Читать книгу The Outlaws of Weddin Range - Ambrose Pratt - Страница 8

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In order to reach Sandy Creek by the route Ben had chosen (the shortest) he was obliged to traverse the run of his father-in-law at Wheogo. Hitherto he had given his wife's family's home a wide berth, and had steered clear of all her relations, and they had avoided him. Feelings of delicacy had been responsible for this mutual avoidance. They Walshes held Ben blameless in the matter of his wife's elopement, and they deeply sympathised with him in that and his subsequent misfortunes, but they suspected that he must regard them less than kindly as the kin of the woman who had dishonored him. On his part, Ben had not been able to endure the thought of meeting people whom he had not ceased to like, but upon whom he instinctively felt a certain reproach had been fastened by virtue of his marriage—or, rather, the unhappy fashion in which that bond of union had been severed. Time, however, had already begun to armour the sorest of Ben's wounds, and, not a little to his own astonishment, he failed to experience the sharp pain he had expected when, soon after dawn next morning, the once familiar and well loved landmarks rose in view. "I am growing callous," he reflected, and he rode on, touched perversely with a new regret. It is one of the paradoxes of human nature that, while we dread sorrow, and suffer it with keen impatience, we cherish our sensibilities, and we cannot relinquish our outworn capacity for grief without a pang of some queer emotion narrowly resembling shame. Ben made a detour to escape passing near the station, but he was not to quit Wheogo before encountering its chief. He had hardly regained the road when, on mounting from a long declivity, he came face to face on the crest with his father-in-law, who was sauntering homewards from a shooting excursion along the creek, his gun upon his shoulder, a brace of wild duck dangling by his side. The pair halted when abreast, and silently clasped hands. A hard lump rose in Ben's throat. The older man's eyes brimmed with sodden tears. He had always liked Ben well, and the lines which a few short months had scarred in the young fellow's face formed a sight that cut him to the quick. His daughter's handiwork! He forced himself to speak:—

"Macgregor told me last week," he gruffly, "that he saw the entire you bought from Clusky running with half a score of brumby mares near McEwan's boundary, at the Gap!"

"Hang the luck!" growled Ben. "I left the brute in the home paddock at Sandy Creek when Pottinger arrested me. Have any of your fellows been over to my place of late?"

Mr. Walsh shook his head. "No, my lad. You'll be guessing why, perhaps."

Ben nodded. "I suppose John McGuire's there and all fixed up by this?"

"Not yet, Ben. He went north for cattle a month ago, and he'll hardly be back come another fortnight."

"Then I'll be moving on," said Ben. "I'd nearly finished mustering when the police took me, and I left the bulk of my horses in the yards. It's time someone saw to them, I guess."

"If I'd known——" began Mr. Walsh.

But Ben cut him short. "You needn't tell me; I know your kindness, father, of old. Good-bye!" And he spurred off at a gallop.

The name made the old man groan, and he stood there long, gazing mournfully after the dwindling figure of his son-in-law. Bridget Walsh had blighted more than one life when she fled to the Fish River with her fancy man.

Ben Hall made Sandy Creek just before dusk. He rode straight to the stock-yards and drew rein at the first fence. He had previously noted that the small brook which watered both the yards and the home paddock had ceased flowing—the signs pointed to weeks ago—and he had made up his mind that he must be prepared for a shock. But not for the awful scene of desolation that now unfolded to his gaze. Of life in either yards or paddock there was not a sign. Death ruled unquestioned and supreme across that little tract of countryside. The ground was dotted in all directions with the skeletons and shrivelled carcases of what had once been splendid horses, many of them thoroughbreds. Ben counted forty heaps of hide and bones. He scanned the fences, and found their lines unbroken. Half his mustered stock had evidently leaped to life and liberty, but, dispersed far and wide long ago, they were lost to him for that season utterly. The rest had perished miserably of starvation and of thirst.

The place was like a great roofless charnel-house, but one that had been long deserted. Even the crows had gone, disdaining to banquet further on those forty sun-dried mounds of carrion. Ben dismounted and flung himself face downward on the sod. Those poor horses! What must their sufferings have been! Like many of his kind, Ben's love for horses was a sort of passion. He had a sincere affection for all the breed, but his own stock he had almost worshipped. He knew every one of them from ear to fetlock. He had studied them, and learned by heart all their separate little tricks and ways and idiosyncrasies. They were his dear friends, the partners of his industry, the makers of his fortune, the children of his soul, whose real children had been reft from him. Ben pictured the tortures which his unhappy stock had undergone before released by death, and his big frame shook with sobs. He had hardly grieved more keenly when his wife deserted him, but this was an unselfish grief.

