XL

This bit of a barney, of course, made bad blood betwixt us and Moran’s mob, so for a spell Starlight and father thought it handier for us to go our own road and let them go theirs. We never could agree with chaps like them, and that was the long and short of it. They were a deal too rough and ready for Starlight; and as for Jim and me, though we were none too good, we couldn’t do some of the things these coves was up to, nor stand by and see ’em done, which was more. This time we made up our mind to go back to the Hollow and drop out of notice altogether for a bit, and take a rest like.

We hadn’t heard anything of Aileen and the old mother for weeks and weeks, so we fixed it that we should sneak over to Rocky Flat, one at a time, and see how things were going, and hearten ’em up a bit. When we did get to the Hollow, instead of being able to take it easy, as we expected, we found things had gone wrong as far as the devil could send ’em that way if he tried his best. It seems father had taken a restless fit himself, and after we were gone had crossed Nulla Mountain to some place above Rocky Flat, to where he could see what went on with a strong glass.

Before I go further I might as well tell you that, along with the whacking big reward that was offered for all of us, a good many coves as fancied themselves a bit had turned amateur policemen, and had all kinds of plans and dodges for catching us dead or alive. Now, men that take to the bush like us don’t mind the regular paid force much, or bear them any malice. It’s their duty to catch us or shoot us if we bolt, and ours to take all sorts of good care that they shan’t do either if we can help it.

Well, as I was sayin’, we don’t have it in for the regulars in the police; it’s all fair pulling, “pull devil pull baker,” someone has to get the worst of it. Now it’s us, now it’s them, that gets took or rubbed out, and no more about it.

But what us cross coves can’t stand and are mostly sure to turn nasty on is the notion of fellows going into the manhunting trade, with us for game, either for the fun of it or for the reward. That reward means the money paid for our blood. We don’t like it. It may seem curious, but we don’t; and them as take up the line as a game to make money or fun out of, when they’ve no call to, find out their mistake, sometimes when it’s a deal too late.

Now we’d heard that a party of four men⁠—some of them had been gaol warders and some hadn’t⁠—had made it up to follow us up and get us one way or the other if it was to be done. They weren’t in the police, but they thought they knew quite as much as the police did; and, besides, the reward, £5,000, if they got our lot and any one of the others, was no foolish money.

Well, nothing would knock it out of these chaps’ heads but that we were safe to be grabbed in the long run trying to make into the old home. This was what made them gammon to be surveyors when they first came, as we heard about, and go measuring and tape-lining about, when there wasn’t a child over eight years old on the whole creek that couldn’t have told with half an eye they wasn’t nothing of the sort.

Well, as bad luck would have it, just as father was getting down towards the place he meets Moran and Daly, who were making over to the Fish River on a cattle-duffing lay of their own. They were pretty hard up; and Moran after his rough and tumble with Jim, in which he had come off second best, was ready for anything⁠—anything that was bad, that is.

After he’d a long yarn with them about cattle and horses and whatnot, he offered them a ten-pound note each if they’d do what he told them. Dad always carried money about with him; he said it came in handy. If the police didn’t take him, they wouldn’t get it; and if they did take him, why, nothing would matter much and it might go with the rest. It came in handy enough this time, anyhow, though it helped what had been far better left undone.

I remember what a blinded rage father got into when he first had Aileen’s letter, and heard that these men were camped close to the old house, poking about there all day long, and worrying and frightening poor Aileen and mother.

Well, it seems on this particular day they’d been into the little township, and I suppose got an extra glass of grog. Anyhow, when they came back they began to be more venturesome than they generally were. One chap came into the house and began talking to Aileen, and after a bit mother goes into her bedroom, and Aileen comes out into the verandah and begins to wash some clothes in a tub, splashing the water pretty well about and making it a bit uncomfortable for anyone to come near her.

What must this fool do but begin to talk about what white arms she’d got⁠—not that they were like that much, she’d done too much hard work lately to have her arms, or hands either, look very grand; and at last he began to be saucy, telling her as no Marston girl ought to think so much of herself, considerin’ who and what she was. Well, the end of it was father heard a scream, and he looked out from where he was hidden and saw Aileen running down the garden and the fellow after her. He jumps out, and fires his revolver slapbang at the chap; it didn’t hit him, but it went that close that he stopped dead and turned round to see who it was.

