CHAPTER VII.

INTRODUCING MR. ALBERT CUMSHAW.

"That's the peculiar part of it, Jim. They should still be in the room,

because they couldn't possibly have been taken away. Yet I've hunted

high and low and I can't find them."

"And, now you find you're in difficulties, you call me in," I hinted.

"Jim, I wish you wouldn't talk that way. There's no call for us to be

continually bickering. If we can't be anything else, at least we can be

friends, can't we?"

"I suppose it's worth trying. But what have the papers to do with me?"

"They affect you as well as me, Jim. Uncle wished the two of us to carry

on his work."

"How pleasant!" I murmured. "And suppose I refuse?"

"Well," she said, with just the least gesture of helplessness, "I'll

have to do whatever I can myself. But it was Uncle's wish that we divide

the proceeds."

"The proceeds of what?"

"That's more than I can say, Jim. We've got to find the papers first."

"That's so, Moira. Seeing it's you, I'll hunt for them; if it's worth

while I might even help you through, but you'll have to understand from

the very start that I won't finger a penny of what you call the

proceeds."

"You usen't to be like that, Jim."

"I've changed a lot, haven't I?" I grinned.

For a moment she stared blankly at me, then she asked me, as if the

thought had just occurred to her, "There isn't any other girl, is

there?"

"There never was any other girl," I said. "There was always only the

one, but she failed...."

I saw that she had some intimate little revelation on the tip of her

tongue, so, for fear she might say too much--one never knows what a

woman will say if she fancies any words of hers will gain the day--I

said briskly, "Now, about those papers, Moira. Where did you look?"

"Everywhere, Jim."

"You couldn't have. There's one place at least where you haven't

looked."

"And that?" she queried eagerly.

"The place where they're hidden," I answered disconcertingly.

"Oh," she said blankly; and then, "Have you any idea where that is?"

I shook my head. "None at all, Moira. Still your uncle told you that

they were in his study, and as you say they couldn't have been taken

away, the only thing to do is to look in every likely place for a

start."

"And if we find nothing?"

"Then we'll look in the unlikely places. And as there's no time like the

present, I suggest we start now."

Moira was quite agreeable to that, so we entered the room. Books and

everything lay just as we had left them the night of the tragedy; only

the broken window-pane had been taken out and a new one inserted.

"I never thought of it before," I remarked, "but the sight of that new

pane just brought to my mind how narrow a squeak you had that night."

"I don't follow you, Jim."

"Well, if our friends the police hadn't been so willing to swallow the

obvious, they would have seen that my tale was all bunkum. When that

chap fired he starred the window, and when your shot went through it

finished the job and knocked a finger of glass right out. If the

sergeant had only gone over to the window and examined it carefully, he

would have seen enough to make him wonder how the deuce the same shot

could have hit the same bit of glass in two places. But he didn't go

over to examine it; I had filled his mind with an hypothesis, and he

couldn't see anything else but that. Now it's the same with this

business of looking for the papers. You seem to think your uncle would

put them just where anyone could lay hands on them. I don't. Your uncle

had a fair amount of foresight--he realised all along that it was likely

that he'd be cut off short--and the mere fact that he told you twice at

least that he had left you instructions shows that he had gone about

things carefully and methodically. Again, he had no means of knowing

just how he would be killed, so you can take it for granted that he

provided against such a contingency as this room being thoroughly

searched by the murderers. In other words, the papers are so placed that

only an intelligent person who knew your uncle's mind would guess where

the hiding place is. Now I'm having a wild shot at it, but it's logical

enough in all conscience. When you can't find a thing, try to take over

the mentality of the man who hid it."

"I'm afraid you're getting too deep for me, Jim."

"I'll put it another way, Moira. Something influenced your uncle in the

hiding-place he selected, and we've got to parallel his thoughts, if we

can, in order to find out the spot."

"But that's impossible."

"At first glance it seems like it. But just think the matter over. I've

got more than half an idea already. Whatever those papers are they're

certainly typewritten, and I'm sure they've something to do with that

bit of wood. Oh, I forgot. I've never told you about that. It happened

on the beach."

"Uncle told me how he met you," Moira volunteered.

"I'll bet he didn't say anything about the driftwood though."

"No, he did not," Moira admitted. So then and there I told her the tale.

"You can understand from that," I concluded, "that whatever he was

typing had something to do with that piece of wood. Now when he had made

up his mind to secrete the papers two words would be prominent in his

thoughts."

"I know," she said with a flash of intuition.

"Tell me," I smiled.

"'Sands' and 'wood,'" she said eagerly.

"'Wood' is one of them," I answered, "but I rather prefer to say 'bury'

for the other. Now the only place he could bury anything about here in

such a way that it wouldn't be noticed is under the hearthstone; but, as

it's cement in this case, I think we can leave it out of the question.

He wouldn't put them under the floor. For one thing it'd take too long,

and the sweepers would be sure to notice if the carpet or the linoleum

had been disturbed. So that brings us back to 'wood' again."

"How about the wall? A secret panel, or something of the kind?"

"I don't think he'd select anything so obvious," I said with a shake of

my head. "It had to be a place that we'd find, but that everyone else

would miss. There's quite a lot of wooden articles here, Moira, so we'll

go over them very carefully."

I surveyed the furniture ruefully. "Looks as if we'll have to chop a lot

of things to pieces," I remarked.

"Silly!" said Moira Drummond disgustedly. "We're looking for something

hollow, so why not tap?"

"Brilliant idea!" I said.

As I sit writing at this table in that very same room, the scene comes

back to me with all the clearness of a well-developed photograph. In my

mind's eye I see Moira and myself on our knees tapping every inch of the

old mahogany and the newer imitation Chippendale, and I realise as I

have realised a dozen times since to what needless trouble we went, when

a little thought upon the lines that I have already mapped out would

have led us just as easily, and perhaps a good deal quicker, to the very

spot itself. But we were young then--though for that matter we are

still--and to young people all motion is progress. It is only when one

gets older and sees things in perspective that one realises.... But that

wasn't what I set out to write about.

The long and short of it was that we tapped all the furniture most

carefully, and at the end of it found that our persistence was still

unrewarded.

"There's something wrong somewhere," Moira said disappointedly.

"It seems as if there's been a mistake in our judgment," I agreed.

"Still I fancy the table's the most likely place. You see he sat there

always."

"Suppose you sit in his place then, Jim."

"Excellent idea, Moira," I said, and at once proceeded to put it into

practice.

"Now if I had just finished typing anything and was looking for a safe

place to hide it, where would I naturally go?" I said out aloud. Moira

dropped into a chair on the other side of the table and leaned forward,

her chin resting in her hand, and regarded me with intense interest. I

went on talking to myself. "I'm thinking of wood, and the nearest wood

to me is the table. Therefore I'd hide it somewhere about the table, not

in or on it, but just about it."

Moira's eyes glowed--I remember that particularly--and we both must have

seized on the idea at one and the same instant.

"Oh, why didn't we think of it before?" she cried, and then the two of

us were on our knees and groping under the table. It was a massive piece

of furniture in its way, with a large cross-piece running from side to

side underneath. And on this cross-piece, so tied with string that it

could not slip off, was a tiny packet of oil-skin.

"The safest place in the house," I said, as I stood upright and held out

a helping hand to Moira. "No one would ever think of looking there. See

how nearly we missed it."

"Jim, Jim, let's have a look!" she begged.

My answer was to place the package in my pocket. "Not here," I said in

explanation. "You must remember that those murdering gentlemen aren't

accounted for yet, and it'd be a pity to let them get hold of the very

thing we've been keeping out of their clutches for so long."

"I never thought of that," she said with a crestfallen air. "Of course

you're right. But where'll we go?"

"Any of the inner rooms. The drawing-room, say. That hasn't got any

windows opening out on to the garden."

Moira caught my arm. "Come on, Jim," she cried, "I'm dying to know what

is in it."

"The more haste the less speed," I remarked soberly. "Likewise there's

many a slip between the cup and the lip."

"Don't, Jim, don't be pessimistic just when everything's beginning to

turn out well."

"Beginning," I repeated. "You're right there. We're just beginning now."

But all the same she did not take her hand off my arm, and when hers

slipped through mine in quite the good old way, I could not find it in

my heart to tell her that she must do no such thing.

The drawing-room was just as comfortable a place as a man could wish,

and I saw at a glance that there was no likelihood of our being

disturbed there.

I held the packet in my hands for I don't know how many seconds, almost

afraid to open it. Inside was the secret that had lost Bryce his life,

the secret that had cost, though I did not know it at the time, almost a

dozen lives, and that would bring two at least of our associates

perilously close to the grave before our work was ended. Moira shared

some of my hesitation, for she made no effort to hurry me into undoing

the packet, but stood awaiting my pleasure.

The string was tied so tightly that I could not unknot it. I drew my

knife and cut it, and the oil-skin unrolled of itself. The first thing I

came across was a letter from Bryce addressed to the two of us. It was

not contained in an envelope, but seemed to have been slipped in as an

after-thought. It ran:--

Dear Moira and Dear Jimmy,--

If you ever read this it will be because I am no more and have

failed to bring my plans to a successful conclusion. In that case I

look to the two of you to carry on from the point where I left off,

but because you are both young, and so have very little sense, I

don't intend to let either of you fall into an easy thing. There's

money at the back of this, enough to make you rich for life, but

you'll have to use the brains you both have got and work like the

very dickens to get it. I've put some of the necessary directions

in a cypher that a child could read, but apart from that you'll

have to use your heads. As you know some things that Moira doesn't,

Jimmy, and vice versa, you can see that it won't pay either of you

to quarrel.

