The Gold Seekers (24 page)

“You find gold!” the aborigine declared. He gestured to the nugget, which, Morgan realized belatedly, he was holding in full view. “Gold belong my master.”

Jasper Morgan’s reaction was at once angry and dismayed, and he acted without conscious thought. The nugget slipped from his grasp, and the heavy Colt he always carried was out of its holster and in his hand. He brought the butt down with savage strength on the aborigine’s unprotected head, felling him instantly, and two more blows were enough to shatter his skull. The old man did not cry out; he lay quite still where he had fallen, the sightless eyes gazing up in mute reproach at his killer, and Morgan, shuddering, turned away, unable to meet them.

After a while he recovered his lost composure and, bracing himself, dragged the body into a thick clump of brushwood some distance from the river. There, he thought, it would in all probability elude discovery, unless a very extensive search were made, and … who would bother to search for an old blackfellow, long past his prime, who had simply vanished? Blackfellows went on what they called walkabout, and this one, if he were missed, would doubtless be supposed to have done just that. Tempest would not bother his head about his disappearance—why should he?

The grisly task completed, Jasper Morgan made for the secluded gully in which he had left his horses, to find to his impotent fury that only the packhorse was there. The other —an expensive animal he had purchased in Sydney soon after his arrival there—had slipped its tether and made off, the Lord only knew where. Trying to search for the stray would be useless in the darkness, he knew, and cursing ill-temperedly, he unloaded the packhorse and set up his small lean-to canvas tent beneath the shelter of a gnarled gum tree. He lit a fire but had scarcely got it going when a heavy shower extinguished its flickering flames, and cold and disgruntled, he was compelled to retire to his tent, unfed and very conscious of the pangs of hunger gnawing at his vitals.

Nevertheless, once inside the tent and wrapped in a horse blanket, he slept, the nugget he had so providentially unearthed from the riverbed hidden in his saddlebag and the saddlebag serving to pillow his head.

He suffered a rude awakening. A man burst into the tent and, without a word, dragged him unceremoniously from it. Morgan protested angrily, only to recognize the deaf-mute Dickon as his abductor, to whom his protests were inaudible. Outside the tent, however, both calmly sitting their horses, were Tempest and his son, and Morgan unleashed his fury on them.

“The devil take you, sir!” he flung at Rick Tempest, when

he had regained his breath. “By what right do you serve a law-abiding traveler in this manner? I’d have you know that I am a gentleman, sir, not some convict-bred scum. Lewis is my name—Major Joseph Lewis, late of Her Majesty’s Household Cavalry. And if this is your land, sir, I am merely passing through on my way from the gold diggings.”

His indignant bluster succeeded. Rick Tempest motioned to Dickon to release him, and dismounting from his horse, he apologized courteously and introduced himself and his companions by name.

“Richard Tempest, sir—my son Edmund and my nephew Dickon O’Shea. I’m extremely sorry Dickon manhandled you. Major Lewis, but we are seeking the killer of my head shepherd, an aborigine by the name of Winyara. An old man, sir, who had been in my employ since his boyhood and who has been brutally murdered.”

So they had found the miserable native’s body, Morgan thought, his heart sinking. Damn them, they must have instituted a very thorough search, since— He glanced skyward, to see that the sun was high in the blue, cloudless vault above his head. It was noon. He had foolishly overslept and, by so doing, had lost his chance to escape. He decided that to brazen it out would be the best course to pursue, and summoning all the practiced arrogance at his command, he proceeded to give vent to his annoyance.

Tempest heard him in politely restrained silence, and when at last the tirade came to an end, he waved a hand toward a horse his son was holding.

“Is this your mount, Major?” he asked.

“I—damme, yes, it is!” Morgan had not noticed the animal and was momentarily taken by surprise. “The infernal creature slipped its tether when I went to the river for water. That was why I made camp here last night. It was raining, and I could not go hunting for it in the darkness, of course. Where did you find my horse, Mr. Tempest?”

“Close to where Winyara’s body was lying,” Tempest answered. His tone was quiet, betraying no suspicion, and emboldened by this, Jasper Morgan expressed regret at the loss of the native shepherd.

