The Shadow of a Man

"Put him in your travellers' hut, Mr. Rigden."

"Quite right. I only wanted to ask him something, but I dare say you can tell me as well. Get that track pretty plain before you lost it this afternoon?"

"Plain as a pikestaff, didn't we?" said the sergeant to his sub.

"My oath!" asseverated the trooper, who was a man of few words.

"Notice any peculiarity about it, Harkness?"

"Yes," said the sergeant.

"What?" pursued Rigden.

"That," said Harkness; and he produced a worn heel torn from its sole and uppers.

"Exactly," said Rigden, nodding.

The sergeant sprang from the bed.

"Have you struck his tracks?"

"I won't say that," said Rigden. "All I undertake is to show you a distinct track with no left heel to it all down the line. No, I won't shake hands on it. It may lead to nothing."

All was now excitement in the small and smoky bedroom. The jackeroo had appeared on the scene from his own room, to which his sensitive soul ever banished him betimes. All were on their feet but Bethune, who retained the only chair, but with eyes like half-sheathed blades, and head at full-cock.

"Did you follow it up?" asked the sergeant.

"Yes, a bit."

"Where did you strike it?"

"I'll tell you what: you shall be escorted to the spot."

"Um!" said the sergeant; "not by all hands, I hope?"

"By Mr. Spicer and nobody else. I'd come myself, only I've found other fish to fry. Look here, Spicer," continued Rigden, clapping the storekeeper on the shoulder; "you know the clay-pans in the horse-paddock? Well, you'll see my tracks there, and you'd better follow them; there are just one or two of the others; but on the soft ground you'll see the one as plain as the other. You'll have to cross the fence into Butcher-boy; you'll see where I crossed it. That's our killing-sheep paddock, Harkness; think your man could kill and eat a sheep?"

"I could kill and eat you," said the sergeant cordially, "for the turn you've done me."

"Thanks; but you wait and see how it pans out. All I guarantee is that the tracks are there; how far they go is another matter. I only followed them myself as far as the tank in Butcher-boy. And that reminds me: there'll be a big muster to-morrow, Spicer. The tank in Butcher-boy's as low as low; the Big Bushy tanks always go one worse; we'll muster Big Bushy to-morrow, whether or no. I've been meaning to do it for some time. Besides, it'll give you all the freer hand for those tracks, sergeant: we shall be miles apart."

"That's all right," said the sergeant. "But I should have liked to get on them to-night."

"The moon's pretty low."

Harkness looked out.

"You're right," he said. "We'll give it best till morning. Come, mate, let's spell it while we can."

The rest separated forthwith. Bethune bade his future brother-in-law good-night without congratulation or even comment on the discovery of the tracks. Rigden lingered a moment with his lieutenants, and then remarked that he had left his coat in the harness-room; he would go and fetch it, and might be late, as he had letters to write for the mail.

"Can't I get the coat, sir?" asked the willing jackeroo.

Rigden turned upon him with unique irritation.

"No, you can't! You can go to bed and be jolly well up in time to do your part to-morrow! It's you I am studying, my good fellow," he made shift to add in a kindlier tone; "you can't expect to do your work unless you get your sleep. And I want you to round up every hoof in the horse-paddock by sunrise, and after that every man in the hut!"

VI

BELOW ZERO

"May I come in?"

It was her brother at Moya's door, and he began to believe she must be asleep after all. Theodore felt aggrieved; he wanted speech with Moya before he went to bed. He was about to knock again when the door was opened without a word. There was no light in the room. Yet the girl stood fully dressed in the last level rays of the moon. And she had been crying.

"Moya!"

"What do you want?"

"Only to speak to you."

"What about?"

"Yourself, to begin with. What's the trouble, my dear girl?"

He had entered in spite of her, and yet she was not really sorry that he had come. She had suffered so much in silence that it would be relief to speak about anything to anybody. Theodore was the last person in whom she could or would confide. But there was something comfortable in his presence just there and then. She could tell him a little, if she could not tell him all; and he could tell her something in return.

She heard him at his match-box, and shut the door herself as he lit the candles.

"Don't speak loud, then," said Moya. "I – I'd rather they didn't hear us – putting our heads together."

"No fear. We've got the main building to ourselves, you and I. Rather considerate of Rigden, that."

Indeed it was the best parlour that had been prepared for Moya, for in your southern summers the best parlour of all is the shadiest verandah. Theodore took to the sofa and a cigarette.

"Do you mind?" he said. "Then do please tell me what's the matter with you, Moya!"

"Oh, can't you see? I'm so unhappy!"

Her eyes had filled, but his next words dried them.

"Had a row with Rigden?"

And he was leaning forward without his cigarette.

Moya hated him.

"Is that all that occurs to you?" she asked cuttingly. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, I'm sure! I should have thought even you could have seen there was enough to make one unhappy, without the consummation you so devoutly – "