The man who really holds the key to the situation is a gentleman

named Abel Cumshaw. Abel, I understand, is in his second childhood,

and can never be brought to realise that it is any later than the

early eighties, but his son Albert is a most astonishing young

fellow, as you'll find when you meet him, if you have not already

done so before this falls into your hands. You see I have

sufficient confidence in your ability to believe that you will find

this package sooner or later. If it's too late when you do find it,

of course the joke'll be on the pair of you.

Now, a word to you, Moira. Jimmy knows the hidden valley quite

well, so don't believe him if he says he doesn't. I spent nearly an

hour the other day telling him all about it, and even went the

length of showing him a map of the place. If he doesn't help you

out, it's because he's got a bad memory.

As for yourself, Jimmy, remember that you can't get along without

Moira and don't try. Once you've found what you're looking for you

can each go your own way, but I rather fancy you won't want to

then. I think that's about all, unless to remind you that Mr.

Albert Cumshaw will be entitled to his fair share of the spoils.

And on that note the letter ended, and underneath was his sprawling

signature, "H. Bryce," written as firmly as ever he had written it.

"Well, what do you make of that?" I asked when I had finished reading

it.

"I--I----"

"I know," I cut in. "I feel that way too. Do you think he's put up a

joke on us?"

"I just don't want to speak about it," Moira said tearfully.

"It's--it's--I wouldn't have expected it of him."

"It's the unexpected that happens," I said with some idea that I was

consoling her. I could see that the tears were very near her eyes, and I

didn't want her to break down now and cry. A man is always at a great

disadvantage in dealing with a weeping woman; she can usually persuade

him to do almost anything for her while she's in that state. If I find

my wife crying--but it doesn't matter what I'd do, for I've no right to

be introducing purely speculative matter that has nothing at all to do

with the story.

"It doesn't explain anything," Moira said at length. "It only makes

everything worse than ever."

"I wouldn't say that," I said. I saw, or thought I saw, a glimmer of

light. It was so faint that I daren't as yet put it into words. "He must

have been in a rather frivolous mood when he wrote this," I continued.

"All the same, I think we're getting closer. We haven't looked at the

cypher yet, you know."

"No more we have, Jim. Let's see what it's like."

I handed it to her. At first sight I could have sworn that it was the

identical piece of paper that I had picked up from the kitchen floor

that momentous afternoon, but a second glance showed me that I was

mistaken. Many of the characters were the same, but the grouping was

altogether different. They ran as follows:--

2@3; 5@3 &9; 3 5433-3/4 5@3 @75 £994 1/4; £ 5@3 48-1/2-8;? 1/2-7;

1/4-43 8; &8;3 --3-1/4-1/2-743 1/2-3: 3; "335 3-1/4-1/2-5.5@3;

"1/4-/3 £843/5 ;945@3/4 £4-1/4-2 1/4;95@34 &8;3 1/4-5 48?@5

1/4;?&3-1/2 59 5@3 043:897-1/2 9;3 3)53; £8;? "94 523&:3 "335.£8?

5@3.

"It doesn't seem to mean anything, Jim," she said in consternation.

"I'll admit it's pretty hard to understand," I told her. "It looks like

a page out of a ready reckoner or a mathematician's nightmare. But it

does mean something or your uncle wouldn't have put it up to us. What it

is we've got to find out. Possibly the Mr. Cumshaw of the letter can

throw a little light on the subject."

"Who is Mr. Cumshaw, Jim?"

"I never heard of the man until I read this letter," I said. "He's a new

element in the plot, and, unless your uncle's pulling our legs, I think

he's going to be a very important factor."

"He's got to share with us, too," she reminded me.

"Share with you," I corrected. "I've told you a couple of times already

that I'll help you to it, but that I don't intend to take a penny of the

money. So, when you're figuring it out, remember it's halves, not

thirds, you're working on."

"If it was anybody else but me you'd take it quickly enough," she said

accusingly.

"Maybe I would and again maybe I wouldn't," I said with a smile.

"Oh, Jim, I hate you!" she cried in a sudden blaze of temper.

"I'm sorry," I said easily. "It doesn't take much to make you hate

seemingly."

She turned and faced me with one of those swift changes of front that

made her so hard to deal with. The white-hot anger had gone as suddenly

as it had come, and in its place there was nothing but hopelessness. She

looked so weary and so miserable that for the moment I was tempted to

take her in my arms and tell her that the past did not matter any more

than did the future. But the memory of the words with which she had

driven me out of her life that summer's evening long ago lashed me like

a whip, and in an instant I had hardened my heart.

"Why do you make it so hard for me, Jim?" she moaned. "If only you would

help me a little."

"I'm helping you all I can," I said with a touch of cynicism in my

voice. "You can count on me until the adventure's finished."

"You know I don't mean that," she said weakly.

"There's nothing else you can mean," I answered stubbornly.

For the space of a heart-beat we stood facing each other. I saw that she

was on the verge of a breakdown, and I knew that my own resolution was

failing. After all, what need was there for me to be so brutal? She had

suffered more than enough for the idle words spoken in haste all those

years ago. There is no knowing what might have happened had not Fate

intervened. But just as things had reached breaking-strain the door-bell

rang. The prosaic sound brought us back instantly to earth, and a

dramatic situation, tense with possibilities, became in a moment

common-place.

"There's the door-bell," Moira said calmly. "I wonder who it can be."

"Some visitor or other," I remarked.

"What visitor could it be?" she asked. "I know of no one who'd have

business here."

I knew of one at least, but I did not put my thoughts into words.

Instead I remarked, "Quite possibly it's some house-hunter."

We heard the maid's steps go up the hall past us. There was a whispered

colloquy at the door, and then, quite distinctly, the maid's voice said,

"I'll see if he is in."

"That must be me," I guessed. "I'm the only 'he' in the house."

"But who knows you're here?" Moira objected.

"That's right," I said. "Who does?"

I opened the door of the room and looked out. The maid, who was coming

down the passage, caught sight of me. "There's a gentleman wishes to see

you, Mr. Carstairs," she announced.

"Show him in here," I said.

I turned back into the room. "You'd better stop here, Moira," I said as

she made a movement to go. "It can't be anything private. It's just as

likely that it's something that interests you too."

She sat down again.

The maid ushered the newcomer into the room. I ran my eye over him as I

advanced to meet him. He was small and dapper, and his air of

self-possession was almost perfect. His features were clean-cut, dark

eyes glowed in a face that had evidently been exposed to the weather for

many years, and his brow was surmounted by a mass of black curls.

"Mr. Carstairs?" he asked.

"That's me," I said truthfully but ungrammatically.

"This will explain my business," he said, and handed me a piece of

pasteboard. I took it from him; it was one of Bryce's visiting cards,

and scribbled across the foot of it were these words:--"Introducing Mr.

Albert Cumshaw. H. Bryce."

"I've been expecting you, Mr. Cumshaw," I said. "I've been expecting you

for some days now."

As a matter of fact I hadn't, but it is always a good rule to allow the

other man to think you know everything.

"Moira," I said, "this is the Mr. Cumshaw we've been waiting for. Mr.

Cumshaw, Miss Drummond."

"Pleased to meet you," he said and looked as if he meant it.

"Take a seat, Mr. Cumshaw," I said, and when he had accepted a chair,

"What can I do for you?" I enquired.

He looked curiously from one to the other of us as if to seek an

inspiration. "I presume Mr. Bryce is not about," he said at length.

"Well, hardly," I answered. "He's been dead this last couple of weeks."

It was longer than that in reality, but I mentioned the first period

that came into my head. Anyway, it didn't matter much how long it was

since he died; nothing could make him any the less dead now.

"Oh," said Mr. Cumshaw quietly, as though my news was just what he had

been expecting all along. "It is most regrettable," he added.

"Now what can I do for you?" I persisted.

"Touching the little matter of the gold escort," he said and fixed me

with a glowing eye.

"Yes, the gold escort, Mr. Cumshaw. What about it!"

He did not answer that immediately, but eyed both Moira and me as if to

test our receptive capacities. I maintained an attitude of complete

indifference; Moira leaned forward a little with interest plainly marked

in every line of her face.

"You were both in Mr. Bryce's confidence?" His quiet remark took the

form of a question.

I nodded.

"Go on," Moira urged. "You came to tell us about your father, Mr. Abel

Cumshaw."

"That's right," said the young man with amazing alacrity. "You're all

right too. I wasn't sure at first, but now I see you're in the game with

me. From what I know of it we're all like pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. We

all fit in, and none of us is any use without the others. That being so,

I fancy that we had better all place our cards on the table. Now which

of you has got the cypher?"

Moira looked at me for guidance. I was pleased to see that she was

learning that she couldn't do without me. I was pleased--no, I wasn't

pleased at all, for it didn't matter now what Moira thought of me.

"What cypher is that?" I enquired innocently.

