The Lost Valley Part 16

"Now," said Bradby, when they stood once more on level ground, "the further we get into this timber the better, I say. I don't suppose any pa.s.ser-by would be likely to notice that we've come down here, do you?"

"All things considered," Mr. c.u.mshaw said slowly, "we've made little mess. We've got to thank that gra.s.sy slope for that. If it had been dry earth there'd have been tracks enough in all conscience. Yes, I think we can reasonably say that we've no need to fear anything--unless accidents."

As near as they could judge the valley was about a mile across at its widest, but it merged so gently into the further side of the ranges that it was almost impossible to say exactly. The wood grew thicker as the men advanced, until presently it was with difficulty that they could make their way forward.

"Getting pretty close," Bradby said at length.

c.u.mshaw nodded. He was too busy thinking over certain little peculiarities of the wood to take much notice of his companion's remarks. His quick eye had seen little cuts in the trees, bits of bark that had been chipped off here and there, and the sight set him wondering. The cuts were curiously like the blazing of a trail. They were regular, they were all about the same height on the tree-trunks, and they looked as if they had been made with an axe, not the crude stone weapon of an aborigine, but the sharp steel axe of a white man.

Yet the place seemed deserted, and in all the air was that sense of utter desolation and absence of life that only those who have lived close to Nature can feel and understand.

"We're not the first here," c.u.mshaw said suddenly.

Bradby turned on him in alarm. "What d'y' mean?" he asked indistinctly.

"Some of the trees are blazed," c.u.mshaw pointed out. "The cuts are clean, and that means they've been done with an axe. But they're all weather-worn, so it must have been some time ago."

"I don't like the look of it all the same," Bradby said despondently.

"It means that someone else has stumbled on this place--it doesn't matter much whether it was yesterday or ten years ago--and what has been done before will almost certainly be done again. If those troopers come this way----"

"What's the good of crossing the bridge before you come to it?" c.u.mshaw interrupted. "We've been lucky so far, and who's to say our luck won't hold out till the end?"

"It's the end I'm looking at," Bradby said gloomily. "It might be the sort of end neither of us'd fancy."

Mr. c.u.mshaw made no immediate reply. He was peering very intently through the boles of the trees as if he was not quite sure that what he saw was really there.

"What are you looking at?" Bradby demanded irritably.

"If that's not a bit of a clearing and a hut on the edge of it, I'm a lunatic," Abel c.u.mshaw said.

"h.e.l.l!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Bradby, and he in his turn peered through the trees.

"There's no smoke coming from it," c.u.mshaw said comfortingly. "It looks deserted. I daresay it's been like that for years."

"I don't like this place," Bradby remarked with naive irrelevance. "It fair gives me the creeps. There's spooks about here."

"If you talk that way," said c.u.mshaw fiercely, "I'll put a bullet through you. That sort of talk's only fit for children. You're not a child. You ought to have more sense. There's things here doubtless that you and I don't understand, but they're quite capable of a rational explanation, so don't go digging up any stuff about ghosts until you find you can't explain them any other way. There's the hut in front of us, and either there's someone in it or there isn't. If there is, we've got to use our wits; if there isn't, the game's ours."

"Have it your own way," said Bradby. "I'm game enough when I know what I'm tackling. I only mentioned I didn't like the feel of the place, and I don't see that that gives you any call to say what you have."

"We'll call it off until we've investigated," c.u.mshaw replied. "You stay here with the horses, and I'll creep forward a bit and see if anyone's home. All the same, I'm willing to bet that the place's deserted."

"Maybe it is and maybe it isn't," suggested Bradby. "However, you go off as you say and I'll wait here for you."

Abel c.u.mshaw threw the reins to his companion, slid his revolver holsters round to the front within easy reach, should he need the weapons they contained, and slipped through the trees with the silence of a marauding tom-cat. Bradby watched him with some misgiving. No man could say with certainty just what secret the dilapidated hut held, and Bradby's state of mind was such that he took the gloomier view of the situation. He would not have been very much surprised to see half a dozen troopers issue from the hut. He would have taken it as the inevitable ending of such an adventure. He failed to understand the natural cheerfulness with which c.u.mshaw faced the situation. He was bright and volatile enough himself when dealing with the ordinary man--his courage was of that average quality that is always at its best when exercised before an admiring or frightened audience--but the abnormal brought home to him his own futility of purpose and his natural helplessness. While realising all this he was not man enough to rise above and overcome the limitations of his spirit.

c.u.mshaw swung round the corner of the hut and out of sight. Then it was that Bradby began to feel absolutely deserted, and the queer oppressiveness of the place descended on him as one shuts down the lid of a box. He was not the type of man who finds companions.h.i.+p in animals, and the nearness of the horses in nowise mitigated his fear. For he was afraid, unashamedly afraid, though of what he could no more have said than he could fly. He knew without understanding how the knowledge came to him that the valley was filled with the ghosts of dead things, dead trees, dead leaves, and perhaps dead hopes. His nerve was going; the intolerably close atmosphere of the wood brought little beads of perspiration out on him, and when he brushed his forehead with a trembling hand he was surprised to find it wet.