“Ben Marston, by all that’s lucky, boys!” says he, as two of the other chaps came running down at the shot. “We’ve got the ould sarpint out of his hole at last.” With that they all fires at father as quick as they could draw; and Aileen gives one scream and starts running along the track up the hill that leads to George Storefield’s place.

Father drops; one of the bullets had hit him, but not so bad as he couldn’t run, so he ups again and starts running along the gully, with the whole four of them shouting and swearin’ after him, making sure they got him to rights this time.

“Two hundred a man, boys,” the big fellow in the lead says; “and maybe we’ll take tay with the rest of ’em now.”

They didn’t know the man they were after, or they’d have just as soon have gone to “take tea,” as they called it, with a tiger.

Father put on one of his old poacher dodges that he had borrowed from the lapwing in his own country, that he used to tell us about when we were boys (our wild duck’ll do just the same), and made himself out a deal worse than he was. Father could run a bit, too; he’d been fast for a mile when he was young, and though he was old now he never carried no flesh to signify, and was as hard as nails. So what with knowing the ground, and they being flat-country men, he kept just out of pistol-shot, and yet showed enough to keep ’em filled up with the notion that they’d run him down after a bit.

They fired a shot every now and then, thinking a chance one might wing him, but this only let Moran and Daly see that someone was after dad, and that the hunt was coming their way.

They held steady where they had been told to stop, and looked out for the men they’d been warned of by father. As he got near this place he kept lettin’ ’em git a bit nearer and nearer to him, so as they’d follow him up just where he wanted. It gave them more chance of hitting him, but he didn’t care about that, now his blood was up⁠—not he. All he wanted was to get them. Dad was the coolest old cove, when shooting was going on, ever I see. You’d think he minded bullets no more than bottle-corks.

Well, he goes stumbling and dragging himself like up the gully, and they, cocksure of getting him, closing up and shooting quicker and quicker, when just as he jumps down the Black Gully steps a bullet did hit him in the shoulder under the right arm, and staggers him in good earnest. He’d just time to cut down the bank and turn to the left along the creek channel, throwing himself down on his face among the bushes, when the whole four of ’em jumps down the bank after him.

“Stand!” says Moran, and they looked up and saw him and Daly covering them with their revolvers. Before they’d time to draw, two of ’em rolls over as dead as doornails.

The other two were dumbfoundered and knocked all of a heap by suddenly finding themselves face to face with the very men they’d been hunting after for weeks and weeks. They held up their pistols, but they didn’t seem to have much notion of using them⁠—particularly when they found father had rounded on ’em too, and was standing a bit away on the side looking very ugly and with his revolver held straight at ’em.

“Give in! Put down your irons,” says Moran, “or by ⸻, we’ll drop ye where ye stand.”

“Come on,” says one, and I think he intended to make a fight for it.

He’d ’a been better off if he had. It couldn’t have been worse for him; but the other one didn’t see a chance, and so he says⁠—

“Give in, what’s the good? There’s three to two.”

“All right,” says the other chap, the big one; and they put down their pistols.

It was curious now as these two were both men that father and Moran had a down on. They’d better have fought it out as long as they could stand up. There’s no good got by givin’ in that I ever seen. Men as does so always drop in for it worse in the end.

First thing, then, they tied ’em with their hands behind ’em, and let ’em stand up near their mates that were down⁠—dead enough, both of them, one shot through the heart and one through the head.

Then Moran sits down and has a smoke, and looks over at ’em.

“You don’t remember me, Mr. Hagan?” says he, in his drawling way.

“No,” says the poor chap, “I don’t think I do.”

“But I remember you devilish well,” says Moran; “and so you’ll find afore we leave this.” Then he took another smoke. “Weren’t you warder in Berrima Gaol,” says he, “about seven year ago? Ah! now we’re coming to it. You don’t remember getting Daniel Moran⁠—a prisoner serving a long sentence there⁠—seven days’ solitary on bread and water for what you called disobedience of orders and insolence?”

“Yes, I do remember now. I’d forgotten your face. I was only doing my duty, and I hope you won’t bear any malice.”

“It was a little thing to you, maybe,” says Moran; “but if you’d had to do seven long days and long cold nights in that devil’s den, you’d ’a thought more about it. But you will now. My turn’s come.”

