Kitabı oku: «Tom Gerrard», sayfa 11

CHAPTER XXVI

Kate was not pleased to see Aulain, but did not show it; for she guessed why he had come, and could not but feel a little frightened. But after a little while she felt more at her ease, when he began to tell her father and herself of his mining experiences, and said laughingly that malarial fever was not half as bad as gold fever.

“You see,” he said, turning to Kate, “the one only takes possession of your body: the other takes your soul as well. The more gold you get, the more you want; and one does not feel that he has a corporeal existence at all when he turns up a fifty or sixty ounce nugget—as I did on three or four occasions. You feel as if you belonged to another—a more glorious world; and before you, you see the open, shining gates of the bright City of Fortune.”

The grizzled ex-judge laughed. “You have missed your vocation in life, Aulain. Man, you’re a poet But I know the feeling, and so does Kate. Well, I am pleased that you have had such luck.”

“And so am I,” said Kate incautiously, “and I wish you better luck still at the new rush at Cape Grenville; but I think what has pleased me most, Mr Aulain, is that you have left the Native Police. Do you know that when the escort was here a few weeks ago with ten black troopers, and your successor came here to see us, I could hardly be civil to him, although he was very nice, and gave us some very late newspapers—only two months old.”

“The Black Police are certainly your bêtes noire, Kate,” said her father with a smile, as he pushed the bottle of whisky towards his guest.

“They are, dad. They are very especial black beetles to me—beetles with Snider rifles and murderous tomahawks for shooting and cutting down women and children.”

Aulain’s dark face flushed, and Kate reddened too, for she was sorry she had spoken so hastily. Then, to her relief, there sounded a sudden outburst of barking from Fraser’s kangaroo dogs.

“Oh, those horrid paddy melons and bandicoots at the garden again!” and she rose and seized her gun.

“May I come and have a shot, too?” said Aulain.

“Do. It is as clear as noon-day. Take father’s gun, Mr Aulain. I have plenty of cartridges in my pocket.”

They stepped out together into the brilliant moonlight, and then Kate, driving the dogs away, led the way to the garden—a small cleared space enclosed with a brush fence. Peering over the top, the girl saw more than a dozen of the energetic little rodents busily engaged in their work of destruction. Indicating those at which she intended to fire, she motioned to Aulain to shoot at a group which were further away, and occupied in rooting up and devouring sweet potatoes. They fired together, and three or four of the creatures rolled over, dead. The rest scampered off.

“They will come back in ten or fifteen minutes,” said Kate; “shall we wait? See, there is a good place, under that silver leaf ironbark, where it is rather dark. There is a log seat there.”

Aulain eagerly assented. This would give him the opportunity to which he had been looking forward.

As soon as they were seated he took Kate’s gun from her hand, and leant it with his own against the bole of the tree.

“Kate,” he said, speaking very quickly, “I am glad to have this chance of speaking to you alone. I want to ask your forgiveness for that letter I wrote when–”

“I did forgive you, long ago, Randolph. I was very, very angry when I read it, and I daresay you too were angry when you wrote such cruel things to me, but then”—and she smiled—“you have such a very hasty temper.”

He placed his hand on hers. “Only you can chasten it, Kate. And now you know why I have come to Black Bluff.”

“It is very good of you, Randolph, but, as I have said, I forgave you long ago, and I am sorry that you have come so far just to tell me that you are sorry for what occurred, although both father and I are sincerely glad to see you.”

“Ah, Kate! You don’t understand what I mean. In asking for your forgiveness I ask for your love. I came here to ask you to be my wife.”

“Don’t, please, Randolph,” and she drew herself away from him. “I cannot marry you. I like you—I always liked you—but please do not say anything more.”

“Kate,” and the man’s voice shook, “you cared for me once. Forget my mad, angry letter, and–”

“I have forgotten it. Did I not say so? But please do not again ask me to marry you. Come, let us go back to the house. You will only make me miserable—or else angry.”

“Why have you changed so towards me?” he asked quickly.

“I have not changed in any way towards you,” she answered emphatically with a slight accent of anger in her tones. “Please do not say anything more. Let us go in,” and she rose.