The horses stirred uneasily, and the lame animal gave a low whinny.

Then in the next instant the eternal silence of the valley was broken by a human voice. The suddenness of it startled Bradby, and it wasn't until he saw c.u.mshaw waving to him that he realised that the sound he had heard was his companion's "Coo-ee." He loosed his hold on the reins, allowing the two horses to wander where they might, and commenced to run towards the hut. Even as he ran his faculties collected themselves, and when he reached the corner of the hut he was almost his own man again.

c.u.mshaw eyed him curiously as he pulled up. "Startled you a bit, didn't I?" he said.

"I thought something had happened to you when I heard you call," Bradby answered, a trifle untruthfully.

"Don't you worry about me," c.u.mshaw said with affected unconcern, though something in the man's nervous tone troubled him in a way he could not define. "I've found the old chap who made the marks on the trees," he ran on.

"Where?" Bradby demanded. But he looked towards the hut-door apprehensively.

"He's in there," c.u.mshaw said, following the other's glance, "but there isn't anything to worry about. He's as dead as a door-nail."

"Dead," Bradby repeated dazedly.

c.u.mshaw nodded. "This many a day," he said in semi-explanation. "But come in and see what there is to be seen."

As if perfectly sure of his companion's acquiescence he turned and walked into the hut. After a moment's hesitation Bradby followed. The place smelt a trifle musty, and all the air was full of the subtle reek of decay. It was rather dim in the hut, and at first Mr. Bradby could see nothing but some indefinite shapes that might be anything at all.

Gradually his eyes accustomed themselves to the gloom, and in the farthest corner he spied a rough bed of planks.

"That's him," said Mr. c.u.mshaw irreverently, and stirred something with his foot.

Mr. Bradby looked a little closer this time. The something that c.u.mshaw had stirred turned out to be the whitened skeleton of a man. The hideous thing about it was that it was not stretched out on the plank bed; it was propped up, as if the man had died while sitting. A rusted gun lay in line with the thing's left thigh, and Bradby, following the muzzle with a trained eye, saw that it was pointed at the man's head.

"Suicide," said c.u.mshaw. "Look at his head. He's blown out what little brains he had."

He was right. The frontal bones of the skull were shattered and twisted by the force of the charge; they gave the rest of the face a ghastly, leering look which turned Bradby physically sick. The other man was evidently troubled by no such qualms, for he loosened the gun from the bony hand that had clung to it so desperately through all those years, and tumbled the skeleton itself on to the plank bed.

"I'm going outside," said Mr. Bradby suddenly, and disappeared through the doorway with suspicious alacrity.

Mr. c.u.mshaw laughed softly. "Weak stomach," he murmured. "Well, someone's got to clear this old chap out, and, as it's certain to be me, I might as well do it first as last."

At that he gathered the white, clean-picked bones up in his arms, carried his burden through the doorway, and deposited it carefully on the gra.s.s outside the hut. His eye lighted on Mr. Bradby, who was sitting on the ground some distance away, looking very pale, and having all the appearance of a man who had reluctantly parted with his lunch.

"What the deuce are you doing?" he asked in tones that betrayed a certain amount of trepidation not unmixed with vague horror.

"Evicting the late tenant," Mr. c.u.mshaw grinned with cheerful inconsequence.

"Why?"

There was more than a question in the quick monosyllable. It contained also a hint of protest.

"Because we're going to camp inside the hut, and two's company and three's more of a crowd than I like. This old chap can stop out here for the night; I don't suppose he'll mind it much. If he's gone to the Abode of the Blessed he'll be above worrying over such mundane matters, and if he's anywhere else he'll be too much occupied to do anything but attend to the burnt spots."

"You shouldn't speak like that of the dead," Bradby said solemnly. "It's not right."

"If we stopped to consider whether a thing was right or wrong before we did it," c.u.mshaw retorted, "you and I wouldn't be here this evening. If you're wise, you'll leave all that talk till morning. The shadows are closing in, and we'll have the night on us before we know where we are.

I'd suggest that we catch the horses while the light's still good. You must remember they've got those saddle-bags on them still. Of course, there's just enough food to make a meal for a pair of small-sized tom-cats, but I fancy we'll manage on it till morning. Who knows what we may find then? Perhaps a kangaroo, or at the worst a native-bear."

Bradby rose reluctantly to his feet, and, with a nervous glance at the remains of the unknown, followed his partner in crime. The horses had not strayed far; they were busily cropping the gra.s.s, and seemed quite content with their lot. The two men unloaded the saddle-bags and carried the contents into the hut. Then they hobbled the horses and turned them loose for the night.