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The Story of Wild Will Enderby

Chapter VI. In the Toils

page 150

Chapter VI. In the Toils.

The Prospectors were housed for the night. The Senior Partner sat down on a stray boulder, and self-debated the position. Somewhat after this fashion went the argument.

"They were up all last night—they can't do without rest—therefore they'll stop here till morning. What will their next move be? Will they go back for the tucker? (i.e., provisions)—or will they go on without it? They want the tucker—they went into the Dunstan purposely to get it. Guess they'll go back for it. Anyway, I'd best wait out here, and see which way they travel."

So he coiled himself in his blankets, refreshed his plug, and patiently abided the issue.

Truth to tell, he was becoming weary and exhausted. He had taken but little provender with him, and a solitary biscuit was all that now remained of his store. He thought, somewhat hungrily, of the savoury mutton-chops which the Prospectors were probably enjoying, and his stomach yearned for those dainty viands. The temptation to enter the hut and share therein was powerful. But he had set himself to do a certain thing, and with true honest courage, he quelled all mutinous thoughts, and resolved to do it.

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As he lay thus, bravely enduring, the quick tramp of a horse coming up the valley arrested his attention. How little do we know of the mysterious impulses that hold sway over us. Without consciousness of the wherefore, the pulse of the Senior Partner quickened in unison with the hoof-beats of the coming messenger of fate. He raised himself to listen. Onward and nearer, and nearer still, came the horseman. With rapid strides he passed. Straight to the hut he rode, regardless of the yelping dogs, swung himself swiftly out of the saddle, and threw the reins over the neck of his panting steed.

The unusual noise aroused the inmates; so that even as he dismounted, the door was thrown open, and the bright fire-light streamed out upon the desolate waste. Before a word could be spoken, he entered the hut and closed the door. Then he cast a sharp, suspicious glance around the interior.

For a brief space, no word was spoken. With his back to the door, and with pistol in hand, stood the bold Sergeant,—for he it was. A fierce fire blazed in the rude chimney—fairly eclipsing the feeble rays of a melancholy tallow candle, which, unsnuffed and untended, glimmered over the fragments of a truly pastoral feast, where rude tin pannikins of coarse black tea, flanked iron plates cumbered with half-picked bones. The shepherds and their guests—the Prospectors whom we wot of—had risen to their feet at the entrance of the Sergeant, and now faced him, wonderingly. They marked his silver buttons, and tacitly conceded to those emblems of authority that deference and respect for law and order which is such page 152a characteristic trait of the true Briton, to whatsoever order he belongeth.

The Sergeant briefly stated his errand. He was in pursuit of 'a person' called Yankee Joe, who was known to have left the Dunstan in search of Fox's diggings. Had they seen 'anything of a man' answering his description?—which description, howsoever obtained, he rendered with marvellous accuracy.

No, they had not seen him; no such man had passed that way, &c., &c. (Chorus of confirmatory negatives, delivered in tones of variously modulated aggrievedness). These men felt themselves injured by the supposition that they had even seen a man who was 'wanted' by the police. Moreover they had no relish for being interrogated at the muzzle of a pistol. For here their respect for law and order was sadly at variance with their sense of the fitness of things.

Whatever sins they might have had upon their consciences, this evidently was not of them. The experienced Sergeant saw this at a glance. He dropped the pistol into its case, and moved from the door.

"What's the matter?" asked the Prospectors. "What has he been doing?"

"Well, boys," quoth the Sergeant, easily gliding from the authoritative into the confidential mood,—"There has been a most barbarous crime perpetrated at the Dunstan, and from information received there is ground for believing the offender to be the man known as 'Yankee Joe.' Listen, now; the killing of one snake would likely cause the death of fifty little vipers which might have been bred of the mother snake. Just in that same way the apprehension of one criminal page 153might hinder the perpetuation of fifty offences. Now this Yankee—Pellat is his name—is a desperate person; and I tell you it is your bounden duty, if you know anything of him, to make a clean breast of it."

The rising night breeze whistled shrilly around the hut, penetrating the crevices and causing the miserable candle to flicker most ignobly. The dogs yelped furiously, and a shepherd arose to quell the tumult. A step was heard, the latch was lifted,—the Senior Partner entered the hut.

