THE EVOLUTION OF SLAUGHTER.
The Three-mile, where Slaughter lived--Cold-blood Slaughter, as they
termed him, from his pessimistic, cynical manner of thought and
speech--was an out-of-the-way spot even for the district of Birralong. A
track, which was little more than what would result were a dray driven
off the road at right angles, branched off the main road, and meandered
for a couple of miles, always indistinct and never straight, until a
small patch of cultivation, a few acres square, showed green and
picturesque amid the prevailing sombre hues of the untamed bush. On the
far side of it, as one approached from the direction of the main road,
was a small hut, built of roughly split slabs of timber, and roofed with
sheets of bark, standing in almost aggressive solitude away from the
trees which, farther behind it, formed an unbroken background of subdued
colour. There was a waterhole some thirty yards from the hut, and a
fork-and-sapling fence cut it into two portions, one of which, the
smaller, was included in the small paddock where Slaughter kept his
horse, the only living creature besides himself which resided at the
Three-mile.
Viewed from the point on the track where first it came into sight, there
was a certain pictorial attractiveness about the place which roused
curiosity and interest--the contrast of the green of the cultivation
patch with the prevailing neutral greys and yellowy-browns of the
gum-tree forest; the simple form of the hut standing distinct and clear
against the darker line of shade caused by the solid growth of bush
beyond; and the quiet and apparently peaceful solitude of the whole
scene appealing to the imagination. Nearer inspection left the solitude
untouched, but robbed the picture of all else. Once, tradition averred,
a hardy, daring denizen of Birralong had ventured out to the Three-mile
for a yarn and a smoke with Slaughter. It was in the days when he had
lately taken up the land, and when the glamours of proprietorship should
have been still thick upon him, and when the neighbourly act of a
brother settler ought to have been greeted with a friendly warmth. But
the adventurer rode back to Birralong distressed and distrait, refusing,
or failing, to put into words for the benefit of others his experience
at the lonely Three-mile. All that he could express was conveyed by the
pursing up of his lips, the nodding of his head in the direction of
Slaughter's residence, and the exclaiming, solemnly and sadly, "Him? A
melancholy bandicoot ain't in it." That, and the influence of
Slaughter's bearing and conversation, when he was in the township, had
upon the community effectually prevented any one else making the attempt
to penetrate into the solitude of the Three-mile; and Slaughter lived
his own life, in his own way, and no one knew more of it than had been
learned in the first year of his residence in the district.
He was a customer of Marmot's, and that gave him the right to sit and
smoke and yarn on the verandah of the store when he was in the township.
He never passed his tobacco round, and rarely took an active part in the
yarning, save to put in a few curt, cutting sentences that at first
roused a sense of anger in his hearers, till they fell back under the
protection of the phrase that "it was only Cold-blood Slaughter," and
ignored the words that grated. He ran a "tally" at the store for the few
necessaries of his life, and every six months cleared it with money
which came in a letter for him from a city in a southern colony. It was
the one link which existed between Slaughter and the outside world, that
half-yearly letter, and its contents the one unsolved riddle in the
annals of Birralong. With the regularity of the date itself the letter
appeared, bearing the Sydney postmark on the cover, and as regularly
Slaughter allowed it to rest a few days at the store, as though he knew
both the mental anxiety it caused the _habitues_ of the verandah as they
tried to worry out some feasible explanation of its appearance, and the
moral struggle its presence caused Marmot, who, as postmaster, felt
bound by every tie of duty to hold it inviolate for the addressee,
while, as the centre of Birralong gossip, he yearned to fathom the
secret of its source, even at the cost of opening it. During all the
years which had elapsed since Slaughter first came upon the scene the
struggle had gone on, and still the mystery was unsolved and the riddle
unread. Never had an occasion offered itself when anything could be
learned from an outside source, and Slaughter himself was too cold and
isolated an individual to be melted into confidence.
To those who gave any thought to the matter it was evident that, save
for the unexpected appearance of outside information, the mystery of
Slaughter's existence prior to his arrival at the Three-mile would
remain unsolved, just as the chilling demeanour with which he surrounded
himself would remain unpenetrated. But in Birralong, as in other parts
of the world, it was the unexpected that happened.
