Kitabı oku: «Tom Gerrard», sayfa 12

CHAPTER XXIX

Nearly a hundred noisy but contented diggers filled Vale’s hotel and store, all talking at once; and outside in the yard, seated on boxes, barrels, etc., were as many more, equally as well satisfied as those within. The impromptu and “free feed” of freshly-killed beef had been a great success, and now at seven o’clock, what Vale called “the harmony” began—to wit, music from a battered cornet, an asthmatic accordion, and a weird violin. There were, however, plenty of good singing voices in the company, and presently a big, fat-faced American negro, with a rich fruity voice, struck up a well-known mining song, “The Windlasses,” and the diggers thundered out the chorus:

“For I love the sound of the windlasses, And the cry, ‘Look-out, below.’”

At its conclusion there was much applause, and then the negro, who was an ex-sailor, was pressed, very literally, for another song. One digger gripped him around the waist, and another seized his woolly poll and shook him.

“Sing, you beggar, sing! Give us the ‘Arctic Fleet.’”

“Don’ you be so familiar, sah! You common digger pusson! How dah you take liberties with a gentleman!” and the negro laughed good-naturedly as he was forced on his feet again. “And don’ se singist get some refreshment fust?”

It was at once supplied, and then “Black Pete’s” rich tones sounded out in their full strength as he began the whaleman’s ditty:

 
“Oh, its advertised in Noo York town,
Likewise in Alban-ee,
For five hunder and fifty Yankee boys,
To join de whaling fleet
 
 
Singing, blow ye windy mornin’s,
And blow ye winds, heigho,
Clear away de marnin’ dews,
To de Arctic we mus’ go,
To de Arctic we mus’ go.”
 

The song was a lengthy one, and when it was finished, there was a pause; then some digger called out through the cloud of tobacco smoke that filled the room:

“Won’t you give us a song, Mr Gerrard?” Gerrard, who was talking to Vale, and some other men, turned and shook his head smilingly, when suddenly there was a slight commotion near the open door, and Randolph Aulain pushed through the crowd into the centre of the room. He was booted and spurred, and carried a short, heavy whip of plaited greenhide.

“I should like to have a few words with you, Mr Gerrard, before you sing.”

In an instant there was a dead silence—the diggers saw that Aulain meant mischief, for his usually sallow features were now white with ill-concealed fury. Gerrard kept his seat, but leant back a little so as to look Aulain full in the face.

“I am not going to sing,” he said quietly. “If you have anything to say to me, say it.”

“This filthy den is somewhat too crowded for a private discussion—unless you wish to let every one here know what you are. Come outside.”

“You want me to fight you, Aulain, do you?” The steady, unmoved tone of his voice sounded clearly through the crowded room.

“Yes, you treacherous hound, I do. I’ll make you fight.”

“You shall not. I do not fight with lunatics—and you speak and act like one. Come here to-morrow morning—or I will come to you if you wish.”

Vale put his hand on Aulain’s arm, with rough good-humour. “Get back to your tent, my lad, or sit down and keep quiet This is my house. You can see Mr Gerrard in the morning. I’ll engage he won’t run away.”

Aulain thrust him aside with savage determination, and again faced Gerrard. “Are you coming outside?” he asked hoarsely.

“No, I am not. But don’t try my patience too long, Aulain.”

“Will you come or not?” he almost shouted, and he drew back a step, amidst a hot, expectant silence.

“No, you are not in a condition to speak to any one, let alone fighting,” was the contemptuous answer.

“Then take that, you wretched cur!” and he swung his heavy whip across Gerrards face, cutting the flesh open from temple to chin, and sending him down upon the earth floor.

In an instant the maddened man was seized by Vale and another man, and borne to the ground. Then amidst oaths and curses, he was dragged outside, struggling like a demon, and carried to his horse, which was tied up to the fence. He was hoisted up into the saddle, and at once tried to take his pistol from its pouch, but the diggers took it away, and then seized his Winchester carbine.

“Here, take your reins, you murderous dog!” cried Vale, putting them into his hands.