“You’ll feel his loss, I don’t doubt, sir, with so many white farm laborers deserting their employment to join the rush to the diggings. It was the same with the ships that arrived in San Francisco from the East. Their crews deserted, and the ships were left in the harbor to rot for all they cared.”

“You were in California, Major?” Tempest asked.

He had taken the bait, Jasper Morgan told himself, and smiled. If he played his cards right, this meeting might well lead to an invitation to a meal, and perhaps the offer of a bed for a night or two. He would accept, of course, partly to make certain that all suspicion regarding the aborigine shepherd was allayed, but mainly because a brief stay would enable him to make a second search of the riverbed in the hope of finding another nugget—or even a number of nuggets—where he had stumbled on the one now hidden in his saddlebag.

He talked knowledgeably of his experiences in California, giving the impression he was always at pains to create concerning his expertise and, for good measure, casually throwing in the mention of his ownership of the brig Banshee. Both the Tempests were clearly impressed, and he was duly offered the invitation, which he accepted without undue eagerness.

“A cooked meal and the opportunity to wash and shave and get out of these damp clothes would be most welcome, Mr. Tempest. But if it is inconvenient for you, I will be on my way back to Sydney Town. Do not, I beg you, sir, feel under any obligation to a passing stranger.”

“We owe you some recompense for the manner in which my nephew received you,” Tempest said. He aimed a playful slap at Dickon’s head, and the giant, unabashed, grinned back at him. All three men assisted with the dismantling of the tent, and as Dickon strapped it onto his packhorse, Morgan saw that they had brought the body of the old aborigine with them. Covered inadequately by a coat, it lay across the withers of the deaf-mute’s horse, and Morgan suppressed a shudder at the sight of it.

But, he told himself, turning abruptly away, he had had no choice—the infernal blackfellow had observed what he had done and would almost certainly have reported it to his master.

“The poor devil!” he exclaimed, feeling that some comment was called for. “Who would have had reason to kill him? One of his tribe, perhaps?”

“Very unlikely,” Tempest answered, suddenly tightlipped. “We are on good terms with the local blacks, and there hasn’t been a raid or an attack in this district for ten years and more, has there, Edmund?”

He appealed to his son, and the young man retorted with what, to Jasper Morgan, was surprising bitterness.

“Old Winyara was the salt of the earth, Major Lewis. No one who knew him would have harmed a hair of his head. But there are a fair number of rogues and ruffians among the gold diggers these days, alas! New immigrants, particularly, who have heard exaggerated tales about our native blacks. They tend to fear and mistrust them, so …“He shrugged. “I’d give a lot to get my hands on the man that killed Winyara, I can tell you. I’d gladly break his accursed neck!”

This was a dangerous topic, and Morgan hurriedly changed it. As they rode together toward the distant homestead of Pengallon, he talked of California and of the success he had enjoyed when prospecting in the Sacramento Valley, and then, his tone modest rather than boastful, he went on to describe the differing methods employed by the American diggers in their search for alluvial gold.

“The forty-niners began as they’ve done here, panning the rivers and streams with anything that came to hand—old frying pans, tin plates, literally anything. But that was soon superseded by more scientific methods of working. Cradle rockers and sluices were introduced, whole reaches of the rivers were dammed, exposing the sandbars, and where gold-bearing quartz was found, mechanical ore-crushing machinery was imported from the eastern states and brought to San Francisco by ships via the Horn… .“Jasper Morgan talked on, conscious that both Tempest and his son were giving him their undivided and respectful attention.

By the time they pulled up in the rear of the imposing farmhouse, he was confident that his professional opinion would be sought and that he would be urged to prolong his stay for as long as it might suit him to do so. It would not be for very long, though; two or three days, at most, should suffice for his purpose, and then he would put to sea in the Banshee and seek the newer, richer goldfields of Victoria, ahead of the inevitable influx of deserting seamen, fugitive laborers, and new immigrants now swarming in their thousands over the green and fertile farming land of New South Wales.

“I doubt if the licensed prospectors—those who have their claims on my stretch of the river—would stand idly by and permit me to dam it,” Tempest said with a rueful shrug as he dismounted. “We have a big mining camp less than half a mile downstream from my own workings. But—” He gave his rein to his son and motioned to Morgan to follow him. “Dickon will bed your horses down, Major Lewis, and I can furnish you with some dry clothing if you wish.”

