Tom Gerrard by George Lewis Becke (fastest ebook reader TXT) 📖

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 _confrere_ 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