a cry, and plunged his face in it. It was
stagnant, it was thick with mud and floating weeds, but it was fresh,
and to Gray it was purest nectar. He had self-control enough left not
to drink too much at once, but he lay by the side of the pool with
hands and arms buried deep in it, utterly oblivious for the moment of
everything but the mere physical delight the water brought to him.
How long he lay there he never knew. He could never recall that time
except as a vague memory. He could remember breaking out of the wood
and seeing the little moonlit pool before him, but after that it was
all confused. What brought him back to clear consciousness was a
movement somewhere on the other side of the pool, where the branches of
a tree cast a flickering shadow on the grass. Gray started up, dizzy
and trembling; but his first glance showed him what it was. His horse
had found its way to the water before him, drawn by some sure and
marvellous instinct, and now had drawn close again to the pool, gazing
across at its master with mild recognizing eyes.
Gray cautiously approached it, fearing it might start away; but it
showed no desire to escape. It arched its neck and whinnied joyfully
when Gray came close. It was evidently delighted to feel its master's
hand again. Gray stood by its side, patting it and speaking to it,
finding strange delight in its joyful welcome. The wallet containing
the money still hung at the saddle, with the rough bag in which Lumley
had carried the food.
Gray, standing by the horse, took out some food and hurriedly ate it.
He would not trust himself to sit down again; he felt that sleep might
suddenly overcome him unawares. When he had eaten a few morsels--he
found it too difficult to swallow to be able to eat much--he carefully
filled the bottle he carried, and the larger bottle that was in the bag
with the food, drank a deep draught himself and allowed his horse to
drink, and then, holding the horse by the bridle, he began to pick his
way along the path by which he had come.
The horse followed him quietly; it was only when they emerged from the
wood and began to ascend the slope of the ridge that it showed the
first signs of unwillingness. Gray had to encourage it by voice and
hand before he could prevail upon it to take the upward path.
Gray was able to discern more clearly now how worn out the poor
creature was by all it had gone through. He felt an impulse once to
let it have its way, and let it remain in the valley, but he dismissed
the impulse at once. The horse was too useful, too necessary to be
dispensed with.
They reached the brow of the ridge, and there Gray rested for a while.
He had not mounted the horse, he had determined to go on leading it for
some time longer at least. He doubted if it had strength left to carry
him. He stood beside the horse with the bridle in his hand, and looked
down upon the vast plain stretching away from the foot of the ridge.
Up to that point Gray, since finding the horse, had acted
instinctively, almost as an automaton might act. He was so worn out,
so numb with privation and fatigue, that he had not gone in thought
beyond the present moment. But now it was as if a cloud had lifted
from his brain; he saw the whole position in a glance. What had been
his heart's dearest wish was fulfilled for him. All he had coveted,
all he had betrayed his mate Harding to get, was at last within his
grasp. He had but to turn his horse's head away from that silent,
secret-keeping bush, and the gold was safely his.
Gray did not thrust the thought from him; he let his mind dwell upon
it, he regarded it steadily; for his eyes had been opened to see in
what the real happiness and worth of life consisted. Through suffering
and humiliation he had learnt to measure things at their right value.
In contact with a man who had deliberately chosen evil to be his good
he had been taught what evil meant. The temptation that had once been
too strong for him was no longer a temptation. He could see the full
baseness of it now. Better death, better open confession and a
dishonoured name, than life and honour bought by treachery and guile.
The trees stood up dark and funereal against the cloudless sky. His
path lay beneath them, and on towards the moonlit east.
"Come, we must start, old fellow," Gray said to the reluctant horse,
and he began to descend the slope of the ridge.