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Little Bush Maid, A

<h2> CHAPTER XII. THE WINFIELD MURDER </h2> The next few days went by slowly enough. Norah followed faithfully all Jim's plans for her amusement. She practised, did some cooking, and helped Mrs. Brown preserve apricots; then there were the pets to look to and, best of all, the bullocks to move from one paddock to another. It was an easy job, and Evans was quite willing to leave it to Norah, Billy and a dog. The trio made a great business of it, and managed almost to forget loneliness in the work of hunting through the scrub and chasing the big, sleepy half-fat beasts out upon the clear plain. There were supposed to be forty-four in the paddock, but Norah and Billy mustered forty-five, and were exceedingly proud of themselves in consequence. Next day Norah persuaded Mrs. Brown to allow herself to be driven into Cunjee. There was nothing particular to go for, except that, as Norah said, they would get the mail a day earlier; but Mrs. Brown was not likely to refuse anything that would chase the look of loneliness from her charge's face. Accordingly they set off after an early lunch, Norah driving the pair of brown ponies in a light single buggy that barely held her and her by no means fairy-like companion. The road was good and they made the distance in excellent time, arriving in Cunjee to see the daily train puff its way out of the station. Then they separated, as Norah had no opinion whatever of Mrs. Brown's shopping—principally in drapers' establishments, which this bush maiden hated cordially. So Mrs. Brown, unhampered, plunged into mysteries of flannel and sheeting, while Norah strolled up the principal street and exchanged greetings with those she knew. She paused by the door of a blacksmith's shop, for the smith and she were old friends, and Norah regarded Blake as quite the principal person of Cunjee. Generally there were horses to be looked at, but just now the shop was empty, and Blake came forward to talk to the girl. "Seen the p'lice out your way?" he asked presently, after the weather, the crops, and the dullness of business had been exhausted as topics. "Police?" queried Norah. "No. Why?" "There was two mounted men rode out in your direction yesterday," Blake answered. "They're on the track of that Winfield murderer, they believe." "What was that?" asked Norah blankly. "I never heard of it." "Not heard of the Winfield murder! Why, you can't read the papers, missy, surely?" "No; of course I don't," Norah said. "Daddy doesn't like me to read everyday ones." Blake nodded. "No, I s'pose not," he said. "You're too young to worry your little head about murders and suchlike. But everybody was talkin' about the Winfield affair, so I sorter took it for granted that you'd know about it." "Well, I don't," said Norah. "What is it all about?" "There's not very much I can tell you about it, missy," Blake said, scratching his head and looking down at the grave lace. "Nobody knows much about it. "Winfield's a little bit of a place about twenty miles from 'ere, you know—right in the bush and away from any rail or coach line. On'y a couple o' stores, an' a hotel, an' a few houses. Don't suppose many people out o' this district ever heard of it, it's that quiet an' asleep. "Well, there was two ol' men livin' together in a little hut a mile or so from the Winfield township. Prospectors, they said they were—an' there was an idea that they'd done pretty well at the game, an' had a bit of gold hidden somewhere about their camp. They kept very much to themselves, an' never mixed with anyone—when one o' them came into the township for stores he'd get his business done an' clear out as quick as possible. "Well, about a month ago two fellows called Bowen was riding along a bush track between Winfield an' their camp when they came across one o' the ol' mates peggin' along the track for all he was worth. They was surprised to see that he was carryin' a big swag, an' was apparently on a move. "'Hullo, Harris!' they says—'leavin' the district?' He was a civil spoken ol' chap as a rule, so they was rather surprised when he on'y give a sort o' grunt, an' hurried on. "They was after cattle, and pretty late the same day they found themselves near the hut where the two ol' chaps lived, an' as they was hungry an' thirsty, they reckoned they'd call in an' see if they could get a feed. So they rode up and tied their horses to a tree and walked up to the hut. No one answered their knock, so they opened