The Third Finger.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1624, 23 December 1887, Page 9 (Supplement)

The Third Finger.

BY ROBT. P. WniTWORTH. " See that old hut upthe clearing there?" said Ned Devine. the Prince of coach-dri-vers, the King of whips, the Emperor of the road, taking his pipe out of his mouth, and pointing to what looked like a rough dray track, into the cedar forest we were passing through. It was a bright afternoon in February ; I had the box scat on the coach from Christchurch to Hokitiki—for these were before the days of railways you must know. We had come down that wonderful piece of engineering, the sideling of the Otira gorge, about which poets and artists have never done raving, had crossed the little white bridge at the bottom, under which the Otira riverswirls and surges with such a roar and headlong rush, had passed the wonderful cataract that travellers have called the "Grey Mare's Tail," and that others, more travelled, have likened to the falls of Staubbach in Germany, had got out of the shadow of the vast mountains, and had— In a word we had arrived at the Otira hotel, forded the infant Teremakau, most dangerous and treacherous of rivers, on whose snag-3trewn bed lie, until the day of doom, so many, so very many, drowned men, and wit h a fresh team of horses, were speeding aloni; the level road that lies back from the river, 't was a lovely day and a lovely scene, lovely even for Maori land, that country <.f loveliness. The sky was blue, and untlccked by a single cloud, beyond a li:;ht fleece that hovered over the far off hills to the along whose lower heights ran a broad belt of rata glowing in its wealth of crimson bloom. The wind w;is hushed, there was not a sound beyond the faint hum of the distant river tumbling over the rocks, the steady beat of the horses' feet on the hard road, tiie grinding of the wheels, and the musical clink and jingle of chain and bit and buckle in the harness. Just the afternoon for a man who wants to know the delight of living, to sit on the box of a four horse coach, to blow the cool tobacco clond. and to listen to a yarn from the lips of Ned Devine. And so—- ' See that old hut up the clearing there?" "he said, pointing to it with his whip.

"Yea. I see it," I replied, "What about it V "Ah, I crot an awful skeering there once" said Ned, complacently. " You what ]" I answered douhtinsly. for to niv mind " skeering" and Nod seemed incompatible. " I did, and il you like I'll tell you how it was." Cheerfully I acceded to the proposition, for Ned was an inveterate story teller, and what was more, he told h;"s stori' s well, as many besides myself can testify. Well, it was this way. At the time I'm speaking about, there was just about as rough ami tumble a lot on the < !r«enstone, fifteen or sixteen miles ahead yonder, as ever I met with, and tint's saying airood deal. There was ?ood cold jetting at the time, and ail the scum of the West Cast made for the phue. Of course there were a good many decent chaps there, who kept a little bit straight, but take em altogether, they were a right down rowdy I mob. Aiul the rowdiest of them all, •he worst in the lot, was a little blackhaircd fellow they called the chicken. How he got called that was thu<. SomeUidy nicknamed him "ChickaJeary Joe." after a blackguard song he used to sin-.', and that soon g>t shortened into Chicken. Well, the Chicken was a right down bad un, and no mistake. He was the most foul-mouthed varmint I ever heard speak ; why a bullock driver stack in a bog-hole wasn't a circumstance to him. It wasn't good honest swearing, it was simply blasphemy and tilth that would make your bli*.d curdle. Why, even old Ryan, that kept the Taii*> Hotel, had to threaten not to serve him if he didn't drop it. For the rest, he was a bully, a card sharp, it was said, a thief, and even worse. He was always pretty flush of money, and yet he never worked, except now and then to makeMieve. How he did it, nobody knew. Certainly he used to make a little by gambling when he could net anybody to gamble with him, which wasn't often, for the chaps used to tight shy of him as a rule, and then again, there were a good many robberies took place in the camp, but that said nothing, as nothing could be proved against him. and there were many more bad eggs there besides him. At last Big Peter missed his gold one day, about twenty ounces it was, and there was a terrible to do. The boys rolled up, and the Chicken was warned ofl the place. It was only suspicion after all, but he was warned otf, and he went. Now, some six months before this there were two mate there, Lanky Jack and Dutch Bill, who had got good gold, and who, ti-ed of digging, had bought a dray • and bullocks, and had taken to contracting to supply split and sawn stuff to the diggers, or anybody else who might want it They had got a timber license for this very piece of bush, and had settled down and built a hut, and made a sawpit at that clearing I pointed out to you a way back. There was plenty of demand for the stutf, and they got good prices for it, so that they were, as the saying is, making money hand over fist. They were quiet, inotfensive, hard working chaps, who kept themselves to themselves, and interfered with r nobody. They lived by themselves in the hut, with no other company than their team, and a sharp little terrier dog they had. You mind that little bit of a creek we crossed just before we came to the clearing ?" I had observed it, and I said as much. Well, one Saturday I was taking the up coach to Hokitiki. I had only one passenger, a clergyman it was. The weather was bad, bad—it was fearful. The rivers were up, and the travelling was awful. No one else would venture but this clergyman : he had to preach at the Bealey next day, and go he would. He was a brave chap to face it, for it was not only unpleasant but dangerous, but he did. As for me, I had the mails to carry, so wet or dry I had to go. We couldn't ford the Taipo, of course, so I left the coach on the other side, crossed the hanging foot-bridge, and came on in the spare coach at the hotel, picking up there one of the stablemen to go with me, and lucky it was I did, as you will see. I got along pretty well considering, until I came to that little bit of a creek I mentioned. Little bit of a creek ! You should have seen it. Why it was half a mile wide, and running and roaring like a mill race. Of course I went at it, but I wished I hadn't. Before I'd got half way across, I struck a boulder, and before you I * eould say " knife" over went the coach in the stream. I got tl»e parson out btst way 1 could, cut th"? horse* loose beat way Icotdd, rlounted the groom on one of en and seut him forward to the hotel at