“I didn’t do it to you more than to the rest. I had to keep order in the gaol, and devilish hard work it was.”

“You’re a liar,” says Moran, striking him across the face with his clenched hand. “You had a down on me because I wouldn’t knuckle down to you like some of them, and so you dropped it on to me every turn you could get. I was a youngster then, and might have grown into a man if I’d been let. But fellows like you are enough to turn any man into a devil if they’ve got him in their power.”

“Well, I’m in your power now,” says he. “Let’s see how you’ll shape.”

“I don’t like ye any the worse for being cheeky,” says Moran, “and standing up to me, but it’s too late. The last punishment I got, when I was kept in irons night and day for a month because I’d tried to get out, I swore I’d have your life if ever I came across ye.”

“You’ll never shoot me in cold blood,” says the poor devil, beginning to look blue about the lips.

“I don’t know what old Ben’s going to do with the man he found chevying his daughter,” says Moran, looking at him with his deadly blacksnake eyes, “but I’m a-goin’ to shoot you as soon as I’ve smoked out this pipe, so don’t you make any mistake.”

“I don’t mind a shot or two,” says Daly, “but I’m dashed if I can stand by and see men killed in cold blood. You coves have your own reasons, I suppose, but I shall hook it over to the Fish River. You know where to find me.” And he walked away to where the horses were and rode off.

We got fresh horses and rode over quick to Rocky Flat. We took Warrigal with us, and followed our old track across Nulla Mountain till we got within a couple of miles of the place. Warrigal picked up the old mare’s tracks, so we knew father had made over that way, and there was no call for us to lose time running his trail any longer. Better go straight on to the house and find out what had happened there. We sent Warrigal on ahead, and waited with our horses in our hands till he come back to us.

In about an hour he comes tearing back, with his eyes staring out of his head.

“I bin see old missis,” he says. “She yabber that one make-believe constable bin there. Gammon-like it surveyor, and bimeby old man Ben gon’ alonga hut, and that one pleeceman fire at him and all about, and him break back alonga gully.”

“Any of ’em come back?” says Jim.

“Bale! me see um tent-dog tied up. Cake alonga fireplace, all burn to pieces. No come home last night. I b’lieve shot ’em old man longa gully.”

“Come along, boys,” says Starlight, jumping into his saddle. “The old man might have been hit. We must run the tracks and see what’s come of the governor. Four to one’s big odds.”

We skirted the hut and kept out wide till Warrigal cut the tracks, which he did easy enough. We couldn’t see a blessed thing. Warrigal rode along with his head down, reading every tuft of grass, every little stone turned up, every foot of sand, like a book.

“Your old fader run likit Black Gully. Two fellow track here⁠—bullet longa this one tree.” Here he pointed to a scratch on the side of a box tree, in which the rough bark had been shivered. “Bimeby two fellow more come; ’nother one bullet; ’nother one here, too. This one blood drop longa white leaf.”

Here he picked up a dried gum leaf, which had on the upper side a dark red spot, slightly irregular.

We had it all now. We came to a place where two horses had been tied to a tree. They had been stamping and pawing, as if they had been there a goodish while and had time to get pretty sick of it.

“That near side one Moran’s horse, pigeon-toes; me know ’em,” says Warrigal. “Off side one Daly’s roan horse, new shoes on. You see ’um hair, rub himself longa tree.”

“What the blazes were they doing hereabouts?” says Starlight. “This begins to look complicated. Whatever the row was, Daly and he were in it. There’s no one rich enough to rob hereabouts, is there? I don’t like the look of it. Ride on, boys.”

We said nothing to each other, but rode along as fast as Warrigal could follow the line. The sky, which was bright enough when we started, clouded over, and in less than ten minutes the wind rose and rain began to pour down in buckets, with no end of thunder and lightning. Then it got that cold we could hardly sit on our horses for trembling. The sky grew blacker and blacker. The wind began to whistle and cry till I could almost swear I heard someone singing out for help. Nulla Mountain was as black as your hat, and a kind of curious feeling crept over me, I hardly knew why, as if something was going to happen, I didn’t know what.

I fully expected to find father dead; and, though he wasn’t altogether a good father to us, we both felt bad at the notion of his lyin’ there cold and stiff. I began to think of him as he used to be when we were boys, and when he wasn’t so out and out hard⁠—and had a kind word for poor mother and a kiss for little Aileen.