“Stand back, boys, and well start him off to blazes.”

“He has a Derringer inside his shirt,” cried one of the men, “I’ve seen it.”

“Let him keep it,” and Vale raised the whip which he had torn from Aulain’s hand, and gave the horse a stinging cut on the flank, and with a snort of pain and terror the animal leapt forward into the darkness.

Never again was Randolph Aulain seen alive, but weeks afterwards his horse wandered back to Hansen’s Rush, and began to graze outside his master’s tent. And all that was left of Aulain was found long after in a gully in the ranges, with a rusted Derringer pistol lying beside some bleaching bones.

Gerrard had a great send-off when he left Hansen’s for the coast. The terrible cut on his face had been sewn up by a digger known as “Pat O’Shea,” who, ten years before, had had on his brass door-plate in Merrion Square, Dublin, the inscription, “Mr Vernon O’Shea, M.R.C.S.”

“Take care of yourself, boss,” cried Vale, as Gerrard swung himself up into the saddle, and made a grimace intended for a smile as he waved his hand to the assembled diggers, and trotted off, followed by his black boy, a short, wiry-framed aboriginal from the Burdekin River country, who was much attached to his master, and eyed his bound-up face with much concern. He, like Gerrard, carried a revolver at his saddle-bow, and a Snider carbine in a becket—Native Police fashion. Gerrard, in addition to his revolver, had a 44° Winchester carbine slung across his shoulder.

“Well, Tommy, here we are off home again. How do you feel? Drunk last night?”

“Yes, boss. Last night and night before, too. Mine had it fine time longa Hansen’s.”

Gerrard laughed, and began to fill his pipe, though smoking just then gave him as much pain as pleasure. Then he and Tommy rode on in silence for many hours, until they came to where the beaten track ended at a lagoon, known as Leichhardt Ponds. Here they noticed that a party had been camped the previous night, and had evidently been shooting and eating duck, for the ground was strewn with feathers.

From Leichhardt Ponds there was not even a blazed tree line, but both he and the black boy kept steadily on, their bushmen’s knowledge guiding them in a bee line for the particular part of the coast they wished to reach.

As they rode along, Tommy’s eyes scanned the ground, which was strewn with a thick carpet of dead leaves and bark from the forest gum trees.

“Four fellow men been come along here yesterday, boss,” he said, as he pulled up and pointed downward.

Gerrard bent over in his saddle, and looked at the tracks indicated by Tommy.

“Some fellow stray horse perhaps, Tommy?”

The black boy grunted a disapproval of the suggestion. No horses would stray so far from Hansen’s, where there was good grass country, into “stunted ironbark” country where there was none. And presently to prove his contention, he pulled up and pointed to a small white object on the ground.

“Look, boss. Some fellow been light pipe and throw away match.”

In an instant Gerrard’s suspicions were aroused. What could a party of four men be doing so far away from Hansen’s—and making towards the coast? Vale had told him that there were scores of notoriously bad characters on the field, and that it was known that he (Vale) was paying him for the cattle in gold, and had advised him to keep a sharp look-out for any strangers.

For another two hours he and the black boy saw the tracks still going in the same direction, till open country was reached—a wide plain covered with clay pans. Here the tracks turned off sharply to the right, and Gerrard pulled up.

“Which way Frenchman’s Cap, Tommy?”

Tommy pointed to the right.

Frenchman’s Cap was a small mining camp, sixty miles distant, and Gerrard was satisfied that the four horsemen were diggers, bound for that spot, and Tommy agreed with him.

But he was wofully mistaken in his conclusions.

Cheyne was one of the cleverest bushmen in Australia, and when Forreste and his party reached this spot, they too had stopped, at Cheyne’s bidding.

“Gerrard has a nigger with him who most likely will see our tracks. If we turn off here, and cross the clay pans, he will think we are going to Frenchman’s Cap. It will mean us making a half circle of sixteen miles, but we will get to Rocky Waterholes a long way ahead of him.”

“How do you know he’ll camp there?” asked Forreste.

