Читать книгу The Outlaws of Weddin Range - Ambrose Pratt - Страница 4

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The black hour found Ben Hall utterly unprepared to meet it. Respect for women as a sex had been with him from childhood a cardinal sentiment, something more, indeed, than an article of faith. And he had held his wife in outstanding veneration, believing her the epitome and personification of all the sweetest female virtues. He conned over the missive which proclaimed the creature of his worship a meretricious jade with an incredulous and speculative mind. It was not a jest, of course. No true woman could steep her robe of honor in the mire of pleasantry.

But why had she written such a letter?

Had she been forced to pen those words of infamy?

He searched the house again and found evidence enough to assure him it had been unoccupied for at least two days. The maid servants had vanished with their mistress. He opened cupboard after cupboard. All were bare. It struck him that the house was too well lighted. He glanced at the windows and perceived that the blinds and curtains had disappeared. A little later he missed many familiar articles of furniture, knick-knacks, and petty valuables. He laughed stridently and pursued his investigations. The plate and household linen had melted into air.

In good truth, little had been left save furniture too heavy to be easily removed.

The thought flashed: "A cavalcade was needed with such a flitting." Ben laughed again, and strode out of the house to the stable. He glanced into the stalls, then swept the stockyard with eyes that had begun to blaze. Two well-bred hacks and three stout pack-horses were missing. A heavy silence brooded over the station. Had his men gone too? He walked down the line of huts. All seemed empty, but as he passed the last he heard a suppressed guffaw, and swinging on his heel he saw three stockmen skulking behind an angle of the building which, till then, had screened them from his sight. They stiffened and shrank as he angrily confronted them. He read knowledge, contempt, and a little pity, too, in their would-be non-committal looks. He realised suddenly that they knew infinitely more than he of one matter at least, and mayhap of many things. A frantic thirst for larger wisdom awoke in him, but hand in hand with a new and unsuspected cunning. He dissimulated the fire that was burning in his heart, smoothed his face and smiled.

"Well, boys," he said, "so it's come at last, hey?"

They exchanged quiet glances, then looked at him; but reassured by his composed and confidently expectant demeanor, they relaxed in grins. "My!" exclaimed one, "if you ain't a deep one, boss, I'd like to know who is."

"Strike me!" said another.

The third was content with a gesture eloquent of surprise and admiration. Such material was as clay to the potter's hand. Ben easily turned the trio inside out, and learned as much as he required, more than was true, perhaps. But there was room and reason for exaggeration in such a parlous case, and when Ben closed the inquisition he brushed all petty details from his memory. Only two facts concerned him. He had been living for a lustrum with a wanton. He had reverenced this woman like a saint. He returned to the house, and in the shelter of his little office he threw himself upon a couch to think.

An hour later he arose, pallid and purposeful. He would follow the woman (he had learned where she had gone) to the Fish River, and kill her, kill her in her latest lover's arms. But first he must have drink, and plenty of it; the pain in his breast must be numbed, or he would go mad before he could do what he wished to do. He proceeded to the storeroom, where the station liquor was kept, but it was to find the rum puncheon stone dry.

Then he remembered the carouse given to the servants by his wife on the eve of her elopement—whereof the men had told him. He ground his teeth upon a curse. He must be content with wine. A case of sparkling Burgundy had come by waggon from Forbes just before he left for Bland. He had put it in the pantry himself. He went to the pantry. The case was there, but it was empty of bottles, and it bulged untidily with a mess of shades and wrappings of straw.

Ben had purchased the wine for a feast that he had intended to give in honor of his eldest child's birthday. He gazed at the straw and felt all the laughing imps of Eblis tugging at his heartstrings. "No doubt sparkling Burgundy is Mr. Jack Taylor's favorite tipple," he said aloud. "I remember now how keen Bridget was that I should order it rather than champagne." Then he leaned against the wall and laughed with maniacal immoderation. He laughed and laughed until he sank a helpless, sore, and shuddering heap upon the floor; and still spasms of laughter shook him furiously, even when the slightest movement of any muscle had become an agony. It was long before Dame Nature condescended to be kind to him. But at last, after a period of anguish unspeakable, some vital cord or fibre seemed to snap. There came a noise of rushing water in Ben's ears. He flung out his arms and fought as a drowning man for breath, but the visionary waters closed upon him, and peace settled on his tortured spirit.