But if he were shot or taken, why hadn’t these other men come back? We had just ridden by their tents, and they looked as if they’d just been left for a bit by men who were coming back at night. The dog was howling and looked hungry. Their blankets were all thrown about. Anyhow, there was a kettle on the fire, which was gone out; and more than that, there was the damper that Warrigal had seen lying in the ashes all burnt to a cinder.

Everything looked as if they’d gone off in a hurry, and never come back at night or since. One of their horses was tied with a tether rope close to the tent poles, and he’d been walking round and trampling down the grass, as if he’d been there all night. We couldn’t make it out.

We rode on, hardly looking at one another, but following Warrigal, who rattled on now, hardly looking at the ground at all, like a dog with a burning scent. All of a sudden he pulls up, and points to a dip into a cross gully, like an old river, which we all knew.

“You see um crow? I b’leeve longa Black Gully.”

Sure enough, just above the drop down, where we used to gallop our ponies in old times and laugh to see ’em throw up their tails, there were half-a-dozen crows and a couple of eagle-hawks high up in the sky, wheeling and circling over the same place.

“By George! they’ve got the old man,” says Jim. “Come on, Dick. I never thought poor old dad would be run down like this.”

“Or he’s got them!” says Starlight, curling his lip in a way he had. “I don’t believe your old governor’s dead till I see him. The devil himself couldn’t grab him on his own ground.”

XLI

We all pulled up at the side of the gully or dry creek, whatever it was, and jumped off our horses, leaving Warrigal to look after them, and ran down the rocky sides of it.

“Great God!” Starlight cries out, “what’s that?” and he pointed to a small sloping bit of grass just underneath the bank. “Who are they? Can they be asleep?”

They were asleep, never to wake. As we stood side by side by the dead men, for there were four of them, we shook so, Jim and I, that we leaned against one another for support. We had never seen a sight before that like it. I never want to do so again.

There they lay, four dead men. We didn’t know them ourselves, but guessed they were Hagan and his lot. How else did they come there? and how could dad have shot them all by himself, and laid them out there? Were Daly and Moran with him? This looked like Moran’s damnable work.

We looked and looked. I rubbed my eyes. Could it be real? The sky was dark, and the daylight going fast. The mountain hung over us black and dreadful-looking. The wind whimpered up and down the hillside with a sort of cry in it. Everything was dark and dismal and almost unnatural-looking.

All four men were lying on their backs side by side, with their eyes staring up to the sky⁠—staring⁠—staring! When we got close beside them we could see they had all been shot⁠—one man through the head, the rest through the body. The two nearest to me had had their hands tied; the bit of rope was lying by one and his wrist was chafed.

One had been so close to the man that shot him that the powder had burnt his shirt. It wasn’t for anything they had either, for every man’s notes (and one had four fives and some ones) were pinned to them outside of their pockets, as if to show everyone that those who killed them wanted their blood and not their money.

“This is a terrible affair, boys,” said Starlight; and his voice sounded strange and hoarse. “I never thought we should be mixed up with a deed like this. I see how it was done. They have been led into a trap. Your father has made ’em think they could catch him; and had Daly and Moran waiting for them⁠—one on each side of this hole here. Warrigal,”⁠—for he had tied up his horse and crept up⁠—“how many bin here?”

Warrigal held up three fingers.

“That one ran down here⁠—one after one. I see ’em boot. Moran stand here. Patsey Daly lie down behind that ole log. All about boot-nail mark. Old man Ben he stand here. Dog bite’m this one.”

Here he stooped and touched a dead man’s ankle. Sure enough there was the mark of Crib’s teeth, with the front one missing, that had been kicked down his throat by a wild mare.

“Two fellow tumble down fust-like; then two fellow bimeby. One⁠—two⁠—three fellow track go along a flat that way. Then that one get two horses and ridem likit Fish River. Penty blood tumble down here.”

This was the ciphering up of the whole thing. It was clear enough now. Moran and Daly had waited for them here, and had shot down the two first men. Of the others, it was hard to say whether they died in fair fight or had been taken prisoners and shot afterwards. Either way it was bad enough. What a noise it would make! The idea of four men, well known to the Government, and engaged in hunting down outlaws on whose head a price was set, to be deliberately shot⁠—murdered in cold blood, as there was some ground for thinking to be the case. What would be the end of it all?

