The House Of Cain Read online

  “A dog! Only a dog?”

  “M’yes. But a kind of dog that would make four fair-sized cattle dogs. Were you asleep?”

  “Certainly not, Monty,” came the indignant response. The blind man, sitting up again and swinging his legs out through the rent mosquito net, sat on the edge of the stretcher and related his ordeal.

  “A bit rotten, old son,” Monty replied sympathetically. “We’ll read his tracks in the morning. From what you say, he must have slithered down yonder sand-hill, when the falling sand would make a noise like escaping steam. What you took for falling fig leaves was the sound of his paws when he walked about over the sandy ground. No doubt he first paid you a visit and then made a tour of inspection. What awoke me I don’t know, but it was to see what I thought was a man crouched by your bed, a much bigger man than you, or I would never have fired. This looks like a wolf-hound, like one of those Russian wolf-hounds our O.C. bought in Egypt from a Greek.”

  “They’re not man-eaters, Monty. Perhaps this one was quite friendly and only wanted me to make a fuss of him.”

  “Well, his luck was dead out, no matter what his intentions were,” the giant remarked with that steely tone in his voice which made it on occasions very grim. “Little wuppy-wups should be kept on a chain at night time. I wonder now if Herr Anchor owns or owned him. Perhaps he’ll be rather annoyed. Let’s hope so. Now–– what in hell!”

  Out of the darkness, from some point along the flat, came a long hallo. The camel-bells clanged and jangled, betokening that the beasts on the sand-ridge had jumped simultaneously to their feet. Again came the shout. Monty, cupping his hands, replied. The voice adjured him to keep his crimson rifle pointed downward, since the owner of the voice wished to visit the camp.

  “Perhaps it’s Senyor Anchor himself,” chortled Monty. “I’ll put some wood on the fire to make a cheerful blaze. I do hope he’s in an argumentative mood.”

  A couple of armfuls of tinder-dry wood, set alight by the heap of hot ashes, routed the shadows cast by the lamp; but extinguishing the lamp, Monty stepped unhurriedly into the shadow cast by Martin’s torn mosquito net, offering thereby no target for a possible enemy.

  “Pull up, you crimson bitch!” they heard the voice command, followed instantly by a camel’s complaining grunts at being forced to kneel. Half a minute later a man stepped into the circle of light.

  With a swift appraising glance Monty took stock of the visitor. He was of medium height, big-boned but lean. He wore elastic-sided riding boots, high-heeled and spurred, white moleskin trousers, a black cotton shirt, and a felt hat with a brim of at least six inches. Strapped to his thigh was a revolver lying in its leathern pouch. In age Monty decided he was not yet twenty, in spite of his sun-darkened complexion. And it was a face which Monty did not like, for in it was the cunning look of the rat and the relentless ferocity of the tiger-snake.

  “Who the devil are you shooting at?” demanded this strange being, planting himself in the middle of the temporary camp and gazing boldly about him. When Monty stepped into the light he held his Savage against his hip, with the barrel pointing directly between. the night rider’s eyes.

  “Good evening!” he greeting lightly.

  “Evening be damned! It’s getting near morning. Can’t you point that blasted rifle away from me optics? What are you shootin’ at?”

  The small coal-black eyes, set very close together beneath overhanging eyebrows of yellow, looked impudently into the cold blue eyes of the giant for an instant, wavered, gained strength, and finally turned away.

  “You will oblige me by not moving an eyelash,” the big man said silkily. When he approached the other, much like a stalking cat, Monty saw that he could not hold the youth’s eyes with any continuity. They watched him, to be sure, watched him, and yet appeared to look anywhere but at him.

  But not even when the rifle barrel was within an inch of the bridge of his nose did his eyes blink. They moved ceaselessly, but never shut. With a swift movement Monty secured the revolver, and, stepping back, said:

  “I am afraid your education has been sadly neglected. It is not considered quite the thing to enter a camp at this time of night and to snarl at people. We are pleased to see you, nevertheless. You will find a drink of tea in the billy by the fire.”