"There is only one cypher, Mr. Carstairs," Mr. Cumshaw stated. He seemed

so sure about it that my curiosity was aroused.

"Indeed?" I said politely. I knew better than to contradict him

outright, so I did it by implication.

"There's only the one," the young man repeated. "You should know,

because Mr. Bryce left it to you."

If I had had any doubts before as to the genuine character of my visitor

they all vanished at that last remark of his. It was one of those things

that a man could not have guessed, however clever he might be. He must

have had inside knowledge. Hitherto I had been indulging in that

pleasant pastime that is known in boxing circles as "sparring for wind,"

but now I dropped the pose completely and answered him as

straightforwardly as was consistent with reasonable caution.

"Yes, he did leave a cypher to me," I admitted. "But what do you know

about it?"

"Only what Mr. Bryce wrote me. I'm sorry I can't show you the letter,

but Mr. Bryce had an invariable rule that all correspondence from him

must be burnt as soon as read."

"I guess I've got to accept you at your face value, Mr. Cumshaw," I

said. "You'll pardon me for doubting you at first, but it pays to be

cautious in a game like this. Now I'd like to know just how we are going

to assist each other."

"That's more than I can say," the young man smiled. "If I tell you the

story from start to finish, maybe you'll get a better idea of what we're

after."

"Would it take long?" I said diffidently. "It's fairly late now."

"If Mr. Cumshaw would stop to tea," Moira suggested, and looked to me

for approval of her proposition. Under the circumstances there was only

one thing for me to do, so I did it.

"You'll greatly oblige us if you stop," I said. "That is if it won't be

causing any inconvenience?" I added questioningly.

"None at all," he said cheerily. "Nothing of this sort ever

inconveniences me"--this latter with a glance at Moira.

"So that's the game, is it, young man?" I said to myself. "Well, here's

luck to you."

Aloud I said, "I am pleased to hear it." The funny part of it all was

that I really meant it. There was something open and honest about the

man himself, there was a healthful glow in his dark eyes, and he had a

way of looking at one that was the very essence of frankness itself.

Without knowing more of him than I had learnt in the few minutes we had

been conversing, I felt that he was as open as the day. In this case at

least my first impressions were more than justified by the course of

events.

* * * * *

Mr. Cumshaw stopped to tea and made himself very much at home, and

afterwards he told us the story of the gold escort. I have not set out

his tale as we heard it that evening. For one thing he only related what

he happened to know about the matter, and as a result there were many

little blanks he had to leave unfilled. But with the completion of our

enterprise many additional facts have come to light, and so it is that,

with Mr. Cumshaw's aid and at his suggestion, I give here a fuller and

more comprehensive version of the affair than he related to us that

evening.

PART II.

_THE ADVENTURES OF MR. ABEL CUMSHAW._

CHAPTER I.

NIGHTFALL.

Far away to the west the fiery globe of the setting sun dropped lazily

down to rest behind the quaint goblin peaks of the Grampians. Its last

lingering rays touched their summits with a crimson glow, flooded the

valleys with garish light, and even penetrated into the recesses of the

nearby woodlands until the whole place seemed to blaze as with the red

fire of Hell. It was not a peaceful sunset; it did not even hold the

promise of peace. It was alive and active, in the sense that light can

live, and one could but feel that its potency was malignant and assured.

There were clouds aplenty in the sky, light clouds looking as if they

had been trailed through red ink, but there was nothing about them to

suggest that a storm was brewing, or that even the slightest change in

the weather could be expected. Nevertheless the air contained a hint of

evil, so much so that an imaginative person would have peopled the hills

with gnomes and the woods with devils. Even had fairies existed in the

glades, one would have instinctively known them to be bad fairies. Yet

one could not say offhand whence or from whom the evil that was to be,

would originate; all earth and sky seemed somehow to be in the dread

conspiracy.

The lurid hues of the sunset flared and faded into the drabber colors of

twilight, the shadows swept down in phalanxes from the hills, and the

still lifeless trees, stirring in the evening breeze, became black

mocking shapes of infamy. The yellow disc of a moon, climbing up over

the woods, took on the semblance of the leering face of a drunken man.

The two men who presently came riding along through the tangled

fastnesses of what a couple of score years or more ago were the

untenanted and, to a great extent, the unexplored depths of a Victorian

forest, were very evidently unaffected by the grim fancies of the

evening. They were not laughing certainly, and when they spoke it was in

whispers, but the younger man hummed a music-hall tune under his breath.

There was something rakish, not to say reckless, in the way the elder

sat his mount. They went carefully, though, taking every possible

precaution against making needless noise. Once the horse of the elder

man stumbled and set a stone rolling down a declivity. Both men reined

in instantly and listened until the echoes died away in the distance.

"You're as nervous as a rabbit, Jack," the younger man remarked when

presently they resumed their journey. "Every little sound seems to

startle you."

"There's no sense in taking chances, man," said the one called Jack.

"If it comes to that there's no chances to take."

"Only that of being caught and hanged, Abel."

"There's not much hope of that," Abel Cumshaw replied. "Gentry like

ourselves are rather out of fashion now since they've squashed the

Kellys. The country's quietened down a lot, and a 'ranger's supposed to

be a thing of the past. As it is, there's never been bushrangers in this

part of the State, and what hasn't been is the least likely to happen in

most people's estimation."

"I'm with you there, Abel," Jack said. "But even that's no reason why we

shouldn't go carefully. You must remember that we don't know this part

of the State too well. That's the beauty of it, I suppose. Nobody knows

it very much."

"It'll make pursuit difficult," the other suggested. "But what I can't

understand is why the banks should send so much gold across country when

there's the railway."

"The railway, friend Cumshaw, isn't the safest route. There's just as

clever men working that as used to be working the stages. Moreover, this

cross-country route's much the quicker way of the two."

"For which we may thank the Lord," said Abel Cumshaw, with cheerful

impiety.

"Time enough to thank the Lord," the other retorted, "when we've

finished the job successfully. All the same, I wish we had a pack

horse."

"If we had brought a pack-horse," said Cumshaw, "we'd have had half the

country-side wondering what the deuce was up. Like as not they'd think

there was a new gold-strike on."

"And they wouldn't have been wrong in that," the other answered with

grim humor. "But let's get to the business of the evening, Abel. I've

got a good idea to put the pursuers off the scent, that is, if there's

any pursuit."

"Out with it, then," said Cumshaw.

The elder man reined in his horse, and, leaning over, whispered in his

companion's ear. As the tale proceeded a cheerful grin spread over

Cumshaw's face.

"That'll do fine," he said gleefully. "You almost make me wish they do

pursue us just for the fun of seeing them fall in."

"There's nothing to be gained by being foolhardy," the elder man warned

him. "Now we can't afford to waste time. Let us get to work at once."

Without more ado he led the way down through the tangle of forest and

across the open glades until they reached the narrow track that wound

like a monstrous brown ribbon through the enormous gums. At the edge of

the road they both dismounted and tethered their horses to convenient

trees. Then, stepping very gingerly, and taking extreme care not to

leave any footprints on the dusty surface of the track, they groped

about on the roadside. Presently they both returned to the horses, each

of them carrying an armful of heavy stones which they loaded carefully

into the enormous saddle-bags that dangled one on each side of the

saddle-flaps.

"That should about do it," Cumshaw remarked, when this was completed.

"I hope so," the other answered curtly. He sprang to the saddle, loosed

the reins that had tethered the animal, and setting his spurs deep into

its flank galloped up the track for a matter of a hundred yards or so,

closely followed by his companion. Then they turned sharply off into the

bush, designedly traversing the soft impressionable ground. The

heavily-laden horses floundered in the soft soil, and gradually the pace

dropped away from a gallop to a canter, and finally to a walk. When

nearly two miles of this sort of country had been covered, the two men

reined in and dismounted. Next they unloaded the stones from the

saddle-bags and hid them carefully in the undergrowth. Cumshaw then

proceeded to cut his thick blanket into strips, each of about eighteen

inches square. There were eight of these strips in all--four he kept

himself and the others he handed to his companion.

"It's a smart enough dodge, all right," the man remarked. "The only

possible flaw in it is that there might be some gentleman present who's

dealt with cattle-duffers in the past. If so, he'd be pretty sure to

scent our little game, and block it."

"Let's hope for the best," said Mr. Cumshaw, cheerfully, looking up from

his work with a smile that even the darkness of the night could not

hide. He was systematically wrapping the squares of blankets round the

hoofs of his mount and securing them in such a way that they would

remain fast even during a wild gallop over rough country. The trick

itself was an old one; it had its origin many years previous in Texas

and Arizona when the raiding Indians made their horses walk over

blankets spread on the ground in order to hide the direction of their

retreat. The idea had been adopted and developed by the Australian

cattle-duffers to meet the exigencies of the country they worked in. The

trick therefore was by no means a new one, and there was just a chance,

as the man Jack remarked, that someone might drop to it. But the false

hoof-prints were an unprecedented addition that would probably keep the

pursuers long enough on the wrong scent to enable the precious pair to

"escape" and "cache" their plunder.

