Читать книгу The Dark Highway - Arthur Gask - Страница 5

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AT latest the car would be found in a few days, and then it would be known definitely how Eli Barton and his friend had met their deaths. Then would follow inquiries and investigations in every direction, and how—how would he be able to account for the condition of the wounded man?

The very nature of the wound itself would be suspicious. And once any questioning began, how could he be certain either that his companion would not show the white feather and give everything away? In any case a satisfactory explanation would be difficult to find.

He cursed deeply again at his predicament. Then suddenly a cruel and dreadful expression crossed his face, and the sweat that dropped from his forehead was not now the sweat only of his laboured pace.

Abruptly his running was slowed down and, approaching the small car, he dropped all at once to a slow and stealthy walk. Then—it might almost have been said that he was creeping forward on his toes. He seemed, too, to be holding in his breath, and his right hand had slipped back to the pocket on his hip.

Without a sound he crept up to where the wounded man lay and then—suddenly there came a loud report. The man with the ferrety eyes was in suffering no more. His brains had been blown away.

So that night there were three men sleeping by the dark track of the Coorong.

One was tucked huddled in a shallow grave beneath the sands; a second there was who stiffened and grew cold in the tonneau of the big Jehu car, while, close by, a third lay ghastly and uncovered to the sky.

Towards this last, as dawn was breaking, a fox came slouching up.

Perhaps the animal was only inquisitive or perhaps—he sniffed the smell of blood.

He crept up close and—he turned suddenly and scampered off. Something had frightened him.

IT was the Christmas Cup day at Adelaide, and long before the time when the first race was due to be run an enormous crowd was gathering on the racecourse at Cheltenham.

A good programme of events had been arranged, but on all sides the great attraction was the Cup race itself. In addition to a gold cup, it was for the fine stake of £3000, and there were some first-rate performers down to run. Indeed, the very cream of South Australian thoroughbreds would line up before the starter, and so well had the handicapper done his work that no one particular horse among the home State entries stood out prominently in the public favour. But, at the same time, few could have said that it promised to be a good betting race.

Everything was overshadowed by the presence of an Inter-State horse from across the border.

Eli Barton, the wealthy stockowner from Victoria, had sent his great horse, Abimeleck, to throw down the gauntlet to the equine aristocracy of South Australia, and the general opinion was that they would all go down before him in the lists.

It was true the handicapper had by no means forgotten the distinguished visitor, and had given him the steadier of ten stone four, or sixteen pounds more than had been allotted to the next horse below him, but then Abimeleck, as everyone knew, was in a class quite by himself.

A son of Judah out of Sweetness, he was a magnificent specimen of a four year-old, and had well earned every ounce of the big weight that had been allotted to him.

A great horse, he had not been beaten since his two-year-old days, and in his last eight races he had never been really extended. Carrying top weight always, he had won, it seemed, with effortless ease.

So, directly the acceptances had been published, he had been seized upon by the public as a good thing and 'fours' had been the greatest odds at any time offered against him.

Even 'fours' would certainly not have been obtainable had there not been for some time suspicions of trouble in one of his legs. It was true the suspicion was only a very slight one, but his owner, unwilling to run risks, had twice at the last moment, on that account, withdrawn him from an engagement.

It was this uncertainty, this slight element of doubt, that had enabled the horse's admirers to obtain the extended odds, and up to the very morning of the race they had been all on the best terms with themselves.

Everything had seemed propitious for the champion's success, A week previously he had arrived safely in Adelaide, and his subsequent performance on the track had been all that his admirers could have desired.

He had gone splendidly at exercise, he had taken his food well, and his trainer, who had accompanied him, had been observed as wearing always a most confident and happy smile.

So things had been right up to this the very morning of the race, and then, all suddenly, the presentiment of some impending misfortune had come to his backers, and as the crowds gathered upon the racecourse side this uneasy feeling was soon everywhere apparent.

What exactly was happening no one knew, and on the face of it, the apprehension seemed absurd.

The horse had actually arrived upon the racecourse and, the centre of a big admiring crowd, he was now duly standing in his allotted stall in the paddock. (His admirers noticed with a pang, however, that the number of the stall was thirteen.) The jockey, too, who was to ride him was actually on the spot—Pat O'Connor, the famous Sydney crack. Lots of people had seen him drive up to the racecourse in a car. So everything was satisfactory there.

Still, however, the public were uneasy, and long before the time when the first race was due to be run rumours began to crystallise and take on ugly forms.

An anxious consultation was being held between Tom Sellick, the trainer of Abimeleck, young Stanley Barton, the nephew of Eli Barton, and the secretary of the Port Adelaide Racing Club.

