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Chapter XII
The Camp on the River-bed

But Nan," I cried, in agony. "Is she safe? She was in the haunted cottage. I know she was."

Uncle Dan looked at me.

"Peep in the east bedroom, and you'll see what you'll see," he advised.

And there, in the big bed, like a little brown smudge on a white ground, lay Nan. She had been in the old house after all.

Uncle Dan and Rob had ridden into the storm, with the rain driving in their faces, the wind raging round them, and the roar of the river in their ears. When they drew near the old house they found the water sweeping across the road in a fierce, yellow flood. They pulled up their horses and listened. Through the fury of the storm, borne faintly on the wind, came the sound of a dog's frenzied bark. Rob did not wait; he dashed, waist-high, through the water, holding his storm-lantern aloft. She was standing there as I had seen her stand in my dream, crying and holding out her arms for help. By her side Tiny Pat kept guard, every hair erect in the face of this new enemy.

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It was Tiny Pat who had saved Nan. She had crept inside again after we left, and was still waiting there when the storm broke suddenly. The flash of the lightning and the crash of the thunder terrified the big black horse, and it went wildly down the road in the direction of Kinloch. Nan said she was frightened too, and she crept inside and waited, and waited, and waited. The noise of the storm was so great that she did not hear Mr Oh Aye until he had passed, and he, not seeing her, thought she had gone on to Kinloch by herself. He arrived at Kamahi early next morning, worn out, and frantic with anxiety. He even said "Thank God! "when Uncle John told him that Nan was safe with us, though he lapsed into silence and "Oh, aye" again when he heard the details of the rescue.

Nan stayed with us nearly a week, and we came to know her better than ever before. We found she was just an ordinary little girl, like Pipi or me, shyer, perhaps, but fun-loving, and interested in the things which interested us. We introduced her to the story-books we had brought with us, and in our turn we found that Nan's mind was stored with wonderful fairy-lore learned from Bridget and an old Irish shepherd who had once lived at Jordan. The mountains, the creeks, the sparkling heights—all were thronged with beings of her imagination. Quaint, elusive folk page 140they were—dainty fairies, mischievous elves, the spirits of the mist—and to Nan they were as real or more real than the people who lived on the plain country at the foot of the mountains.

We were sorry when she left us. Her brother returned from the city and took her back to Kinloch, and then Uncle John had his say. He was shut up with Mr Somerset for quite a long time, and when they came out Patrick Wayne seemed rather worried, but Uncle John positively radiated satisfaction.

"I've got it off my mind at last," he told Uncle Stephen, and did not notice Pipi and me in the background. "I've given him a piece of my mind, and I hope he'll take advantage of it."

"What did you say?" asked Uncle Stephen, a little doubtfully, I thought.

"Oh, I told him what I thought of him—of the way he was neglecting that child. After all, he's her guardian, and he never wastes a thought on her. He was beginning to wake up a little, though, and I fancy I've completed the process," Uncle added, complacently.

"Oh!—I see," said Uncle Stephen.

We missed Nan at first. We should have liked to have taken her camping with us on the riverbed. She would have enjoyed it as much as Jan, Jock, Pipi, and I did. Uncle Dan put up a tent, and we spent the next few days down on the page 141tussocks, cooking our tea at a camp fire, boiling the billy, and making damper. The damper really was nice, too, though Kathie objected to the doubtful colour of it. You can't bake dough on black ashes and keep it spotless, like bread. Kathie is too particular.

Of course we didn't live on damper. Mrs McPherson used to put us up a hamper—she seemed glad to be rid of us for a whole day— and we had dinner and tea down by the river. In the evening we sat round the camp fire, with the flames glowing red in the blackness, and the stars shining like little pin-pricks of light in the heavens above. Behind us, in the shade of a solitary pine-tree, stood the little white tent, which let in the sheep and the rain, and which was visited occasionally by an inquisitive cow. But we didn't mind that; we felt like "Ned in the Woods," or the whole series of the Ellis books. Jan's eyes blazed, and Jock entered into the spirit of the game with such zest that he almost expected to see a boatload of Indians sweeping down the river, or to hear the rustle of the grass as a jaguar crept upon us. In imagination, I know, he shot hundreds of jaguars, and bisons, and other wild beasts, and defeated tribe after tribe of bloodthirsty Indians. Jock's imagination is one of the biggest things about him, and the still, dark nights, and the sight of the camp fire, red against page 142the blackness, and the sense of adventure in it all, went straight to his head, and brought disaster on every one of us.