It was characteristic of the two men that once they had taken all

precautions they quietly dismissed the matter from their minds and rode

slowly back to the roadway with scarce a thought for the business in

hand. Abel Cumshaw would have whistled had he dared; as it was he hummed

softly to himself. The moon was now well up in the heavens, and its

fitful light creeping through the leafy roof above, made gibbering

ghosts of the swaying gums. Mr. Abel Cumshaw and his companion, Jack

Bradby, had been brought up in the Australian bush, their nerves were as

steady as a rock, and where others saw grim visions of fancy they saw

only waving bushes and stripped gums. Though the present adventure was

their first essay in ranging, both of them had lived by their wits, or

rather by others' want of wits, for more years than were good for them.

Singly or together they had run other people's sheep and cattle and made

a lucrative, if dishonest, living at the game, and during their visits

to the towns had made it a point of warped honor to pay their expenses

with the ill-gotten gold of some duller fellow-creature. On top of it

all they had a carelessness of life and a free hand with their

easily-earned wealth that found them friends wherever they went.

Bradby pulled up suddenly and held up his hand in warning to his

companion. Some faint noise had caught his ear, and, excellent bushman

that he was, he would not rest content until he had located and defined

it. Silently as a shadow he slipped from his saddle and dropped

recumbent on the ground. With one ear to the earth beneath he listened.

He remained in this posture for perhaps a minute and a half, then he

rose abruptly and turned to Mr. Cumshaw.

"Horses," he said laconically.

"Must be them," Mr. Cumshaw replied with almost equal brevity.

Deftly, and without haste of any sort, each man knotted a red and white

spotted handkerchief across the lower half of his face, leaving only the

eyes and forehead visible. Then each tilted his hat so that the shadow

thrown by the brim shrouded the uncovered portion of the face. Mr.

Cumshaw, with the amazing simplicity of a conjurer, produced a pair of

ugly-looking revolvers from apparent nothingness, while his companion

slipped his holsters round so that his weapons were within easy and

immediate reach. He did not, however, remount his horse, but threw the

reins to Mr. Cumshaw, who draped them over his arm in such a way that

they did not hamper his movements in the least.

* * * * *

The little group of horsemen, four, or perhaps five in all, clattered

down the track as unsuspiciously as a man could wish. They were chatting

quite easily, even joyously, of the thousand and one little matters that

supplied their daily lives with interest, and nothing must have been

further from their thoughts than what actually occurred. The bank that

had sent them had departed from all precedent in parcelling out the gold

amongst the messengers. It was certainly against the rather strict

regulations of the bank, but the man who had instructed them had that

contempt for rules and regulations which is the mark of a man destined

to rise in the world.

"The expense of sending you," he had said, "is certainly no greater than

that of the recognised method of forwarding by coach. The security of my

method is even greater as you are not at all open to suspicion."

As a matter of fact, all would have gone well had not one of the chosen

messengers been a little too fond of his nightly drink, and more or less

inclined to talk when in his cups. True, on this particular evening he

had exercised a kind of maudlin caution, but the tactics of Mr. Jack

Bradby were of the sort to extract valuable information in the least

noticeable way possible, and as a consequence the man, while keeping a

strict guard of his tongue, at the same time let fall enough information

to satisfy the curiosity of the 'ranger.

The first intimation the little cavalcade had of the presence of the

knights of the road was when a shadow moved out from behind a huge gum

and a clear resounding voice invited them to halt or take the

consequences. With one accord the riders pulled up, one man swore

violently, and the hand of another dropped round to his belt in a

hesitant manner. But Mr. Jack Bradby had eyes like an eagle, for he

cried sharply, "Put your hands up instantly!"

All the men shot their hands skywards with a precision that could not

have been bettered by weeks of training.

"You look ever so much better like that," said Mr. Jack Bradby

pleasantly. "Just keep still. I'd hate to make corpses of any of

you--you all look so much better alive."

The humor of this was apparently lost on the captured ones, for they

received it in silence, much to Mr. Bradby's disgust.

"Laugh when I crack a joke!" he roared. "Laugh, all of you, damn you!"

Somebody giggled in a half-hearted manner.

"That's no sort of a laugh," snorted Mr. Bradby. "When I say laugh, I

mean laugh. I don't want you to bubble like that jackass did." He

indicated the giggler with one of his ugly-looking revolvers. "Now laugh

altogether as if you meant it. One, two, three; off you go!"

They all roared at that, but there was a lack of enthusiasm in their

voices. Mr. Bradby, however, passed that over and proceeded to the

business of the evening.

"Now please keep your hands in the same position," Mr. Bradby continued.

"You've got quite a lot of valuables in those saddle-bags of yours, and

I'm going to annex them. And don't any of you move a hand or foot or

you'll be shot before you can say 'Jack Robinson.' There's men in plenty

in among those trees, so don't play any hanky-panky tricks if you value

your lives."

The scared horsemen with one accord glanced toward the trees that

fringed the road. Mr. Bradby had stage-managed the affair with such

consummate skill that they could only see the dim forms of several

horses. The shadows were cast so that it was impossible to say how many

there were; as far as the captives were concerned a regiment of cavalry

might have been massed behind the trees for all they could say to the

contrary. They had a feeling that unseen eyes watched them and invisible

firearms covered their every movement. A solitary ray of moonlight,

glinting for an instant on one of Cumshaw's revolvers lent color to this

suggestion, so like wise men they surrendered to the inevitable and

allowed the explosive Mr. Bradby to relieve them first of all of their

weapons, and, when he had "drawn their teeth," as he succinctly

expressed it, to rifle their saddle-bags for the little packages of gold

that it was their mission to guard with their lives. Life at all times

is dearer than gold, and the men realised that they were in a trap from

which there was only one way of escape. They submitted meekly to their

fate, saw the saddle-bags rifled without a word of protest, and,

deceived by the shadows, watched what they took to be half a dozen men

at least loading up with the gold. It speaks well for the dominant

personality of Mr. Bradby that no one seemed to have suspected that only

two men were concerned in the hold-up, despite the fact that they really

only saw one man and the shadowy outline of another.

"Turn round, all of you!" Mr. Bradby commanded when the transfer had

been completed. "Turn round and keep your hands in the air!"

Obediently, albeit clumsily, since they could not use their hands, the

horsemen wheeled their mounts around, and Mr. Bradby surveyed the scene

with satisfaction.

"You all look nice from the rear," he remarked. "Some of you've got real

fine backs. Just you keep like that now and see what the fairies'll send

you."

So silently that he might have been a disembodied spirit he turned on

his heel, seized the reins Mr. Cumshaw threw him and vaulted into the

saddle. As softly as two shadows the horses melted into the night, their

muffled hoofs making no sound on the hard earth.

Ten minutes later one of the horsemen, grown tired of the unearthly

inaction and suspecting something of what had happened, slewed his head

round very cautiously. In a flash he realised the position and imparted

his discovery to his companions.

"We can't follow them," the leader said. "We're unarmed. Furthermore

we've got no idea which way they went. The only thing we can do is to

get back to the nearest police station and report."

The man who had first discovered the absence of the bushrangers had been

employing his time in examining the ground for traces of the gang, and

very shortly he came across the tracks that the precious pair had made

earlier in the evening. An exclamation from him drew the others to the

spot. By the flickering light of a match they inspected the hoof-marks,

and then the leader of the party gave vent to a snort of disgust.

"There's only two of them," he said. "What fools we've been!"

"They completely took us in," remarked another member of the party.

"That's so," agreed a third, "but we can't make people understand. If we

tell them how two men stuck us up, we're going to look a lot of goats. I

For one think we'd better keep the number to ourselves, or, better

still, we might say that there was a big party of them."

One or two demurred at this, but the bulk of the party knew well the

ridicule that the truth would attach to them, and the result was that

between them a story carrying the marks of probability was invented,

and, thus armed against the laughter of the State, the party set out for

the nearest town.

In the meanwhile Bradby and Cumshaw had doubled back on their tracks and

were heading for the Grampians. Though neither of them had explored the

mountains before, they were quite satisfied from what they knew of the

general formation of the country that there were gullies, even valleys,

where an army might lie hidden. So confident were the two adventurers

that there was no danger of pursuit that they did not press forward at

anything like a reasonable speed. They took things easy. Somewhere about

two o'clock in the morning they halted and removed the blanket-pads from

their horses' hoofs. Mr. Cumshaw was just going to throw them into the

bushes when Mr. Bradby stopped him.

"Don't do that," he said, "we'd better destroy them outright."

"How?" queried Abel.

"Burn 'em, I should say," Mr. Bradby answered. "You make a good job of

it, and you don't leave anything behind. If you throw them away

someone's sure to find them just when it's most awkward for you. No,

Abel, burn them and hurry up about it."

So it came about that presently a tiny spot of light glowed like a red

warning beacon from the lower slopes of the range. A lonely prospector,

a few miles to the east, saw the spark and wondered at it. He knew that

no one lived in that part of the country. The more he thought of it the

more it puzzled him, though with the morning there came an unexpected

solution.

CHAPTER II.

THE PURSUIT.

A body of mounted troopers left Ararat an hour or so before daylight the

next morning, and by seven o'clock had reached the scene of the robbery.