“He’s sure too, even if only for an hour or two to spell his horses, and we’ll get him as easy as falling off a log.”

Forreste moved uneasily in his saddle. He knew what “get him” meant Barney Green turned on him, and savagely asked if he was “funking” again.

“No,” was the sullen reply, “I’m not. I’ve given my promise, and I’ll keep it. But you must remember that the policeman’s tracker got away from us, and Gerrard’s nigger may do the same.”

“I’ll see to that,” said Pinkerton. “If there is one thing that I can’t miss when I shoot, it’s a nigger. If I had been with you that day, I guess that that tracker wouldn’t have got away.”

The plan they had arranged was a very simple one. The Rocky Waterholes were deep pools situated in the centre of a cluster of wildly confused and lofty granite boulders and pillars, covered with vines and creepers and broken up by narrow gullies. Cheyne knew the place, and knew almost to a certainty the particular spot at which Gerrard would camp, either for a few hours or for the night. It was in an open grassy space, almost surrounded by giant boulders. It was their intention, after disposing of Gerrard and the black boy, and securing the gold, to strike across country for Somerset, and there await a steamer bound for either London or Hongkong. At that place, where the steamers only remained for an hour or two, they would attract no more than the casual notice taken of lucky diggers; at Townsville or Port Denison they might be recognised. Already they had nearly a thousand ounces of gold between them—some little of it honestly earned from their own claim at Hansen’s, but most of it gained by robbery; and with the two thousand pounds’ worth that they knew were in Gerrard’s possession, they calculated that they might leave the hardships of mining life, and enjoy themselves for a considerable time in England or America—without, however, the society of “Snaky” Swires, who had left them at Cooktown, fearful of being arrested in connection with the robbery on the Gambier.

CHAPTER XXX

“What a lovely spot!” thought Gerrard, as he caught sight of the Rocky Waterholes, whose calm, placid surfaces were gleaming like burnished silver under the rays of the sinking sun.

It was indeed a beautiful scene, for the five pools were surrounded by noble Leichhardt and wattle trees, the latter all in the full glory of their golden flowers, the sweet perfume of which scented the air for miles around. Close in to the bank of the largest pool were a number of teal feeding on the green weed, and chasing each other over the shining water. As they caught sight of the intruders, they rose with a whir and disappeared, followed a few seconds later by a pair of snow-white cranes, which, however, merely flew noiselessly upward, and settled on the branches of a Leichhardt.

The day had been intensely hot, and now, as the sun sank, there was presage of a thunderstorm, and Gerrard and Tommy quickly unsaddled, hobbled, and turned out the horses to feed upon the thick buffalo grass that grew in profusion around the bases of the vine-clad rocks which overlooked the pools. Then they hurriedly collected some dead wood for their camp fire, and threw it, together with their saddles, blankets, etc., under an overhanging ledge which would afford them complete shelter from the coming downpour.

A fire was soon lit, and whilst Tommy attended to making the tea, his master unrolled his own blanket and spread it out; then, from mere force of habit, he took his revolver from his saddle and strapped it to his belt, placed his Winchester and Tommy’s Snider against the side of the rock, where they would be within easy reach, and then told the black boy that he was going to have a bathe before supper.

“No, no, boss!” cried Tommy, energetically, “baal you bogey longa that waterhole. Plenty fellow blue water snake sit down there—plenty. One bite you little bit, you go bung quick. Plenty fellow myall go bung longa baigan.”⁹

Gerrard could not repress a shudder. He had often seen the dreaded “baigan”—a bright blue snake which frequented waterholes and lagoons, and whose venom equalled that of the deadly fer-de-lance of Martinique and St Vincent. Years before he had seen a cattle dog swimming in a lagoon attacked by a “baigan,” which bit it on the lip, and, although a stockman, as soon as the animal was out of the water, cut out a circular piece of the lip, it died in a few minutes.

“Very well, Tommy. I’ll wait till after supper and have a bogey in the rain.”