We had done things that were bad enough, but a deliberate, cold-blooded, shameful piece of bloodshed like this had never been heard of in New South Wales before.

There was nothing more to be done. We couldn’t stay any longer looking at the dead men; it was no use burying them, even if we’d had the time. We hadn’t done it, though we should be sure to be mixed up with it somehow.

“We must be moving, lads,” said Starlight. “As soon as this gets wind there’ll be another rush out this way, and every policeman and newspaper reporter in the country will be up at Black Gully. When they’re found everybody will see that they’ve been killed for vengeance and not for plunder. But the sooner they’re found the better.”

“Best send word to Billy the Boy,” I said; “he’ll manage to lay them on without hurting himself.”

“All right. Warrigal knows a way of communicating with him; I’ll send him off at once. And now the sooner we’re at the Hollow the better for everybody.”

We rode all night. Anything was better than stopping still with such thoughts as we were likely to have for companions. About daylight we got to the Hollow. Not far from the cave we found father’s old mare with the saddle on and the reins trailing on the ground. There was a lot of blood on the saddle too, and the reins were smeared all about with it; red they were to the buckles, so was her mane.

We knew then something was wrong, and that the old man was hard hit, or he’d never have let her go loose like that. When we got to the cave the dog came out to meet us, and then walked back whining in a queer way towards the log at the mouth, where we used to sit in the evenings.

There was father, sure enough, lying on his face in a pool of blood, and to all appearances as dead as the men we’d just left.

We lifted him up, and Starlight looked close and careful at him by the light of the dawn, that was just showing up over the tree tops to the east.

“He’s not dead; I can feel his heart beat,” he said. “Carry him in, boys, and we’ll soon see what’s the matter with him.”

We took his waistcoat and shirt off⁠—a coat he never wore unless it was raining. Hard work we had to do it, they was so stuck to his skin when the blood had dried.

“By gum! he’s been hit bad enough,” says Jim. “Look here, and here, poor old dad!”

“There’s not much ‘poor’ about it, Jim,” says Starlight. “Men that play at bowls must expect to get rubbers. They’ve come off second best in this row, and I wish it had been different, for several reasons.”

Dad was hit right through the top of the left shoulder. The ball had gone through the muscle and lodged somewhere. We couldn’t see anything of it. Another bullet had gone right through him, as far as we could make out, under the breast on the right-hand side.

“That looks like a goodbye shot,” says Starlight; “see how the blood comes welling out still; but it hasn’t touched the lungs. There’s no blood on his lips, and his breathing is all right. What’s this? Only through the muscle of the right arm. That’s nothing; and this graze on the ribs, a mere scratch. Dash more water in his face, Jim. He’s coming to.”

After a few minutes he did come to, sure enough, and looked round when he found himself in bed.

“Where am I?” says he.

“You’re at home,” I said, “in the Hollow.”

“Dashed if I ever thought I’d get here,” he says. “I was that bad I nearly tumbled off the old mare miles away. She must have carried me in while I was unsensible. I don’t remember nothing after we began to get down the track into the Hollow. Where is she?”

“Oh! we found her near the cave, with the saddle and bridle on.”

“That’s all right. Bring me a taste of grog, will ye; I’m a’most dead with thirst. Where did I come from last, I wonder? Oh, I seem to know now. Settling accounts with that⁠—dog that insulted my gal. Moran got square with t’other. That’ll learn ’em to leave old Ben Marston alone when he’s not meddling with them.”

“Never mind talking about that now,” I said. “You had a near shave of it, and it will take you all your time to pull through now.”

“I wasn’t hit bad till just as I was going to drop down into Black Gully,” he said. “I stood one minute, and that cursed wretch Hagan had a steady shot at me. I had one at him afterwards, though, with his hands tied, too.”

“God forgive you!” says Jim, “for shooting men in cold blood. I couldn’t do it for all the gold in Turon, nor for no other reason. It’ll bring us bad luck, too; see if it don’t.”

“You’re too soft, Jim,” says the old man. “You ain’t a bad chap; but any young fellow of ten years old can buy and sell you. Where’s that brandy and water?”

“Here it is,” says Jim; “and then you lie down and take a sleep. You’ll have to be quiet and obey orders now⁠—that is if a few more years’ life’s any good to you.”

