THE RUSH FOR THE BOAT.
The look in Petit’s eyes when he perceived the boat was not calculated
to reassure Tom and Dave. Dave’s face showed gruesomely pale in
contrast with his red hair, and no one would have recognised in Tom the
high-spirited youth, who, garbed in nothing but a sense of injury, had
defied his tyrannical parent only a few days before.
Dave, who had got into the habit of taking his cue from his superior
officer, was ready to bolt, but Tom made no sign. After a visible effort
to control his emotion, he began to gaze abstractedly round at the
fig-trees.
Petit crept up to them.
“Hist!” he exclaimed, with a significant glance at the boat, which was
making towards the point of the island.
“We just came acrost for a billy of water,” explained Tom, _sotto voce_,
“we was goin’ to have the tea biled again you woke up.”
He was trying to catch Dave’s eye.
Petit had crouched down beside them; his knife between his teeth.
“Make ze leetle noise,” he hissed; “make ze evair so leetle an’ I will
keel you both.”
“I ain’t goin’ to make no nise,” said Tom, emphatically.
“Neither am I,” pleaded Dave, in an earnest voice. “We never seen the
boat till just when you came along.”
This attempt to allay Petit’s suspicions may have been successful or
otherwise. The Frenchman made no sign.
Dave fully expected that his throat was to be cut at last.
He dared not look at the boat, but watched the face of the escapee as a
condemned criminal might watch the face of his executioner.
The boat was within twenty yards of the shore, and not more than a
hundred from where they lay in the scrub.
It happened that the day being a public holiday, Dan Creyton and George
Chard had decided to go out shooting. On all the large islands in the
river Moreton Bay figs grew profusely, and the pigeons and flying foxes
came down from the hills to feed on the ripe fruit.
They had determined to try this particular island before breakfast. Hence
all that followed.
* * * * *
The boat was certainly going to land. Petit, watching with lynx eyes,
scowled angrily. Conflicting emotions of hope and fear surged in Tom
Pagdin’s breast.
The rowers turned the corner of the point, and were hidden from view, but
they could hear the noise of the oars being drawn in; hear the voices of
two strangers in conversation; hear them taking the gear out of the boat,
and making her fast.
Again and again Tom tried to catch Dave’s eye.
At last he succeeded.
Dave saw that his mate meant to run.
It was only a lightning glance, but it said plainly enough, “chance it.”
Dave trembled all over.
He withdrew his eyes guiltily; they had only wandered for a second—and
looked again in Petit’s face. He seemed fascinated, as a victim might
be in watching the axe of a headsman waiting for its descent—were he
permitted to see the axe. Petit was actually meditating killing the two
boys, but he was also calculating the after chance. As far as the act
was concerned he had no qualms once he made up his mind that it would
be better for him to have them out of the way. The youth and presumed
innocence of Tom and Dave would not deter a person of his gentle nature
for a moment. He would have no more compunction about the matter than he
would about the matter of drowning a couple of blind kittens. Had he the
slightest inkling of the knowledge possessed by his hostages regarding
the murder of his accomplice on the night of the bank robbery the career
of the pirates would have ended abruptly the previous day.
But Petit was a true criminal—he only killed when he thought it
necessary. It is the act of a lunatic, he had often explained to his
fellows, to do otherwise. Why make evidence against oneself without
reason. The career of the true professional was a game in which he
played his life and liberty against Society and the Law. He could not,
therefore, afford to throw away a chance. But if any of his crimes had
been discovered—if these strangers in the boat were come to arrest him—of
course there would no longer be any need for caution.
He questioned Tom with a threat.
“Zese men in ze boad,” he growled in a low guttural, “know you, eh? Spik
me visout untruth,” he added, “else——”
The knife in his hand was sufficient termination for the sentence.
Tom understood.
“Yes,” said the latter, looking right into Petit’s eyes. “I know ’em
both. One’s name’s Joe Saunders, an’ the other cove’s Dan Creed. They’re
duck shooters.”
“Vat?” exclaimed Petit.
“Shooters,” interposed Dave, with a quivering lip and an exaggerated
expression of veracity. “They go shooting ducks in the swamps for the
market, and pigeons.”
“Yes,” observed Tom, “they come up the river a piece. That cove in the
nose of the boat, he’s got a bit of a farm up there.”
He was looking at Dave.
Dave took up the story.
“Yes,” he went on; “that’s Dan Saunders.”