As he spoke, the low rumble of thunder sounded, and deepened and deepened until it culminated in a mighty clap that seemed to shake the foundations of the earth, then followed peal after peal, and soon the rain descended in torrents, beating the waters of the pools into froth, and making a noise as of surf surging upon a pebbly beach.

For twenty minutes the downpour held; then it ceased suddenly, and, like magic, a few stars appeared. The fire was now blazing merrily in the cave. Tommy had made the two quart pots of tea, and Gerrard was taking the beef and damper out of his saddle-bag when the black boy started.

“What is it, Tommy?”

“Horse neigh!”

Gerrard listened. The boy was right, for he, too, heard a second neigh, and their own horses, which they could see standing quietly under a big Leichhardt tree, undisturbed by the storm, pricked up their ears and raised their heads.

“Quick, take your rifle, Tommy!” and Gerrard seized his own, then taking up the two quart pots of tea, he threw the contents over the fire, and partly extinguished it—not a moment too soon, for almost at the same moment a volley rang out, and he knew he was hit; and Tommy also cried out that he was shot in the face. Seizing him by the hand, Gerrard dragged him outside, stooping low, and bullet after bullet struck the wall of the cave. As he and the black boy threw themselves flat on the ground a few yards away, they both saw the flashes of rifles less than a hundred yards distant, and knew by the sound of and the rapidity of the firing that their unseen foes were using Winchesters.

“Keep still, Tommy, don’t fire. Wait, wait!” said Gerrard in an excited whisper. “Let them go on firing into the cave. Can you make out where they are?”

Pressing his hand to his cheek, which had been cut open by a bullet, the black boy watched the flashes.

“Yes, boss, I see him—four fellow altogether. You look longa top flat rock, they all lie down close together.”

But keen as was his sight, Gerrard could see nothing but the flat moss and vine-covered summit of a huge granite boulder, from which the flashes came. Presently a bullet struck a piece of wood on the still smouldering fire, and scattered the glowing coals, then the firing ceased, and they heard voices.

“Keep quiet, Tommy. Don’t move, for God’s sake, or they’ll see us. They are reloading. They think they have killed us. Is your Snider all right?”

“Yes, boss,” was the whispered and eager reply, “rible and rewolber too.”

“Are you much hurt, Tommy?”

“Only longa face, boss.”

“And I’m hit too, Tommy, but not much hurt.” A bullet had ploughed through the lower part of his thigh, and as he spoke he tore two strips from his handkerchief, and bidding Tommy watch their hidden foes, cut open his moleskin pants, and hurriedly plugged the holes. As he was doing this, the firing again began, and they could hear the bullets spattering against the granite rock, or striking the saddles. After about thirty shots had been fired it again ceased.

“Be ready, Tommy,” whispered Gerrard; “they’ll be here presently. Don’t fire till they are quite close, then drop rifle and take pistol.”

“All right, boss. Look, look! You see one fellow now stand up—there ‘nother, ‘nother—four fellow.”

The increasing starlight just enabled Gerrard to catch a brief glimpse of four figures moving about on the top of the boulder, then they disappeared, and he clutched his Winchester.

Five anxious minutes passed, and then one by one the four forms appeared coming round from the other side of the boulder. For a few moments they halted, then came boldly out of the shadows into the starlight, and then a deadly rage leapt into Gerrard’s heart as he recognised two of them. First the man whom Kate’s father had handled so roughly on board the Gambier, and then the tall, imposing figure of Forreste.

“Can you see their horses anywhere?” said the man who was in advance of his three companions, and they again stopped and looked about them.

“Oh, they are all right,” said a second voice; “well find ‘em easy enough in the morning. They’re both hobbled, and won’t be far away. Now come on, Pinky, and show us your nigger with the top of his head off. You’re a great gasser, I know. Strike a match, Barney, and I’ll get a bit of dry ti-tree bark to give us a light.”

Gerrard pressed Tommy’s arm. “Wait, Tommy, wait. Let them get a light. All the better for us. Listen!”

“I suppose they are properly done for, Cheyne?” said Forreste, who had a revolver in his hand.