The township one day was profoundly moved by the information, which
passed with the rapidity which is only possible for gossip in a small
community, that the schoolmaster had been struck down and lay dying. No
one was especially surprised at that, for every one knew that he was
suffering from a lung complaint which had not yielded to the influence
of the pure, dry air of the district, and so was bound to carry him off
sooner or later; for, as a travelling medical man had once observed, the
consumptive who did not get well in the eucalyptus-scented air of inland
Australia deserved to die, if only for the perversity of refusing
Nature's kindliest aid! A ruptured blood-vessel certainly assisted in
the collapse of Godson, but it was not even that which so astounded
Birralong.
The sick man, knowing himself to be at death's door, had called for one
thing, pleaded for one thing, prayed for one thing, and that the
presence of Cold-blood Slaughter.
For some time the combined population of Birralong wondered, until,
indeed, Ailleen rushed down from the cottage, where her father lay, to
the roadway in front of the school, where the inhabitants of the
township stood, and taunted them with being heartless cowards and
listless fools to ignore the pleadings of a dying man.
"If you're not man enough to do what he asks," she said fiercely to
Marmot, "you're postmaster, so do your duty and deliver that;" and she
flung at the abashed storekeeper a letter addressed to Slaughter.
Without waiting for his answer, she swung round and ran back to the
cottage, and the men of Birralong, looking sheepishly at one another,
fidgeted uneasily as Marmot took up the letter.
A selector's boy, riding into sight at the moment, was hailed.
"Take that out to Cold-blood Slaughter at the Three-mile, and I'll give
you a shilling when you come back," Marmot said; and the boy rode off.
Then they sat, wherever there was shade, and waited, uneasy lest the
quick-tongued Ailleen should again swoop down upon them with anger which
they knew was just, and yet unable to do otherwise than wait, if only to
see whether Slaughter would come, and what he would do when he did come.
A cloud of dust rapidly advancing along the road was the first
intimation of his approach, and as it came nearer they caught the sound
of the galloping horse. He rode right up to the school-house gate and
jumped out of the saddle. Marmot and his companions gathered round the
gate as though to intercept him, till they saw his face. Then they fell
back, and made way for him as he strode up the path towards the
cottage, following him with their eyes, silent before the fascination of
the terrible expression on his face. They were men whose minds worked
slowly and in stolid grooves; men who pondered heavily over the prosaic
occurrences which made up the monotonous routine of their lives; men who
had no grasp of more subtle phenomena than those which formed the
ordinary sequence of events in the restricted limits of their
commonplace experiences. How, then, could they grasp in a moment, let
alone comprehend, the sudden transformation of Slaughter from a soured
and indifferent man to one of keen, quick, resolute character, whose
tightly closed lips and lowering brow only emphasized the flash and
glitter of his eyes?
They watched him as he passed up the pathway, with a stride and a swing
so different from his ordinary listless dawdle. They heard the sound of
his heavy tread on the boards of the cottage verandah. Then there was a
silence, and the heavy wits of each of the waiting men strove to grasp
sufficient of the spectacle to put his thoughts into words and ask for
his comrades' help to understand. But before that could be done
Slaughter again appeared coming down the pathway. He walked towards
them, the frown gone from his face, and his eyes wide open and staring.
A yard from them he stopped.
"He's dead," he exclaimed, in a hard, strained voice. "Dead--and I was
too late."
The first words roused their interest, the last touched such
sensibilities as they had. The figure of the man before them, strangely
altered and moved, with the scornful bitterness they had learned to
regard as his characteristic gone from his face, struck into their dull
minds as something akin to a rebuke for their indifference to Ailleen's
repeated requests for them to carry out a dying man's wish. The man was
dead now, and Slaughter's words "too late" made them wince.
"It's a bad business," some one mumbled. "It's a bad business--for
Yaller-head," he added, by way of diverting the suspicion of personal
shortcomings.
"We'll see her through," Marmot said. "We'll----"
He stopped abruptly as he met Slaughter's glance; and the others looked
from one to the other--from Marmot, disconcerted and uneasy, to
Slaughter, whose face was set and hard in an expression that conveyed
even to the men of Birralong the fact that they were in the presence of
something which over-ruled them and subjugated them into a state of
mental inferiority. The verbose Marmot, wordless; the listless
Slaughter, dominant. It was a psychological crisis that humbled and
abashed them.
