NED GUNLIFFE walked across the yard to where Darby the Bull was leaning
on the rails of the fence, and smoking a contemplative pipe.
“Darby,” said Ned, “I want you to do something for Miss Ess. We want to
go for a moonlight canter, and I suppose if that trooper sees us
running up the horses or taking a saddle down, he’ll want to interfere.
Now do you think you could keep him inside for a few minutes till we
get away?”
Darby took the pipe from his mouth and looked at Ned.
“Did ye say Miss Ess wanted to go alone wi’ you?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Ned. “Go and ask her if you like.”
Darby turned without a word and walked across to the house. Ned saw him
knock and heard him speak to Ess. Presently he came back and nodded to
Ned. “I’ll fix ’im,” he said.
“Just entice him inside for five minutes,” said Ned. “We don’t want any
fuss, you know. Say you want to show him something—anything you like,
and keep him talking. Look at the clock when you go in, and allow us a
good five minutes. Persuade him to stay inside that length of time.”
“Right,” said Darby, and strode off to the bunkhouse.
He found the policeman sitting in the doorway smoking. Darby walked in.
“Look ’ere, mate,” he said confidentially, “there’s somethin’ ’ere I
want to show you.”
“Hey? What is it?” said the trooper, looking round lazily.
“Can’t you stir your stumps enough to come an’ look?” asked Darby, and
after another look at Ned, strolling quietly across the yard, the
trooper rose and went inside. He found Darby lighting a match and
looking at the clock on the shelf.
“It’s too dark to see much ’ere,” said the trooper, “unless you wants
me to see that clock.”
“No, I wants you to see more’n that,” said Darby. “Wait till I light
the lamp.” He fumbled with the lamp for some time, and when he had it
lit saw with satisfaction that a good minute of his time had already
gone. He looked vaguely round the room, and wondered what he was to
show.
“Well, what is it?” said the trooper. He glanced suspiciously at the
door and took a step towards it.
“Here,” said Darby, sinking his voice to a mysterious pitch. “Come
inside; I don’t want anyone to see me show this.” He glanced round the
room again, and inspiration came to him. These chaps was always
interested in Steve, so——
“D’you know whose bunk that is—was?” he asked, jerking a finger at one
of the bunks ranged round the wall.
“Is—was? D’you mean Steve’s?” asked the trooper, with suddenly aroused
interest.
Darby restrained himself from uttering the usual formula. He nodded.
“That’s what I want to show you,” he said. The trooper approached the
bunk curiously. “What about it?” he asked. “See anything in it?” said
Darby, hugely pleased with himself. This was simple, he thought.
“Blankets,” said the trooper, and ran his hand over them. “Anything
else?” said Darby, sitting down and crossing his legs complacently. The
minutes were flying steadily. The trooper jerked the blankets off the
bunk, and after a look at Darby suddenly hauled the mattress up and ran
his hand underneath. He had vague thoughts of finding the weapon which
did the deed, or something equally important. He found nothing.
“There’s nothing ’ere,” he said, “excep’ blankets an’ mattress.”
“Like to see what’s inside the mattress?” asked Darby, smoothly. The
trooper felt it all over. He turned it over and felt it again. He
occupied two or three minutes in convincing himself there was nothing
there but straw.
“There’s nothin’ in it but straw, far’s I can make out,” he said, with
a puzzled look at Darby, sitting there and smiling contentedly at him.
“Wot’s the game?”
“Now wot d’you think could be in wi’ straw in a mattress that you
couldn’t feel from the outside?” asked Darby. The trooper thought it
over. “Papers—a letter?” said the trooper, excitedly. “Papers, _or_ a
letter,” agreed Darby, with great satisfaction. He had been vainly
racking his brain to think of something to suggest himself. The trooper
whipped a knife out and slit the end of the mattress open, and
commenced to grope in it. It was well over the five minutes, but Darby
watched him, with the greatest interest in what he would suggest next,
or do when he found there was nothing. But the trooper suddenly raised
his head. He had heard the faint far-off click of a horse’s hoof on a
stone. Darby heard it the same moment, and with one stride was beside
the trooper.
