The Moving Finger. Mary Gaunt

but whether it was Nell or her grandmother he could not at that distance or in that light say.

      He rode up to his mate quickly.

      “There’s some mischief brewing, Ned,” he said, looking towards the figure, which had apparently changed its mind, and was now walking in a direction which would bring it to the banks of the creek, a little beyond the cattle camp. “You waken the boys quietly, and tell ’em to be on the look out, and I ‘ll follow the old woman and see if I can’t circumvent her little tricks.”

      “It ain’t the old woman,” said Kirton, “it’s the gal.”

      “You be hanged,” said Fisher, who preferred Mrs. Durham should get the credit for any midnight escapades. “It’s the old harridan herself, and I ‘ll keep my eye on her.”

      He slipped to the ground, tied his reins to the stirrup, and the old stock horse, understanding the situation, stood quietly, while his master quickly and quietly followed in the footsteps of the girl, for it was Nellie; he was sure of that when she came abreast of the camp. She was evidently terribly hurried, and hardly seemed to notice the men and cattle as she passed. In truth Nellie did not, for her grandmother had kept so careful an eye on her, she had been unable to leave the hut until she was asleep, and now it was so late, she dared not take the longer and safer way round by the windings of the creek, lest her lover should have already started on his perilous ride. Whether she thought the men would not notice her or whether she hardly cared if they did, Fisher never knew. She held a cloth closely over her head and never turned to the right or left, though he thought his footsteps must be clearly audible as he tramped in his long riding boots over the crisp dry salt-bush.

      Truth to tell, Nellie heard nothing save the beating of her own heart. It was such a desperate venture, she was afraid of her grandmother, she was afraid of Ben Fisher, she was afraid even of the man she was trying to save, but most of all she was afraid of being too late, and so the poor child went on, her heart full of one passionate, unspoken prayer, that she might be in time to save him. It was little wonder then that she never turned her head, never heard the footsteps so close behind her. She reached the brink of the creek at length and peered into its depths, then turned and skirted along the top of the bank, Fisher following closely in her track.

      They had gone but a little way when he saw, greatly to his astonishment, that the bank, instead of being a steep drop of about twenty feet, gently sloped like it did near the hut, and a track, half hidden by thick scrub, ran down the slope. Down this track the girl went swiftly, her skirts raising a little whirl of dust behind her. The man paused a moment, and by the light of the moon examined his pistols to see they were loaded, for he judged he was doing an unwise thing. Should there be men there, as he more than half suspected, there was no knowing what might happen; but still he never thought of turning back, that Nellie was there was more than sufficient reason he should follow. When he looked again he was startled to find she had vanished, and the measured sound of a horse’s hoof-beats broke on his ear. At the same moment he saw the path took a turn in the scrub, and drawing out a pistol, ran down it. As he turned the corner, he came full on Nellie standing motionless in the moon-light; the covering had fallen from her head, and she was stretching out her arms to a mounted figure which was draped, horse and all, in a long white cloth which fell almost to the ground.

      It flashed across the overseer that this was the “Trotting Cob,” this was the ghost he had been warned against, and a very substantial, life-like ghost it was too. He wondered as he stood there that any man could be deceived.

      The girl stood right in its path, right between the two men, and to move, the horseman must either ride over her or turn into the scrub.

      He seemed inclined to do neither, but with an angry oath flung back the covering from his face.

      “You, girl!” he said.

      Then she burst out, half-sobbing, “Oh, Jim, Jim! I was afraid I ‘d be too late. Oh, Jim, Gran wouldn’t let—”

      “Too late!” said the man; he spoke apparently with an effort, but in such grave, cultured tones that Fisher, who was a man of but little education, himself stood silent with wonder. “Too early, I think. I told you how it would be, Nell. I believed in you, Nell, so help me God, I did, but I saw you this afternoon with that man, and now you have betrayed me. You will have it then,” and before Fisher could stop him or shield her, he had drawn a pistol from his belt and shot her in the breast. So close she was there was not a chance of missing, and she fell backwards and lay there in the dusty track, the pale moonlight lighting up her fair hair, and the dark stain widening, widening, on the bosom of her dress.

      Fisher’s first thought was for vengeance, but his hand shook and his shot flew wide, and the other man, apparently giving no heed to him, flung himself from his saddle on to the ground beside the girl.

      “Oh, Nell, Nell, little girl, and I trusted you.”

      She put her little bloodstained hand on his arm, and smiled up into his face with such a world of love in the dying eyes, that Fisher looking on dared not for very pity mar her last moments by word or sigh.

      Time enough when she was gone, for the two men to settle accounts.

      “Jes’ so,” she gasped, her one idea strong in death; “I was—near, too late—don’—go—nigh the camp. Ben Fisher—will—shoot the ghost—on—sight.”

      “But—but—”

      Pity for the girl, dying misjudged by the hand she loved, impelled Fisher to speak.

      How great had been his share in the tragedy he hardly as yet realized; that would come later.

      “It wasn’t her fault this afternoon,” he said roughly; “it was mine, and this evening she never knew I followed her.”

      “Oh, my God—my little girl, my poor little girl.”

      He lifted her up in his arms and made a half effort to staunch the wound, but she was evidently dying fast—past all human aid.

      “Jim—you—won’t—go—anigh—the—camp?”

      “Nellie, Nellie, don’t die, my darling—don’t leave me; don’t let me have this on my conscience. I love you, Nellie—you are all there is to live for. I love you.”

      “Better ‘n her?” she gasped.

      He looked down at her in wonder, then covered the white face with kisses.

      “Better a thousand times—better than any woman that ever lived. Forgive me, Nell, forgive me.”

      She was going fast, but she understood him, and the man looking on saw peace and happiness on her face.

      “I love you, Jim.”