“Kate,” he said pleadingly, and he placed his hand on her arm gently, “just listen to me for a minute. I love you. I will do all that a man can to make you happy. I have left the Native Police, and I am now fairly well off–”

She made a swift gesture. “For your sake I am pleased—very pleased—that you have left the Police, and have made money. But, Randolph,” and though she was frightened at the suppressed vehemence in his voice, and the almost fierce look of his dark, deep-set eyes, she smiled as she put her hand on his, “please don’t think that—that—money, I mean—would make any difference to me. Come, let us go back to father. I am sure he wants you to play chess.”

Aulain’s face terrified her. He had lost control of himself, and his hand closed around her wrist.

“So you throw me over?” he said in almost savage tones.

“‘Throw you over’! How dare you say such a thing to me!” and she tore her hand away from him, and faced him with blazing anger in her eyes. “What have I ever said or done that you can speak to me like this?”

“I know who has come between us–”

“Between us! What do you mean?” she cried scornfully. “What has there ever been ‘between us’? And who do you mean?”

Aulian’s face whitened with the anger of jealousy, and he gave full vent to the unreasoning passion which had now overmastered him.

“I mean Gerrard.”

“Mr Gerrard—your friend?” she said slowly.

“Yes,” he replied with a sneer; “my dear friend Gerrard—the man who, professing to be my friend, has steadily undermined me in your regard ever since he first saw you.”

“Your mind is wandering, I fear,” and the icy contempt with which she spoke brought his anger to white heat. “I shall stay here, no longer, Mr Aulain,” and she stepped over to the tree, and took up her gun. Aulain was beside her in an instant.

“Do you think I do not know?” he said thickly, and the gleam of passion in his eyes struck terror to her heart, “It was he who made you leave Fraser’s Gully to come here, so as to be near him. At first I thought that it was that Scotch hound of a parson—but now I know better.”

Kate flushed deeply, then she whitened with anger. “Oh, I wish I were a man! I could strike you as it is! Ah, you should never have left the Black Police. I shall not fail to let the man who befriended you know how you have vilified him.”

“You need not. I will tell him myself what I have told you. By – he shall suffer for robbing me of you!” and it needed all Kate’s courage to look into his furious eyes.

“Good-night, Mr Aulain,” she said, trying to speak calmly; “I do not wish to—I hope I never may—see you again.”

“No doubt,” was the sneering response. “Mr Thomas Gerrard, the squatter, is in a very different position from Randolph Aulain, the digger, with a paltry three or four thousand pounds.”

Kate set her teeth, and tried hard to choke a sob.

“My father and I thought that you were a gentleman, Mr Aulain. I see now how very much we were mistaken. And as far as Mr Gerrard is concerned, he will know how to deal with you. I will ask my father to write to him to-morrow.”

“Why not expedite your proposed visit to him, and tell him personally?” said Aulain with a mocking laugh.

Kate made no answer, but walked swiftly away. Five minutes later, Aulain, without going to the house to say good-bye to Douglas Fraser, descended the rocky path to the main camp.

At daylight next morning, to the wonder of Sam Young and his mates, he was missing. He had risen at dawn, caught and saddled his horses, and gone off without a word of farewell.

CHAPTER XXVII

“Hansen’s Rush” was one of the richest, noisiest, and the “rowdiest” of all the many newly-discovered fields, and contained more of the elements of villainy amongst its six hundred inhabitants than any other rush in the Australian Colonies. Perhaps about two-thirds of the men were genuine diggers, the rest were loafers, card-sharpers, horse and cattle thieves, sly grog-sellers, and men “wanted” by the police for various offences, from murder down to simple robbery with violence. So far, however, the arm of the law had not yet manifested its power at “Hansen’s,” although at first when the field was discovered by the prospector after whom it was named, a solitary white trooper and one native tracker had reached there, expecting to be reinforced. But one day he and the aboriginal rode out of camp to visit a party of diggers, who were working at the head of the creek, and never returned.