the door, an' walked in. There, lyin' on his bunk, was ol' Waters. They spoke to him, but he didn't answer. You see, missy, he couldn't, bein' dead." "Dead!" said Norah, her eyes dilating. Blake nodded. "Stone dead," he said. "They thought at first he'd just died natural, as there was no mark o' violence on 'im, but when they got a doctor to examine 'im he soon found out very different. The poor ol' feller 'ad been poisoned, missy; the doctor said 'e must a' bin dead twelve hours when the Bowens found 'im. Everything of value was gone from the hut along with his mate, old Harris—the black-hearted villain he must be!" "Why, do they think he killed the other man?" Norah asked. "Seems pretty certain, missy," Blake replied. "In fact, there don't seem the shadder of a doubt. He was comin' straight from the hut when the Bowens met 'im—an' he'd cleared out the whole place, gold an' all. Oh, there ain't any doubt about Mr. Harris bein' the guilty party. The only thing doubtful is Mr. Harris's whereabouts." "Have the police been looking for him?" asked Norah. "Huntin' high an' low—without any luck. He seems to have vanished off the earth. They've bin follerin' up first one clue and then another without any result. Now the last is that he's been seen somewhere the other side of your place, an' two troopers have gone out to-day to see if there's any truth in the rumour." "I think it's awfully exciting," Norah said, "but I'm terribly sorry for the poor man who was killed. What a wicked old wretch the other must be!—his own mate, too! I wonder what he was like. Did you know him?" "Well, I've seen old Harris a few times—not often," Blake replied. "Still, he wasn't the sort of old man you'd forget. Not a bad-looking old chap, he was. Very tall and well set up, with piercin' blue eyes, long white hair an' beard, an' a pretty uppish way of talkin'. I don't fancy anyone about here knew him very well—he had a way of keepin' to himself. One thing, there's plenty lookin' out for him now." "I suppose so," Norah said. "I wonder will he really get away?" "Mighty small chance," said Blake. "Still, it's wonderful how he's managed to keep out of sight for so long. Of course, once in the bush it might be hard to find him—but sooner or later he must come out to some township for tucker, an' then everyone will be lookin' out for him. They may have got him up your way by now, missy. Is your Pa at home?" "He's coming home in a day or two," Norah said; "perhaps to-morrow. I hope they won't find Harris and bring him to our place." "Well, it all depends on where they find him if they do get him," Blake replied. "Possibly they might find the station a handy place to stop at. However, missy, don't you worry your head about it—nothing for you to be frightened about." "Why, I'm not frightened," Norah said. "It hasn't got anything to do with me. Only I don't want to see a man who could kill his mate, that's all." "He's much like any other man," said Blake philosophically. "Say, here's someone comin' after you, missy, I think." "I thought I'd find you here," exclaimed Mrs. Brown's fat, comfortable voice, as its owner puffed her way up the slope leading to the blacksmith's. "Good afternoon, Mr. Blake. I've finished all my shopping, Miss Norah, my dear, and the mail's in, and here's a letter for you, as you won't be sorry to see." "From Dad? How lovely!" and Norah, snatching at the grey envelope with its big, black writing, tore it open hastily. At the first few words, she uttered a cry of delight. "Oh, he's coming home to-morrow, Brownie—only another day! He says he thinks it's time he was home, with murderers roaming about the district!" and Norah executed a few steps of a Highland fling, greatly to the edification of the blacksmith. "Dear sakes alive!" said Mrs. Brown, truculently. "I think there are enough of us at the station to look after you, murderer or no murderer—not as 'ow but that 'Arris must be a nasty creature! Still I'm very glad your Pa's coming, Miss Norah, because nothing do seem right when he's away—an' it's dull for you, all alone." "Master Jim gone back, I s'pose?" queried Blake. "Yesterday," Norah added. "Then you must be lonely," the old blacksmith said, taking Norah's small brown hand, and holding it for a moment in his horny fist very much as if he feared it were an eggshell, and not to be dropped. "Master Jim's growing a big fellow, too—goin' to be as big a man as his father, I believe. Well, good-bye, missy, and don't forget to come in next time you're in the