The Sweep Winner

Bill questioned him for some time, and discovered that he might smoke opium there if he wished; also that he might gamble for a considerable sum if he so desired.

He left the shop, wondering what had induced him to waste his time there.

Lin Soo watched him go up the street, scowled after him, called him bad names and cursed him in some horrible guttural way.

"You sneaking round me," he said. "Better take care. Lin Soo stand no fool play. Me stare at white woman! Why not? Me had dealings with many white women. Business in Bourke with what you call squatter and white woman. Tell him? Not muchy!"

Bill walked into Pitt Street. When he came to the corner of Market Street he stopped and stared.

That looks uncommonly like Craig Bellshaw, he thought.

The man he had seen turned round and came towards him. It was Bellshaw. He saw Bill Bigs and recognised him.

"You here, Bigs? What brings you to Sydney?"

"I've sold out."

"Have you? Tired of Boonara, eh?"

"It's hardly a paradise as you know, and I got a good price for the place, so I thought I'd quit."

"I expect you've knocked up a nice little pile out of the natives, the fencers, and my men, shearers, and so on. I had a nip or two at your shanty. I can taste it yet. What horrible stuff you sold," said Craig.

"No worse than others sell. No worse than the man who bought me out will sell."

"Who bought you out?"

"Don't you know?"

"How should I?"

"Garry Backham. He paid cash down, too. I wonder where he came by it? I don't suppose you've been over liberal with him," said Bill. He watched Bellshaw as he spoke, and the squatter returned his glance without a flicker.

"Garry's bought you out? I wondered why he wanted to leave me," replied Bellshaw.

He's lying, thought Bill, and wondered why.

"He'll not find it all profit," said Bill.

Bellshaw laughed.

"I don't expect he will," he agreed. "Who's there now looking after the place?"

"He is."

"You mean he's left Mintaro and gone to Boonara?"

"That's about it. He was in the house when I came away."

"The scoundrel. He's neglected my interests. He shall pay for it. He'd no business to leave Mintaro until I returned."

"I expect Mintaro will be all right. You've plenty of hands there."

Bellshaw laughed again.

"I daresay they'll pull through somehow," he said.

When Craig Bellshaw left him Bill went back to the coffee house, and told them he had seen him.

"Did he say when he was returning?" asked Glen. "I don't want to meet him. He's not my kind. Besides he might try and make it nasty over leaving the fence. He's one of that sort."

"He's sure to be going back soon. He's been here some time I fancy. I wonder why he tried to make me believe he knew nothing about Garry Backham taking my place? It's all bunkum. He knew right enough, but he must have some reason for trying to hide it," said Bill.

"If all I've heard about Mintaro is correct there are some queer goings on at times. I've never been there, but one of the fellows on the fence, Abe Carew, was employed by him for a long time. He offended Bellshaw, who kicked him out, and he was very sore about it. He gave him a nice character. I didn't believe it all, of course, but no doubt a lot of it's true," Glen remarked.

"Bellshaw's one of those queer sorts, you never know what they are up to, never know when you've got 'em. He's been in my place and said things I knew were lies, and he seemed to have no reason for it, but he must have had," said Bill.

"Some fellows lie for the sake of lying," Glen answered.

The woman slept all night until late next morning. When she came into the large room Glen was the only one in it. She went straight up to him, holding out both hands. When he took them she kissed him. The hot blood surged in his veins. Was she always going to do this? He was glad no one saw it.

"You feel much better?" he asked when he had recovered his equanimity.

"Almost well. Sleep is wonderful. Are we going to live here?" she returned.

"No. This is a sort of hotel. We are staying here until we find a home."

"Why did we leave home?" she asked.

"It was impossible to stay there; there was only one room in the hut."

"Wasn't it always like that?" she asked as though trying to recall something.

"No, not always. Can't you remember?"

"Remember – what?"

"Where you came from when you came to the hut."

She laughed.

"How funny you are. You know I always lived there."

"With me, and Jim, and Bill?" he asked.

She seemed puzzled.

"It must have been so, and yet – " she put her hand to her head.

He watched her. Would she remember, or would he have to wait? That it would all come back to her some day he was certain, and then —

She was at the window, looking into the street. Lin Soo's shop was nearly opposite, but he was not visible.