Months afterwards, the body of the white man was found lying near a heap of huge boulders, and it was concluded that either the unfortunate trooper had been thrown from his horse and killed, or that he had been murdered by his black subordinate, for the latter was never seen again at the camp, and most of the diggers asserted that he had deserted to the coastal blacks, where he would be safe from capture. When the body was discovered a careful search was made for some gold which had been entrusted to the policeman, but it could not be found; and this confirmed the theory of the tracker being the murderer.

Then, nearly three months after, “Moses,” as the black tracker was named, walked into Somerset carrying his carbine and revolver, and told another story, which was accepted by the authorities as true. The party of miners whom he and the trooper visited, had complained of their tent having been entered when they were absent at their claim, and some hundreds of ounces of gold stolen. This was some weeks previously, and heavy rain, since then, had obliterated all traces of the robbers’ tracks. The diggers, said Moses, then gave the trooper a bag of small nuggets containing about fifty ounces, and asked him to take it to Hansen’s to await the monthly gold escort.

That night he and Moses camped near the boulders, and at daylight the latter went after the horses, leaving the poor trooper asleep. Half an hour later, he heard the sound of a shot, and saw three mounted men galloping towards him. They halted when they saw him, and then all three fired at him, but missed. Then they tried to head him off—he was on foot—but he was too fleet, and after an hour’s pursuit he gained some wild country in the ranges, where he was, he thought, safe. Feeling hungry as the morning went on, he penetrated a thick scrub in the hope of finding a scrub turkey’s nest. He did find one, and whilst engaged in eating the eggs, was dealt a sudden blow from behind with a waddy, and when he became conscious, found he had been captured by a wandering tribe of mountain blacks. They did not treat him harshly, but kept a strict watch on him for two months. One wild night, however, securing his carbine and revolver, he managed to escape, and finally reached Somerset.

“Hansen’s,” in addition to the several bark-roofed drinking shanties of bad reputation, also possessed a combined public house and general store, kept by a respectable old digger named Vale, who was doing a very thriving business, the “Roan Pack-Horse Hotel” being much favoured by the better class of men on the field. The loafers, rowdies, and such gentry did not like Vale, who had a way of throwing a man out if he became objectionably drunk and unduly offensive.

One afternoon, about five, three men entered the “hotel” part of Vale’s establishment, and entered what was termed “the parlour.” They were very good customers of Vale’s, although he did not much care about them, being somewhat suspicious as to their character and antecedents. The three men were Forreste, the Jew Barney Green, and Cheyne.

The former had grown a thick beard, and looked what he professed to be—a digger pure and simple; and Green and Cheyne also had discarded the use of the razor, and in their rough miners’ garb—flannel shirts, moleskin pants, and slouch felt hats—there was nothing to distinguish them from the ordinary run of diggers at Hansen’s Rush. They had, Vale knew, a supposedly paying claim, but worked it in a very perfunctory manner, and employed two “wages men” to do most of the pick and shovel work. Their esteemed American confrère was not with them this afternoon—one of them always remained about their claim and tent on some excuse, for it contained many little articles which, had they been discovered by the respectable diggers at Hansen’s, would have led to their taking a very hurried departure from the field.

“What’s it to be?” said Vale, coming to the door of the room.

“Oh, a bottle of Kinahan,” said Forreste, tossing the price of it—a sovereign—upon the table. “Got any salt beef to spare?”

“Not a bite. Wish I had. But that mob of cattle can’t be far off now. They were camped at the Green Swamp two nights ago. There’s a hundred head—all fine, prime young cattle, I hear.”

“Are you buying the lot?”

“Every hoof—at ten pound a head. Plenty of fresh beef then—at two bob a pound. No charge for hoofs, horns, and the end of the tail,” and with this pleasantry, the landlord of the “Roan Pack-Horse” withdrew, to bring the whisky.

A step sounded outside, and Randolph Aulain entered and nodded to the three men. He had been at Hansen’s for some months, and had one of the richest “pocket” claims on the field, but most of the gold it produced went in gambling. He had made the acquaintance of Forreste and his gang, and in a way had become intimate with them, although he was pretty certain of their character. But he did not care.

“Have a drink, Aulain?” said Barney Green.

Aulain nodded, and sat down, and then a pack of cards was produced, and the four men began to play—Aulain as recklessly as usual, and drinking frequently, as was now habitual with him.