township." There was nothing further to detain them in Cunjee, and very soon the ponies were fetched from the stables, and they were bowling out along the smooth metal road that wound its way across the plain, and Norah was mingling excited little outbursts of delight over her father's return with frequent searches into a big bag of sweets which Mrs. Brown had thoughtfully placed on the seat of the buggy. "I don't know why Blake wanted to go telling you about that nasty murderer," Mrs. Brown said. They were ten miles from Cunjee, and the metal road had given place to a bush track, in very fair order. "Why not?" asked Norah, with the carelessness of twelve years. "Well, tales of murders aren't the things for young ladies' ears," Mrs. Brown said primly. "Your Pa never tells you such things. The paper's been full of this murder, but I would 'a' scorned to talk to you about it." "I don't think Blake meant any harm," said Norah. "He didn't say so very much. I don't suppose he'd have mentioned it, only that Mr. Harris is supposed to have come our way, and even that doesn't seem certain." "'Arris 'as baffled the police," said Mrs. Brown, with the solemn pride felt by so many at the worsting of the guardians of the law. "They don't reely know anythink about his movements, that's my belief. Why, it's weeks since he was seen. This yarn about his comin' this way is on'y got up to 'ide the fact that they don't know a thing about it. I don't b'lieve he's anywhere within coo-ee of our place. Might be out of the country now, for all anyone's sure of." "Blake seemed to think he'd really come this way;" Norah said. "Blake's an iggerant man," said Mrs. Brown loftily. "Well, I'll keep a look-out for him, at any rate," laughed Norah. "He ought to be easy enough to find—tall and good-looking and well set up—whatever that may mean—and long white beard and hair. He must be a pretty striking-looking sort of old man. I—" And then recollection swept over Norah like a flood, and her words faltered on her lips. Her hand gripped the reins tighter, and she drove on unconsciously. Blake's words were beating in her ears. "Not a bad-looking old chap—very tall and well set up—piercing blue eyes and a pretty uppish way of talking." The description had meant nothing to her until someone whom it fitted all too aptly had drifted across her mental vision. The Hermit! Even while she felt and told herself that it could not be, the fatal accuracy of the likeness made her shudder. It was perfect—the tall, white-haired old man—"not the sort of old man you'd forget"—with his distinguished look; the piercing blue eyes—but Norah knew what kindliness lay in their depths—the gentle refined voice, so different from most of the rough country voices. It would answer to Blake's "pretty uppish way of talking." Anyone who had read the description would, on meeting the Hermit, immediately identify him as the man for whom the police were searching. Norah's common sense told her that. A wave of horror swept over the little girl, and the hands gripping the reins trembled. Common sense might tell one tale, but every instinct of her heart told a very different one. That gentle-faced old man, with a world of kindness in his tired eyes—he the man who killed his sleeping mate for a handful of gold! Norah set her square little chin. She would not—could not—believe it. "Why, you're very quiet, dearie." Mrs. Brown glanced inquiringly at her companion. "A minute ago you was chatterin', and now you've gone down flat, like old soda-water. Is anything wrong?" "No, I'm all right, Brownie. I was only thinking," said Norah, forcing a smile. "Too many sweeties, I expect," said Mrs. Brown, laying a heavy hand on the bag and impounding it for future reference. "Mustn't have you get indigestion, an' your Pa comin' home to-morrow." Norah laughed. "Now, did you ever know me to have indigestion in my life?" she queried. "Well, perhaps not," Mrs. Brown admitted. "Still, you never can tell; it don' do to pride oneself on anything. If it ain't indigestion, you've been thinking too much of this narsty murder." Norah flicked the off pony deliberately with her whip. "Darkie is getting disgracefully lazy," she said. "He's not doing a bit of the work. Nigger's worth two of him." The injured Darkie shot forward with a bound, and Mrs. Brown grabbed the side of the buggy hastily, and in her fears at the pace for the ensuing five minutes forgot her too inconvenient cross-examination. Norah settled back into silence, her forehead puckered