So sudden was his appearance that even the bold Sergeant's loquacious propensities were temporarily checked.

"I'm on for one;" said the Senior Partner, with his accustomed coolness. "Guess my breast ain't muchly in the way of wanting cleaning. Good evening, gents. I am George Washington Pratt, I am. Sorry to intrude on this festive occasion; but it seems to me my name has been disrespectfully handled by some of you. Was it you, Mister?—(This to the Sergeant)—You ain't left your card on me, so I can't mention your name rightly."

Having thus spoken, he deliberately seated himself on an inverted bucket, and discharged a liquid shot at an aggravating knot in the back-log.

The Sergeant stepped across the floor, and laid his hand on the American's shoulder.—"You are my prisoner!" he said.

The Senior Partner shook himself free from the policeman's grasp, much as a Newfoundland dog shakes off the unwelcome paw of a too familiar terrier.

"Supposing you were to tell me what it's all about. page 154It ain't a conundrum, is it? Because if it is, I give it up."

The Sergeant rose to the dignity of the occasion.—"Don't answer me in that dericive manner," he said. "By virtue of my authority, I arrest you in the Queen's name on a charge of murder."

"Well, Sir, do you know it rather strikes me that your Queen ain't a very well informed young person,—that's a fact.—Say—what's this here foolishness about?"

The Sergeant looked round aghast—horrified by this irreverent reference to the talismanic name which to his strictly-trained official mind was as a fetish to be bowed down to on all occasions.—"Men," said he, "I take you all to witness the ribald and nefarious language in which this—('fellow' he was about to say, but he caught the peculiar gaze of the American, and substituted a less offensive phrase)—in which this person has spoken of Her Gracious Majesty; and I call upon you as good citizens to aid me in making the arrest."

And again he moved towards the Senior Partner, on hostile thoughts intent. The others also crowded round confusedly.

The Senior Partner waved them away.—"Hands off, boys!" he cried, now fairly at bay. "The first man that lays a finger on my shirt will have a mighty smart chance to hunt grass. There's a pretty copious mistake here I reckon. Perhaps, Mister, you don't mind mentioning the name of the party that you're addle-headed enough to suppose I've killed. It would be a sort of ease to my mind, you see, as I ain't in possession of the information myself."

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The Sergeant produced his warrant.—"Here is my authority to arrest you, Joseph Pellatt, alias Yankee Joe; suspected of having wilfully and of malice before-thought killed one Henry or Harry Grey at the Dunstan Gorge on Tuesday last. It's all in proper form, so you had better go easy."

And he held out the warrant for inspection.

The Senior Partner listened as one stunned by a great shock. The blood forsook his face, and with staring eyes, dilated nostrils, and lips apart, he stood speechless and horror-stricken. His extreme emotion was interpreted by the spectators as an evidence of guilt. They recoiled from him—from this Cain, denounced as the slayer of his brother—with horror equal to his own. Even the accustomed Sergeant saw only the terror of a detected criminal.

The intense silence that followed the reading of the formidable document was painful. It was first broken by the Senior Partner.

"What?" he gasped. "Will—Harry dead?—Killed? And I suspected of being his murderer? My God Did you say that?"

Despite his thorough belief in the American's guilt—a belief which was the natural outgrowth of the professional atmosphere of suspicion wherein the worthy Sergeant lived, and moved, and had his being—he could not but be affected by the evident distress of the prisoner.

"Yes," he replied, "that is the offence you are charged with. Indeed I hope you'll be able to prove your innocence. At present things look very black against you."

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And he produced a pair of handcuffs. Pratt heeded them not till the Surgeon attempted to fasten them on his wrists. Then the touch of the cold iron roused him. He drew himself up to his full height, and firmly compressed his lips.

"I'll go with you, Sir," he said very quietly. "You needn't put the bracelets on me. I'll be peaceable enough, never fear. Harry dead! Murdered! Poor Harry! You'll please pardon me, Mister, and gents all; you see I was very fond of poor Harry."

And the strong man bowed his face upon his hands, and wept like a child.