Night had fallen, and the diggers’ camp fires were everywhere blazing among tents and humpies, as the ex-officer and his villainous acquaintances still sat at their cards, too intent upon the game to think of supper. Vale’s black boy, however, brought them in some tea, damper, and a tin of preserved meat, and they made a hurried meal. Just as they had begun to play afresh, they heard a horseman draw up outside, and a voice say “Good-evening, boss,” to Vale.

All four men knew that voice, and Aulain’s dark face set, as turning down his cards, he held up his hand for silence.

“I’m Gerrard from Ocho Rios,” went on the voice as the rider dismounted, and, giving his horse to the black boy, followed Vale into the combined bar and store. “I’ve camped the cattle five miles from here, and pushed on to let you know. Can you take delivery tomorrow morning pretty early, as I want to get down to the coast again as soon as I can?”

“You bet!” said Vale with a laugh; “I’m all ready, and so is the money—not in cash, but in nuggets at four pounds the ounce. Is that right?”

“Quite,” was the answer, and then the four listeners heard Vale drawing the cork of a bottle of beer—a rare commodity at Hansen’s Rush. “Come round here, Mr Gerrard, and sit down. There’s another room, but just now there are four chaps gaffing there, and so if you don’t mind we’ll sit here, and talk until my nigger gets you some supper.” Then they began to talk about the cattle, Vale frankly telling Gerrard that if he had asked another five pounds per head, he would have paid it, as the diggers had had no fresh meat for nearly five months.

“Well, I’ve been very lucky,” said Gerrard, and Forreste saw Aulain’s teeth set, and wondered. “We—three black boys and myself—started out from the station with a hundred and ten head, and have not lost a single beast—no niggers, no alligators, no poison bush, nothing of any kind to worry us for the whole two hundred miles.”

“I’ll give him something to worry over before long,” said Green viciously to Forreste.

“And so shall I,” said Aulain in a savage whisper.

“Do you know him?” asked Forreste eagerly.

Aulain replied with a curt nod, and then again held up his hand for silence.

“Curse you, keep quiet; I want to hear what he is saying.”

“Well, I’m glad to see you, Mr Gerrard,” went on Vale. “I’ve heard a lot about you, and was sorry to hear of your loss in the big fire. I wish you luck.”

“Thank you, Mr Vale. And I’m glad to meet you, and sell you my cattle. Every one that I have heard speak of you says that you will never try to ‘skin’ a digger over the price of his liquor and ‘tucker.’”

Vale was pleased. For a bush publican and store-keeper he had an unusual reputation for honesty—and well deserved it, for all his roughness and lurid language when aroused to wrath. He asked Gerrard to stay for the night.

“No, I cannot. I must get back to the cattle to-night, and do my watch. But I think I shall spell here at Hansen’s for a day or two, have a look at the field, and see if I can buy a share in one of the claims. As I’m getting my money out of the diggings I ought to put something back, even if I strike a rank duffer.”

“Ah, you’re one of the right sort of men, Mr Gerrard. I daresay I can put you on to something that won’t displease you in the end. But I’m sorry you can’t camp here to-night.”

“No, I must not. It would not be fair to my men to leave them with a mob of cattle out in the open all night in such thunder-stormy weather. If they broke away they would clear off into the ranges.”

Then he added that whilst two of his black stockmen were returning to Ocho Rios after they had had a spell at “Hansen’s,” he was striking across country to the coast—seventy miles distant—to the mouth of the Coen River.

“You see, Mr Vale, my luck is coming in, ‘hand over fist,’ as the sailors say. I’m going to be married at Ocho Rios next month by the Gold Commissioner, and there is a pearling lugger bringing me a lot of stores round from Somerset, and I have arranged to meet her at the Coen on the 22nd, and sail round in her. I’m taking one black boy with me, who will take my horse back with him to the station, and I’ll get the benefit of a short sea-trip of a few days, or perhaps a week.”

Vale opened another bottle of beer—more valued at Hansen’s than even whisky at a sovereign a bottle.

“Here’s to your very good fortune and happiness, Mr Gerrard! Will you mind my mentioning it to the boys here to-night? You see, I arranged to give a sort of a shivoo as soon as the cattle got here, and I had killed and dressed a couple of beasts.”