  The youth managed to look Monty in the eye, with his lips slightly drawn back, revealing white, small and pointed teeth. When he removed his hat he revealed what Monty considered the smallest forehead he had ever seen on a human being.

  “You’re very clever, ain’t you?” came the soft snarling voice. “I like clever people. I’m clever myself. I’m generally the last to be clever.”

  “How interesting!” mocked Monty. “You know, I feel quite sure that presently I shall begin to love you. You have such charming manners, such a prepossessing personality.”

  “Glad you think so,” the youth retorted, with a look that was positively murderous. “Bah!” And, turning sharply, he made his way to the billy can.

  Monty yawned openly and sat himself on a pack-saddle, where he filled his pipe with his usual care, having laid aside the rifle and passed the purloined revolver to Martin.

  Carrying a pannikin of tea, the stranger left the fire, and, coming close, sat on his high-heeled boots in a manner which proclaimed long habit. After sipping the jet black fluid for nearly a minute, during which he thoroughly examined the brothers, he said;

  “Is your name Sherwood?”

  Monty nodded.

  “You lookin’ for a clinah named Austiline Thorpe?”

  Not a muscle on the broad features of the giant moved. It was Martin who replied, the blind man suddenly aroused from curiosity to excitement. “Yes, we are,” he answered sharply. “Whereabouts is she?”

  “Don’t you fall over yer feet, mister.”

  That was advice which appeared to call for no comment. Martin sensed that the youth would not be hurried, might indeed be difficult to manage if the attempt were made. Wisely he henceforth left the matter in Monty’s capable hands.

  Presently the youth said slowly;

  “I got a letter for Mr. Monty Sherwood.”

  “Pass it along then,” the big man said.

  But the youth calmly finished drinking his tea before he produced a soiled envelope from a pocket in his skin-tight trousers. With it, the rifle in the crook of his arm, the big man walked backward to the light of the fire, and, keeping––figuratively––one eye on the youth, broke the seal and read the message. It ran:

  “DEAR MONTY,

  “I am informed that Martin and you are on your way to visit me, and in ordinary circumstances I should have been eager to welcome you. However, the special circumstances compel me to ask you to return to Melbourne. The friends who rescued me from prison have been delightfully kind and considerate, and I feel that I owe my host here a debt and some respect for his natural desire for privacy. He is an inventor and, like most inventors, is very jealous of his secrets. You will, I know, understand the situation. At present I am gaining very valuable information for a new book; and, when I think I have sufficient material, I shall call upon you at Melbourne.

  “Trusting you are both well, and with kind regards to your poor brother, believe me,

  “Sincerely yours,

  “AUSTILINE THORPE”

  There was neither address nor date. He was at first bewildered, then astounded, at the calmness, the coldness, of that letter, and especially at the almost slighting reference to Martin with which it concluded. Putting it in his pocket, he rejoined the others, and then, standing over the still squatting youth, he said:

  “Go to the tucker-box and get yourself a feed.”

  “Don’t want one.”

  “So!” The big man stooped swiftly and caught hold of the front of the youth’s shirt. Twisting it for a hold, he lifted the lad’s ten stone without effort, lifted him till his feet were clear of the ground. “You are an uncivil lout,” he said quietly. “I’ll give you a chance to walk t
o the tucker-box near the fire. If you don’t take it, I’ll throw you into the fire from here. Get along!”

  With a push he sent the young blackguard staggering away, almost falling. The youth spun round on gaining his feet, and from his mouth poured such a flood of verbal sewage that even Monty Sherwood was appalled. For fully a minute the most horrible language was screamed at them. Foam gathered about the slavering lips; fire gleamed dully in the black eyes. Then, quite suddenly, the torrent ceased, to be succeeded by a low, diabolical laugh––a laugh which, in spite of its softness, appeared to be thrown back at them by the sand-hills with added deviltry.

  “The fellow must be mad,” Martin whispered. “What does Austiline say?”

  By the light of the lamp Monty read the letter. Both were silent then, and the blind man’s face greyed a little. Monty laid an encouraging hand on the younger man’s arm.

