The Lust of Hate by Guy Newell Boothby (digital book reader txt) 📕
"If you send him away to the Mail Change," I cried, looking Bartrand square in the eye, "where you hope they won't take him in--and, even if they do, you know they'll not take the trouble to nurse him--you'll be as much a murderer as the man who stabs another to the heart, and so I tell you to your face."
Bartrand came a step closer to me, with his fists clenched and his face showing as white with passion as his tanned skin would permit.
"You call me a murderer, you dog?" he hissed. "Then, by God, I'll act up to what I've been threatening to do these months past and clear you off the place at once. Pack up your traps and make yourself scarce within an hour, o
Read free book «The Lust of Hate by Guy Newell Boothby (digital book reader txt) 📕» - read online or download for free at americanlibrarybooks.com
- Author: Guy Newell Boothby
- Performer: -
Read book online «The Lust of Hate by Guy Newell Boothby (digital book reader txt) 📕». Author - Guy Newell Boothby
with the rheumatiz and the lumbago I’m none so spry as I used to be,
and there’s gold enough in the old shaft yonder to make the fortunes
of both of us when once we can get at it.”
Naturally I lost no time in closing with his offer, and the
following morning found me in the bowels of the earth as hard at work
with pick and shovel as my weakness would permit. Unfortunately,
however, for our dream of wealth, the mine did not prove as brilliant
an investment as its owner had predicted for it, and six week’s
labour showed us the futility of proceeding further. Accordingly we
abandoned it, packed our swags, and set off for a mountain range away
to the southward, on prospecting thoughts intent. Finding nothing to
suit us there, we migrated into the west, where we tried our hands at
a variety of employments for another eighteen months or thereabouts.
At length, on the Diamintina River, in Western Queensland, we parted
company, myself to take a position of storekeeper on Markapurlie
station in the same neighbourhood, and Ben to try his luck on a new
field that had just come into existence near the New South Wales
border.
For something like three years we neither saw nor heard anything
of each other. Whether Ben had succeeded on the field to which he had
proceeded when he had said “good-bye” to me, or whether, as usual, he
had been left stranded, I could only guess. My own life, on the other
hand, was uneventful in the extreme.
From morning till night I kept the station books, served out
rations to boundary riders and other station hands, and, in the
intervals, thought of my old life, and wondered whether it would ever
be my lot to set foot in England again. So far I had been one of
Fate’s failures, but though I did not know it, I was nearer fortune’s
money bag then than I had ever been in my life before.
The manager of Markapurlie was a man named Bartrand, an upstart
and a bully of the first water. He had never taken kindly to me nor I
to him. Every possible means that fell in his way of annoying me he
employed; and, if the truth must be told, I paid his tyranny back
with interest. He seldom spoke save to find fault; I never addressed
him except in a tone of contempt which must have been infinitely
galling to a man of his suspicious antecedents. That he was only
waiting his chance to rid himself of me was as plain as the nose upon
his face, and for this very reason I took especial care so to arrange
my work that it should always fail to give him the opportunity he
desired. The crash, however, was not to be averted, and it came even
sooner than I expected.
One hot day, towards the end of summer, I had been out to one of
the boundary rider’s huts with the month’s supply of rations, and,
for the reason that I had a long distance to travel, did not reach
the station till late in the afternoon. As I drove up to the little
cluster of buildings beside the lagoon I noticed a small crowd
collected round the store door. Among those present I could
distinguish the manager, one of the overseers (a man of Bartrand’s
own kidney, and therefore his especial crony), two or three of the
hands, and as the reason of their presence there, what looked like
the body of a man lying upon the ground at their feet. Having handed
my horses over to the black boy at the stockyard, I strode across to
see what might be going forward. Something in my heart told me I was
vitally concerned in it, and bade me be prepared for any
emergency.
Beaching the group I glanced at the man upon the ground, and then
almost shouted my surprise aloud. He was none other then Ben Garman,
but oh, how changed! His once stalwart frame shrunk to half its
former size, his face was pinched and haggard to a degree that
frightened me, and, as I looked, I knew there could be no doubt about
one thing, the man was as ill as a man could well be and yet be
called alive.
Pushing the crowd unceremoniously aside, I knelt down and spoke to
him. He was mumbling something to himself and evidently did not
recognise me.
“Ben,” I cried, “Ben, old man, don’t you remember Gilbert
Pennethorne? Tell me what’s wrong with you, old fellow.”
But he only rolled his head and muttered something about “five
hundred paces north-west from the creek and just in a line with the
blasted gum.”
Realizing that it was quite useless talking to him, and that if I
wished to prolong his life I must get him to bed as soon as possible,
I requested one of the men standing by to lend a hand and help me to
carry him into my hut. This was evidently the chance Bartrand
wanted.