The brandy and water fetched him to pretty well, but after that he began to talk, and we couldn’t stop him. Towards night he got worse and worse and his head got hotter, and he kept on with all kinds of nonsense, screeching out that he was going to be hung and they were waiting to take him away, but if he could get the old mare he’d be all right; besides a lot of mixed-up things about cattle and horses that we didn’t know the right of.

Starlight said he was delirious, and that if he hadn’t someone to nurse him he’d die as sure as fate. We couldn’t be always staying with him, and didn’t understand what was to be done much. We didn’t like to let him lie there and die, so at long last we made up our minds to see if we could get Aileen over to nurse him for a few weeks.

Well, we scribbled a bit of a letter and sent Warrigal off with it. Wasn’t it dangerous for him? Not a bit of it. He could go anywhere all over the whole country, and no trooper of them all could manage to put the bracelets on him. The way he’d work it would be to leave his horse a good way the other side of George Storefield’s, and to make up as a regular blackfellow. He could do that first-rate, and talk their lingo, too, just like one of themselves. Gin or blackfellow, it was all the same to Warrigal. He could make himself as black as soot, and go barefooted with a blanket or a possum rug round him and beg for siccapence, and nobody’d ever bowl him out. He took us in once at the diggings; Jim chucked him a shilling, and told him to go away and not come bothering near us.

So away Warrigal went, and we knew he’d get through somehow. He was one of those chaps that always does what they’re told, and never comes back and says they can’t do it, or they’ve lost their horse, or can’t find the way, or they’d changed their mind, or something.

No; once he’d started there was no fear of him not scoring somehow or other. Whatever Starlight told him to do, day or night, foul weather or fair, afoot or on horseback, that thing was done if Warrigal was alive to do it.

What we’d written to Aileen was telling her that father was that bad we hardly thought he’d pull through, and that if she wanted to save his life she must come to the Hollow and nurse him.

How to get her over was not the easiest thing in the world, but she could ride away on her old pony without anybody thinking but she was going to fetch up the cows, and then cut straight up the gully to the old yard in the scrub on Nulla Mountain. One of us would meet her there with a fresh horse and bring her safe into the Hollow. If all went well she would be there in the afternoon on a certain day; anyhow we’d be there to meet her, come or no come.

She wouldn’t fail us, we were dead sure. She had suffered a lot by him and us too; but, like most women, the very moment anything happened to any of us, even to dad, everything flew out of her head, except that we were sick or sorry and wanted her help. Help, of course; wasn’t she willing to give that, and her rest and comfort, health, even life itself, to wear herself out, hand and foot, for anyone of her own family?

So poor Aileen made her way up all alone to the old scrub stockyard. Jim and I had ridden up to it pretty early (he wouldn’t stop behind) with a nice, well-bred little horse that had shone a bit at country races for her to ride on. We waited there a goodish while, we lying down and our horses hung up not far off for fear we might be jumped by the police at any time.

At last we sees the old pony’s head coming bobbing along through the scrub along the worn-out cattle track, grown up as it was, and sure enough there was Aileen on him, with her gray riding skirt and an old felt hat on. She’d nothing with her; she was afraid to bring a ha’porth of clothes or anything for fear they should any of ’em tumble that she was going a long way, and, perhaps, follow her up. So she had to hand that over to Warrigal, and trust to him to bring it on some way or other. We saw her before she saw us, and Jim gave a whistle just as he used to do when he was coming home late at night. She knew it at once, and a smile for a minute came over her pale face; such a sad sort of one it was too, as if she was wondering at herself that she could feel that pleased at anything.

Whatever thoughts was in her mind, she roused up the old pony, and came towards us quick as soon as she catches sight of us. In two seconds Jim had lifted her down in his strong arms, and was holding her off the ground and hugging her as if she’d been a child. How the tears ran down her cheeks, though all the time she was kissing him with her arms round his neck; and me too, when I came up, just as if we were boys and girls again.

After a bit she wiped her eyes, and said⁠—

“How’s father?”

“Very bad,” I said; “off his head, and raving. It’ll be a close thing with him. Here’s your horse now, and a good one too. We must let the old pony go; he’ll make home fast enough.”

She patted his neck and we turned him loose. He slewed round and went away steady, picking a bit as he went. He’d be home next day easy enough, and nobody the wiser where he’d been to.

