The Outspan Part 21

Suddenly a sense of danger came upon him, and, looking up quickly, he fancied he saw a man's head duck behind the ridge of hill. Reining up his horse instantly, he waited for a moment or so, watching intently and warily the while. Then, turning his horse's head, he rode towards another elevation, still watching the spot where the head had disappeared.

As he turned four hors.e.m.e.n dashed out, and scattering wide apart, rode towards him. With a muttered curse he tightened the rein and galloped off in an opposite direction. The man's face, soft and gentle as a woman's a moment before, grew hard and colourless; his mouth was set, and his eyes had a bright and wicked gleam in them.

Riding at their best over the rough ground, Ansley kept his lead easily; but Hardy drew away from the others, and they, seeing the chase tend towards the river, took a cut down to the nearest crossing, hoping to cut the pursued man off on the other bank, or take him while swimming the river, as he would have to do further down.

Seeing that Hardy was alone, Ansley slackened his pace till only thirty yards divided them, then, raising his open hand, called to him by name to stop. The answer was a revolver shot, closely followed by a second one, one of which whistled unpleasantly close. Seeing the man with whom he had to deal, Ansley let his horse go, and heading for the deepest part of the river, soon had a lead of several hundred yards. Plunging into the river, he swam his horse across, and as he neared the other side, Hardy, who had ridden his best in the last bit, came up to the bank and again fired at him. The bullet splashed far behind him, and, looking round, he saw Hardy force his horse into the stream to follow him.

As he reached the bank Ansley slipped off and loosened the girths, then turned and watched his pursuer. The look on his face was not good to see: the expression was vindictive and cruel, for the man's spirit was bitter with rancour. This was the sorest blow of all, that the man who owed him all he had--ay, even his life most likely!--should go out of his way to hunt him down and shoot him like a dog. As he watched, a gleam of light shot into his eyes and a smile flashed across his face, for Hardy's horse began to fail, and once or twice it stopped. The third time it reared up as it felt the spurs again, and Hardy, to save himself, swung off and tried to seize the pommel of the saddle; but the frightened, tired horse swayed round and, striking out wildly with his front feet, brought one down with a crash on Hardy's bare grey head. He was but twenty yards from the bank; he made one weak effort to swim--a white upturned face showed for a moment and then disappeared.

Ansley stood perfectly still, the same smile still curling the corners of his mouth as he watched his pursuer go down. As the water closed over the pale set face, there came to him the faint, trembling sound of a whispered "Good-night!" A run, a spring, a few quick strokes, and he had the drowning man by the collar and was dragging him out. A minute later he stretched him out on the bank, and waited for the effects of the blow to pa.s.s off.

"My G.o.d!" he thought, "what a demon I have become! _Her_ father and _my_ friend, and I would have let him die because unknowingly he injured me. I _would_ have done it, too, but for her!"

Hardy lay against a gra.s.sy bank, and at the first sign of returning consciousness Ansley leaned over him, chafing his hands and watching his eyes for a sign of recognition.

"Where am I?" he asked faintly. "Ah, I see--I know!" And as he became stronger, he said: "Ah, I have you; you are my prisoner." He made a feeble effort to grasp Ansley's throat, but, looking up into his eyes, he dropped back suddenly with a look of intense excitement, exclaiming eagerly: "Man! Who are you? What is your name? Surely--surely you-- the diamonds, you know, that Christmas night! I know you! Now I know you!" Ansley looked at him steadily, and answered: "Yes, Mr Hardy, I am the man you have looked for. My name is George Ansley Norman. But just lie quiet for a few minutes, and you'll be all right. And then we'll get back to the house as soon as we can!"

Hardy closed his eyes and groaned aloud, but after a pause said falteringly:

"Norman--but the convict--it _can't_ be true! my G.o.d! it _can't_ be true!"

"It _is_ true, Hardy. I am the convict, but there was no crime.

Between man and man, and by the G.o.d above me, I am as innocent of it as you are."

"My boy, I believe you, and thank G.o.d for it," said the old man fervently, and the tears came into his eyes as he added brokenly: "And to think that I tried to shoot you. _You_, my best of friends--how can you forgive me!"

"Oh, that's all right now--you see, you didn't do it, so it doesn't matter; besides, you did not know me, and how could you help it?"

While they were talking, on the same bank, a few yards off, the farmer and the two detectives were crouching behind the bushes and creeping closer up.

Hardy spoke again, and a painful flush suffused his face.

"It is the revolver you took from me that night. I have kept it ever since. I might have shot you with it. Take it from me again, and keep it, for my sake!"

He handed it up as he spoke, and Ansley took it, turned it round once or twice, and stooped to help his friend to rise.

As he bent forward, a voice called out: "Shoot quick, before he kills him!" Two revolver shots rang together, and with a half-stifled cry, Ansley threw up his arms and dropped at Hardy's feet. A wild scream of agony burst from Hardy, and, weak as he was, his arms were in an instant round his friend.

"My G.o.d!" he cried wildly, "you have murdered him! Stand back I leave him! Speak to me, my boy, speak! Where is it? Where are you hit?"

But Ansley shook his head; his face was drawn and pale, and there was a look of intense suffering in his eyes. His voice quivered as he whispered slowly:

"Home--old chap--home--home--your daughter. I want--to--speak--to-- her!"

So they carried him back as gently, as tenderly as they could--the man they had hunted and shot down; they laid him on the bed he had that morning risen from, and three of them left him. Whitton came in and would have tried to stanch the wound, but Ansley shook his head. In broken whispers he told Hardy how he had come to the house and waited for him; how he had met Grace and told her all, excepting only his ident.i.ty. He asked him to go to her and tell her that, and ask her would she come to him that he might see her once more.

The smile of welcome died on Grace's lips as she saw her father's face.

He told her all as best he could. There was no attempt at control--it would have been useless. The sorrow-stricken old man, with sobs and tears, tried to break it to her, but it required little telling.

Distracted with sorrow, remorse, and love for "his boy," as he called him, he blamed himself for it. He lost all control of himself.

"My child! my child! three times I tried to shoot him. I would have killed him; and yet I should have drowned, and he saved me--_he_ saved me--the man I tried to shoot! He saved me--he was helping me, when--oh, my G.o.d!--they shot him through the back. Come to him, my child. Gracie darling, be brave and bear up. Oh, G.o.d! they have killed him!"

She went alone to where the dying man lay. Softly she entered, but he heard her, and his eyes followed her as she walked to his side. In silence she sat by him, taking his hand and stroking it gently. Slowly he was bleeding to death, yet his eyes were bright as he looked at her.

He smiled at her and whispered huskily:

"I told you you were my good angel, and see, you have come to me. I _cannot_ thank you enough. I asked for you because I want you to bid me one more good-night--good-night for ever. I want to hear you say I am your friend, of whom you are not ashamed. Can you say it, Gracie?"

The words, the look, were too much. The girl's pent-up grief burst out in one heart-broken cry, and, falling on her knees, she kissed the hand of the man whom rightly or wrongly she honoured above all men.

This was their Christmas Day--twelve years since first their paths had crossed--twelve circles in the web of life! They were three units amongst the countless millions of the earth, and so, what of them? What of sorrow? What of death? What of the wreck of new-born hopes? For to the countless millions it is still A Merry Christmas!

The End.