“Oh, put your flaming pistol back into its pouch, you funky owl,” snarled Barney Green, “they both dropped at the first time, as I told you. Gerrard fell on to the fire, and you’ll find him cooking there, and that both of ‘em are as full of holes as a cullender. We’ve wasted a hundred cartridges for nothing, but I daresay we’ll get some more. He had a forty-four Winchester, and the nigger a Snider.”

A match was struck, and the two motionless watchers saw Cheyne go to a ti-tree, which grew on the edge of the large pool, tear off the outer thin and wet bark, and then make a torch of the dry part, which lit easily. Pinkerton waved it to and fro for a few moments, and then held it up. It burst into flame.

“Now, Tommy, quick! Take the big man,” and as Gerrard spoke he covered Green.

The two rifles rang out, and Forreste and the Jew fell. Pinkerton dropped the torch and tried to draw his revolver, but a second shot from Gerrard broke his leg, and he too dropped. Cheyne sprang off towards the pool, leapt in, and swam across to where their horses were hidden. Tommy, with all the lust of slaughter upon him, tomahawk in hand, ran round the pool to intercept him on the other side.

“Let him go, Tommy, let him go!” shouted Gerrard, who was now feeling faint from loss of blood. “Come back, come back!” and as he spoke, Pinkerton, who could see him, began firing at him.

The black boy obeyed just as Gerrard sank back upon the ground. The still blazing torch, however, revealed his prone figure to the American, who, rising upon one knee, reloaded his revolver. Then Tommy leapt at him, raised his tomahawk, and clove his head in twain.

“Did he hit you, boss?” he cried, as, still holding the ensanguined weapon in his hand, he darted to his master.

“No, Tommy, I’m all right, but bingie mine feel sick.¹⁰ Get water for me, Tommy.”

The black boy ran down to the waterhole, filled his cabbage-tree hat with water, and Gerrard drank.

“Go and see if those two men are dead, Tommy, If they are not, take their pistols away. Then make a big fire, and I will come and look at them.”

“All right, boss, but by and by.” He raised and assisted Gerrard into the cave, laid him down upon his blanket, and placed his head upon one of the bullet-riddled saddles, re-lit the extinguished fire, took off his shirt, tore off the back, and bandaged his master’s thigh with it.

“You like smoke now, boss?” “Yes, fill my pipe before you go.” Five minutes later Tommy returned. “All three fellow dead,” he observed placidly, as he stooped down to the fire and lit his own pipe with a burning coal. “Big man me shoot got him bullet through chest; little man with black beard and nose like cockatoo you shoot, got him bullet through chest too, close up longa troat.”

Then he asked if he might go after the two horses, which, hobbled as they were, had gone off at the first sound of the firing, and were perhaps many miles away.

“All right, Tommy. We must not let them get too far away.”

The black boy grunted an assent, made the fire blaze up, and taking up his own and Gerrard’s bridles, disappeared.

In less than half an hour he returned, riding one horse and leading the other, and found that Gerrard had risen and was looking at the bodies of the three men, which lay stark and stiff under the now bright starlight. Tommy’s face wore an expression of supreme satisfaction as he jumped off his horse.

“Other fellow man bung¹¹ too,” he said in a complacent tone.

“Did you shoot him?” cried Gerrard, aghast at more bloodshed.

“Baal me shoot him, boss. I find him longa place where all four fellow been camp in little gully. He been try to put saddle on horse, but fall down and die—boigan been bite him I think it, when he swim across waterhole.”

“Come and show me,” said Gerrard, and, suffering as he was, he mounted his horse, and followed Tommy. In a few minutes they came to the place where Forreste and his gang had hidden their horses, all of which were tethered.

Lying doubled up on the ground beside a saddle, was the body of Cheyne. He had succeeded in putting the bridle on his horse, and then had evidently fallen ere he could place the saddle on the animal.

Gerrard struck a match, and held it to the dead man’s face; it was purple, and hideous to look upon.

“Boigan,” said Tommy placidly, as he re-lit his pipe.