They had with them a capable black tracker who had figured in recent

events in the Wombat Ranges. He was a silent individual who answered to

the name of "Jacky," a name that seems to be the heritage of all blacks

who serve in the police force. He quickly picked up the false scent, and

the party turned east. It wasn't until the horses stumbled over the heap

of stones that some brilliant intellect dropped to the trick that had

been played on them. Then, with the better part of an hour to the bad,

the party returned to the starting-point of the trail.

"Seems to me," the sergeant in charge remarked to his subordinate, "that

they've laid this trail with a good reason. Now if a man wanted to put

you on the wrong track, what would you think he'd naturally do?"

"Send us in the opposite direction," said the other promptly.

"Quite so," said the sergeant. "Now the false trail leads east, so it's

only reasonable to suppose that they've gone west."

"That's so," the other agreed. "Get-up, you brute." The latter remark

was addressed to the horse, which showed an inclination to drop into a

walk.

"Here you, Jacky!" the sergeant called, and when the black came to him

he said, "Those white men have gone this way," pointing westward. "Look

out for their tracks, though I don't fancy we'll see any for some time."

The black grunted non-committally. He had much the same idea himself,

though he could not understand how the white man had guessed. Still he

knew enough of the white men to realise that they were very, very

clever, and sometimes found out things that even the black trackers did

not understand. The black went back to his work in silence. Presently he

grunted again. His quick eyes had noticed a grey woollen thread stamped

into the earth. He lifted it gingerly up in his hand and held it out to

the police. The sergeant took it, examined it carefully, and then,

without any comment, handed it round to the others. There was no need to

ask what it meant. All knew without being told that someone had lately

passed that way, and who could that someone be unless one of the

rangers?

The black went back again to the trail, bending down close to the ground

for all the world like a little dog following the scent of the chase. He

turned sharply off into the bushes and the troop went after him. Here

and there--wherever the earth had chanced to be a little softer than

usual--one could see round depressions somewhat about the size of a

saucer, and one patch of damp soil gave a remarkably clear imprint of

the fibres of some material.

"Clever chaps, by George!" the sergeant remarked. "They've got brains

among them."

"How's that?" queried one of the police.

"They've tried the old duffers' dodge of blanketing the horses' hoofs.

Sort of thing that works, too, unless a man happens to have his eyes

well open. Luckily I've stumbled up against this sort of thing before."

The other man, who had his own ideas about the matter, nodded his head,

but otherwise made no comment.

About ten o'clock the troopers debouched from the trees into a low-lying

stretch of land. One could not call it a gully; it was more of a

depression, a fault in the earth due to some local subsidence. On the

nearest ridge a prospector's hut was perched, from the chimney of which

a wisp of smoke ascended. When one of the mounted men dropped from the

saddle and opened the door he found no one in charge, though a dinner

was merrily simmering away on the fire.

"Whoever he is he can't be far away," the sergeant commented. "He

wouldn't leave his dinner unless he was handy. Have a look for him,

boys. He might be able to tell us something."

The men scattered in different directions down the depression, and

presently a shout from one of them announced that the prospector had

been found. He came toiling slowly up the slope, side by side with his

discoverer. He was a small wiry man, with a heavy iron-grey beard, and

his age, as well as one could guess, was something near to sixty.

"You don't happen to have seen a body of men, horsemen, passing this way

late last night or early this morning?" the sergeant queried.

"Nobody passed this way last night," the man answered in a colorless

voice. "Why?"

"A gold escort was robbed yesterday evening," the sergeant said, "and

we've got information that the robbers came this way."

The man turned slowly and studied the lower slopes of the distant range.

He saw, or seemed to see, something that interested him, and he stared

so long that the sergeant said impatiently, "Well, what about it?"

"I was just wondering," said the little man in the same colorless voice.

"I was just wondering if that was them."

"If who was?" the sergeant demanded. "Out with it, man, and don't keep

us waiting all day."

"Last night," said the man distinctly, "there was a fire up on those

ranges. It wasn't a bush-fire. I know a bush-fire. It was just a tiny

little glow from here. I thought it was a fire showing through the open

door of a hut, until I remembered that nobody lived up there. It didn't

last long; it must have burnt out in ten minutes or so, so I knew that

it was started by some traveller. It wasn't a camp-fire and they weren't

cooking anything."

"How do you know that?" the sergeant said quickly.

"How do I know that?" the little man repeated slowly. "It's easy enough.

The fire was only alight ten minutes at the most, and you can't cook

anything or boil a billy in that time, I know."

"The old chap's right," one of the troopers said in an undertone to his

superior.

The sergeant nodded. He turned again to the old prospector. "You're sure

you didn't see anyone pass this way?" he queried.

"No, I'm not sure," said the man. "I'm only saying that I didn't hear

anyone."

"What do you mean by saying you're not sure that you didn't see anyone?"

the sergeant asked curiously.

"When there's shadows in the trees," said the old man, "there's times

when you can't tell whether they're men or not. That's what I mean. I'm

only saying that I didn't hear anyone. I'd have heard horses."

"The man's a hatter," the sergeant remarked as the troop galloped off

towards the ranges. "As mad as a March hare."

The other grinned cheerfully. "Still there's a lot in what he said," he

answered. "Now that about the fire----"

"I wonder why they lighted it," the sergeant cut-in.

"Don't know," the other said. "What's the sense of worrying anyway?

We'll know soon enough. But don't you think we should have brought the

old chap along with us?"

The sergeant shook his head. "What'd be the good?" he said. "He couldn't

do any more than he's done already."

He swung round in his saddle and faced the troop. "Now, men," he said,

"we've got to put our best foot foremost. Those 'rangers are somewhere

ahead of us, making for the mountains. Keep your eyes skinned, for you

never know the minute we'll catch up to them. They can't have such a big

start of us, and they're heavily loaded at that."

The troopers unslung their carbines and examined the loading, then,

satisfied that every preparation had been made, they set spurs to their

horses and cantered up the track that led to the ranges.

It was Mr. Abel Cumshaw who first discovered the pursuers. Early in the

afternoon the two men commenced to ascend the mountains proper. Just

before they disappeared into the belt of timber that fringed the slopes

the younger man turned in his saddle and cast one last backward glance

at the valley they had left beneath them. Far away below them, in among

the misty shapes of the distant trees, he caught a glimpse of a

collection of dark little dots whose unfamiliar look puzzled him. He

called Mr. Bradby's attention to them, and that gentleman glanced at

them in an offhand way and pronounced them to be kangaroos.

"Come on," he added in a different tone. "Hurry up with you there!"

Mr. Cumshaw had no intention of moving until he was fully satisfied in

his own mind that the little black dots were really kangaroos. Something

seemed to whisper that they weren't.

"They're not kangaroos," he said with conviction. He had caught the

glint of sunlight on metal, a brass button of a man's uniform, or

perhaps the polished barrel of a carbine.

"Oh," said Mr. Bradby, "so you've tumbled."

"They're police," Mr. Cumshaw stated. "That's what they are."

"Didn't you know that, Abel? I guessed it as soon as I saw them. I'd

never confuse a trooper with a kangaroo. I only said that to--well, I

didn't want to scare you unnecessarily."

"You needn't be afraid of that," said Mr. Cumshaw airily. "I'm in the

game for good or ill, and I'm taking all risks equally with you. It's as

much my funeral as yours."

"It doesn't matter whose funeral it is," Jack Bradby said impatiently.

"We've got to get away and do it smart. You must remember that neither

of us knows anything at all about this country, and it's ten to one that

those infernal police have got a black tracker or some other imp of

Satan who'll be able to follow us, even if we left as little trace as so

many flies."

"Where are we heading for anyway?" Abel Cumshaw enquired as he spurred

his horse alongside his companion's.

"That's more than I can say," Bradby retorted. "If we'd had any gumption

we'd have explored the place before we took on this last job. But we

hadn't the time, and that's all there is to say about it. It's my

impression that this section of the State is as full of hiding-places as

ever the Blue Mountains or the Wombats were. If we only keep up this

spurt of ours we'll make a gully or a valley where we can hide for

months without a soul being a whit the wiser."

"I hope so," said Cumshaw, in the manner of a man who has very grave

doubts.

"Hold your breath for your work," Mr. Bradby advised. "You might need it

all yet."

They had made good headway by this, and the path that they had picked

out took them every hour deeper into the unexplored heart of the

country. On every side of them stretched the unbroken fastnesses of the

primeval wilderness, sheer precipices dropping suddenly into infinite

space, jagged peaks towering dizzily into the misty vault of heaven,

quaintly situated valleys so masked by timber and brushwood that one

came across them only by accident. There is something in the naked face

of Nature, in the sheer magnificence of incredible heights and the

marvellous massiveness of big timber that somehow dwarfs man into

insignificance and makes him realise the puniness of his strength. There

was something in the scenes now opening up before the rangers that

subdued them and beat them into silence. There was beauty in the sight,

the soft eternal beauty of an unravished land, but over and above that

was the suggestion that the travellers were fighting not merely against

their kind but against the untrammelled forces of an all-powerful

wilderness.

The time was early December, and the golden wattle in full bloom. From

end to end the ranges were a blaze of color, near at hand deep gold,

fading away in the distance into that hazy blue-grey peculiar to

Australian mountains. Hour by hour the men rode on in silence, at times

galloping down the slopes, at others crawling slowly and painfully up

hills that stretched apparently to heaven, hills that yet dropped

suddenly into space when one had almost given up all hope of ever

reaching the summit.