“Show ’im something, an’ persuade ’im to stay for five minutes,”
thought Darby, with a sudden spasm of doubt as to whether that meant
five minutes for each item or for both.
“It’s all right,” he said to the trooper. “I just want to persuade you
to stop ’ere a minute or two longer.”
But the trooper’s suspicions were thoroughly roused now, and he jumped
for the door. Darby caught him by the skirt of his coat in passing and
swung him back violently. The trooper’s hand went to his hip, but
Darby’s hand went to his and took a grip. And what Darby gripped
usually held still. The trooper recognised this, but he made a
desperate effort to free himself. Darby twirled him round and threw his
arms round him, pinning the trooper’s arms rigidly to his side.
The trooper could use his tongue if he could use nothing else, and he
did so with fluency and effect. But Darby held him till a total of ten
minutes was gone, and then quietly released him.
The trooper faced him with another burst of language and a heavy
revolver pointing in his face. “What—d’you mean?” he demanded.
“It’s orright,” said Darby. “I’ve showed you something, an’ I’ve
persuaded you to stay five minutes. It’s orright. You can go now,” and
he waved a huge hand towards the open door.
The trooper sprang through it, but was back in a few minutes. “Where’s
yer mate gone, blast ye?” he shouted.
“Gone for a moonlight ride wi’ the gal,” said Darby, soothingly.
“They’ll be back by’n’bye. You wouldn’t want to go runnin’ after a
young couple that way, would you? And besides,” he added, “I dessay Ned
shoved the ’orses to the back end o’ the paddock while ’e was at it.
But go’n catch yours if you want to. In fac’, I’ll ’elp if you like.”
But the trooper had had enough of Darby’s assistance. “You’ll hear
suthin’ more o’ this,” he said viciously. “I suppose you know what you
stand to get for interferin’ wi’ a constable in the execution o’ ’is
duty.”
“No,” said Darby, with interest. “Tell me. An’ tell me wot was the
duty—an’ I didn’t execute you any,” he shouted after the trooper as he
hurried out and down in the direction of the horse paddock. “An’, hi
you!” he yelled into the darkness, “’adn’t you better come back an’
tidy up that straw you spilt?”
In the meantime Ned and Ess had made good use of the start Darby had
given them, and they rode forward in silence at a hard canter. The moon
made the track clear to be seen, and Ned Gunliffe rode well in advance.
Ess rode with a mind whirling with doubts, anger with Ned and with
herself, with fears—fears for herself and for Steve—and, worst of all,
with a dreadful and sickening apprehension of what she was going to see.
They rode steadily till they came to the spot from which Ned had first
seen the light, and he pulled up there and slid to the ground. “Can you
dismount, or shall I help you?” he asked smoothly. Ess was riding
across-saddle, and she caught her divided skirt up on the off side and
swung neatly to the ground without answering.
He took the reins and tied the two horses to a bush.
“They are up in the old hut a wild-dogger used to live in. It’s empty
now, and Steve and the woman are there.”
“So you say,” she said stiffly. “I am here to see.”
“Then follow me, please,” he said. “I need not warn you to move
quietly, unless you wish to warn him and give the woman time to slip
away. I will go slowly, so that you can keep close.”
He started to clamber over the rocks and up the hill, and, as silently
as she could do so, she followed him. The moon was almost down now, and
there was barely light to see, and the hill was rough and covered with
loose rocks. But Ned Gunliffe moved as quietly as if he were on a grass
sward, and moved slowly and patiently to allow the girl to keep up with
him without undue noise.
“Wait here and rest a moment and get your breath,” he whispered. “Can
you see the hut? And can you see that chink of light? They’re inside.”
They waited while Ess could hear the blood drumming and thundering in
her ears. “If a stone rattles or we make any noise,” whispered Ned
again, “lie down behind a stone or behind me. He might shoot.” She
nodded. She could not have spoken at that moment for her life, and they
commenced to move up again, lifting each foot cautiously, and setting
it down gently and slowly; and so they came to within a dozen paces of
the door. They could clearly see the streak of light shining round the
edges of it, and they could hear the low murmur of voices coming from
inside the hut.
“You had better speak first,” whispered Ned. “Otherwise he may fling
the door wide and shoot, or make a rush. Stand well behind me, and call
him and say who you are.”