We’d brought a bit to eat and a glass of wine for the girl in case she was faint, but she wouldn’t take anything but a crust of bread and a drink of water. There was a spring that ran all the year round near the cattle-yard; and off went we, old Lieutenant holding up his head and showing himself off. He didn’t get such a rider on his back every day.

“What a dear horse,” she said, as she pulled him together a bit like and settled herself fair and square in the saddle. “Oh, how I could enjoy all this if⁠—if⁠—O my God! shall we ever know a moment’s peace and happiness in this world again? Are we always to be sunk in wretchedness and misery as long as we live?”

We didn’t lose much time after that, you be sure. Up and down, thick and open, rough or smooth, we made the pace good, and Aileen gave us all we knew to keep ahead of her. We had a good light when we got to the drop down into the Hollow. The sun was just setting, and if we’d had time or thought to give to the looks of things, no doubt it was a grand sight.

All the Hollow was lighted up, and looked like a green sea with islands of trees in it. The rock towers on the other side of the range were shining and glittering like as if they were made of crystallised quartz or diamonds⁠—red and white. There was a sort of mist creeping up the valley at the lower end under the mountain that began to soften the fire colours, and mix them up like. Even the mountain, that mostly looked black and dreary, frowning at our ways, was of purple and gold, with pale shadows of green and gray.

Aileen pulled up as we did, and jumped off our horses.

“So this is the Hollow,” she said, half talking to herself, “that I’ve heard and thought so much about. What a lovely, lovely place! Surely it ought to have a different effect on the people that lived there.”

“Better come off, Ailie, and lead your horse down here,” says Jim, “unless you want to ride down, like Starlight did, the first time we saw him.”

“Starlight! is he here?” she said, in a surprised sort of way. “I never thought of that.”

“Of course he is; where else should he be? Why don’t you lead on, Dick?”

“Won’t you get off? It’s not altogether safe,” I said, “though Lieutenant’s all right on his old pins.”

“Safe!” she said, with a bitter sort of laugh. “What does it matter if a Marston girl does break her neck, or her heart either?”

She never said another word, but sat upright with a set face on her, as the old horse picked his way down after ours, and except when he put his foot on a rolling stone, never made a slip or a stumble all the way down, though it was like going down the side of a house.

When we got to the valley we put on a spurt to the cave, and found Warrigal sitting on the log in front of us. He’d got home first, of course, and there was Aileen’s bundle, a biggish one too, alongside of him. We could hear father raving and screaming out inside dreadful. Starlight wasn’t nigh hand anywhere. He had walked off when Warrigal came home, and left him to watch the old man.

“He been like that all the time, Warrigal?”

“No! Captain say big one sleep. Him give him medicine like; then wake up and go on likit that. I believe him bad along a cobra.”

Aileen had jumped off her horse and gone in to the old man the moment we came up and she heard his voice.

All that long night we could hear him talking to himself, groaning, cursing, shouting, arguing. It was wonderful how a man who talked so little as father could have had so many thoughts in his mind. But then they all are boxed up together in every man’s heart. At a time like this they come racing and tumbling out like a flock of sheep out of a yard when the hurdle’s down. What a dashed queer thing human nature is when you come to think of it. That a man should be able to keep his tongue quiet, and shut the door on all the sounds and images and wishes that goes racing about inside of his mind like wild horses in a paddock!

One day he’ll be smiling and sensible, looking so honest all the time. Next day a knock on the head or a little vein goes crack in the brain (as the doctor told me); then the rails are down, and everything comes out with a rush into the light of day⁠—right and wrong, foul and fair, station brands and clearskins, it don’t make no difference.

Father was always one of the closest men that ever lived. He never told us much about his old life at home or after he came out here. Now he was letting drop things here and there that helped us to a few secrets he’d never told to no man. They made poor Aileen a bit more miserable than she’d been before, if that was possible; but it didn’t matter much to us. We were pretty tired ourselves that night, and so we got Aileen all she wanted, and left her alone with him.

While we were away to meet her someone had taken the trouble to put up a bit of a partition, separating that part of the cave from the other; it was built up of stone⁠—there was plenty about⁠—and not so roughly done either. It made Aileen feel a lot more comfortable. Of course there was only one man who could have done it; and that was Starlight.