They could only stand silent and expectant for the new development. The
return of Slaughter to the cottage, this time with slow steps and bowed
head, did not appeal to them as a development, and with that obtuse
folly which is the birthright of the stolid, they straggled up the path
after him. They were able to see into the room without going on to the
verandah, and as each one glanced into it, he saw enough to rebuke him
and make him turn back and walk sedately and quietly to the roadway.
When Slaughter reached the cottage the second time and looked into the
room, Ailleen was on her knees crouched down beside the low bed on which
lay the still form of her dead father. She held in both her hands one of
his, and her head was resting on them, the wealth of golden hair, broken
loose from its restraint, welling round and over them. Slaughter, as he
came to the doorway, took the old felt hat from his head, and tried to
walk on tip-toe lest his heavy boots should make too much noise.
With bowed head and averted glance he slowly walked from the door across
the room, and round to the side of the bed where the girl was kneeling.
She, hearing his footsteps, looked up for a moment, and then hid her
face again. But he did not notice it. He walked on, with his eyes cast
down, till he was beside her, when he sank on to his knees also, and
gently touched her arm with his hard, rough hand.
"I ain't no stranger, miss--I ain't no stranger," he began, in a voice
which was a curious blend of his ordinary harsh tones with a soft and
quivering sympathy. "We're none of us strangers to you, miss, leastways
me."
He paused uneasily, half hoping she would move or speak; but only the
sound of a choked sob came to him, and he shivered. It was the moment
when the curious crowd outside glanced into the silent room.
[Illustration: "I AIN'T NO STRANGER, MISS." [_Page 100._]
"Cold-blood Slaughter they calls me, miss," he went on presently, "for
they say I ain't a feeling man; but it's only a name, miss. I've come
here now, miss--_here_--to tell you, first from all of us, second
from--me. We ain't no strangers, miss. We're all your friends,
and--we--we'll see you through."
Again he paused, looking up timidly at the mass of golden hair which was
gently trembling as the girl's emotions chased one another through her
heart and being; he saw that, and beyond it, just over it, the still,
white features of the dead man's face--and he lowered his glance again.
"Maybe my story'll help you, miss, for no one's ever heard it yet. I
could only tell it--to you, and--here--now. They didn't call me
Cold-blood Slaughter once; I was a soft chap then, and I loved a woman
who loved me, till another came and lied, and I--I was Cold-blood
Slaughter then. It was all a lie--God forgive the teller, for I
can't--but the woman I loved believed it, and I went away--came here and
took up the Three-mile, and kept it to myself, till--till _she_ came
here--she--the woman I loved--and she came as another man's wife."
His voice was growing hard in spite of the quiver that was in it; but
the quiver was due to another emotion than that which had caused it at
first, and he, realizing it, checked his utterance till the growing
anger was subdued.
"She saw me once, miss, and turned from me, and I--I never saw her
again. I kept away. Then she died, miss, and left a daughter behind,
_her_ daughter, just like her, more like her the more she grew, and
then--then--the father died. I thought he never knew till he--told
me--told me she'd told him she knew it was a lie, and asked me to be
good to her daughter, for her sake, and--and--I've come."
He ceased, but did not dare to look up, lest he should meet her eyes as
she raised her head to answer him. He was kneeling, stiffly, sitting
back on his heels with his back straight, his arms hanging down at his
sides, and his hands clasping the old grey felt hat. His head was
leaning forward, and two tears ran down his sunburned cheeks to the
tangled thickness of his grizzled beard. In the room no sound broke the
stillness.
"I never knew till to-day she'd found it was a lie--I never knew she'd
turned away because she was--she'd found out it wasn't true; and I've
been a hard man all the time because I didn't know. Now, I'd like to put
things straight, just tidy up a bit. I'm no sort of a hand at making
things smooth, but maybe you won't feel us strangers now, and we'll do
the best we can."
