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<h2>CHAPTER XLV</h2> Deirdre knew that McNab would not come near Steve's while the dead body of Conal lay there. In the morning, she saddled the chestnut and rode into Wirreeford. "It was you shot Conal and I'm going to let all the countryside know it," she said, facing McNab in the reeking parlour of the Black Bull. "And who do y' think will believe you?" McNab sidled up to her, his eyes kindling. "Everybody who knows you." "And they'll say to you: 'How do y' know?' 'What proof have you got, Deirdre?' Nobody'll want to go agen Thad McNab lest they're sure—and nobody'll want to be gettin' up and givin' evidence against McNab lest they're sure they're comin' out on the right side of the business." "Proof? there's proof enough!" Deirdre's voice rang clear, though her heart was beginning to quail. She knew that what he said was true. She had come with the idea of using Conal's death as a weapon against McNab; but it had suddenly become empty and useless in her hands. "Now look here, my dear, it's no use bein' nasty," McNab said. "You know and I know, there's no man in the Wirree would go against me 'less he was pretty sure of getting somebody stronger than himself to back him. Well, is he going to get anybody? That's the question." Deirdre thought of M'Laughlin, sodden with drink, and as much McNab's creature as any other man in the Wirree. McNab chuckled, though there was a nervous edge to his voice. "There's Sergeant M'Laughlin, of course, he's police officer for the district. You can tell him your story if you like. But he's a hard-headed man, M'Laughlin. He'll want proofs. And then don't forget I've still the trump card up me sleeve." Her immobility maddened him. "See here, Deirdre," he said, shaking with rage, "I've been patient with you till now, and I'm not a patient man. Y' may not 've liked the ways of my love-makin', but they're my ways. Either you take my terms or you leave them. And if you send any more jackanapes to me y'll find them served as was Conal. "Maybe y're waitin' and hopin' young Davey'll come overland," he rasped on, "to—to help you. Don't let him get in my way again, Deirdre. Don't let him. If he gets in my way, he'll have to get out of it." "Or you will have to get out of his way!" Deirdre's eyes flashed into his. She saw the mean cunning soul in them. She knew that it would be Davey who would get out, that there was no fighting McNab. Davey would die as Conal had died, of a shot in the dark, or a death-dealing stab in the back. McNab realised that she had measured his chances against Davey Cameron, Davey's chances against him, in that moment, for all her proud look. "There's a boat just in the Port—takin' on some cattle—brought news from Melbourne," he said. "Davey's acquitted. So is the Schoolmaster. Jury didn't find there was evidence enough to convict. They'll be coming along by the Albatross. She's due in a couple of days. Johnson, Cameron's man, brought word. If you don't marry me—if y're not Mrs. McNab before that boat gets in—it can take y'r father and Steve along with it. It goes right on to Hobart Town after calling here." Deirdre stumbled out of the room. McNab did not follow her. He knew that she would not fight any more. He watched her swing into her saddle and ride out along the flat, dun-coloured road to the hills. Mrs. Mary Ann, driving a string of snow-white geese along the green ledges of the wayside, called to her, but Deirdre fled on, past the cottage that the Schoolmaster and she had lived in, past the out-croppings of gorse beginning to bud goldenly on the edge of the plains. And McNab chuckled softly, rubbing his hands together. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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