When the storm had passed it left him stern and cold—not fierce and quivering with anguished self-abasement like the other grief. He rose and leaned his arms upon the rail. Slowly it was borne in upon his mind that he was a ruined man—a homeless, landless, and well-nigh penniless outcast. When the summer came he might recover some of his scattered horses, but for the present he lacked even the wherewithal to live. It was no longer possible for him immediately to leave the district and build up a new career elsewhere, for he must stay where his stock ranged, lest he lose finally and irremediably the last fragment of his once rich possessions. Strange to say, more than an hour elapsed before it crossed Ben's fancy to attribute his evil case to any other agent than a cruel and purblind Fate. He had turned away from the stockyard to catch his horse, that nibbled the grass at a little distance, trailing the bridle on the ground, when he suddenly perceived the weathered remnants of an old camp fire lying at his feet. A surging flood of memories brought him sharply to a halt. At that very camp-fire he had been seated nearly two months ago when Sir Frederick Pottinger and Sub-inspector Sanderson made him prisoner. He remembered how earnestly he had pleaded with his captors to remain overnight so that they might satisfy themselves upon his innocence. He recalled Pottinger's refusal; the long and gloomy ride to Forbes; the gaol; his protracted imprisonment on a trumped-up charge without a trial; the repeated attempts he had made, and all in vain, to be liberated on bail, so that he might return to Sandy Creek, attend to his stock, and complete his muster; and finally, the crowning act of injustice which had set him free, but only after wresting from him all his ready money, and leaving him still unabsolved from the unfounded criminal accusation that had inspired his persecution.

Ben reviewed these matters bitterly, but without passion, closely examining each link in the chain of circumstances that had wrought his ruin. It appeared to him that, from first to last, the law had been his tyrant and his bane. Although guiltless of any offence against the law, the local ministers of justice had arbitrarily assumed him to be capable of any infamy of which they might be pleased to accuse him. They had fastened crimes upon him which he had never even contemplated, and, having utterly failed to sustain their charges, they had persistently continued to abuse him. Had he been a ruffian and a lawless character from infancy he could not have been treated with greater ignominy. A life-time of good conduct, the high repute he enjoyed throughout the countryside, the possession of substantial wealth, and the warm friendship of scores of respectable men loyally exerted in his favor had all proved powerless to protect him. The prejudiced authorities of the law had scornfully ignored his rights, trampled his reputation in the mire, and brought him to the verge of beggary. Were they satisfied even yet? he asked himself. Would, indeed, they ever be content until thy had succeeded in proving him a criminal? Ben caught and mounted his horse, and slowly set off in a south-easterly direction. His instinct was to put a distance between himself and the police, and so obtain a respite from persecution. Hence his course. He wanted leisure for reflection; above all, he wanted to be alone. He chanced soon after moonrise on a shepherd's hut, and there he spent the night.

Daylight saw him in the saddle. He journeyed across country all day, and at even-fall he struck the Lambing Flat-road at a point very near the residence of Mr. William Allport, a farmer of his acquaintance. Ben rode up to the house, tired and hungry, yet doubtful of a welcome, for the Allports were reputed to be straight-laced people, and he was still under a cloud. But he need not have feared. Mr. Allport gave him a most cordial reception, assuring him that every settler in the country believed him a deeply wronged man; and he attested his own opinion by insisting that Ben should remain his honored guest for as long as he would—a fortnight at least. Poor Ben was quite overwhelmed at so unexpected and practical a display of sympathy. He had not only found an oasis in the desert, but an affectionate greeting where he had been prepared for a rebuff. And he was to be still further surprised. As though by preconcerted arrangement, Mrs. Allport and her girls vied to console and entertain him. He was given the best room in the house for his lodging. Clean clothes and fresh linen were forced on his acceptance; and a dinner was prepared, fit (as Ben said) for a prince. Nor was that all.

