Rigden cantered to the horse-paddock gate, and on and on along the
beaten track which intersected that enclosure, and which led ultimately
to a wool-shed pitched further from the head-station than wool-shed ever
was before or since. Rigden rode as though he were on his way thither;
he certainly had not the appearance of a man come to cut out horses in a
horse-paddock. His stock-whip was added to the bulging contents of the
dust-coat pockets, instead of being ready as a lance in rest. The rider
looked neither right nor left as he rode. He passed a mob of horses in
the moonlight, not without seeing them, but without a second glance.
Suddenly he left the track at a tangent; but there was no symptom of the
sudden thought. Rigden sat loosely in his saddle, careless but alert, a
man who knew every inch of the country, and his own mind to an
irreducible nicety. A clump of box rose in his path; a round-shot would
have cut through quicker, but not more unerringly. Rigden came out on
the edge of a chain of clay-pans, hard-baked by the sun, and shining
under the moon like so many water-holes.
Rigden rode a little way upon the nearest hard, smooth surface; then he
pulled up, and, looking back, could see scarcely any trace of his
horse's hoofs. He now flung a leg across the saddle, and sat as the
ladies while his quiet beast stood like bronze. A night-horse is _ex
officio_ a quiet beast.
Rigden wondered whether any man had ever before changed his boots on
horseback. When he proceeded it was afoot, with his arm through the
reins, and the pockets of the dust-coat bulging more than ever. From his
walk it was manifest that the new shoes pinched.
But they left no print unless he stamped with all his might. And that
was a very painful process. Rigden schooled himself to endure it,
however, and repeated the torture two or three times on his way across
the clay-pans. On such occasions the night-horse was made to halt (while
the stamping was done under its nose) and to pirouette in fashion that
must have astonished the modest animal almost as much as each fresh
inspiration astonished Rigden himself.
On the sandy ground beyond he merely led the horse until a fence was
reached. Here some minutes were spent, not only in strapping down the
wires and coaxing the night-horse over, but in some little deliberation
which ended in the making of mock footprints with his own boots,
without, however, putting them on. Rigden had still another mile to do
in the tight shoes for this his sin. It brought him to the pouting lips
of a tank (so called) where the moon shone in a mirror of still water
framed in slime. Here he gave his horse a drink, and, remounting,
changed his boots once more. A sharp canter brought him back to the
fence; it was crossed as before; the right horses were discovered and
cut out with the speed and precision of a master bushman; and at
half-past eleven exactly the thunder of their hoofs and the musketry of
Rigden's stock-whip were heard together in the barracks, where the rest
had gathered for a final pipe.
"Good time," said the sergeant, who was seated with his subordinate on
the storekeeper's bed.
"Not for him," said Spicer. "He said he'd be back by eleven. He's
generally better than his word."
"A really good man at his work--what?"
Bethune had been offered the only chair, and was not altogether pleased
with himself for having accepted it. It was rather a menagerie, this
storekeeper's room, with these policemen smoking their rank tobacco.
Theodore had offered them his cigars, to put an end to the reek, but his
offer had come too late. He hardly knew why he remained; not even to
himself would he admit his anxiety to know what was going to happen
next. A criminal case! It would teach him nothing; he never touched
criminal work; none of your obvious law and vulgar human interest for
him.
"Good man?" echoed Spicer the loyal. "One of the best on God's earth;
one of the straightest that ever stepped. Don't you make any mistake
about that, Bethune! I've known him longer than you."
The testimonial was superfluous in its warmth and fulness, yet not
uncalled for if Bethune's tone were taken seriously. It was, however,
merely the tone in which that captious critic was accustomed to refer to
the bulk of humanity; indeed, it was complimentary for him. Before more
could be added, "the straightest man that ever stepped" had entered,
looking the part. His step was crisp and confident; there was a lively
light in his eye.
"Have a job to find them?" inquired his champion.
"Well," said Rigden, "I found something else first."
"The man?" they all cried as one.
"No, not the man," said Rigden smiling. "Where's your tracker,
sergeant?"
"Put him in your travellers' hut, Mr. Rigden."
"Quite right. I only wanted to ask him something, but I dare say you
can tell me as well. Get that track pretty plain before you lost it
this afternoon?"
"Plain as a pikestaff, didn't we?" said the sergeant to his sub.
"My oath!" asseverated the trooper, who was a man of few words.
"Notice any peculiarity about it, Harkness?"
"Yes," said the sergeant.
"What?" pursued Rigden.
"That," said Harkness; and he produced a worn heel torn from its sole
and uppers.
"Exactly," said Rigden, nodding.
The sergeant sprang from the bed.
"Have you struck his tracks?"
"I won't say that," said Rigden. "All I undertake is to show you a
distinct track with no left heel to it all down the line. No, I won't
shake hands on it. It may lead to nothing."
All was now excitement in the small and smoky bedroom. The jackeroo had
appeared on the scene from his own room, to which his sensitive soul
ever banished him betimes. All were on their feet but Bethune, who
retained the only chair, but with eyes like half-sheathed blades, and
head at full-cock.
"Did you follow it up?" asked the sergeant.
"Yes, a bit."
"Where did you strike it?"
"I'll tell you what: you shall be escorted to the spot."
"Um!" said the sergeant; "not by all hands, I hope?"
"By Mr. Spicer and nobody else. I'd come myself, only I've found other
fish to fry. Look here, Spicer," continued Rigden, clapping the
storekeeper on the shoulder; "you know the clay-pans in the
horse-paddock? Well, you'll see my tracks there, and you'd better follow
them; there are just one or two of the others; but on the soft ground
you'll see the one as plain as the other. You'll have to cross the fence
into Butcher-boy; you'll see where I crossed it. That's our
killing-sheep paddock, Harkness; think your man could kill and eat a
sheep?"
"I could kill and eat you," said the sergeant cordially, "for the turn
you've done me."
"Thanks; but you wait and see how it pans out. All I guarantee is that
the tracks are there; how far they go is another matter. I only followed
them myself as far as the tank in Butcher-boy. And that reminds me:
there'll be a big muster to-morrow, Spicer. The tank in Butcher-boy's as
low as low; the Big Bushy tanks always go one worse; we'll muster Big
Bushy to-morrow, whether or no. I've been meaning to do it for some
time. Besides, it'll give you all the freer hand for those tracks,
sergeant: we shall be miles apart."
"That's all right," said the sergeant. "But I should have liked to get
on them to-night."
"The moon's pretty low."
Harkness looked out.
"You're right," he said. "We'll give it best till morning. Come, mate,
let's spell it while we can."
The rest separated forthwith. Bethune bade his future brother-in-law
good-night without congratulation or even comment on the discovery of
the tracks. Rigden lingered a moment with his lieutenants, and then
remarked that he had left his coat in the harness-room; he would go and
fetch it, and might be late, as he had letters to write for the mail.
"Can't I get the coat, sir?" asked the willing jackeroo.
Rigden turned upon him with unique irritation.
"No, you can't! You can go to bed and be jolly well up in time to do
your part to-morrow! It's you I am studying, my good fellow," he made
shift to add in a kindlier tone; "you can't expect to do your work
unless you get your sleep. And I want you to round up every hoof in the
horse-paddock by sunrise, and after that every man in the hut!"