“Joe Saunders,” interrupted Tom.
“Joe Saunders, I mean,” replied Dave, correcting himself quickly; “an’
the other cove’s Dan MacCreedy.”
“Dan Creed,” said Tom.
It would have delighted him very much to punch Dave’s head.
“That’s what I said—Dan Creed,” resumed Dave. “We know ’em both.”
Petit silenced them by a motion.
The sportsmen were trooping along the track, gun in hand, with their eyes
in the air looking up at the fig-trees, watching for pigeons.
It had been Dan Creyton’s idea, that expedition. He wanted to get George
out in the open air, away from his troubles, to occupy his mind in some
sport. There is no medicine like this for the mind and nerves, and
already George was forgetting the black cloud which had recently lowered
upon him. The primal instinct of the hunter can always be reverted to by
a sane man, whom civilization has in one way or another made sick. An
hour’s fishing, by some shady pool, under the open sky is worth more than
a bottle of drugs.
They strode along in the cool morning air, making little noise on the
jungle path, carpeted with leaves. Closer and closer they came to that
group of three in the scrub.
Tom and Dave could hear their hearts beating in their heads. Petit lay
upon the ground, flattened out like a panther, his knife ready to his
hand. He had put Tom on one side and Dave on the other, within reach
of his arm, giving them to understand plainly enough that at the first
attempt to communicate with the strangers he would choke the life out of
them.
The boys knew well enough they would have little chance in the strong
clutch of those vice-like fingers, because Petit had given their necks a
sample squeeze with his huge forefinger and thumb.
So they lay still, fearing, hoping, despairing—both more or less
hysterical, both experiencing great difficulty in restraining something
which kept rising up in their throats—something choking and unpleasant
which would otherwise have developed into a sob.
Dan Creyton and George passed them within a distance of ten yards, and
they dared not cry out or give the slightest sign of warning. Tom said
afterwards that he never felt like he did then except once, and that was
when he crawled down a hollow log after a bandicoot and got stuck. It was
just the same smothering, suffocating feeling.
The shooters went by and entered a clump of figs. They sat there a long
time waiting for pigeons. The trio laying concealed in the bushes could
hear the murmur of their voices occasionally. They talked in very low
tones, because it is good not to make any noise when one is out hunting;
but as they were not many yards little bits of conversation drifted down
to Tom, whose ears were strained to catch it.
Presently they shifted their position to the butt of a big fig-tree
not more than ten yards outside the scrub in which the others were
concealed. Tom almost cried out when Dan Creyton said suddenly:
“Do you know, George, I’ve got an idea that there were at least two men
in that business.”
“I don’t know,” replied George. “God knows I have thought the thing over
and over night and day, and it is still the greatest mystery on earth to
me. What makes you think that, Dan?”
“I’ll tell you later,” said Dan, “when I work my theory out. I’m not
going to let the matter rest, even if the police give it up. This murder
case has put everything else out of their heads. It is my opinion that
the murder and the robbery were carried out by the same man!”
Tom Pagdin started, and stole a glance at Jean Petit.
The look he saw on Petit’s face made his hair stand on end.
Dave was evidently engaged in trying to swallow something without making
a noise. What Dave was trying to swallow is not quite certain, but it was
probably a yell.
“I don’t know,” said George Chard, thoughtfully. “I cannot see anything
at present to connect the two crimes.”
“Neither can the police,” resumed Dan. “But that is simply because the
police, like everybody else along the river, have got a wrong theory
about the robbery.”
He did not say that the theory was that either George or the manager, or
both of them together, had removed the money.
“I believe,” resumed Dan, “that that body was the body of an accomplice.
He was put out of the way, either because he knew too much, or because
the other man wanted all the plunder for himself, and, what’s more, I’m
convinced that whoever did it was a stranger.”
“It is a pity that religious crank could not properly identify the
murdered man,” exclaimed George. “What is that jumping in the bushes?”
“A paddymelon,” said Dan; “these scrubs are full of them.”
It was Jean Petit. He had involuntarily half-jumped to his feet.
Tom and Dave thought the critical moment had come. But the convict sank
softly to the ground again. His face was working horribly. Tom Pagdin
said he looked more like a devil let loose out of hell than anything, and
a boss devil, at that.
“Well,” said George Chard, with a sigh, “I wish you could clear it up,
Dan, for my sake, if for nothing else. You’d be welcome to the £250
reward offered by the bank as well as the £500 the Government are giving!”