They had lost all sight of the pursuers, though once Bradby caught a

glimpse of smoke far away to the east, smoke that he fancied came from

the mid-day fire of the troopers.

They halted at sunset in the shadow of a clump of red gums and made the

first meal since morning. As a result of a hurried consultation they

decided to press on until midnight. But the horses were wearied with the

rough and constant travelling, and it took the better part of two hours

for them to cover a little under three miles.

"They've got to have a rest and so have we," Bradby said finally. "The

pace is killing, and I'm quite satisfied that the police are taking it

fairly easy. We've got scared over nothing. They might not even be on

our track. At any rate I suggest we finish for the night and get what

sleep we can."

Abel Cumshaw raised no objection to this--as a matter of fact he was

almost falling from his mount out of sheer saddle-weariness--so a halt

was called, the horses were unsaddled, the men unrolled their blankets

and settled down to slumber just as the silver ghost of the moon flooded

the place with its cool white light.

It was broad daylight when they awoke, and the sun was already high up

in the heavens.

"Somewhere about nine or ten o'clock," Cumshaw guessed. "We've slept in,

Jack."

Bradby ruefully admitted that this was so, but excused it on the ground

that they would be better fitted for the day's work.

"I'm hanged if I like this game," Cumshaw growled as they made a meagre

breakfast on almost the last of their rations. "The food's running

short, and it's only a matter of time until they wear us down. You know

what it means for us, Jack, if they catch us with the gold. Now I've got

an idea, and if we carry it out I see a chance of escaping scot-free.

The gold's weighing us down, so what we've got to do is to get rid of

it."

"You're surely not going to throw it away after all we've gone through,"

said Bradby, aghast at the proposal.

"No, I'm not," Cumshaw told him. "What I suggest is that we hide it

somewhere handy, make a note of the spot, and then clear out of this

particular section for a time. We can easily keep afloat for a couple of

months, and when the hue and cry has died down, we can come back and dig

it up at our leisure. We'll gain nothing by sticking to it now and we'll

run a chance of losing everything."

"Not a bad idea," Bradby agreed. "But the trouble's to find a suitable

spot."

"We passed dozens of such places already, Jack. We're just as likely to

strike something as good or even better during the course of the day.

The whole country-side is honeycombed with hiding-places; it's like a

rabbit-warren."

"There's nothing like being an optimist," Bradby said. "Have it your

way, Abel. Now the sooner you find some nice secure little spot the

better for us, I'm thinking. For one thing the food's running short, as

you just remarked, and for another I don't intend keeping up this

dodging game for ever. We can't last; they'll wear us down."

"That's supposing they don't get tired and go home," said the cheerful

Mr. Cumshaw.

"Not much chance of that," Mr. Bradby retorted. "I only wish they

would."

During the morning Bradby's horse developed lameness, and, though the

two men slackened the pace in order to give it every chance, by mid-day

it could barely limp along.

"This won't do," said Bradby in despair. "We're losing time we can ill

afford. All the same this old crock'll have to struggle on until

nightfall, and then we'll see whether we'll have to shoot it."

"I don't like shooting a horse," Cumshaw remarked. "It's like murder."

Bradby's only answer was a muttered oath. The trials of the Journey were

bringing out the worst side of the man, a side that Cumshaw had never

seen before. He eyed his companion thoughtfully. If the wilderness was

to get on Bradby's nerves at this early stage, Cumshaw could see that

there was likely to be very serious trouble before the end came. The air

in the highlands was laden with a freshness which, while it stung the

men to action, at the same time put a keen edge on their tempers. Both

of them were children of the warm, sun-kissed lowlands, and the

difference of even a few degrees of temperature had a remarkable effect

on them. With Abel Cumshaw it was such as to send a warm glow into his

cheeks; the cold bite of the air made his blood sparkle like new wine

and urged him on to fresh efforts. It affected Mr. Bradby in another and

a worse way. He became sullen, and there was a certain marked

vindictiveness in the way he spurred his lame horse on to exertions that

were plainly too much for it. Once or twice Abel was on the point of

remonstrating with him, but for the sake of peace he held his tongue and

waited, in the hope that the day would bring forth some measure of

relief. But nothing happened that morning, and the hope died within him.

Late that day, when the pace had slowed down almost to a crawl, they

stumbled across the place by the simplest kind of accident. They had

been dropping down to lower levels the greater part of the day, and

somewhere about three o'clock in the afternoon--they were not quite sure

of the hour, since the sun was masked by the trees--they found

themselves in what looked like a narrow gully. Both sides of it were

lined with thick bushes of golden wattle that shut out all view on

either hand. There were shadows galore in this narrow gully, and the

place itself looked almost as dark as the entrance to the Pit. Cumshaw,

who had a classical education and had not been able to forget it, any

more than the fact that he had once been a gentleman, murmured under his

breath.

"What's that?" Bradby asked sharply.

Cumshaw repeated his quotation. "Facilis est descensus Averno," he said.

"What does that mean?" Bradby enquired, in the tone of a man who

imagines he is being insulted in a language he does not understand.

"It's easy to go to hell," Cumshaw translated.

Bradby shot one sharp curious glance at him, but made no comment on what

he had said. They rode on in silence.

Presently they came to a patch of ground that had been broken by the

wind or the rain, or perhaps both together. The shadows so fell that the

travellers did not realise the treacherous nature of the soil until they

were right in the middle of it. Cumshaw's horse floundered and would

have fallen on its knees had he not reined in sharply. This caused him

to cannon into his companion's mount. Bradby pulled back sharply, in

some way jarring his animal's sore leg as he did so. It reared up on its

haunches with the pain, and in the most approved manner bucked its rider

off. He shot up in the air, described a beautiful half-circle, and

sailed through the barrier of wattle like a human projectile.

Cumshaw slipped off his horse with the quickness of thought. He had

enough presence of mind to tether both his own and Bradby's mount, and

then he cautiously parted the bushes. For the moment he could see

nothing but a great wall of golden blossoms, and then out of the depths

came Bradby's furious voice. He was cursing the horse and the slope and

everything and everyone within hearing in the simple and forceful

fashion of the Australian bushman.

Cumshaw called to him and was answered with an oath.

"Where are you?" he repeated.

"Down here," said the voice, this time modifying its language. "Step

carefully or you'll come a cropper."

Mr. Cumshaw pulled the bushes apart and found that he was standing on

the verge of a sheer descent.

"Mind your eye," said the voice of the still invisible Mr. Bradby. "I've

found the very place we've been looking for."

CHAPTER III.

THE HIDDEN VALLEY.

Abel Cumshaw caught at the bushes to save himself from slipping and

turned a curious eye on the scene before him. Really there wasn't very

much for him to see. Bradby had fallen into a miniature valley so small

that it looked like the creation of a child. The place was heavily

timbered, and almost all definable features were masked beneath the

trees. Abel saw even in the first glance that here was just that ideal

hiding-place for which they had been searching. Softly and cautiously he

commenced to descend. The slope was slippery with green grass, and he

finished the last few yards with a run. He came down amongst a lot of

bracken and fern, and suffered no worse harm than the shock of a sudden

stoppage. Mr. Bradby, he saw, was sitting almost buried in a mass of

bracken, and looking much cheerier than his recent utterance would seem

to suggest.

"Are you hurt?" Cumshaw asked him. He held out a helping hand. Mr.

Bradby struggled to his feet and smiled at his questioner.

"Hurt? No," he said. "Only surprised. Why, Abel, here's the very place

we want. We could hide here for years, and they could be scouring the

country for us, and them not a penny the wiser. That tumble of mine was

just the luckiest thing imaginable. You talk about falling into hell!

Why, man, we've fallen into heaven, and if we don't make the best use we

can of the place we're the biggest duffers alive."

"How are we to get the horses down here?" queried the practical Mr.

Cumshaw.

Mr. Bradby eyed the slope down which he had come so precipitately, and

then pursed up his lips.

"It don't look so easy from here," he said at length. "And from what I

can see this place is walled in all round."

"Whether it is or not," said Cumshaw, "we've got to get those horses

down, and get them down at once."

"But how?"

"That's what we've got to find out," said Cumshaw. And with that he

commenced to climb up the slope again. It was hard work, much harder

than coming down, but in the end he managed it. When he reached the top

he turned, to find that Bradby was almost at his heels. He surveyed the

place with the eye of a trained bushman; then he said, "We can manage

it, Jack. It's a case of sliding them down, but once we get them started

they'll go right enough."

"We'll give it a try," said Mr. Bradby. His usual good humor was fast

re-asserting itself now that they had reached a haven of comparative

safety, and he was ready to try any scheme that promised even the

smallest chance of success.

Without wasting any further words on the matter the two men scrambled

through the bushes and made their way towards the horses. The lame

animal had quite recovered from its fright, and suffered its owner to

lead it up the slight rise to the wattles, though there it drew back as

if conscious of the drop beneath. But by dint of prodding and coaxing

Bradby forced it through the crackling brush, and then, with a wild

whinny of fear, it lost its footing and slid down the slope in an

avalanche of grass and twigs. Cumshaw's mount made the descent in fine

style, and the two men followed.