After dinner Ben was pressed to relate his story before an audience of warmly sympathetic souls, and it had no sooner come to an end than Mr. Allport, with the enthusiastic approval of his wife, insisted that Ben should accept the loan of a considerable sum of money. Such was the hospitality of the good old days. Ben lingered with this genial family for nearly a week, and the holiday, combined with the kind attentions of his new friends, did much to soothe his embittered feelings and to restore his self-respect. But the unhappy fellow would seem to have been especially marked out by a relentless destiny for a miserable end. Throughout this little interlude of peace and happiness the meshes of a cruel fate were closing round him. Trooper Garrett, after having tracked and shadowed Ben to the Allport haven, temporarily drew away in search of reinforcements and fresh instructions from his chief. He reported that Ben seemed to be absconding from his bail and was consorting with bad companions; and he suggested that a warrant should be issued. Fortune played into the hands of the disaffected constable. On the evening of the fifth day of Ben's sojourn with the Allports, a man named Patsy Daley presented himself at the house, demanding a night's lodging. Daley was a notorious scamp and a suspected follower of Frank Gardiner, but he was a stranger to the Allports, and his request was granted as a matter of course.

When Ben, coming in late for dinner, saw Daley seated at the table, he could not restrain an exclamation of disgust. He spoke out at once. "That man," said he, "is supposed to be one of Gardiner's associates, and I know him from personal experience to be a thief. A reward has been offered for his apprehension!"

Daley promptly got afoot and faced his exposer with an ugly look. But Mr. Allport did not permit him to speak. "Kindly resume your seat, Mr. Daley," he commanded. "Whatever else you may be, you are my guest for the night, and under my protection." He then turned to Ben, and said in an underbreath, "Of course, I believe you, my dear boy, but the rules of hospitality are paramount and tie my hands." Daley laughed triumphantly, and sat down again. Ben shrugged his shoulders.

The meal quietly and silently proceeded. When it was over, Daley, who had drunk freely from a private flask, became garrulous and offensively confident. He boldly declared himself a bushranger, and bragged of his exploits. More especially did he boast that he had just stuck up and robbed single-handed the police station at the Pinnacle, and he said he was on his way to join Gardiner with the swag. Neither the Allports nor Ben credited his improbable story for an instant, but it was, in fact, the truth. And one listened unseen who knew it to be the truth. The spy was Trooper Garrett's black-tracker, who was at that moment crouched under the lintel of the dining-room window in the darkness without. He carried the story swiftly to the police station at Bang Bang, and long before dawn the police were on the road. Daley, suspecting nothing of his danger, slept comfortably, and set off from the farmhouse in a very leisurely fashion after an early morning breakfast. Three hours later a sergeant and five troopers galloped up to the homestead. Ben was at that moment in the dairy, helping one of the girls to make butter. The noise of the churn had prevented him from hearing the sounds of external happenings, and he continued his work in complete ignorance of the visitation. A sudden closure of the light drew his attention to the open door. Mr. Allport stood there beckoning with one hand, two fingers of the other pressed across his lips. Ben dropped the handle of the churn and hurried to his host's side. Mr. Allport turned and pointed to the south. Ben followed the direction of the pointing finger, and saw five troopers cantering slowly, at a little distance behind a mounted black-tracker, who (evidently an expert at his trade) was tracking at a smart trot, stooping low across his saddle bow, his head beneath the level of the horse's withers, his eyes glued to the ground. Even then a whistle would have halted the cavalcade. "They are after Daley?" said Ben, inquiringly.

"And you," said Mr. Allport.

"Me!" cried Ben. "What can they possibly want with me? And if they want me, why have they left me here?"

Mr. Allport rested his hand on Ben's shoulder. "My dear lad," said he, "it is possible that I have done you an injury, but it is one that can be readily undone, and, in any case, I acted for the best. The police have a warrant for your arrest for absconding from bail, but they have also another charge against you. Some spy of theirs was here last night, and heard Daley bragging to us of robbing the Pinnacle station. Unhappily, he actually committed the outrage. On that account the police have set you down as Daley's accomplice, and they accuse you of having pre-arranged with Daley to meet here. I assured them they were mistaken, but they laughed me to scorn. Nothing can convince them that you are not a scoundrel, and they seem fully determined to hunt you down."

"Then why have they left me here?" cut in Ben, excitedly.

"Because they jumped to the conclusion that you set out from my house with Daley this morning. You see, Daley came here with one horse and left with two. He bought a packhorse from young Jordan while we were at breakfast. The police were misled by the double set of tracks. I could have undeceived them, of course, but I did not. You must tell me if I have done you a wrong."