It was all he had to tell, all he could say; but it seemed so small and
useless to him when the girl neither spoke nor moved. He waited in
silence for her to give some sign that she heard and understood, and
receiving none, looked up. She was kneeling as she had been when first
he came into the room, as still as the other figure on the bed. He
reached out his hand and touched her arm.
"Miss," he said, as he touched her; but there was neither sound nor
movement in response. "Miss," he repeated, as he put his hand round her
arm lest his touch had not been apparent to her, "we're none of us
strangers, leastways----"
The grip on her arm might have been firmer than he meant; he might
unconsciously have pushed her; but as he began to repeat again the
formula of his sympathy, the only phrase which came to him through the
mists of his sorrow and perplexity, Ailleen moved from her kneeling
position as she slipped, pale and insensible, to the floor.
For a moment Slaughter looked at her. Then he sprang to his feet, and
rushed, wild-eyed and panic-stricken, out of the room, across the
verandah, and down the pathway to the road. The news of Godson's death
having spread through the township, almost the entire population, men
and women, were gathered round the gate. Marmot, anxious in some way to
relieve the uncomfortable feeling he experienced since Slaughter had, as
he thought, complained of being sent for too late, had kept them all
back from going up to the cottage to proffer their help--a restraint the
women members of the community especially resented.
As Slaughter appeared, running bareheaded down the pathway, they turned
towards him; but he only pointed back to the cottage, and mumbled
something they could not understand. The women hastened up, and, finding
Ailleen lying in a dead faint on the floor, carried her between them
into her own room. While they revived her, others of the community
undertook the remaining responsibilities, for tropical heat leaves brief
time for mourning ceremonies.
Slaughter, left to himself, loosened his horse from where some one had
hitched him to the fence, and led him, walking slowly, down the township
road and away in the direction of the Three-mile. He walked on, with the
reins loosely looped over his shoulder, the horse, as though it knew
his mood, measuring its steps to his, and keeping its head just level
with him. The warm, dry air, scarcely more than a breath of wind, caught
the dust as it rose from their footsteps, and drifted it, in a filmy,
moving cloud, all around and over them. The horse snorted now and again
as it felt the irritation in its nostrils, and blinked its eyes, until
they were almost closed, to escape it; but Slaughter walked on oblivious
to the dust, to the heat, to the time, to everything, save the growing
consciousness of a dull mental pain that was beginning to gnaw and goad
him into a state of mind very different to that which had held him while
he was offering his sympathy to Ailleen. The years of bitter solitude,
the years of cynical brooding over the wrongs that had come into his
life, had built up an influence over him that was not to be dissipated
by a momentary wave of sympathetic impulse. More than that, the
sympathetic impulse had not been allowed to expend itself; as it
developed it had been checked by the apparent unresponsiveness of its
object, until, at the moment of its greatest vitality, it was abruptly
arrested by the shock of Ailleen's collapse. And in that it was in
keeping with all the other experiences Slaughter had known whenever the
softer side of his nature, the love impulses of his being, were called
into activity; always there had been a check put upon him which made the
exercise restrained and restricted up to the time when a final shock had
effectually arrested it, and turned his love and kindliness back, turned
them away from their natural outlet to force them in upon themselves,
until, in the succeeding turmoil and confusion, only bitterness and
lonely brooding resulted.
Over the whole distance between the school-house and the solitary
Three-mile he walked on, brooding and bitter. The action of the woman
who turned from him when she first saw him after her arrival at
Birralong, came to be viewed in a less charitable light than it was when
he spoke of it to Ailleen. Then he said she turned away because she had
learned she had wronged him; now in his thoughts he galled himself by
attributing her action to fear and shame, and aggravated his sense of
injury by recalling, again and again, that the man who had married her
had kept for years the message she had sent on her deathbed.
Disjointedly and incoherently, but always bitterly, he brooded and piled
item on item, until there came to him the memory of the other, the
memory of the woman who had first set his life awry.
A few kind sentences; a touch of human sympathy; a token of kindly
impulse and generous open-heartedness at that moment when his better
nature was stirred, and Slaughter might have forgotten in the warmth of
the present the chill gloom of the past. But there was no one near him
to give the necessary trend to the direction of his thoughts and
emotions; nothing came to him save the recollection of the one whose
jealous fancy had let loose all the hard cruelty of his nature; and
Slaughter finished his walk with his mind seething in revengeful malice
against the memory of the woman who had wrought his ruin.