A dark man walked rapidly along, and was about to enter Lin Soo's when a cab horse slipped and fell. This attracted his attention. He turned round with the intention of going to assist the driver, but the horse struggled to his feet unaided.

As the man looked across the road the woman at the window gave a faint cry. Glen was at her side in a moment.

"What is it?" he asked.

"That man, the dark man, looking this way. I've seen him before. Who is he? Do you know?" she said in an agitated voice.

It was Craig Bellshaw.

CHAPTER X

THE ACCUSATION

"Have you seen him before? Do you know him? His name is Craig Bellshaw. He lives at Mintaro, a big homestead, some miles from the hut, the home we left," said Glen.

The fear, or whatever it was, passed. She smiled. No, she did not know him, nor had she heard the name.

"Perhaps you knew someone like him?" Glen suggested.

She shook her head. She did not remember.

Much to Glen's surprise he saw Bellshaw go into Lin Soo's shop. He came out again in about a quarter of an hour, hailed a passing hansom, and drove away.

Why had he gone into the Chinaman's? It was about the last place Glen would have expected to see him in. He told Bill what had happened. They could make nothing of it, but it made a deep impression on them.

Craig Bellshaw was uneasy. The face on the water troubled him; it haunted him as he walked about. He left Sydney suddenly and returned to Mintaro, where he arrived unexpectedly. He found everything going on as usual. Garry Backham had put a man in charge of the shanty at Boonara, and returned to his duties until such time as Bellshaw came back.

"I met Bigs in Sydney," said Bellshaw. "He told me you went into his place the day he left, and handed it over to you. I suppose you came back when he had gone?"

"Yes. I thought it best to make sure of the place. Bigs is a shifty customer. If I'd left him in charge he might have done me out of no end of things," returned Garry.

"Probably he would. He seemed surprised when I told him I didn't know you had bought him out."

Garry grinned.

"Of course you didn't know. How should you?"

The two men looked hard at each other.

"Joe Calder's dead," said Garry.

Bellshaw started.

"Dead," he exclaimed.

"Murdered. Shot through the heart."

"Who did it?"

"Nobody knows, but I have a suspicion," Garry answered. "He's buried, and so far as that goes it's done with, but he was a friend of mine, and yours, and we ought to do something."

"I shan't. Let it be, man. What's the good of kicking up a fuss?" argued Bellshaw.

"Two men have cleared out from the fence."

"Who are they?"

"Glen Leigh and Jim Benny."

"Good riddance to them. They were rotters – no good to me."

"You don't like Leigh. He's been one too many for you once or twice."

"I hate him. It was Leigh who kicked up a fuss about that mob of cattle that broke the fencing down. He complained that I ought to have them driven off, and said it was not the duty of the keepers of the fence."

"It's part of their duty. They are a lazy lot of beggars," replied Garry. "I fancy Glen Leigh and Jim Benny know a good deal about Joe Calder's death."

"Do you think that's why they have cleared out?"

"Yes. Don't you?"

"It may have something to do with it; I wish I could find out."

"You said a minute or two back it was best left alone," said Garry.

"But this is different. I'd like to put a halter round Leigh's neck."

"Why? Have you any strong reason?"

"I'm told Abe Carew and he were pals, and that Abe told him a good many things about Mintaro. Calder gave me the information," Bellshaw answered.

"Did he now, and Abe wouldn't spare you, would he?"

"Spare me? What do you mean? He'd tell a lot of infernal lies about me, the scoundrel."

"You should be more careful how you send men away. You were not over polite to him," said Garry.

"He didn't deserve it. He robbed me right and left."

"I don't think he did. I told you so at the time."

Bellshaw made an impatient gesture.

"You know nothing about it; I shan't be sorry when you're gone, Garry. You've been getting above yourself for some time."

"You think so, do you? I shan't be sorry to get away from Mintaro. There's some things a fellow can't stand."

Bellshaw laughed harshly.

"I didn't think you were soft, or chicken-hearted," he said.

"I'm not, but I'd like to know what became of the woman," retorted Garry.

"I told you I took her away with me because I was tired of her, and that she was going back to Sydney with me," said Bellshaw.

"Did she go to Sydney with you?"

"Yes."

"And she's there now?"

"Yes."

"With her mother, I suppose," sneered Garry.

"Never mind who she's with. She's all right."

