The British Mysteries Edition: 14 Novels & 70+ Short Stories. Sapper
sir," he remarked at length. "Sure Cornish didn't tap you on the head or anything last night?"
Jim laughed. "No, we're quite sane, Mike. But we're going back to England, to look for somebody."
"I hope you find her," said Mike, and then he strolled to the window and stood staring out down the dusty street. "I hope you find her," he repeated. "I reckon a woman—the right woman—is worth most other things put together. Though some of us don't have much luck that way." He paused and drummed on the window. "But Sandford's up early this morning. Moreover, pards, he's coming here, unless I'm greatly mistook."
We heard steps outside, and the next moment the door opened and the man in question entered. He held no official position in so far as the Government was concerned, though his power was far greater than if he had. By common consent he had been elected boss, and sheriff, and general settler of disputes, and what he said at Bull Mine Creek went. He was a man of about fifty, with shrewd grey eyes and a reputation for impartial fairness in his decisions, which was just what was wanted in such a community.
"Morning, Bud," said Jim. "Take a seat."
Bud Sandford somewhat deliberately took a chair, and lit a cigar.
"Morning, boy," he remarked. "How's the face?"
Jim grinned. "Wants a week's rest, and it'll grow again."
Bud gazed out of the window.
"I saw your scrap last night," he remarked, "and I lost a tenner on the result. I may say that I'd willingly have lost two. I suppose you know it was a quarter of an hour before Cornish sat up and took notice?"
"As long as that?" said Jim. "I must have hit him harder than I thought."
"It's not to talk about that that I came around," went on Bud, "though as we're on the subject I'd like to say that it was the finest fight I've seen in thirty-five years. But it was to find out what you propose doing in the near future."
Jim looked a trifle surprised.
"Well, Bud," he said at length, "I guess there's no secret about it. I and my pal here are quitting, and our claim passes to Mike."
Bud grunted thoughtfully.
"When are you quitting?"
"We might push off today, or we might wait till tomorrow," answered Jim. "We haven't really thought about it yet."
"I guess I'd feel happier if you could make it today," said Bud.
"You seem almighty keen to be rid of us, Bud," said Jim. "What's the idea?"
Once again Bud's eyes travelled to the window.
"Just this, boy," he said. "Another twenty-four hours' rest and the effect of that blow on Pete Cornish's jaw will be wearing off, but the effect on his mind will be wearing in. Do you follow me?"
"Not frightfully clearly, Bud," remarked Jim ominously. "I fail to see any relation between Pete Cornish's jaw and my future plans."
Bud Sandford's grey eyes twinkled.
"I was afraid you mightn't," he confessed. "Though it seems powerful clear to me. Look here, son," he went on, leaning forward, and emphasising his remarks with his finger on Jim's knee, "this is how the land lies. You beat Pete Cornish last night in a fair, straight fight. You laid him out as stiff as a piece of frozen mutton, and everybody knows it. If you fought him again—fair, you'd do it again. And everybody knows that, too. But the next time you fight Pete Cornish you won't fight fair—because he won't let you.
"You see, I know Pete Cornish, and his reputation. He's been a devil in the past when he's been top-dog; now that you've beaten him he'll be a fiend incarnate. He'll stop at nothing till he's got his own back. And, though you're a plaguy fine fighter, boy, with your fists and with a revolver, you don't cut much ice against a man with a rifle hiding up an alley-way and shooting you in the back. And that's what Pete Cornish will do, or something like it, unless, so to speak, you pass out of the picture while he's still holding a raw rump-steak to his jaw."
The worthy Bud leant back in his chair exhausted, and Jim smiled.
"It's very good of you, Bud," he remarked quietly. "And I guess if it was possible I'd just love to take your advice. But since you've been talking I've come to the conclusion that my early religious training doesn't allow me to travel on Christmas Day."
"Early religious fiddlesticks!" Bud remarked. "What you imply, young fellah, is that you'll see me in a warmer place than this before anything would induce you to foot it from Bull Mine Creek until tomorrow."
"Or maybe the day after," murmured Jim. "We've got to do a bit of business, Bud: transferring our claim to Mike."
Bud rose, and flung his cigar through the window.
"Hell!" he remarked tersely. "And if I hadn't come around, you might have gone today. But I can promise you one thing, boy "—he paused by the door with a faint grin—"if we can get the smallest shadow of proof we'll hang him the same time as we bury you. And even if we can't, we'll hang him, I think. Pete Cornish has gone on too long."
The door closed behind him, only to open again as he popped his head round. "You'd better think out a good epitaph," he said genially. "Something snappy and original. The last one I made up won't apply, though it's good—mark you, good:
"Here lies Bill Soames, a funny sort of joker Who held four aces, when he didn't deal at poker."
For the rest of Christmas Day nothing happened to justify Bud's forebodings. We squared up our few belongings—we'd left most of our kit in Sydney—and we carried out the short necessary formalities for re- registering our claim in One-eyed Mike's name. And, having done that, the only remaining occupation was killing time. If only Sandford had not come butting in, though he had done it with the best intentions, we should have cleared off that evening in the cool. As it was—Jim being Jim, we didn't.
We saw no signs of Cornish the whole of that day. In the hotel we gathered that he was lying up somewhere paying close and earnest attention to his jaw. And in the hotel we also gathered that the general feeling of the community agreed with Bud.
"Pete Cornish ain't finished yet, pard," said one of a group standing by the bar. "Pete Cornish won't never be finished till some public benefactor kills him. And that guy whose hand you shot last night is almost as bad—Yellow Sam."
The others growled assent, and 'Jim drained his glass with a smile.
"No, thank you, boys," he said, to the chorus of invitation which followed. "No more. I guess I'd better keep the old head cool if Cornish is all you say."
"You weren't here last night when he came to," went on the first speaker. "I was—and I watched him. He sat up, and stared around for a moment or two as if he didn't realise what had happened. Then he remembered. Them eyes of his—well, a sort of film came over them; and then they cleared, and he looked quite slowly and carefully all round the room. Reckon he was looking for you, but you'd gone. He never spoke; he just got up and walked out into the street, swaying a bit as he moved. And he passed me, so close I could have touched him. There was a look on his face such as I've never seen before not on any living man, and hopes I never shall again. And I tell you straight," his voice was very quiet and serious, "if he could catch you—if he could get you into his power by some dirty trick—God help you!"
Once again there was a growl of assent.
"There are stories told about Pete Cornish which aren't good to listen to. Do you remember—in '96 I think it was—way up there in Queensland, when that coach came trotting in without a driver? And inside they found two women and three children all murdered. The boys went out to look, and found Jake Harman, the driver, hanging side by side with his mate. There had been gold in the coach, but there was no one left to say what had happened. Only Cornish was in the neighbourhood, and people said lots. But there weren't no proof.
"That's just one story of many. There's another I remember, about a fellow in his gang who fell foul of him. He just disappeared, that's all—no one knew where. But months after a crazy black told a crazy