"Now," said Bradby, when they stood once more on level ground, "the

further we get into this timber the better, I say. I don't suppose any

passer-by would be likely to notice that we've come down here, do you?"

"All things considered," Mr. Cumshaw said slowly, "we've made little

mess. We've got to thank that grassy slope for that. If it had been dry

earth there'd have been tracks enough in all conscience. Yes, I think we

can reasonably say that we've no need to fear anything--unless

accidents."

As near as they could judge the valley was about a mile across at its

widest, but it merged so gently into the further side of the ranges that

it was almost impossible to say exactly. The wood grew thicker as the

men advanced, until presently it was with difficulty that they could

make their way forward.

"Getting pretty close," Bradby said at length.

Cumshaw nodded. He was too busy thinking over certain little

peculiarities of the wood to take much notice of his companion's

remarks. His quick eye had seen little cuts in the trees, bits of bark

that had been chipped off here and there, and the sight set him

wondering. The cuts were curiously like the blazing of a trail. They

were regular, they were all about the same height on the tree-trunks,

and they looked as if they had been made with an axe, not the crude

stone weapon of an aborigine, but the sharp steel axe of a white man.

Yet the place seemed deserted, and in all the air was that sense of

utter desolation and absence of life that only those who have lived

close to Nature can feel and understand.

"We're not the first here," Cumshaw said suddenly.

Bradby turned on him in alarm. "What d'y' mean?" he asked indistinctly.

"Some of the trees are blazed," Cumshaw pointed out. "The cuts are

clean, and that means they've been done with an axe. But they're all

weather-worn, so it must have been some time ago."

"I don't like the look of it all the same," Bradby said despondently.

"It means that someone else has stumbled on this place--it doesn't

matter much whether it was yesterday or ten years ago--and what has been

done before will almost certainly be done again. If those troopers come

this way----"

"What's the good of crossing the bridge before you come to it?" Cumshaw

interrupted. "We've been lucky so far, and who's to say our luck won't

hold out till the end?"

"It's the end I'm looking at," Bradby said gloomily. "It might be the

sort of end neither of us'd fancy."

Mr. Cumshaw made no immediate reply. He was peering very intently

through the boles of the trees as if he was not quite sure that what he

saw was really there.

"What are you looking at?" Bradby demanded irritably.

"If that's not a bit of a clearing and a hut on the edge of it, I'm a

lunatic," Abel Cumshaw said.

"Hell!" ejaculated Bradby, and he in his turn peered through the trees.

"There's no smoke coming from it," Cumshaw said comfortingly. "It looks

deserted. I daresay it's been like that for years."

"I don't like this place," Bradby remarked with naive irrelevance. "It

fair gives me the creeps. There's spooks about here."

"If you talk that way," said Cumshaw fiercely, "I'll put a bullet

through you. That sort of talk's only fit for children. You're not a

child. You ought to have more sense. There's things here doubtless that

you and I don't understand, but they're quite capable of a rational

explanation, so don't go digging up any stuff about ghosts until you

find you can't explain them any other way. There's the hut in front of

us, and either there's someone in it or there isn't. If there is, we've

got to use our wits; if there isn't, the game's ours."

"Have it your own way," said Bradby. "I'm game enough when I know what

I'm tackling. I only mentioned I didn't like the feel of the place, and

I don't see that that gives you any call to say what you have."

"We'll call it off until we've investigated," Cumshaw replied. "You stay

here with the horses, and I'll creep forward a bit and see if anyone's

home. All the same, I'm willing to bet that the place's deserted."

"Maybe it is and maybe it isn't," suggested Bradby. "However, you go off

as you say and I'll wait here for you."

Abel Cumshaw threw the reins to his companion, slid his revolver

holsters round to the front within easy reach, should he need the

weapons they contained, and slipped through the trees with the silence

of a marauding tom-cat. Bradby watched him with some misgiving. No man

could say with certainty just what secret the dilapidated hut held, and

Bradby's state of mind was such that he took the gloomier view of the

situation. He would not have been very much surprised to see half a

dozen troopers issue from the hut. He would have taken it as the

inevitable ending of such an adventure. He failed to understand the

natural cheerfulness with which Cumshaw faced the situation. He was

bright and volatile enough himself when dealing with the ordinary

man--his courage was of that average quality that is always at its best

when exercised before an admiring or frightened audience--but the

abnormal brought home to him his own futility of purpose and his natural

helplessness. While realising all this he was not man enough to rise

above and overcome the limitations of his spirit.

Cumshaw swung round the corner of the hut and out of sight. Then it was

that Bradby began to feel absolutely deserted, and the queer

oppressiveness of the place descended on him as one shuts down the lid

of a box. He was not the type of man who finds companionship in animals,

and the nearness of the horses in nowise mitigated his fear. For he was

afraid, unashamedly afraid, though of what he could no more have said

than he could fly. He knew without understanding how the knowledge came

to him that the valley was filled with the ghosts of dead things, dead

trees, dead leaves, and perhaps dead hopes. His nerve was going; the

intolerably close atmosphere of the wood brought little beads of

perspiration out on him, and when he brushed his forehead with a

trembling hand he was surprised to find it wet.

The horses stirred uneasily, and the lame animal gave a low whinny.

Then in the next instant the eternal silence of the valley was broken by

a human voice. The suddenness of it startled Bradby, and it wasn't until

he saw Cumshaw waving to him that he realised that the sound he had

heard was his companion's "Coo-ee." He loosed his hold on the reins,

allowing the two horses to wander where they might, and commenced to run

towards the hut. Even as he ran his faculties collected themselves, and

when he reached the corner of the hut he was almost his own man again.

Cumshaw eyed him curiously as he pulled up. "Startled you a bit, didn't

I?" he said.

"I thought something had happened to you when I heard you call," Bradby

answered, a trifle untruthfully.

"Don't you worry about me," Cumshaw said with affected unconcern, though

something in the man's nervous tone troubled him in a way he could not

define. "I've found the old chap who made the marks on the trees," he

ran on.

"Where?" Bradby demanded. But he looked towards the hut-door

apprehensively.

"He's in there," Cumshaw said, following the other's glance, "but there

isn't anything to worry about. He's as dead as a door-nail."

"Dead," Bradby repeated dazedly.

Cumshaw nodded. "This many a day," he said in semi-explanation. "But

come in and see what there is to be seen."

As if perfectly sure of his companion's acquiescence he turned and

walked into the hut. After a moment's hesitation Bradby followed. The

place smelt a trifle musty, and all the air was full of the subtle reek

of decay. It was rather dim in the hut, and at first Mr. Bradby could

see nothing but some indefinite shapes that might be anything at all.

Gradually his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, and in the

farthest corner he spied a rough bed of planks.

"That's him," said Mr. Cumshaw irreverently, and stirred something with

his foot.

Mr. Bradby looked a little closer this time. The something that Cumshaw

had stirred turned out to be the whitened skeleton of a man. The hideous

thing about it was that it was not stretched out on the plank bed; it

was propped up, as if the man had died while sitting. A rusted gun lay

in line with the thing's left thigh, and Bradby, following the muzzle

with a trained eye, saw that it was pointed at the man's head.

"Suicide," said Cumshaw. "Look at his head. He's blown out what little

brains he had."

He was right. The frontal bones of the skull were shattered and twisted

by the force of the charge; they gave the rest of the face a ghastly,

leering look which turned Bradby physically sick. The other man was

evidently troubled by no such qualms, for he loosened the gun from the

bony hand that had clung to it so desperately through all those years,

and tumbled the skeleton itself on to the plank bed.

"I'm going outside," said Mr. Bradby suddenly, and disappeared through

the doorway with suspicious alacrity.

Mr. Cumshaw laughed softly. "Weak stomach," he murmured. "Well,

someone's got to clear this old chap out, and, as it's certain to be me,

I might as well do it first as last."

At that he gathered the white, clean-picked bones up in his arms,

carried his burden through the doorway, and deposited it carefully on

the grass outside the hut. His eye lighted on Mr. Bradby, who was

sitting on the ground some distance away, looking very pale, and having

all the appearance of a man who had reluctantly parted with his lunch.

"What the deuce are you doing?" he asked in tones that betrayed a

certain amount of trepidation not unmixed with vague horror.

"Evicting the late tenant," Mr. Cumshaw grinned with cheerful

inconsequence.

"Why?"

There was more than a question in the quick monosyllable. It contained

also a hint of protest.

"Because we're going to camp inside the hut, and two's company and

three's more of a crowd than I like. This old chap can stop out here for

the night; I don't suppose he'll mind it much. If he's gone to the Abode

of the Blessed he'll be above worrying over such mundane matters, and if

he's anywhere else he'll be too much occupied to do anything but attend

to the burnt spots."

"You shouldn't speak like that of the dead," Bradby said solemnly. "It's

not right."

"If we stopped to consider whether a thing was right or wrong before we

did it," Cumshaw retorted, "you and I wouldn't be here this evening. If

you're wise, you'll leave all that talk till morning. The shadows are

closing in, and we'll have the night on us before we know where we are.

I'd suggest that we catch the horses while the light's still good. You

must remember they've got those saddle-bags on them still. Of course,

there's just enough food to make a meal for a pair of small-sized

tom-cats, but I fancy we'll manage on it till morning. Who knows what we

may find then? Perhaps a kangaroo, or at the worst a native-bear."