But Ess felt her courage rising. She had nothing to fear, she told
herself. If it were Steve in there, he could explain everything to her.
If it were not Steve, and Ned Gunliffe had some plot or purpose of his
own which she had not fathomed ... she slipped her hand inside her
pocket and gripped the butt of a pistol, and half drew it free. Then
she raised her voice, and called sharp and clear “Steve—are you there,
Steve? This is Ess speaking.”
There was an instant of silence and tense suspense, and almost on the
second the streak of light outlining the door winked out. They heard
distinctly the thud of bare feet on the floor, as if a man had leaped
from a bed or chair, then a hissing whisper, and then a voice. “All
right, Ess. Just a minute. Are you alone?”
Her nerves had been singing like tensed wires under the strain of that
short moment of silence, and she could have screamed aloud with joy at
the relief his voice brought. It was his voice—Steve’s voice—never a
doubt of that. She steadied her own and answered, “Only Ned Gunliffe.
May I come in?”
“No,” he answered sharply. “Just give me a second, and I’ll be with
you.”
A minute later the door opened, and Steve stepped out and closed it
behind him. Ess moved from behind Ned and would have run forward, but
he put a hand on her arm.
“Ask him who is in the hut there,” he said quietly.
Ess stopped abruptly. She had forgotten everything else for the moment
in the joy of seeing Steve there. But Ned had shown no sign, made no
sound of surprise or disappointment.
“What is it, Ess? What are you doing here? Is anything wrong?” asked
Steve.
“I came to—Ned said——” she faltered, suddenly burning with shame.
“I brought her,” Ned Gunliffe cut in, “so that she could ask you who is
the woman you have in there? Or, if you will let Miss Lincoln satisfy
herself that there is no woman, I will apologise to her and to you, and
we can go.”
He spoke with something of a sneer, and Steve stooped and peered at him
in the dim light.
“So,” he said. “And if I refuse to satisfy you—and I fancy it is you
and not her who needs satisfying—what then?”
Ned laughed scornfully. “Then there will be nothing more to be said,
and Miss Lincoln can draw her own conclusions.”
Steve stood silent a moment, and then he looked at Ess. “Will you take
my word for it, Ess? There is no woman in the hut.”
She uttered a glad cry. “I knew it was wrong, Steve. I——”
“Then you can have no objection to letting us see who is there. You
will not deny there is somebody, I suppose?” said Ned.
Steve turned on him furiously. “I will let you see nothing. What
infernal right have you to come shoving in here?
“The right of any decent man to see that a girl is not fooled by a
blackguard,” Ned said, coolly. “To go no further than that, I have
right enough.”
“Steve,” Ess cried piteously, “what need to talk of rights? Surely you
will admit my right to know who is in there.”
“I will admit the right of no one—not even you, Ess,” Steve said, with
his head up. “To doubt my word, that has never been refused by man or
woman or child. I give you my word there is no woman in the hut.”
“Perhaps there is a back way or a window, and she has slipped out,”
sneered Ned. Then his tone changed to an angry key. “What’s the use of
bluffing? The game’s up, and you know it. You’re clever enough with
women, we all know, but you can’t well bring two of them face to face
and fool them at the same time.”
“I’ll pay you for that and for this night’s work, Ned Gunliffe,” said
Steve, savagely. Then he turned to Ess. “What is it to be, Ess? Will
you believe me—or not?”
“And before she answers,” said Ned, “she may take my word, and set the
two to choose from. Last night, Miss Ess, I saw a woman come from this
door at daybreak, and I saw Steve Knight, and I heard them speak, and I
heard her promise to be here to-night. That I will swear to. I brought
you here to-night knowing the woman would be here. Whether I am right
or not, you can judge for yourself.”
“Steve,” Ess said in a voice half choked with sobs, “tell me it isn’t
true. Tell me it’s all a mistake. Let us see who is in there. Stevie,
can’t you see how you’re hurting me? Can’t you see how my love is
fighting to believe you, and you won’t let it? Have you none of the
love left for me that my heart is craving and aching for? Steve, Steve.”