"I don't believe you took her to Sydney," said Garry.

Bellshaw glared at him.

"Where else could I take her?" he asked fiercely.

"Nowhere."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's pretty lonely about here. One woman would not be missed."

Bellshaw caught him by the arm in a fierce grip and raised his fist.

"Be careful, or I'll make it hot for you," he snarled.

Garry wrenched himself free.

"Let me alone. I guess I'm a match for you, and I'm not afraid of you, if other people are," he cried. "You lent me the money to buy Bill Bigs out. Well, it will be better for you to make me a present of it."

Craig Bellshaw started back.

"Look," he said, "see that?" and he pointed to the wide verandah, built round the house.

"There's nothing there," answered Garry, thinking he must have been doing it heavy in Sydney and that the effects had not died out.

"No, of course not," said Bellshaw, trying to laugh it off. "So you say I had better make you a present of it. Why?"

"Because I know you did not take her to Sydney," said Garry slowly.

"It's a lie," roared Bellshaw.

"No it isn't, and you know it. Where is she now?"

"That's my affair."

"You can't tell me. I'm worth a few hundreds. I'll bet them you can't tell me," Garry persisted.

"This is foolishness. What the deuce have you got into your head?"

"More than you think. I know you travelled to Sydney alone," replied Garry.

"And supposing I did, you fool, do you expect I'd travel in the same carriage with her?"

"Maybe not, but you'd have been only too glad to have gone anywhere with her a couple of years back," Garry retorted.

"It was her own fault. She was tired of my company. She behaved badly. I treated her well," said Bellshaw.

"When you first brought her from Bourke you did, but I don't think she ever forgave, or forgot, how she came here. It was a blackguardly trick to play her."

"What trick?"

"Oh, stow that. Do you mean to say you think I don't know? I'm no fool. She was dazed, drugged, or something, when she came. Why it was more than a week before she found out where she was, and she had to stay because she couldn't get away. There was nowhere to go."

"We'll drop all that. She's safe enough now. Don't bother your head about her."

"But that's just what I do. I might have saved her. I could have done so if I'd had the pluck, but you bought me off, and I hate myself for it. Do you know what I think?"

"No."

"You can have it whether you like it or not – I think you've done away with her."

Bellshaw stepped up to him in a threatening attitude.

"Stand back," said Garry, pulling out his revolver. "I found this near the big water hole when I was having a ride round."

He pulled a handkerchief and a piece of ribbon out of his pocket.

"Well?" Bellshaw asked.

"There'd been a struggle near the water hole, but she wasn't in there. I made sure of that, but you left her there, and she's as dead as if you'd shoved her in. She'd starve, die of thirst, go mad wandering about. It would have been more merciful to strangle her. I saw her tracks for some distance, but I couldn't follow them far; the ground soon dries up. She's no more in Sydney than I am, and you've done a brutal, cowardly act, Craig Bellshaw!"

Bellshaw made no answer, and Garry went on, "It'll come home to you some day, mark my words if it doesn't. If I thought she was alive I'd be mighty glad, for I feel as though I had a hand in it. When I saw her drive away with you something told me you meant mischief, but I never thought you'd kill her by inches. Hadn't she suffered enough at your hands that you must let her die such a terrible death?"

"Have you done?" asked Bellshaw quietly. His tone surprised Garry.

"Yes, I've said enough, and you know the bulk of it's true."

"You may think it is, although it's a poor recompense for all I have done for you. However, I bear you no malice. I have only one request to make."

"What is it?" asked Garry.

"Keep your thoughts to yourself. The law is powerful. There's more than that – in this part of the country I am the law, and I can take it into my own hands without fear of being called to account. You've seen me do it; you know I'm not a man to be cowed, that I do not fear you, or any other man, nor what you say, or do. Listen to me, Garry Backham. There are men round Mintaro who will do my bidding for money, no matter what it is I ask. You know the sort of men, desperate, some of them, the worst of criminals. If I hear any of the lies you have said repeated I will burn your place to the ground, and you with it. You had best keep a still tongue."

Garry knew he was capable of carrying out his threats, and that he had the men to do what he willed. He believed the accusation he had brought, but he had no wish to run into grave danger.

"You'll think about that money, Mr. Bellshaw," he said.

"You mean giving it you, not lending it?"

"Yes."