“I am trying my hand at a little amateur detective work,” said Dan,
quietly; “but it is not the money I’m after.”
“And you wouldn’t have to apply for the pardon, either,” said George,
smiling.
“No,” replied Dan; “the bitterest old woman in Wharfdale would hardly
accuse me of being an accomplice to a brutal murder. So the pardon would
have to go to someone else who wanted it!”
Tom Pagdin started in turn, but checked himself. He dreaded Petit’s eyes.
But Petit, like a listening wolf who has caught the bay of pursuing
hounds on his trail, thought of other things. His mind was so crowded
with serious reflections that he did not notice the discrepancies between
the boys’ account of the strangers and the latter’s conversation about
themselves and their business.
Presently Dan and George shouldered their guns and continued their walk
along the track which led directly to the convict’s camp.
Petit stirred uneasily, and sat up. His face betrayed conflicting
emotions of fear, anger, and hate.
He was evidently looking for a way of speedy escape without attracting
the notice of the strangers.
Suddenly he caught both boys and shook them.
“Come wis me!” he growled. “Make no noise!”
He made towards the boat in which the young men had rowed over.
He had made up his mind that there lay his best chance of getting away.
It would be some time before the young men returned from the other end of
the island.
When they came back the boat would be gone.
They would probably discover the camp. Their suspicions might be aroused.
One of them at least had a theory about the murder. The incident might be
connected with the crime, and lead to a sure clue. The loss of their boat
would, however, delay them. Perhaps they would not discover the boat
in which the boys had landed—his, Petit’s boat—which he had hidden very
carefully.
Petit so argued, and arriving at his conclusion, acted without delay.
He strode along the jungle path, driving the boys noiselessly before him
like a couple of sheep.
They were within ten yards of the point when the convict, putting his
hand to his waist, uttered an imprecation.
The money which he had been carrying about with him in a canvas belt was
gone.
He had left it at the camp whither the two strangers had directly gone.
With fearful oaths and threats he bade Dave and Tom stay where they were
until he returned, and wheeling about, he went back quickly along the
track.
Tom waited until the jungle hid him from view, and then he grabbed Dave
by the hand.
“Quick!”
They sprang to the boat together.
“Off with the painter!” he gasped, and stopped.
Standing against the seat aft was Dan Creyton’s Winchester rifle, and
beside it was a box of cartridges!
At heart Tom Pagdin was not a coward.
Real cowardice is a thing few Australian bush lads have any use for.
Tom had been out kangaroo shooting, and he knew the mechanism of a
Winchester.
In less time that it takes to write, the pirate had the rifle out of the
boat, twelve cartridges in the magazine, and the balance of the box loose
in his pocket.
His hand shook with excitement but there was a fire in his eye that boded
no good for Jean Petit.
“Let him come now!” sobbed Tom, pulling the hammer back to full cock.
“Let the d——hound come!!”
“What are you goin’ to do?” asked Dave from behind.
Tom laid down behind the drifted log, and sighted the Winchester along
the track.
“Keep down be’ind me,” he said excitedly, “and lay close!”
“Suppose you kill ’im, we might get ’ung,” ventured Dave.
“I don’t care.” replied Tom. “I’ll ’ang for ’im, the blood-thirsty hound.
’E’d a’ killed us afore ’e left the island most likely.”
“Are you goin’ to call on him to surrender first?”
“Not a call! ’E’s an outlaw. They can’t touch you for shootin’ outlaws.”
“Suppose you miss ’im.” whimpered Dave.
“I ain’t _goin’_ to miss ’im,” replied Tom, grimly.
“If you do he’ll kill us both.”
“’E won’t never get the chance!” said Tom. “I got her lined jest in front
of that myrtle, in the clear. ’E’s got to come by there. It ain’t more’n
sixty yards at the outside. If I don’t drop ’im first shot, there’s
eleven more, an’ I got a pocketful o’ cartridges, an’ we’re between ’im
an’ the boat.”
Tom shut his left eye and sighted. His forefinger was crooked over the
trigger. The barrel of his rifle rested steadily on the log.
Jean Petit broke into view, running. The canvas belt was in his hand.
“They’ve seen him,” whispered Dave. “Maybe they’re following him.”
Tom made no reply. He held his breath, as a kangaroo shooter does just
before he squeezes the trigger gently to him.
Petit rounded the myrtle tree.