  “It’s a stall––a put-off, old feller-me-Iad,” he said softly.

  “It may not be. Austiline may not want a blind man.”

  “Well, we’ll go on and have it from her lips,” the giant answered firmly.

  “Yes, certainly we’ll go on, Monty. Somehow that letter is unconvincing. Forget what I said about her and my blindness, brother mine. I was a cad. That letter is not Austiline’s style, I’m sure. She wrote that under pressure.”

  “M’yes. I’m glad you think so,” Monty said, smiling. “If yonder is a sample of the considerate people who surround Austiline, I am sure she would be better off in the kinder atmosphere of a slaughter-house. I’ll call our guest and pump him. Hi, you! Come over here!”

  “Go to hell, you––!” came the snarling answer.

  “I’ll go to you in two ups and jump you about the scenery so much that you’ll flatten it, if you don’t do as you’re told.”

  The youth hesitated, finally obeying and taking up his former position on his heels.

  “What do they call you––Tom, Dick, or Harry?”

  The black, deep-set eyes, fringed with yellow lashes, looked up at the seated giant from behind a veil of cunning.

  “Let it be Jack,” he replied, with less of a snarl in his voice. “Do you want to read me birth certificate, or me marriage lines?”

  “I’m not that interested in you, my lad. Where is Miss Thorpe at present?”

  “You’d like to know, wouldn’t you?”

  “I want to know.” The words were quietly uttered, but in them was a command.

  “There’s lots of things we want and can’t get,” responded the youth with a sneaking kind of grin.

  “’Tain’t often I don’t get what I want, son. Just as well be frank now, as wait till you’re tied down on an ant bed.”

  “Think you’re putting the wind up me, ’cos you’ve collared me gun, don’t you?” The words were spoken calmly enough, but the eyes became more shifty and the corners of the lips drooped slightly. “I got me orders.”

  “And what are they?”

  “To keep me mouth shut if you goes south, and to steer you if you goes north.”

  “Well, we’ve decided to go north, or rather north-west.”

  “Oh! have yer? Well, you’ll be going ter your own funeral, let me tell you,” the youth informed them with unmistakable joy––joy so dreadfully sinister with pre-knowledge of future events that Martin could not repress a shudder.

  “You appear to like funerals.”

  “You bet! Yours will be extra special. You leave it to me.”

  Monty tried a random shot.

  “Mr. Anchor’s house is about sixty miles from here, isn’t it?”

  “About.”

  “You might ride on at daybreak. Give Mr. Anchor my compliments, and tell him we will be calling upon Miss Thorpe in a day or two.”

  “Righto! ’Ere, how did you know Austiline is with old man Anchor? I didn’t tell you.”

  “No, that’s right. It was a little dicky-bird, something far more intelligent than you.”

  Once more the lips drew back, revealing the even, pointed teeth.

  “What’s your favourite depth for a grave, six or only one foot?”

  “Time enough to discuss graves when you’ve both your feet in one, my lad. I’m thinking that that time is not far off. And in future you will say Miss Thorpe, not Austiline.”

  “I’ll say what I––well like.”

  “You’ll say what I like, which is a different thing. Do you own that dog over there?”

  “What dog?” ejaculated the youth, bounding to his feet. Monty casually lit the lamp and led the way round Martin’s stretcher-bed to the carcass of the great hound. Swiftly the youth bent forward and scanned the inert heap.

  “Shot––by hell!” he said almost in a whisper. “Poor old Carlo! Shot!”

  When he turned, Monty was shocked by the awful, livid glare of hatred which blazed from the black eyes. The rat’s face was convulsed by the tempest of fury which surged through his warped brain, the teeth literally gnashing in a terrific effort to aid the tongue to formulate the string of oaths and horrible profanity which poured from the narrow lips. With a cry as of a tormented devil the youth ducked under Monty’s outflung arm and disappeared in the darkness, still screaming profanity.

  They heard his camel roar out on being kicked viciously to his feet, heard the youth’s screams of uncontrollable madness growing fainter and more faint, whilst the animal bore him swiftly from the camp.