“I have all I need here,” Morgan evaded quickly. He unbuckled his saddlebag, shaking his head to Dickon’s offer to relieve him of it, and slung its straps over his shoulder. Dear God, he thought, it would never do for Dickon to feel the weight of the infernal thing! He summoned a smile, and Tempest waved hospitably in the direction of his open front door.

“Come in, sir, and make the acquaintance of my wife and daughter. We’ll eat as soon as you’ve washed off the stains of travel and changed out of your damp clothes.”

The meal, when it was served half an hour later, was appetizing and substantial, and Jasper Morgan, his bodily comfort restored and his hunger satisfied, permitted himself to relax in what was proving extremely pleasant company. His hostess had, he learned, been born in Boston but had left America when she was only seventeen. A vivacious, handsome woman, she was, he judged, several years younger than her husband and still seemingly devoted to him, the glances they exchanged proof, to his observant eye, that any attempt to exert his predatory charm in her direction would be a waste of time.

The daughter, however, was another matter. Her name was Elizabeth, and she was, perhaps, sixteen or seventeen— a pretty, wide-eyed innocent, with her mother’s lovely fair coloring and slender figure and her father’s ready smile.

That he had made a favorable impression on her Morgan had no doubt. Probably, he thought, hidden away as she was on this isolated farm, her male acquaintance was confined to uncouth farmhands and the odd passing traveler, and her parents would make sure that she had no contact with the men at the diggings, despite the proximity of their camp.

He smiled and, for her benefit, held forth with practiced erudition on a variety of subjects, addressing her parents but watching the girl, at once pleased and stimulated by her response. His voice, he well knew, was that of an educated man, for had he not spent years perfecting his accent and the musical Welsh lilt that went with it?

Tempest was obviously a gentleman—a onetime naval officer, his informant had said—and Mrs. Tempest, Katie Tempest, was equally well bred. But—Morgan smiled smugly to himself—for all that, they were not hard to deceive. They took him at his face value, and he was careful to assume a modesty he did not often display, hinting at, rather than boasting of, his military achievements and worldwide travels. Indeed, he reflected cynically, because they were gentlefolk, they gave their trust instinctively to one whom they supposed to be of their own kind. It was not necessary to make false claims of the outrageous nature of those he had made so freely in California, in order to win the trust of Luke Murphy and his brother and the two Australians. Only the oafish Dickon continued to scowl at him across the table, but the half-wit, of course, could not hear what was being said, and therefore his hostility could be discounted.

The girl, Elizabeth, said little, but she hung on his words, her blue eyes shining, and Jasper Morgan found himself wishing that circumstances had been other than they were, for he had a weakness for girls of her age, and her fresh, glowing beauty attracted him strongly. But native caution restrained him, and he knew that he dared not linger for long on the Tempest property.

A careless word or a closer inspection of the contents of his saddlebag might all too easily arouse suspicion concerning his involvement in the killing of the infernal old aborigine shepherd, by whom, it appeared, the whole family had set great store. In any event, Morgan reminded himself, he wanted to be on his way to the new goldfields in Victoria before the rush followed in the wake of the recent discoveries there, as undoubtedly it would. Two days—that was the time he had set himself, and he must let nothing, not even the sweet young Elizabeth, turn him from his chosen course.

It took two days to pry three more sizable nuggets from the hole beneath the riverbed where he had found the first. He succeeded in doing so without being observed, but it required all his ingenuity to make an opportunity for his search, for Dickon dogged his footsteps, and only a providential crisis among the sheep in a far paddock enabled him to escape his shadow and rid himself temporarily of the friendly but inhibiting presence of Tempest and his son.

Nevertheless, it was with regret that Jasper Morgan finally took his leave, Tempest’s protestations of gratitude for his expert help and advice a sop to his conscience and a relief, after the lingering anxiety he had endured throughout his stay at Pengallon. They would lose less dust in their sluice, thanks to his work on the filters, and the rocker that Edmund and Dickon had constructed, under his supervision, would serve them in good stead—if there was still gold where Tempest had staked his claim.