"Done me a wrong! Mr. Allport, how can you ask such a thing? You have saved me from a shameful arrest."

"Ah! my lad, but don't you see that the police, believing that you are in company with Daley, now have reasonable grounds for suspecting your honesty? The man is an outlaw, remember! However, the matter can be easily mended. Do you want my advice?"

"Of course I do."

Mr. Allport nodded. "Then I advise you to go immediately with me to Forbes and report yourself to the authorities. You can thus prove that you are not an absconder, and my story, supporting yours, will absolve you from all suspicion of being implicated with Daley. I need hardly say that I shall be very glad to make the pilgrimage with you."

"You had this course in mind when you let those fellows go off on their wild-goose chase after me just now?" asked Ben.

"You have guessed it, Ben. I thought it would be far better for you to go voluntarily to headquarters than to be taken there in custody. Well, what do you say?"

"I say that you have been a grand friend to me, and that I would be both a fool and an ingrate not to follow your advice. I hate putting you to trouble and dragging you away from home, but if you are willing I dare not refuse the kindness. It is more than clear that I am a marked man, and unless I do something promptly to checkmate the police, I believe they'll end up by lagging me. Mr. Allport, I've got something to tell you. I'm afraid! I've never feared man or devil before, but now I'm afraid!"

"Afraid, my lad! Nonsense! You have nothing to fear. Here, I say! Buck up, Ben. You are shaking like a leaf! For shame, lad! Of what are you afraid?"

"Of myself," muttered Ben. "I am coming to the end of my tether. This persecution is killing me!" He leaned against the wall as he spoke, and buried his face in his hands. Mr. Allport gazed at his friend for a moment, and made as if to speak, then checked himself and hurried on to the house. A few moments later he emerged with his wife. Mrs. Allport went to Ben, and began, as only a good woman can, to soothe and comfort the stricken spirit. Mr. Allport hastened to the stables and saddled up. When he appeared again, leading the horses he had prepared for the journey (he had purposely lingered over the operation), Ben was in a happier and more resolute frame of mind, thanks to Mrs. Allport's gentle ministrations. Affectionate farewells were exchanged all round, and presently the journey to Forbes commenced. Unhappily, it was never completed. When the pair had covered about twenty miles of the route, Mr. Allport's horse slipped on a stone while crossing a dry creek bed, and badly sprained its shoulders. The misfortune necessarily altered their plans. A long council was held, and finally it was decided (both men realising the supreme importance of Ben's prompt appearance in Forbes), that Ben should press on alone, and that Mr. Allport should follow as soon as he could procure another horse. Ben thereupon resumed his journey, and Mr. Allport made off across country on foot towards a neighboring station, where he hoped to be remounted, leading his injured horse.

The toils now began to close around Ben with a rush. He had scarcely proceeded a couple of miles from where he had left Mr. Allport, when a man galloped out of a dense patch of bush through which the road at that point was winding, and drew rein at Ben's side. The man was Patsy Daley. He looked wild and desperate, and his horse was badly blown. Ben was astounded, for he had thought the rascal fully fifty miles away; but Daley quickly explained his unexpected appearance. It seems that the police had almost overtaken him while leisurely riding south before he realised that he was pursued. Hoping to avoid them and throw them off the scent, he had doubled in his tracks for a bit, then had taken to the bush and ridden at an angle across country to make the Forbes road, his intention being to regain the Pinnacle, where he had friends and could secure a refuge. The police, however, had not been deceived by his adroit move, and they were following hard on his trail. When Ben learned this he laughed. What use struggling any longer and kicking against the pricks, when Fate played so obdurately into the hands of his enemies? Of a sudden something struck the road sharply about fifty yards before him and kicked up a tiny cloud of dust. What was it? Ben's doubt only lasted an instant, for the strange little phenomenon was quickly complemented by a loud report. He glanced behind and saw three troopers charging at the gallop, and firing as they came. Daley at once wheeled and spurred frantically away among the trees. Ben hesitated for one fateful second, hardly knowing what to do. The issue was resolved for him. A bullet grazed his plunging horse's belly, ploughing up the hide, and the wounded beast, already startled by the firing and the frantic shouts of the approaching troopers, took the bit between his teeth and bolted. The troopers heard a harsh, maniacal laugh ring out as their quarry vanished round a turn in the road.

Ben Hall had become a bushranger.