Whether the dream or the hand of fate gave him his course I know not,
but Bill rode a straight line, up hill and down dale. When he came to a
fence or a log he made his horse jump it. There was no going round or
turning back, till he found himself descending a steep, rugged spot,
known as the Devil's Punch Bowl.
"This is the place I saw in my dream," he said aloud; "but where is the
dead man?"
A little stream wound in and out among the rocks. The hum of bees and
the smell of honey filled the air. Wattles waved their yellow tassels,
and reflected splashes of gold on the water. Wild mint, fennel, and
chamomile dipped their feet in the water, and wove two ribbons of green
on the margin of the brook, as far as the eye could measure them.
He came to a little track which his bush experience taught him was made
by man. He followed it to the water's edge. Here it had a grim ending. A
bucket and an old pannikin stood on a stone; a fresh footmark was
printed, sharp and clear, on a patch of damp earth; and the body of a
man, motionless, asleep or dead, was half hidden among the herbage,
growing lush and tall, as if trying to screen it with loving hands.
Bill jumped off his horse, and gently turned the man over on his back
and looked at him. One glance was enough. Two eyes, wide open, and
horrible to behold, met his gaze. A faint smile seemed to linger about
the mouth. The face appeared to be chiselled marble. It was easy to see
that Death had aimed true, and that his dart had struck home.
Bill, nevertheless, instinctively put his finger on the dead man's
pulse, and placed his hand over the heart. They were both still as a
rundown clock, and stopped for ever.
A letter had fallen from the man's pocket when he was being turned
over. Bill took it up in the hope that it would disclose something. The
writing was in a woman's hand, full of affection, repetition, and
platitude. It wound up with, "Your loving daughter, Mary." There was a
date on the top, but no address. There was an envelope, and the postmark
was Melbourne.
"Not much clue," said Bill; "nameless, so far." The man, evidently, by
the clay smears on his trousers, and by the general appearance of his
clothes, was a digger.
"I saw a tent in my dream, so I'll look for it," said Bill.
He went along the little track for a hundred yards, and there, behind
some stunted bushes, stood a weather-stained, ragged tent. Everything
about it was squalid, unkempt, unwashed, and unlovely. The only bit of
sentiment, or romance if you will, was a photograph of a girl, pinned to
the tent, at the head of the bed. There was a pathetic look about the
eyes which seemed to follow him wherever he turned. They haunted him,
and illumined the tent. After a short time he went up to the portrait,
and stared at it for five minutes, studying every feature.
"I suppose you are Mary," he said; "I feel we are to meet some day, and
you are to come into my life."
Below the photograph, and also pinned to the canvas, was a rude diagram.
At one end of a line was a triangle; at the other end a curious tree
with two branches touching the ground. Between the triangle and the tree
was a big dot, and at the dot were two figures, but whether 45 or 65 he
could not tell. An arrow pointed to them.
He kissed the photograph, unpinned it carefully, and put it in his
pocket.
Then he took down the diagram and examined it more carefully. There was
an almost undecipherable scrawl at the bottom, which he made out to be,
"For Mary." He put the diagram in his purse.
"This morning," he whispered, "I thought I was tied to shearing for
life; now I am harnessed, in some mysterious way, to a romance. This
dead man clutches me like the Old Man of the Mountain. He has me in his
grip; and this Mary moves me strangely. Shall we ever meet?"
He mounted his horse, and cantered down the valley till he came to the
main road, where he stood uncertain where to turn. At first he thought
of going to the nearest township, twelve miles to the east, to report
the finding of the body, so that an inquest might be held; but it
occurred to him that his movements this morning might savour of madness,
or worse, and he might be called upon to show why he left the shed so
abruptly. He might be accused of causing the old man's death. These and
suchlike thoughts ran up and down his brain for some time; then he
slowly turned his horse to the west, and rode furiously till he came to
the Yantala woolshed.
The men had finished dinner, had washed and brushed up a bit, and were
catching their horses preparatory to dispersing till Sunday night.
Constable Duffus was coming out of the manager's hut, where he had
dropped in for dinner. Bill told his tale to him, and the manager,
coming up at that moment, listened with all his ears. One by one the
shearers and the rouseabouts clustered, like a swarm of bees round their
queen, and hung about Bill with open mouth, while he told of finding
the dead body at the Devil's Punch Bowl.
"Fwhat's this?" said the constable; "a man kicked de bucket widout
benefit av clargy. Och! the lonely man. To turn yer toes up to de sky,
an' nobody handy to close yer eyes, is gashtly creepy."
"But what's to be done?" said Bill. "We must give the poor man decent
burial, an' find out where he came from, an' whether he has a wife or
children, an' all about him."
"Them lonely buffers never have wife, nor chick, nor child, nor uncle,
nor aunt, nor any other frind," said the constable. "They've got a story
tacked on their back like a clout, every mother's son av thim. Or maybe,
every patch on their trousers is stitched wid a mother's tears or a
wife's groans. They've generally been turned out av the family for the
drink or the disgrace av them. Tin to wan you'll find he's prison
cropped, or you'll percaive a broad arrow on his small clothes."
"He looks as if he had been a decent old chap; respectable like, honest,
but poor," said Bill.
"We must have an inquisht," said the constable "on Monday morning, at
tin o'clock, say, at the Pretty Sally Inn. I'll requisition a cart av
ye, Mr. McDonald."
"All right," said the manager.
A cart was obtained, and the constable requested Bill to accompany him
to the spot where the corpse was lying. He was nothing loth, as he hoped
to find out where the dead man came from, and discover the whereabouts
of the girl whose portrait had so strangely moved him.
The body was taken to the inn the same afternoon.