"It depends upon yourself," was the reply.

CHAPTER XI

JERRY, JOURNALIST

In a small house, in a side street, on Moore Park, the woman who came to Sydney with Glen Leigh, and the other two, had rooms. It had been decided to call her Clara Benny, as it was necessary she should have a name, and to install her here. Mrs. Dell, who kept the house, was a widow, a respectable woman in reduced circumstances, and she had promised to do what she could for her lodger. Clara could not understand it. She wanted the three to be with her. They had always been together. Why should they leave her alone? It was useless to try and explain, and no attempt was made. Glen said it was necessary because they had to work, and it would be better for her to have a kind motherly woman to look after her; this made her more contented, and one of them called to see her every day. Mrs. Dell was puzzled over her lodger; she fancied she suffered from some brain trouble, but she liked her from the first, and quickly came to love her; she looked upon her as a substitute for her own girl, who had died of consumption at about the same age. Clara repaid this affection, and in a very short time they became inseparable. The money she received for her board and lodging was a great help to Mrs. Dell, and Glen Leigh was always supplying some delicacy for the table.

Bill Bigs succeeded in finding a small hotel to his liking in Castlereagh Street. The seller came into some money, and sailing for England, was glad to find a buyer at a reasonable price. The house was in bad condition, but Bill, with his usual energy, quickly set to work, and in a few weeks it was spick and span, clean and inviting. There was a steady trade, and a fair number of customers frequented the place – many theatrical, sporting and pressmen, with whom he became popular.

Jerry Makeshift, of "The Sketch," found good copy in Bill. Jerry was one of the most popular men in Sydney, a wonderfully clever black and white artist, a born joker, and an excellent writer of highly sensational news, in paragraphs, or columns, as required. He had one failing, not an unusual one in these days. He was fond of his glass and hilarious company, and as he always had a lot of admirers following in his wake he soon brought genial customers to "The Kangaroo," as Bill curiously named the place. Jerry Makeshift extracted from Bill much interesting press matter about Boonara, and the district surrounding it; also about the keepers of the fence.

The clever journalist was astounded at what he heard, especially about the men on the rabbit-proof fence. In a hazy sort of way he had heard of them before, but when Bill began to talk about them, with intimate knowledge, Jerry opened his eyes.

"I'll introduce you to two of 'em," said Bill. "They are staying with me. In fact they came to Sydney with me from the forsaken place. They found the life too much for 'em, and you bet it must be awful when such men as they throw it up."

"I'd like to meet them," replied Jerry. "How is it I have not done so before?"

"Well, it's this way. They're busy. They've got a scheme in hand that I suggested, and I think it's just the thing for 'em and will pay well," and he explained about the buckjumping exhibition.

"By Jove, that's a capital idea," said Jerry, who saw the possibilities at once.

"You might be able to give it a lift," suggested Bill cautiously.

"Probably. I will if I can, but I must hear more about it," Jerry answered.

"Come in to-night, and I'll introduce you to Glen Leigh. He's the chap, a wonderful man, as straight as a die, big, strong, a rough customer, but with the heart of a child when anything appeals to his better nature. Why he went on the fence the Lord only knows. I remember him arriving in Boonara. It caused quite a sensation. No one could make him out then, and no one made him out before he left. A mystery man, that's what he is. Don't forget to-night. I'll have a decent dinner for you, and a bottle of the right stuff, and you can talk in my room to your heart's content."

"That will suit me," said Jerry as he went out.

"He's a good sort," thought Bill. "He ought to be able to boom the show when it starts."

Glen Leigh was averse to talking with strangers, but Bill persuaded him to meet Jerry Makeshift.

"It's the fellow who draws those funny things that catch the eye on the front page of 'The Sketch.' They're the cleverest things out, and 'The Sketch' is the best paper of its kind in Australia. It goes all over the place. It even got as far as Boonara," said Bill.

"And I've had many a copy in my hut," answered Glen. "I don't mind meeting a man like that. He's out of the common. He can teach you something."

"That's settled," said Bill. "He'll be here at seven, and mind you pitch it him strong about the show. He'll ask you about work on the fence. Tell him what it's like; he'll appreciate it."

Jerry Makeshift was punctual. He loved a good dinner and he sniffed appreciatively as he came into the house. Jim Benny was away, so Glen went upstairs with his companion, and they did full justice to Bill's good things, which he laid himself out to supply.