Gerrard laughed. “I don’t mind. And I’ll come to the shivoo myself, and eat some of my own beef. Now, I must be getting back to the cattle.”

Aulain and the other three men waited until they heard his horse brought. And then the dark-faced ex-inspector turned to Forreste.

“Come outside. I want to talk to you.”

CHAPTER XXVIII

The news that a small mob of cattle had been bought by Vale, and were to arrive on the following day, caused great satisfaction to the diggers, and that night the “Roan Pack-Horse” was crowded with diggers, who had not for many months tasted meat of any kind, except now and then a scrub wallaby. Game of any kind was scarce, and hard to shoot, and the diggers, although they cheerfully paid adventurous packers three shillings for a small tin of sardines, and five for a tin of American salmon, wanted beef of some kind—even if it were that of a worn-out working bullock—if such a treasure could have been found. Vale, for business and other purposes, had carefully avoided telling any one until the last moment that he had sent a letter to Gerrard, offering him ten pounds per head for one or two hundred young cattle, delivered to him in fair condition. A “cute” man of business, he had the idea of forming the nucleus of a herd with which to stock some adjacent country to “Hansen’s Rush,” and being also in his rough way a sentimentalist, he meant to give the diggers a surprise—for a satisfactory quid pro quo. He would sell them fresh beef at two shillings a pound, when they were willing to pay double, instead of eating “tinned dog,” as they termed the New Zealand and American canned beef and mutton they bought from the packers at exorbitant prices, and often cast aside with disgust and much vivid language.

At nine o’clock on the following morning, Gerrard and his three black stockmen appeared, driving before them the mob of young cattle—steers, young heifers, and a few bulls; and the diggers gave him an uproarious welcome, for work on the claims had been stopped for that day at least, and they had been waiting for him.

“Good morning, boys,” cried Gerrard, as the mob of cattle was rounded up by his black stockmen, and he, swinging his right foot up out of the stirrup, sat sideways on his saddle. “Just show me those you want for killing, Vale, and I’ll cut them out for you right away. Then I’ll turn the rest over to you to tail.⁷ I’ve had enough of ‘em, and want a drink.”

“Here you are, Mr Gerrard,” cried a big, hairy-faced digger, who was holding a bottle of beer in one hand, and a tin pannikin in the other; “a bottle of genuine Tennant’s India Ale, acceptable to the most tender stomach, and recommended by the faculty for nuns, nurses, bullock drivers, and other delicate persons.”

The crowd laughed, and then Gerrard, after satisfying his thirst, “cut out” (separated from the rest of the mob) three fat steers indicated by Vale; they were at once taken to the killing yard, and the remainder of the animals driven down to the creek to drink, and Gerrard’s responsibility ceased.

Amongst those who watched the arrival of the cattle were Aulain and Forreste. They were on the outskirts of the crowd, leaning against the rough “chock and dog leg” fence which served to enclose an acre or so of ground used as a horse-paddock by the diggers. Early in the day as it was, Aulain’s sallow face was flushed from drinking. He and Forreste had come to an understanding the previous night. The gentlemanly “Captain” did not take long to discover the cause of Aulain’s hatred of Gerrard, and he inflamed it still further by telling him a well-connected series of lies about his frequently having seen Kate Fraser clasped in Gerrard’s arms on the deck of the Gambier, when they imagined that they were unobserved, and Aulain, who was now hardly sane, believed him implicitly.

“Let me deal with him first,” he had said; “you can have your turn after I have finished with him.”

“You don’t mean to kill him?” asked Forreste; “if you do, I’m out of it I have a score to settle with him, but not in that way.”

“Settle it in any way you like,” said Aulain savagely, “but don’t interfere with me. I’m not going to kill him, but I am going to make him suffer for his treachery to me. But,” and he turned to Forreste with a sneer, “you seem very diffident in the matter of killing any one just now. Perhaps you and your friends acted rather impulsively in the matter of Trooper Angus Irving.”

“What do you mean?” cried Forreste hoarsely, and his face blanched with mingled rage and terror.

