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Chapter XIII. The Tenderhearted Oysterman Traps His Game.

Before the rising of the sun, Richard Handfield was on his way to inspect the new ground, of which he had spoken to his mate on the previous night. When he rose, he did not strike a light, and he trod softly out of the tent, so as not to wake the Welshman. A tender feeling of regard for his mate had sprung up within him; and as he hastened along, with pick and shovel slung over his shoulder, a new happiness took possession of his heart. The reward of right-doing is very sweet, and Richard was tasting this in anticipation, for the first time in his life. To-morrow, he would start for Melbourne to join his wife. He knew that no persuasion would be required to induce her to live with him on the diggings. He felt very remorseful at his neglect of her: never, since he had known her, had he so truly appreciated her goodness. He thought of her patience, of her sufferings; and the memory of her sad, sweet face came upon him as he walked along. “She's a dear, good girl,” he said to himself. “The Welshman is very right; I don't deserve her. Never mind, I'll make it up to her, now; she shall not suffer for me any more.” And so, with heart and step rivalling each other in lightness, he wended his way to the new ground.

The sun was up when he retraced his steps. He had marked off a claim, and intended returning to it with his mate, after the gold had been divided, and they had broken page 177 with Honest Steve. When within a quarter of a mile of his tent, just as he was revolving in his mind what could have been Honest Steve's intention in setting him and the Welshman against each other, he heard the word “Murder,” spoken by one of two diggers who were coming out of a tent, a few yards before him. At the rear of the tent, there was a little straggling bush, through which Richard was walking 'when he heard the word. It arrested him for a moment or two. “Murdered in his bed,” the man said; “the knife sticking in him, too. Let's run and see.” And they ran off at full speed, in the direction of the Welshman's tent. A feeling, more of curiosity than dread, came upon Richard, and he was preparing to hasten after the two diggers, when a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a warning voice cried, “Hist!” in his ear. Turning, he saw the face of Honest Steve.

“Hist!” said Steve. “Turn back: all's discovered!”

“What's discovered?” asked Richard, looking round, bewildered.

“If they catch you,” continued Steve, not heeding the question, “they'll lynch you; I heard them swear they'd do it, and I came away, fearful they might set on to me.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Richard, a vague terror stealing over him.

“You see,” pursued Honest Steve, “it was the knife that settled it. It wouldn't have looked so bad, if the knife hadn't been found sticking in him. What made you leave that behind you?”

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Instinctively, Richard felt in his pockets: his knife was gone!

“Then they know you've been quarreling together”——

“Good God!” cried Richard, the full horror of his situation breaking upon him. “The Welshman”——

“It was an infernally cowardly thing for you to do,” said Honest Steve, with simulated indignation.

“Do you believe”——Richard gasped out.

“Look here!” said Honest Steve. “What's the use of asking me if I believe? Who wouldn't believe, I should like to know? Here he is, found murdered in the tent this morning, your knife sticking in him, the gold gone, and you cut away”——

“But I'm going back,” said Richard, in despair.

“Say your prayers first, then,” said Honest Steve. “They'll hang you on the nearest tree—they've got the rope already slung. I heard one of them say that he told you last night you was afraid to go home, and that you started off in a rage directly afterwards. When you quarreled with him yesterday afternoon, you know, you said you'd be even with him.”

“But we made friends last night?”

“Who knows it?”

Richard staggered, and almost fell. The question struck him like a blow. Who knew it? No one. None but the Welshman and himself knew of the reconciliation that had taken place between them. In the eyes of the world, they were still enemies. Of what use would be his simple word? He felt that the chain of evidence was too strong for him to attempt to struggle against. What page 179 a change had come over his prospects within the last hour! The new life of happiness that had dawned upon him had faded away, and now his future was full of horror. “Fate is against me,” he groaned; “what is the use of my struggling?” But in the midst of his great peril came the thought of the disgrace that would attach to his name. Alice, too; it would be her death. “I must save her from this misery,” he thought; “I must save myself from this shame, if only for her sake. This is some foul plot against me. I may unravel it, if I have time. Where can I hide?” And then, with that marvellous rapidity of thought which conquers time, he reviewed, in a few brief moments, the whole of the circumstances. He felt that there was no chance of escape if he gave himself up—the net of circumstantial suspicion was too strong for him, unaided, to break through. In this most dread extremity, strong points in his character came out. His weakness and vacillation were gone, and he determined, if possible, to clear himself from the imputation of this infamous crime. But to accomplish that, he must be free. Where could he hide, for a time? As if in answer to his thought, Honest Steve said—