with a frown. She had never in her careless little life been confronted by such a problem as the one that now held her thoughts. That the startling similarity between her new-made friend and the description of the murderer should fasten upon her mind, was unavoidable. She struggled against the idea as disloyal, but finally decided to think it out calmly. The descriptions tallied. So much was certain. The verbal likeness of one man was an exact word painting of the other, so far as it went, "though," as poor Norah reflected, "you can't always tell a person just by hearing what he's like." Then there was no denying that the conduct of the Hermit would excite suspicion. He was camping alone in the deepest recesses of a lonely tract of scrub; he had been there some weeks, and she had had plenty of proof that he was taken aback at being discovered and wished earnestly that no future prowlers might find their way to his retreat. She recalled his shrinking from the boys, and his hasty refusal to go to the homestead. He had said in so many words that he desired nothing so much as to be left alone—any one would have gathered that he feared discovery. They had all been conscious of the mystery about him. Her thoughts flew back to the half-laughing conversation between Harry and Wally, when they had actually speculated as to why he was hiding. Putting the case fairly and squarely, Norah had to admit that it looked black against the Hermit. Against it, what had she? No proof; only a remembrance of two honest eyes looking sadly at her; of a face that had irresistibly drawn her confidence and friendship; of a voice whose tones had seemed to echo sincerity and kindness. It was absolutely beyond Norah's power to believe that the hand that had held hers so gently could have been the one to strike to death an unsuspecting mate. Her whole nature revolted against the thought that her friend could be so base. "He was in trouble," Norah said, over and over again, in her uneasy mind; "he was unhappy. But I know he wasn't wicked. Why, Bobs made friends with him!" The thought put fresh confidence in her mind; Bobs always knew "a good sort." "I won't say anything," she decided at last, as they wheeled round the corner of the homestead. "If they knew there was a tall old man there, they'd go and hunt him out, and annoy him horribly. I know he's all right. I'll hold my tongue about him altogether—even to Dad." The coach dropped Mr. Linton next day at the Cross Roads, where a little figure, clad in white linen, sat in the buggy, holding the brown ponies, while the dusky Billy was an attendant sprite on his piebald mare. "Well, my little girl, it's good to see you again," Mr. Linton said, putting his Gladstone bag into the buggy and receiving undismayed a small avalanche of little daughter upon his neck. "Steady, dear—mind the ponies." He jumped in, and put his arm round her. "Everything well?" "Yes, all right, Daddy. I'm so glad to have you back!" "Not gladder than I am to get back, my little lass," said her father. "Good-day, Billy. Let 'em go, Norah." "Did you see Jim?" asked Norah, as the ponies bounded forward. "No—missed him. I had only an hour in town, and went out to the school, to find Master Jim had gone down the river—rowing practice. I was sorry to miss him; but it wasn't worth waiting another day in town." "Jim would be sorry," said Norah thoughtfully. She herself was rather glad: had Jim seen his father, most probably he would have mentioned the Hermit. Now she had only his letters to fear, and as Jim's letters were of the briefest nature and very far apart, it was not an acute danger. "Yes, I suppose he would," Mr. Linton replied. "I regretted not having sent a telegram to say I was going to the school—it slipped my memory. I had rather a rush, you know. I suppose you've been pretty dull, my girlie?" "Oh it was horrid after the boys went," Norah said. "I didn't know what to do with myself, and the house was terribly quiet. It was hard luck that you had to go away too." "Yes, I was very sorry it happened so," her father said; "had we been alone together I'd have taken you with me, but we'll have the trip some other time. Did you have a good day's fishing on Saturday?" "Yes," said Norah, flushing a little guiltily—the natural impulse to tell all about their friend the Hermit was so strong. "We had a lovely day, and caught ever so many fish—didn't get home till ever so late. The only bad part was finding you away when we got back." "Well, I'm glad you had good