Bradby rose reluctantly to his feet, and, with a nervous glance at the

remains of the unknown, followed his partner in crime. The horses had

not strayed far; they were busily cropping the grass, and seemed quite

content with their lot. The two men unloaded the saddle-bags and carried

the contents into the hut. Then they hobbled the horses and turned them

loose for the night.

The shadows were gathering in by this, and already the trees were full

of misty shapes that had no relation to fact. The bulk of the hills shut

out the last rays of the sun, though the western sky was still faintly

tinged with crimson. Just as they entered the hut Cumshaw paused for a

moment and ran his eye over the scene. The place seemed peaceful enough,

but he had that queer sense of the bushman, a sense almost amounting to

an instinct, that told him that there was trouble ahead. He shook the

feeling off almost immediately and entered the hut. Bradby, despite his

dislike of the conglomeration of bones on the grass outside, lingered a

second or so longer. There was a light in the eastern sky, perhaps a

faint reflection of the glow of the dying day, that lit up the hump of

the nearest hill. It was practically bare of vegetation; only a solitary

tree stood a lone sentinel on its very summit, showing black against the

horizon.

The thought that sprung into Bradby's mind at that was that here was a

landmark which there could be no possibility of mistaking. Already

certain plans were germinating in his brain, and he saw, or fancied he

saw, a way of turning this latest discovery to practical use. The

bleached bones in front of him, too, became a means to an end, and, with

the smile of a man who sees the way suddenly made clear, he too entered

the hut in his turn.

Cumshaw was busily engaged in laying a fire in the centre of the hut,

taking care, however, that its glow would not show through the open

doorway. He looked up as Bradby entered and said, "I think we're safe in

starting a fire here. It can't be seen by anyone crossing the hills,

though there isn't much likelihood of that, and all the smoke we make

won't do us any harm. There's always a certain amount of mist in a place

like this, and a man a mile away wouldn't be able to tell the

difference."

"Go ahead," said Mr. Bradby quietly. "You know what you are doing."

The compliment in the last remark was desperately like an insult, but

Cumshaw did not seem to notice anything out of the way, for he bent down

to his work and whistled cheerfully while he coaxed the fire into a

blaze. Presently it was burning brightly, the billy was filled with

water from the water-bottle, and tea was in a fair way of being

prepared. "Great place, this," Cumshaw said presently.

"Great place," Mr. Bradby assented. "A man can die here without anyone

being any the wiser."

Mr. Cumshaw made no reply to that, but the corners of his mouth

tightened as if he suspected some hidden meaning beneath that smooth

remark.

CHAPTER IV.

WHEN THIEVES FALL OUT.

Just as the first rays of the rising sun slanted into the hut Mr. Bradby

stirred uneasily, threw out one arm, rolled over on his side, and in an

instant was wide-awake. He sat up abruptly and gazed around. Abel

Cumshaw was still sleeping peacefully, his head pillowed on the

saddle-bags that contained the plunder. Mr. Bradby smiled grimly at the

sight. Softly, without waking his companion, he rose from his rough bed

and glided to the open doorway. He stood there for a moment, drinking in

the fresh morning air.

The sun was just coming up behind the solitary tree that had so

interested him the previous evening, and he noticed that from his

position in the dead-centre of the doorway the sun and the tree were

right in line. Again that curious, humorless smile flickered about the

corners of his mouth. He stood meditating for a minute or so, then, with

an assumption of carelessness that he did not feel, began pacing due

east. He had not taken half a dozen strides before he turned at right

angles to his previous course, and just as nonchalantly continued his

stroll northward. This time he covered about double the distance, then

stopped short and scratched a cross on the ground with the toe of his

boot.

When he returned to the hut Abel Cumshaw was just getting up.

"Hallo, Jack," he greeted Bradby. "Been stirring long?"

"No," said Bradby shortly. Then, perhaps fancying his tone was a little

too abrupt, he continued, "I've just been for a bit of a tour round."

"What do you think of the place?" Cumshaw asked casually. But he did not

look up at his mate; he kept his eyes studiously on the ground.

"Just the sort of place we could make our headquarters," said Bradby,

with an enthusiasm that even the forced restraint of his tone could not

hide.

"I don't think we'll have much need of headquarters once this is over

and done with," Cumshaw hinted.

"Maybe not," Bradby replied.

Cumshaw turned to the plank bed and lifted up the saddle-bags, one in

each hand. "Don't you think we should get rid of these?" he remarked.

"I'd almost forgotten about them," Bradby answered with an assumed

indifference. "Yes, we'll 'tend to them as soon as we've had something

to eat."

"While you're talking about something to eat," Cumshaw told him, putting

the bags down again, "I'd like to remind you that we're right on the

last of the tucker. There's just enough flour for the day."

"I wouldn't worry about that," Bradby said. "There's sure to be plenty

of game about in a thickly-wooded country like this."

Cumshaw nodded and dropped on his knees beside the embers of the

evening's fire. In a few moments he was busy coaxing them into a blaze.

Bradby stood behind him, watching the sweep of his shoulders with

calculating eyes. Once his hand strayed almost unconsciously towards his

revolver, then, with a gesture, half of horror, half of dismay, at the

significance of his action, he twisted on his heel and strode to the

door. He turned then, blocking the light with his figure, so that his

face was just a black expressionless mask.

"It wouldn't be a bad idea," he suggested, "if I looked about for a

likely spot to bury that stuff."

"Go ahead," said Cumshaw coolly, as if it were the most natural

suggestion in the world.

Without further parley Bradby walked over to the spot he had marked

earlier in the morning. Bending down, he commenced to dig in the soft

soil with the point of his sheath-knife. The ground was easily enough

worked, and in less than half an hour he had excavated a hole of close

on to three feet in depth. He deepened it another six inches or so, and

then stood up with a smile of the utmost complacency on his face.

"Nice spot you've chosen," said a voice at his elbow. He started at the

sound. He had not heard Cumshaw approach, and the idea that his mate

could come and go in such absolute silence filled him with dismay.

Already the gold fever had seized hold of him and made him suspicious of

every untoward move. Perhaps he fancied that some similar plan to his

own was evolving in Cumshaw's brain.

"Yes, it is a nice spot," he answered. "It's easy enough to find once

you know where it is, but it isn't the kind of place a stranger would

blunder on."

Cumshaw eyed the hole in the ground, and then looked towards the hut, as

if taking his bearings. Bradby noticed him and interposed hastily, "I've

got the measurement of the place. Have you a piece of paper I can write

it down on?"

Cumshaw ran hastily through his pockets. "I haven't a bit," he declared.

"Neither have I," said Bradby. "However, we'll have to keep it in our

heads. It's just ten feet from here to the hut-door."

"It doesn't look it," Cumshaw said promptly.

"It doesn't," his mate agreed. "But distance is deceptive here. How's

the meal going?"

"Just about ready," Cumshaw told him. "I came to call you."

The two men walked side by side to the hut. At the entrance Cumshaw

paused. "Nearer fourteen than ten," he said thoughtfully.

"Very likely," said Bradby indifferently. "What about that meal? I'm as

hungry as a hunter."

They were on short commons. Bradby ate heartily, remarking once that

there'd be food enough to go round to-morrow. Cumshaw laughed and said

he hoped so, but that to-morrow was a day that never came to some

people. Bradby absently ignored the challenge in Cumshaw's reply and

kept silence for the rest of the time.

After breakfast the two of them took the saddle-bags down to the hole,

placed them inside, and then stamped the earth tightly down on top of

them.

"Now that's done," said Bradby, with an air of relief, "the sooner we

get out of here the better."

"How about old bones over there?" Cumshaw said, pointing to the

skeleton.

"Better sling him into the bushes," Bradby suggested, all his

superstitious fears vanishing now that it was broad daylight.

"Poor old sinner," said Cumshaw as he lifted up the remains in his

strong arms. "It might just as easily be one of us."

"Don't talk like that!" Bradby cried. "It's tempting Providence."

"You and I, Jack, have tempted that same all the days of our lives, and

we're likely to keep on until the end, so why growl about this

particular incident?"

Bradby muttered something unintelligible, and Cumshaw, who was all for

haste now that their work was finished, did not ask him to repeat his

remark.

Both horses had cropped their fill of grass, and the lame one seemed

slightly better. Its limp was not so pronounced and the swelling had

gone down.

"It's out of the question getting them out the way we got them in,"

Cumshaw said. "I wonder if there's any other way."

"Nothing like having a try," Bradby advised. "That darned old hermit

must have come in some way, and I don't reckon it was the way we came

in. If I was you I'd try over there towards the west. The hills look low

enough."

So they turned off at right angles to their path and presently were

edging their way through the wood again. As Bradby had surmised, the

ground rose steadily, though it was very rough. Big boulders lay about

the ground amongst the trees, which were thinning off. Soon they emerged

on to what was open country, and speedily found themselves right under a

ledge of rock which rose sheerly above their heads to a height of twenty

or thirty feet.

"Blocked!" said Bradby savagely.

"No," said Cumshaw in a tone that implied he refused to acknowledge

defeat. "There must be some way out, Jack, and I'm going to look until I

find it. Here, you take charge of the horses and I'll fossick out

something."