“To the devil with such foolery,” he cried. “You, Johnstone, stand
back and let the man alone. I’ll not have him malingering here, I
tell you. I know his little game, and yours too, Pennethorne, and I
warn you, if you take him into your hut I’ll give you the sack that
instant, and so you remember what I say.”
“But you surely don’t want the man to die?” I cried, astonished
almost beyond the roach of words at his barbarity. “Can’t you see how
ill he is? Examine him for yourself. He is delirious now, and if he’s
not looked to he’ll be dead in a few hours.”
“And a good job too,” said the manager brutally. “For my part, I
believe he’s only shamming. Any way I’m not going to have him
doctored here. If he’s as ill as you say I’ll send him up to the Mail
Change, and they can doctor him there. He looks as if he had enough
money about him to pay Gibbs his footing.”
As Garman was in rags and his condition evidenced the keenest
poverty, this sally was treated as a fine joke by the overseer and
the understrappers, who roared with laughter, and swore that they had
never heard anything better in their lives. It roused my blood,
however, to boiling pitch, and I resolved that, come what might, I
would not desert my friend.
“If you send him away to the Mail Change,” I cried, looking
Bartrand square in the eye, “where you hope they won’t take him
in—and, even if they do, you know they’ll not take the trouble to
nurse him—you’ll be as much a murderer as the man who stabs another
to the heart, and so I tell you to your face.”
Bartrand came a step closer to me, with his fists clenched and his
face showing as white with passion as his tanned skin would
permit.
“You call me a murderer, you dog?” he hissed. “Then, by God, I’ll
act up to what I’ve been threatening to do these months past and
clear you off the place at once. Pack up your traps and make yourself
scarce within an hour, or, by the Lord Harry, I’ll forget-myself and
take my boot to you. I’ve had enough of your fine gentleman airs, my
dandy, and I tell you the place will smell sweeter when you’re out of
it.”
I saw his dodge, and understood why he had behaved towards Ben in
such a scurvy fashion. But not wanting to let him see that I was
upset by his behaviour, I looked him straight in the face as coolly
as I knew how and said—
“So you’re going to get rid of me because I’m man enough to want
to save the life of an old friend, Mr. Bartrand, are you? Well, then,
let me tell you that you’re a meaner hound than even I took you for,
and that is saying a great deal. However, since you wish me to be off
I’ll go.”
“If you don’t want to be pitched into the Creek yonder you’ll go
without giving me any more of your lip,” he answered. “I tell you I’m
standing just about all I can carry now. If we weren’t in Australia,
but across the water in some countries I’ve known, you’d have been
dangling from that gum tree over yonder by this time.”
I paid no attention to this threat, but, still keeping as calm as
I possibly could, requested him to inform me if I was to consider
myself discharged.
“You bet you are,” said he, “and I’ll not be happy till I’ve seen
your back on the sand ridge yonder.”
“Then,” said I, “I’ll go without more words. But I’ll trouble you
for my cheque before I do so. Also for a month’s wages in lieu of
notice.”
Without answering he stepped over Ben’s prostrate form and
proceeded into the store. I went to my hut and rolled up my swag.
This done, I returned to the office, to find them hoisting Ben into
the tray buggy which was to take him to the Mail Change, twenty miles
distant. The manager stood in the verandah with a cheque in his hand.
When I approached he t, handed it to me with an ill-concealed grin
of satisfaction on his face.
“There is your money, and I’ll have your receipt,” he said. Then,
pointing to a heap of harness beyond the verandah rails, he
continued, “Your riding saddle is yonder, and also your pack saddles
and bridles. I’ve sent a black boy down for your horses. When they
come up you can clear out as fast as you please. If I catch you on
the run again look out, that’s all.”
“I’ll not trouble you, never fear,” I answered. “I have no desire
to see you or Markapurlie again as long as I live. But before I go
I’ve got something to say to you, and I want these men to hear it. I
want them to know that I consider you a mean, lying, contemptible
murderer. And, what’s more, I’m going to let them see me cowhide you
within an inch of your rascally life.”
I held a long green-hide quirt in my hand, and as I spoke I
advanced upon him, making it whistle in the air. But surprised as he
was at my audacity he was sufficiently quick to frustrate my
intention. Bushing in at me he attempted to seize the hand that held
the whip, but he did not affect his purpose until I had given him a
smart cut with it across the face. Then, seeing that he meant
fighting, for I will do him the justice to say that he was no coward,
I threw the thong away and gave him battle with my fists. He was not
the sort of foe to be taken lightly. The man had a peculiar knack of
his own, and, what was more, he was as hard as whalebone and almost
as pliable. However he had not the advantage of the training I had
had, nor was he as powerful a man. I let him have it straight from
the shoulder as often and as hard as he would take it, and three
times he measured his full length in the dust. Each time he came up
with a fresh mark upon his face, and I can tell you the sight did me
good. My blood was thoroughly afire by this time, and the only thing
that could cool it was the touch of his face against my fist. At last
I caught him
Comments (0)