luck, at any rate," Mr. Linton said. "So Anglers' Bend is keeping up its reputation, eh? We'll have to go out there, I think, Norah; what do you say about it? Would you and Billy like a three days' jaunt on fishing bent?" "Oh, it would be glorious, Daddy! Camping out?" "Well, of course—since we'd be away three days. In this weather it would be a very good thing to do, I think." "You are a blessed Daddy," declared his daughter rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. "I never knew anyone with such beautiful ideas." She jigged on her seat with delight. "Oh, and, Daddy, I'll be able to put you on to such a splendid new hole for fishing!" "Will you, indeed?" said Mr. Linton, smiling at the flushed face. "That's good, dear. But how did you discover it?" Norah's face fell suddenly. She hesitated and looked uncomfortable. "Oh," she said slowly; "I—we—found it out last trip." "Well, we'll go, Norah—as soon as I can fix it up," said her father. "And now, have you heard anything about the Winfield murderer?" "Not a thing, Daddy. Brownie thinks it's just a yarn that he was seen about here." "Oh, I don't think so at all," Mr. Linton said. "A good many people have the idea, at any rate—of course they may be wrong. I'm afraid Brownie is rather too ready to form wild opinions on some matters. To tell the truth, I was rather worried at the reports—I don't fancy the notion of escaped gentry of that kind wandering round in the vicinity of my small daughter." "Well, I don't think you need have worried," said Norah, laughing up at him; "but all the same, I'm not a bit sorry you did, if it brought you home a day earlier, Dad!" "Well, it certainly did," said Mr. Linton, pulling her ear; "but I'm not sorry either. I can't stand more than a day or two in town. As for the murderer, I'm not going to waste any thought on him now that I am here. There's the gate, and here comes Billy like a whirlwind to open it." They bowled through the gate and up the long drive, under the arching boughs of the big gum trees, that formed a natural avenue on each side. At the garden gate Mrs. Brown stood waiting, with a broad smile of welcome, and a chorus of barks testified to the arrival of sundry dogs. "It's a real home-coming," Mr. Linton said as he walked up the path, his hand on Norah's shoulder—and the little girl's answering smile needed no words. They turned the corner by the big rose bush, and came within view of the house, and suddenly Norah's smile faded. A trooper in dusty uniform stood on the doorstep. "Why, that's a pleasant object to greet a man," Mr. Linton said, as the policeman turned and came to meet him with a civil salute. He nodded as the man came up. "Did you want me?" "It's only about this 'ere murderer, sir," said the trooper. "Some of us is on a sort of a scent, but we haven't got fairly on to his tracks yet. I've ridden from Mulgoa to-day, and I came to ask if your people had seen anything of such a chap passing—as a swaggie or anything?" "Not that I know of," said Mr. Linton. "What is he like?" "Big fellow—old—plenty of white hair and beard, though, of course, they're probably cut off by this time. Very decent-looking old chap," said the trooper reflectively—"an' a good way of speakin'." "Well, I've seen no such man," said Mr. Linton decidedly—"of course, though, I don't see all the 'travellers' who call. Perhaps Mrs. Brown can help you." "Not me sir," said Mrs. Brown, with firmness. "There ain't been no such a person—and you may be sure there ain't none I don't see! Fact is, when I saw as 'ow the murderer was supposed to be in this districk, I made inquiries amongst the men—the white hands, that is—and none of them had seen any such man as the papers described. I reckon 'e may just as well be in any other districk as this—I s'pose the poor p'lice must say 'e's somewheres!" She glared defiantly at the downcast trooper. "Wish you had the job of findin' him, mum," said that individual. "Well, sir, there's no one else I could make inquiries of, is there?" "Mrs. Brown seems to have gone the rounds," Mr. Linton said. "I really don't think there's any one else—unless my small daughter here can help you," he added laughingly. But Norah had slipped away, foreseeing possible questioning. The trooper smiled. "Don't think I need worry such a small witness," he said. "No, I'll just move on, Mr. Linton. I'm beginning to think I'm on a wild-goose chase." <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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