“I have not been five years in the Native Police without gaining some experience. And when you and your friends galloped after the black tracker, one of your number lost his moleskin saddle-cloth, did he not?”

Forreste made no answer, though his lips moved.

“I found that saddle-cloth two months ago, and recognised it as belonging to your mate Cheyne, for he once lent it to me. It was a great mistake of his to gallop over rough country with loose girths—especially upon such an occasion as that. Fifty ounces of gold was not worth it.”

Forreste, a coward at heart, collapsed. “We could not help it We were trying to unbuckle his valise from his saddle when he awoke, and–

“And—I understand. So please say no more of what followed. It does not concern me, and you need not look so ghastly white.”

Then he walked away to his tent, for he did not wish to be seen by Gerrard—at that time.

But a few hours later the latter learnt quite accidentally from Vale that his one-time friend was at Hansen’s, and had been one of the card-playing party of the previous night Vale was speaking of the great yields from some of the claims on the field, and mentioned that “Aulain, who had been in the Nigger Police,” had a pretty rich one. Gerrard was surprised to hear of his being at Hansen’s, for he and the Frasers thought he had gone to the new rush at Cape Grenville on the east coast. Of her quarrel with him Kate had told Gerrard but little, but her father had given him the story in detail, and it had angered him greatly.

“Would you care to go over to his claim, and have a yarn with him?” said Vale; “it’s only about a mile away. I think he wants to sell out.”

“No, I don’t want to see him. I know him very well, and he was once a great friend of mine, but he is not now, and I don’t think it would be advisable for us to meet. He nurses an imaginary grievance against me.”

Vale nodded. “He’s a queer fellow, and I am sure he’s not quite right in the upper story. Sometimes he won’t speak to a soul for a week at a time; then he has a drinking bout, and goes off his head entirely. I feel sorry for him, for it is a pity to see a gentleman come down so low, and associate with spielers and card-sharpers. The men he was playing with last night are a shady lot—a man called Forreste, and his mates Cheyne and Capel–”

“Ha!” cried Gerrard, “so that gang is here? I know a good deal about them,” and he told Vale of what had occurred on board the Gambier when Fraser had thrown Capel across the deck.

“I thought they were a fishy crowd, and there are lots of men here who believe they are gold-stealers, but so far they have been too clever and have escaped detection.”

“Well, I can tell you that Capel, otherwise Barney Green, is one of the most notorious gold thieves in Australia, and served a sentence in New South Wales.”

“Can I make that known?”

“Certainly. It should be known. You can call upon me to repeat what I have told you to the whole camp.”

“Very well, but not to-day. They’ll be sure to be here to-night at the shivoo, and as some of the boys are certain to be pretty groggy they might half-kill the whole gang. But I’ll go for them in the morning, if you’ll back me up.”

“Of course I will. But I don’t think they will show up to-night, if they know I am here.”

In this surmise Gerrard was correct, for Forreste and his companions kept away, being particularly anxious not to come into personal contact with him, and in pursuance of a plan of their own. After the cattle had been killed, they sent a neighbouring digger to buy some beef, and remained at their claim for the rest of the day. Forreste, however, went to several of the other claims, and told the owners that he and his mates thought of clearing out in a day or so, and would sell their claim cheap.

In an hour or two he came back, and found Cheyne outside the tent, repairing their saddles. Green and Pinkerton were busy at the claim, cradling the last of the wash-dirt taken out.

“What luck?” asked Cheyne.

“Better than I expected. Old Sandy MacParland and his party are coming here to-morrow morning, and are going to give the claim a day’s trial. If they like it, they will buy us out for one hundred pounds.”

“Pity we haven’t got time to salt it,⁸ and get a bigger price.”

“MacFarland is too old a hand to be got at that way,” replied the captain, as he walked on to the claim to tell Green and Pinkerton his news.

“We can get away to-morrow evening before sunset,” he said, after he had told them the result of his negotiations with MacParland. “Cheyne says we can camp at Leichhardt Ponds that night, push on early in the morning, and wait for our man at Rocky Waterholes, where he is sure to camp for the night.”

“He’ll want a good rest if Aulain does him up to-night,” said Capel with an evil grin.