LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

find the place deserted. He had expected a welcome—had been thinking, perhaps, of the glad faces that would greet him as he approached the fire. But the fire was black, the embers were cold. He looked and saw that there was no light in the gold mine.

      A dreadful presentiment grew upon him. A glance for the saddles, and another across the valley, and he knew that the horses were gone. Following the strange action of the dogs, he strode towards the cave, and there, at the entrance, read the terrible story.

      The sight struck this strange convict like a physical blow. His limbs failed him, and his body sank till he knelt on the sand at the mouth of the mine. He felt no wrath, but only crushing self-accusation.

      "God forgive me!" was the intense cry of heart and brain: "God forgive me for this crime!"

      The consequence of his fatal selfishness crushed him; and the outstretched arms of the old chief, whose unconsciousness—for he was not dead—was fearfully like death, seemed to call down curses on the destroyer of his people.

      The years of his life went miserably down before Moondyne till he grovelled in the desolation of his dismal abasement. A ban had followed him, and blighted all he had touched.

      Years were pressed into minutes as he crouched beside the maimed bodies of his friends. The living man lay as motionless as the dead. The strong mind brought up the whole scene for judgment. His inward eye saw the fleeing murderer; but he felt more of pity for the wretch than of vengeance. The entire sensibility of Moondyne was concentrated in the line of his own conscience. Himself accused himself—and should the criminal condemn another?

      When at last he raised his face, with a new thought of duty, the trace of the unutterable hour was graven upon him in deep lines.

      Where were the sisters? Had they been sacrificed too? By the moonlight he searched the valley; he entered the cave, and called through all its passages. It was past midnight when he gave up the search and stood alone in the desolate place. In the loose sand of the valley he scooped a grave, to which he carried the body of the young bushman, and buried it. When this was done he proceeded to perform a like office for Te-mana-roa, but looking toward the cave he was startled at the sight of the sisters, one of whom, Koro, stood as if watching him, while the other, aided by an extremely old woman, was tending on the almost dying chief, whose consciousness was slowly returning.

      Benumbed and silent, Moondyne approached the cave. The girl who had watched him shrank back to the others. Tapairu, the younger sister, rose and faced the white man with a threatening aspect. She pointed her finger towards the pass.

      "Go!" she said, sternly, in her own tongue.

      Moondyne paused and looked at her.

      "Begone!" she cried, still pointing; and once again came the words, "begone, accursed!"

      Remorse had strangled grief in Moondyne's breast, or the agony of the girl, uttered in this terrible reproach, would have almost killed him. Accursed she said, and he knew that the word was true.

      He turned from the place, not towards the pass, but towards the mountains, and walked from the valley with an aimless purpose, and a heart filled with ashes.

      For hours he held steadily on, heedless of direction. He marked no places—had no thoughts—only the one gnawing and consuming presence of the ruin he had wrought.

      The dogs followed him, tired and spiritless. The moon sank, and the sun rose, and still the lonely man held his straight and aimless road—across mountains and through ravines, until at last his consciousness was recalled as he recognized the valley in which he stood as one he had travelled two days before, on the way to the gold mine.

      Stretching his exhausted body on a sheltered bank beside stream, he fell into a deep sleep that lasted many hours.

      He awoke with a start, as if a voice had called him. In an instant his brow was set and his mind determined. He glanced at the sun to settle his direction, and then walked slowly across the valley, intently observing the ground. Before he'd had taken a hundred paces he stopped suddenly, turned at right angles down the valley, and strode on with a purpose, that though rapidly, almost instantaneously formed, had evidently taken full possession of his will.

      Sometimes persons of keen sensibility lie down to sleep with a trouble on the mind, and an unsettled purpose, and wake in the night to find the brain clear and the problem solved. From this process of unconscious cerebration Moondyne awoke with a complete and settled resolution.

      There could be no doubt of the determination in his mind. He had struck the trail of the murderer.

      There was no more indirection or hesitation in his manner. He settled down to the pursuit with a grim and terrible earnestness. His purpose was clear before him—to stop the devil he had let loose—to prevent the escape of the assassin—to save the people who had trusted and saved him.

      He would not turn from this intent though the track led him to the prison gate of Fremantle; and even there, in the face of the guards, he would slay the wretch before he had betrayed the secret. Death is on the trail of every man; but we have grown used to him, and heed him not. Crime and Sin are following us—will surely find us out, and some day will open the cowl and show us the death's-head. But more terrible than these Fates, because more physically real, is the knowledge, ever present, that a relentless human enemy is on our track.

      Through the silent passes of the hills, his heart a storm of fears and hopes, the sergeant fled toward security. Every mile added to the light ahead. He rode wildly and without rest—rode all day and into the night, and would still have hurried on, but the horses failed and must have rest.

      He fed and watered them, watching with feverish eyes the renewal of their strength; and as he watched them eat, the wretched man fell into a sleep, from which he started in terror, fearful that the pursuer was upon him.

      Through the day and night, depending on his great strength, Moondyne followed. While the fugitive rested, he strode on; and he knew by instinct and observation that he was gaining in the race.

      Every hour the tracks were fresher. On the morning of the second day, he had found the sand still moist where the horses had drank from a stream. On the evening of that day he passed the burning embers of a fire. The murderer was gaining confidence, and taking longer rest.

      The third day came with a revelation to Moondyne. The sergeant had lost the way—had turned from the valley that led towards the settlement, and had sealed his doom by choosing one that reached towards the immeasurable deserts of the interior.

      The pursuer was not stayed by the discovery. To the prison or the wilderness, should the track lead, he would follow.

      At first the new direction was pleasant. Dim woods on either side of a stream, the banks fringed with verdure and pranked with bright flowers. But like the pleasant ways of life, the tempting valley led to the desolate plains; before night had closed, pursuer and pursued were far from the hills and streams, in the midst of a treeless sea of sand.

      Nothing but fear of death could drive the sergeant forward. He was bushman enough to know the danger of being lost on the plains. But he dare not return to meet him whom he knew wag hunting him down.

      There was but one chance before him, and this was to tire out the pursuer—if, as his heart suggested, there was only one in pursuit—to lead him farther and farther into the desert, till he fell on the barren track and died.

      It was sore travelling for horse and man under the blazing sun, with no food or water save what he pressed from the pith of the palms, and even these were growing scarce. The only life on the plains was the hard and dusty scrub. Every hour brought a more hopeless and grislier desolation.

      How was it with Moondyne? The strong will still upheld him. He knew he had gained till they took to the plains; but he also knew that here the mounted man had the advantage. Every day the track was less distinct, and he suffered more and more from thirst. The palms he passed had been opened by the sergeant; and he had to leave the trail to find one untouched. The sun flamed in the bare sky, and the sand was so hot that the air hung above it in a tremulous haze. In the woods the dogs had

Скачать книгу