“Your love must fight for its own hand, Ess,” said Steve, sternly. “I
can give you no help.”
“You can give me no help, Steve?” she cried wonderingly. “No help?”
“I think we may go,” said Ned Gunliffe. “There is no more to be said,
is there?”
A cold doubt was springing up, and flooding and chilling her heart. She
made a last effort to choke it back. “Tell me there was no woman with
you last night—that there is no one else you love——”
Ned Gunliffe interrupted her. “For God’s sake, do not lower yourself
any more to that man,” he cried passionately. “I cannot stand by and
listen to it; and remember there is another woman there listening to
it.”
His words caught her and held her rigid, her face pale, and her fingers
gripped and shaking on the riding switch she carried.
“A last word,” she said hoarsely. “Can you deny all he has said? Is it
true? Yes or No?”
Steve stood silent, and swiftly the chill waters of doubt were swept
away in a boiling surge of rage and shame. She drew herself erect, and
her voice vibrated with scorn and passion. “I can go then? I can tell
myself that I have sunk to being merely another of your conquests—that,
even as you held me in your arms, you were smiling to yourself to think
I had been caught as easily as any of them—that you went with my kisses
hot on your lips straight to another woman—that wherever I go I am to
be pointed and laughed at behind my back as one more of Fly-by-Night’s
girls. Oh, I could hate myself, even as I hate you.”
Steve took a step forward and held his arms out to her. “Will you let
me speak to you alone for one minute, Ess?” he said. Even in that faint
light she could see something of his sunken eyes and haggard cheeks.
But she could see also his half-dressed appearance, his feet thrust
into unlaced boots, the jacket flung over his shoulders without a shirt
beneath, and the meaning was driven home to her by Ned Gunliffe’s
words—“Aren’t we keeping you from your—from the woman you have just
left?” he said sneeringly.
Steve swung round on him with a bitter oath and jerked a revolver from
his pocket. “Get back,” he snapped at him; “get back, you hound, or
I’ll shoot you as you stand. D’you think I can’t see your hand in this?
D’you think I don’t see the game you’re playing?”
He took another step forward, but Ess stepped to meet him.
“He is going,” she said, “and I am going with him. He is right, and we
are keeping you from—from _her_.”
She laid a bitter emphasis on the last word, and at that his rage
caught fire from hers and flared through him like flame through a dead
gum.
“Then go with him,” he snarled, “and let him keep you if he can. He’ll
find it hard to do, if you shed all your loves as easy as you shed
mine.”
Her anger twisted his words to even more than they were ever meant.
“Keep me,” she panted, “you hound——” and lifted the whip she carried
and struck him full across the face. “Do you think all men and women
are light-o’loves like yourself? He has asked me to marry him, and
although I did not answer before, I’ll answer him now—Yes, if he will
have one who has soiled herself to think she ever loved you.”
And now the leaping flame of his rage died down and hid itself behind
light and mocking words, even as the searing red heart of the fire
cloaks itself under light and feathery ash.
He stood and looked at her for ten long heart-beats, and then his taut
figure slacked, he half turned and lounged back a step, and threw his
head up with a mocking laugh.
“So-ho, that’s it?” he cried. “You turn the trick then, Ned? I
congratulate you on the win—if not on the way you played the hand.”
“Take your congratulations with you to—where you’ll end,” said Ned
Gunliffe.
Steve laughed again. “To where I’ll end? So the game’s not played out
with me yet. Perhaps you plan the wedding day for the day I’m hanged.
But I may cheat you yet, Ned, and live to send you a wedding present. A
neat design, say, of hands clasped through a hangman’s noose.”
“Let us go,” said Ess in low tones to Ned Gunliffe. She felt weak and
exhausted, and near the point of breaking down.
“Or, perhaps,” said Steve, “you would prefer me to wait here till you
can make sure of me. Are the troopers waiting below, may I ask?”
Ned Gunliffe turned his head. “You are free to go—for all of us,” he
flung back.
“Thank you,” said Steve. “Fortunate for me, I suppose, that we were not
married. The gallows would have been needed then to free her, and you’d
have brought the troopers with you.”
They went down the hill together, leaving him still standing there,
laughing softly, but horribly.
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