He borrowed Rob's gun.

Now, Jock is not allowed to play with a gun; the uncles are very strict about this. Rob had been taught to shoot properly before he was trusted with firearms; Pipi and I could only admire a rifle from a distance; and once Uncle John forgot that Jan was fifteen, and sent her off to bed in the middle of the afternoon, when she practised shooting with Rob's rifle, and nearly scored a bull's-eye on Uncle Dan.

Jock, however, was deeply envious of Rob, and once he slipped off with Billy, the cowboy, and luckily, or unluckily, managed to hit a rabbit. Soon afterward Pipi came across him nursing the poor, little, stiffened thing, and crying as if his heart would break.

"It cried," he told her. "It cried—horribly. I won't ever shoot again."

He did, though. I think he was ashamed of the tears he had shed for that little dead rabbit, and he was always trying to live the incident down, and be hard-hearted and manly. He swaggered round with Rob's gun, and refused to listen to our entreaties. Fortunately, he did not attempt to fire it off. Pipi would have liked to experiment, but Jan and I kept stern eyes on her.

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I did not fancy my appearance with a bullet through my head, and Jan was not going to have our holidays brought to an end.

"If only he's content just to carry it round, it will be all right," Jan said, looking at him as he passed with Pipi, the two of them intent on a tiger which was skulking in the tussocks. "Don't you think it's time for lunch? It's twelve o'clock, and I'm starving."

I knew it was still a good hour off midday, but I was hungry too. Jan and I unpacked the basket, and Jock and Pipi made tea—black and rich and smoky, just as billy-tea should be. The potatoes, which Jan had thoughtfully provided, were baked in the ashes till they were soft, and white, and floury. I dislike potatoes baked in their jackets just a little more than I do sago— and I hate sago—but I always eat them at a camp picnic. It is part of the fun.

Jock and Pipi sauntered up.

"What we want," announced Jock, with a cannibalistic glare, "is rabbit—roasted rabbit. Guess I'll shoot one this afternoon."

"Guess you won't," Jan answered. "You'd shoot Pipi or Ngaire, and we couldn't roast them. I—— Jock, put that gun down. You're pointing it straight at me. No, not that way—you'll shoot Ngaire. Look out, Pipi!"

There was always excitement when Jock held page 144a gun, and we did not settle down till he left it on the grass, ten yards away. Then we saw Uncle Stephen in the distance, and Jock jumped up and brought the gun back again, and in his panic sat on it, trying to hide it. I expected it to go off bang any moment. You never know what a gun will do.

Uncle Stephen was on horseback, riding over the river, but he paused to accept a cup of billy-tea, which he declared was excellent. Potatoes he declined.

"I lost my appetite for them cooked that way thirty years ago," he told us. "Well, good-bye, children. Enjoy yourselves, and don't set the tussocks on fire, will you? "

He rode off, turning to wave to us before he crossed the ford. Jan's eyes followed him.

"Uncle Stephen is a dear," she said.

Lunch was over by half-past eleven, and five hours later we began to feel hungry again. Very hungry, in fact. Jan thought she would go up to the house.

"Kathie and Uncle Dan are having cream-cakes and pikelets, and Miss Owen and the cadet from Wharanui for afternoon tea," she said. "I saw Maggie making them."

"What? Miss Owen and Mr Smythe? " I asked from the tussocks, where I was lying full length, listening to the larks winging their way into the blue sky, and singing as they went.

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"No. Cakes and pikelets. Don't try to be funny. Let's go up and join them. It's sponge cake with cream between."