It was being held in the secretary's room, and it was evident that those taking part were moved by some strong emotion. The trainer's face was grave, that of the young nephew of Eli Barton was frowning, and that of the secretary was flushed and angry.

"No," Tom Sellick was saying, doggedly, "I can't bring him out, sir. If I did, it would be directly contrary to the orders that I have received."

"But the animal's perfectly fit and well to run, isn't he," insisted the Secretary.

"As far as my opinion goes, yes," replied the trainer, slowly. He shook his head determinedly. "But that's nothing to do with his running. I tell you I'm not the owner. I'm only the trainer. I've just got to obey orders. Mr. Barton employs me, and his last words to me were: 'Mind, I shan't decide about his running until I go over him myself.'"

"But look at the crowds here," pleaded the secretary, "and think of the way he's been backed. It'll be a dreadful take-down for the public if he doesn't run."

Tom Sellick looked straight before him. "It's not my horse, sir," he said firmly, "and, I tell you again, I've nothing to do with his running. Nothing at all."

The secretary turned impatiently to young Stanley Barton. "I suppose you have no authority, Mr. Barton? You can't help us in any way?"

The young man shook his head grimly. He was a good-looking young fellow, between four and five and twenty and, although the general expression of his face was frank and boyish, there were lines of determination about his mouth and chin that would have made an observant stranger chary of antagonising the forces that he saw there.

"Mr. Sellick is quite right," he said slowly, "and if I were in his place, although I grant you it's unpleasant, I should take the same stand. He can't up-saddle till my uncle tells him to."

"But where on earth is your uncle?" queried the secretary irritably, "and why is it he isn't here?"

The young man eyed his interrogator very gravely.

"If we could tell you that, Mr. Secretary, we should be much easier in our minds than we, at present, are." He shrugged his shoulders and went on slowly. "Neither Mr. Sellick here nor I can think of the slightest reason for my uncle not being here now. He left Melbourne for Adelaide in his car early on Wednesday morning. That I know for certain, for I myself saw him start. He can't have been taken ill for he had a friend with him, who would certainly have let us know. His car can't have broken down either, for I followed after him twenty-four hours later, exactly along the same way he must have come. I heard of him all the way as far as Kingston, and then no one mentions his having passed." He shook his head very solemnly. "I tell you, I don't like it, for it's not my uncle's way to let people down."

A couple of minutes later young Barton and the trainer, leaving the secretary's room, almost ran into a tall, middle-aged man, and a pretty dark eyed girl, who were standing just outside.

The trainer started to apologise, and then suddenly his worried, anxious face broke into a smile.

"Hullo, Jim," he said to the tall man, "nearly knocked you over that time, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did, Tom," replied the latter smiling, too. "But I'll forgive you if you never do worse to me than that."

"Who was he?" whispered Stanley, when a moment later they had passed on.

"He's called Dice," replied the trainer. "He's got a station down the south-east. I used to know him, however, years ago in Victoria. He was in the Light Horse with my brother during the Boer War. He is a very decent chap, but always a very unlucky one. He's got a horse running in the Cup to-day. Black Wolf, but it's not got the ghost of a chance."

"Who's the girl?" asked Stanley, carelessly.

"I don't know," replied the trainer, the worried look beginning to cloud over his face again. "His wife perhaps. She doesn't look like his daughter. He was a widower, I remember, a couple of years ago."

A few minutes later and up went the number for the Cup. All doubts about the favourite were at once dispelled, for it was now seen for certain that he was not going to run. His number was absent from the frame.

A flutter of dismay ran through the crowd, a long murmur of disappointment, and then a perfect babel of inquiry buzzed round. It was undoubtedly a great set-back for the public, but it spoke well for the reputation of Eli Barton that there was no suggestion anywhere of shady reasons for the sudden withdrawal of the horse.

The Victorian owner was far too well known for that, and it was realised everywhere there must be some very good reason why Abimeleck was not to run, and the only query was—what was it?

But no definite answer was forthcoming, and, reconciling themselves to the inevitable, most people had soon given up conjecturing, and for the moment were philosophically settling down to make the best of things as they were.

And after all, there was no doubt that the absence of Abimeleck made the race for the Christmas Cup, in some ways, a much more interesting one.

Quite a fair number of the runners now undoubtedly had chances, and no less than five of them were at once made almost co-equal favourites in the totalisator.

The money began to pour into the machine.

With the betting settling down Gay Hussar began to advance strongly in public favour—no doubt, however, because Wilkie, the Adelaide crack, was riding him—and by the time £3000 had been invested he was leading by near £100. Next to him came Wattle Day, and then much farther away followed Rattlesnake, The Bloater, and Lord Burke, all in a bunch. Quite low down and almost neglected were Pretty Boy and Black Wolf. For quite a long time the investments on the last-named totalled under £20.