He turned his horse into the paddock, force of habit impelling him to
remove the saddle and bridle, the storm of his memory preventing him
from even realizing that he did so. With the bridle on his arm, and the
saddle under it, he walked to the hut and kicked the door open. On the
threshold he stopped. Two men sat at the rough table in the middle of
the room, and, as the door opened, the man with his back to the doorway
turned in his seat and rose to his feet.
The saddle fell from Slaughter's arm, unnoticed; the presence of the
second man was unrealized; for only could Slaughter stand and stare at
the man who faced him--a man with a brutal head and black, heavy brows.
"You don't seem too pleased to see an old mate," he said, with something
of a snarl in his voice.
"You!" Slaughter exclaimed.
"Yes, me; and why not?" replied the other, quickly and hotly.
"There's nothing between you and me--nothing," Slaughter said slowly.
"Is that so?" the man replied. "Well, I fancy I'm wrong, then, for I
thought that the work Kate Blair had done was enough to make both of us
learn----"
Slaughter started at the name, started forward, and then checked
himself, though his face went hard and his hands clenched, and his eyes
gleamed brighter than they did when he faced Marmot a few hours earlier.
The man saw--and stopped.
"Go on," Slaughter cried, with a savage energy.
"I only talk to a mate I can trust," the man answered. "I didn't come
here because it's your hut. We struck it on the road, and called in for
a boil of the billy, and finding no one in, borrowed what we wanted.
Seeing it's yours, and we ain't welcome, we'll move along. If the taint
of Kate Blair in both our lives don't make us mates, why, it's so long
to you and----"
He saw the lips press closer together and the frown grow deeper as
Slaughter heard the name again, and he went on--
"But maybe you're friends with her now, friends with the"--he laughed,
not too musically--"the woman who well-nigh hanged you."
The taunt let loose the rage and fury that had been gradually growing in
Slaughter's mind; let loose from his restraint all the passionate
emotions stirred and re-stirred by the events of the day; and before the
storm of fierce denunciation to which he gave vent, one of the two men
quailed, and strove to edge nearer the door. The black-browed man stood
still, watching Slaughter as he raved, with an evil smile lurking round
the corners of his thin lips.
When, from sheer exhaustion, the enraged Slaughter paused for a moment,
he had his words ready.
"Good," he said. "You've not forgotten. More have I. Now that I know
you, I'll tell you. I'm going back to make things square. Will you join
me?"
Slaughter looked at him, his rage still rankling and burning.
"Going back?" he said. "Back? What! back to Sydney?"
The man laughed.
"Sydney!" he exclaimed. "Why, you fool, she's not in Sydney. She left
there nearly thirty years ago. She's here--or hereabouts."
Slaughter, quivering, staggering, trembling, clutched at his throat as
he heard the words.
"Here!" he shouted. "Here, within reach of me, when I----"
"Hereabouts, I said," the other exclaimed roughly. "Keep your wits, and
listen."
The interruption checked his words, but could not check the red fury
that was surging through Slaughter's overstrung brain. The man who, in
the presence of Ailleen's sorrow, had been gentle and soft-hearted, was
now, in the presence of the full force of embittered memory, swayed only
by one impulse, conscious only of one thing. Hate, an unreasoning
madness of hate, was upon him, and to soothe that hate, to satisfy the
craving it engendered, the object of it, sacrificed as a victim, was
alone capable.
The power of the other man's voice checked his words; the power of the
other man's eyes, staring steadily into his from beneath the black band
of the heavy brows, checked his wandering glance. He essayed to speak;
the words choked in his throat. He strove to leap forward and rush from
the hut into the sunlight beyond; but the place seemed to spin round
him. A red film spread before his eyes; a roaring crash of sound filled
his ears; his lungs gasped for the air they could not breathe; and it
seemed as though his brain burst his skull asunder as he reeled and fell
like a log to the floor.
Looking down at him where he lay, the man with the brutal head said to
his companion, in a tone of callous indifference--
"There was a streak of luck in it, Tap, my son, for we've struck a
better man than your mate Walker, and a man who's with us to the end."