  “Phew! I’m sort of glad Jack Blank decided to leave us,” drawled Monty.

  “A madman, if ever there was one,” pronounced Martin.

  “Absolutely. I’ll drag away this corpse, and then we’ll make a billy of tea. I can see the dawn in the east.”

  CHAPTER XV

  A WAITING GAME

  THE morning of the second day north of the water-hole where Martin had experienced the terror preceding the visit of the youthful lunatic, found the brothers camped on a flat that Monty estimated to be about fifteen miles southeast of Lake Moonba.

  Here the country was worse even than that of Minter’s Selection, the sand-hills higher and more numerous, the scrub trees far more sparse and much more stunted. The big man had been compelled to make advance by the snake-like track of least resistance, surmounting the ridges at their lowest point, skirting the higher bluffs, but always bearing northwest by north. The fear of circling or taking gigantic curves never worried him, who by sheer instinct born of long years of training could keep to any given direction without mental effort.

  Martin Sherwood had been improving visibly in health with the passage of every day. The rawness of face and hands caused by the fierce sunlight had healed and hardened into a deep tan. Gone were the tired lines about his eyes and the listlessness of his actions. There had stolen over him a certain quality of alert grimness, a masculine hardness, which years of city life had held in abeyance, and this grimness accentuated his good looks, adding physical strength to his existing mental strength. He was becoming a smaller edition of his brother Monty.

  Wearing a khaki shirt, opened wide at the neck and the sleeves rolled up above his elbows, a leathern strap about his waist supporting dark blue twill trousers, and his feet encased in elastic-sided riding boots, no one, Monty was sure, would recognize in this outfit the formerly delicate-looking and well-groomed editor of The Daily Tribune.

  The packing done, Monty brought in the camels, “hooshing” each of them down between the saddle and the load it was to carry. Habitually he began this operation at the rear end of the string, leaving his riding beast to the last. This animal, a bad-tempered, obstinate brute, generally provided trouble of some kind. It was a finely built bull, a magnificent racer, worth at least a hundred guineas: otherwise the big man would have discarded it long since.

  With firm and patient persuasion he had got it down on its fore knees, when the stillness of the day was broken by a sound like a carpet being struck by a stick. The camel sagged forward a little for an instant, a rich red stream spurting from its throat; then pitch
ed to the ground in a lifeless heap.

  Monty was dumbfounded for the space of about two seconds; but when, over the flat, came the dull crack of a rifle, he broke into a whirl of action.

  The sudden end of the riding camel, followed by Monty’s rush to get Martin under cover, was more than sufficient to stampede the train. Realizing that in the difficult conditions the stampede was the best thing possible, the bushman made no effort to stop the thoroughly frightened beasts from careening wildly in all directions, with roars of protest. The rifle cracked twice before Monty, handling the saddles and gear much like a porter emptying a luggage van, surrounded the blind man and himself with a temporary wall.

  The horrible impact of a bullet against the flesh of a camel which, having galloped away by itself, had paused to see whither its mates had gone, came to the crouching men at the same instant as the report. Monty gritted his teeth when one of his best pack-animals screamed with agony and floundered helplessly with a broken hind leg.

  “What is causing the excitement, Monty?” Martin inquired, casually lighting a cigarette while he lay full length on the sand.

  “A gun,” came the grim reply. “Some Johnny is shooting from a sand-hill down the flat. Old Bulldog’s dead, and Emma is roaring her heart out with a broken leg.”

  “Better finish her,” said Martin compassionately.

  “Will have to in a minute. Trying now to locate the pirate’s possie before I open up. You lie still.”

  This last injunction when a bullet screamed but a few inches above the encircling saddles. The bushman’s keen eyes searched the sand-hill hiding the rifleman, and discovered a wisp of blue vapour hovering about the butt of a dead sandal-wood some three hundred yards distant; and, the sights of his beloved Savage requiring no adjustment for that distance, he brought them at once to bear on the butt, waiting then for the next shot.