Jerry at once saw that Glen Leigh was no ordinary man, and that he would have to be handled in anything but an orthodox fashion. With his usual skill in such matters he set to work to propitiate him, and succeeded so well that at the end of the dinner Glen was talking freely to him. He told him all about the glittering wire, of the awful loneliness of the life, the terrible droughts, the millions of rabbits, how they died in hundreds of thousands from lack of food, and their bones were piled up in great heaps. He told of the losses of sheep and cattle, how squatters were almost ruined, and had to borrow money to go on with. He pictured the thousands of square miles of desolate land without a blade of grass; then suddenly the rain fell in torrents and in twenty-four hours came the glorious change from baked brown to verdant glistening green which covered the earth like a brilliant carpet, dazzling the eyes, that had been accustomed to dead colours for months at a stretch.

Then he went on to describe the life on the fence, the men, their varied characters; some strange stories he told of crime and criminals that he heard when he was one of the keepers. His language was plain and simple so that every word hit home.

Jerry Makeshift listened with his eyes fixed intently on Glen Leigh's face. As he talked he seemed to forget where he was; he was back again in his old surroundings, in the hut, in Bill's shanty at Boonara. He stopped suddenly. There must be no mention of Clara Benny, the woman in the hut, or how they came to Sydney.

"I never heard such a thrilling, interesting, story before," said Jerry, who knew he had discovered a storehouse of fresh copy in Glen Leigh. Apart from this Leigh had won his wayward, roving nature completely. Here was a man after his own heart, a man who had seen much and done more, a worker at the hardest kind of work, who went grinding on in solitude with no word of encouragement from a living soul.

Glen Leigh had made a staunch friend. He did not think he had done anything, or said anything, out of the common. That was where he proved so attractive to Jerry. The practised journalist knew every word he heard was true, that no exaggeration was here. On the contrary the reality must have been ten times worse than it was described.

"Tell me about this buckjumping show Bigs mentioned," said Jerry.

Glen smiled.

"Bill's sanguine, too sanguine, about that."

"I don't think he is. There are great possibilities in it," Jerry answered.

"Maybe so, but it'll take a lot of working up."

"I'll do what I can for you," promised Jerry.

"You will! That's good of you. I reckon a few words from you, or a sketch from your pen, goes a long way with the public," replied Glen.

Jerry laughed. There was not an atom of conceit about him.

"I do my best to amuse the public. I fancy I manage it all right somehow, but heaven knows where the talent I possess comes from, for I never had much education. I'm what they call self-taught."

"Then you were a better teacher than hundreds of men who profess to know a heap of things," declared Glen.

"Perhaps so. A battle with the world when you're young is a good education in itself," replied Jerry.

Glen told him how "The Sketch," and Jerry's drawings, were to be found even on the fence and in Boonara.

"I've spent hours over 'em," he said. "The man who can make a keeper of the fence laugh deserves a big pension for life."

Jerry pulled "The Sketch" out of his pocket.

"That's the latest. Just off the press. I'll leave it you."

A paper fell on the floor. Jerry picked it up.

"Have you seen this?" he asked.

"What is it?"

"Tattersalls' Hundred Thousand Pound Sweep on the Melbourne Cup. You ought to try your luck in it," said Jerry.

CHAPTER XII

IN SEARCH OF HORSES

"I think I'll risk a pound," said Glen laughing.

"A hundred thousand pound sweep is not bad, and the winner takes about a fourth of it," Jerry answered.

"Twenty-five thousand. That would do me all right. No occasion for more work. I'd buy a nice little property and be comfortable for the remainder of my life," said Glen.

They parted in a very cordial manner. It was not often Glen let himself go like this, but he liked Jerry, and when he was fond of a man he was not slow to show it.

Glen went West next day and forgot all about the ticket, but there was plenty of time as the sweep did not close for several weeks.

He went on a purchasing expedition, to buy horses for the show, while Bill Bigs and Jim Benny were preparing the way in Sydney for an opening in the exhibition building, which had already been secured. Jim had no desire to go into the Boonara district again after what had happened. There was no telling what rumours might be about. As a matter of fact Garry Backham was sorry he had thrown out a hint to Craig Bellshaw. He might be inclined to follow it up.