“See here, Dick. We're mates together, and I ain't going to desert you. You may have killed the Welshman, or you may not, I'm not going to be squeamish about that. One thing's certain—it couldn't, look blacker against you. But then it looks a little black against me, too; because you know I'm not a prime favorite. If you like to come with me, I'll show you where you can hide away for a time.”

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“If you believe I did this deed, why do you wish to save me?” asked Richard.

“I'm coming to that. I don't do it out of love for you, don't you deceive yourself. I've got a purpose to serve. I fell in with some old mates yesterday, and I'm going to join 'em again. You can make one, if you like.

“Explain yourself.”

“Let's get away from here, first. The diggers'll be about directly.”

They walked for nearly an hour, Honest Steve leading the way. So well did he know the locality, that they did not encounter a single person. When they came to Breakneck Gully, and were within sight of Jim Pizey's tent——

“Do you know whose tent that is?” he asked.

“No.”

“That's Jim Pizey's tent.”

A light broke upon Richard, but he checked the expression of the thoughts which rushed upon his mind.

“Is Jim Pizey there?” he asked, almost calmly.

“Yes, he's there, waiting for us.”

“Waiting for us!”

“Yes. That's lucky, isn't it?”

“Your voice suddenly sounds familiar to me,” said Richard, turning his eyes upon Steve's face. “Who are you? Great heavens!” he exclaimed. “You are the Tenderhearted Oysterman!”

The Oysterman nodded and smiled.

“We are going to stick up Old Nuttall's station. You know the lay of the house, and we want you page 181 to join us. You must join us. You are the only man outside our party who would be able to peach upon us. That's speaking pretty plain, isn't it?”

“Yes. Give me two minutes to reflect. Nay; you can put up your pistol. I shall not run away, with that charge of murder hanging over my head.”

He turned his back to the Oysterman, and thought. He saw it all, now; the whole plot was bare before him. He remembered the anxiety of Jim Pizey, when they were in Melbourne, that he should join the gang, for the purpose of sticking up Highlay Station; he remembered the threats they used in their attempt to coerce him. The part of “Honest Steve” had been played to trap him. The Oysterman had committed the murder, and had stolen his knife for the purpose of implicating him. If he made his escape now from the gang, and was taken, he could not establish his innocence: the chain of evidence against him was complete. But if he consented to join the gang, he might gain information which would clear him from the charge. He would blind them; he would go with them to his father-in-law's station; in the next few days he would be able to get evidence of the Oysterman's guilt, and then——But he could not think out the rest. Chance might aid him. He was glad that he had not told the Oysterman that the poor Welshman and himself had discovered his treachery and lies, as “Honest Steve.” If the worst befel, when they got to the station, and he had no means of establishing his innocence, he would save Alice's father; that would be one good thing done. He knew the desperate character of the men he page 182 had to deal with, and that it behoved him to be wary. All this was thought out in less than the two minutes he had asked for.

“I will join you,” he said to the Oysterman; “not because it is my inclination to do so, but because I must, as you say. It is better than being strung up by the diggers; I'll keep my life as long as I can.”

“That's well said,” returned the Oysterman; “but look here, mate. You go in heart and soul with us. No treachery, mind. You'll be looked after, I can tell you.”

“I suppose I shall,” said Richard; “but I must, take my chance. It's bad enough being compelled to turn thief and bushranger, but it would be worse if I was caught. I speak as plainly as you, don't I?”

“Bravo, Dick,” said the Tenderhearted Oysterman, clapping him on the shoulder; “you're more sensible than I took you for. We shall make a good haul with this job, and when it's done you can get off to America, and turn honest again, if you like. There's Jim Pizey at the door. Let's join him. We'll start, directly.”