Jock said he would stay and guard the camp, so we left him squatting by the tent, the gun in his hands. I do not think that either Uncle Dan or Kathie was particularly glad to see us, but we sat down and made ourselves pleasant, and Kathie had to partake of us along with Mr Smythe, Miss Owen, and cakes and pikelets. Jan drank three cups of tea, just to show she had as much right to be there as Kathie had, and Pipi secured the last and creamiest slice of cake, beating Mr Smythe, who was also in the running for it, by just two bites.

It was very pleasant under the trees, out of the glare of the sun. We could not tear ourselves away, and it was only when Uncle Dan asked Jan, in an undertone, where the fire was that we decided to leave the party. Why, we had all smelt smoky for a week, and he knew it. Pipi went inside, and Jan and I set off down to the river again to collect the baskets.

It was when we were passing through the plantation that we came across Jock. The pine-needles are spread thickly under the trees, like a springy carpet, and Jock did not hear us coming, and we did not see him till we were almost on top of him. He was lying on the ground, and when

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I caught sight of his face it startled me. It was deathly pale; there were dark marks under his eyes, and his hands trembled. At first we were speechless, shocked into silence. Then we ran over to him.

"Jock! Jock! What's wrong? "

"Nothin'."

Jock turned away, but I could see him shiver. "Don't fuss," he said. "Girls are always f-fussing."

"Oh, if you don't want us," Jan began, but I caught sight of Jock's face again, and it frightened me. I put my arms round him, and Jock did not shake me off or repulse me, but clung to me in a desperate, terrified way.

"Ngaire! Ngaire! I've shot a man."

He was crying now, in short, gasping sobs. I held him tight, and over his head my eyes met Jan's. We were both pretty green, I think. At last Jan gasped out:

"Who was it, Jock? "

"Mr McPherson."

This was worse. Mr McPherson was a small, silent man, given to sudden fits of irascibility. I had a feeling that he would strongly object to being shot. But it couldn't be true. It was all Jock's imagination.

"How did it happen? "I asked. "Are you sure, Jock?"

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"I was waiting for you to come back," Jock said, looking at me in a queer, dazed way that was rather pitiful. "And I thought I'd shoot a rabbit. So I shot. And I didn't notice a man till I heard a cry, and then I knew I'd shot him. And ——"

"And then——" I asked, while my heart sank. "And—then I ran away. And I came back after, and some one had taken the body away."

I gasped, but Jan seemed relieved.

"He might have walked away. Perhaps you didn't hurt him after all," she suggested.

Jock gave her an awful look.

"There was blood on the ground," he answered.

Jan's eyes nearly popped out of her head, and I grew prickly with horror and then cold all over, till I felt like a frozen hedgehog. But Jock looked so white, and his breath came in such funny, gasping sobs that Jan and I were really afraid.

"We'll get him up to the house," Jan said, "and tell Uncle Stephen."

"Uncle Stephen's out. There's only Uncle Dan, and he's riding home with Mr Smythe and Miss Owen. He'll be gone by now."

"We'll have to do something," Jan answered. "Ngaire, I'm sure it isn't true. But I'll break it to Mrs McPherson."

"What will you say?" I asked.

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"I'll do it very gently," Jan answered, her teeth chattering. "I'll just say, in a pleasant way, 'Have you seen Mr McPherson lately, Mrs McPherson?' And if she says, 'No,' I'll say, 'And I'm afraid you won't, ever again. He's shot, and we can't find him.'"

"Oh!" I said.

"Oh!" gasped Jock.

"Eeeeh!" went Jan very suddenly. We looked at her in horror. Jan was laughing, but not, as she said afterward, because she was amused, but because something jumped up suddenly inside her, and came out in little gurgles and squeaks. She said she wanted to cry.

We trailed up to the house; we went round to the kitchen, our knees shaking. By the window Jan paused; her eyes grew wide; her voice trembled.

"Look!" she cried. "L-look!"

For there, at the table, eating cold meat and potatoes, and enjoying them too, sat the ghost of Mr McPherson.