the Otira for assistance. I knew he couldn't be back for a couple of hours, and there was the parson, and there was I, out in the rain like two drowned rats, and it coming on harder and harrier. Suddenly I remembered the hut close by, so I told the parson and there we made for shelter. As we went up the clearing, I felt a strange cold shiver pass orer me, I know not why, but it was a kind of unaccountable terror, a vague premonition of evil. The hut somehow looked so dismal and forbidding, that I instinctively felt inclined to turn back, and the next moment I tried to laugh at ray unreasoning fears, but the laugh "stuck i' my throat" as the man in the play says. The rain had suddenly dropped, as it often does in these parts, and beyond the drip, drip, drip from the trees, and from the eaves of the hut, there was a dead silence, a dread silence—a silence that might be felt—and the very drip, drip, made it more oppressive. I knocked at the door. No answer. It was a little ajar, and I pushed it open, and looked in. Nothing. All still, all silent. We entered. Not a sign, not a sound. It was odd, for the two men never, or scarcely ever, were away at the same time. There seemed, I could not tell why. a strange emptiness, an unreal void in the place, and I felt as if some unseen eyes were glowering at mo, some unheard tongue speaking at me out of those bare slab walls, and from the cheerless fireplace whero a few dead embers and white ashes seemed to make the solitude more solitary. The rough table stood there, with a few unwashed utensils that had been used for a meal on it. The rough benches were there, and the other odds and ends of a bush hut, ami that was all. The clergyman appeared as ill at ease as I was, but at last he spoke. 'ld >n't know why,' he said, ' but I feel as if 1 were in a haunted house.' Again I tried to laugh it off, and again I failed. However, I must do something to show that I, at all events, wasn't frightened. 'l'll zo.' I said, 'round to the stable at the back, maybe somebody's there.' Anything to get away from tho melancholy influence <>f that home. I wont, and I noticed he followed me. —round by the back. The cattle were in their stalls, the dray was in its shed. That was all. What was it that ltd me. blindly, instinctively, against, yet in defiance of, my own will, as it were, round the furtinT side of the house. Ah ! There, on the corner part of the hou«e was a mark, a .splash <>f—yes, it was, blood, human Mood. 1 knew it instinctively. And there, on the ground, anil staining the fallen twigs and leaves, was mure, and more, and yet more. Even the rain had not washed the horrid stains away. My heart stood still, yet I followed the track that led direct to the saw pit. I looked in, we looked in, and then two white faces eased into each other, mine and the (arson's, for there, before us, on the sodden sawdust at the bottom of tho pit lay the body, stiff and stark, with his head cloven in, and his features disfigured with gore, of Lanky lack, and there, beside him, lay the blood stained instrument, a hatchet, wb*> r :\..cl'. *he deed iiad »»-:. .!0,.e. Frozen with horror, wo neither of us spoke, but the same question flashed across our minds. I could see that from the look of mute enquiry, the parson cast upon me. Who had done it ? Could it be, was it possible, that the Dutchman had murdered his mate, and tied i

A question to be answered ere it was asked, for at that moment the little do:; came running up the clearing, stopped slmrt, gave .1 sudden snitF, and with an unearthly howl, tied trembling into the hush. A moment after the burly form of Dutch Hill was seen coming up the clearing, carrying on his back a heavily laden bag covered with a waterproof. ' Ah ! he shouted, as he drew nearer. ' Pat you N'ett i What makes you here 'i Ooot day Sir. Vare'a do Goach ? 1 vaa in Vohnson's ven I see you go past, und I—but, vats de matter !' 'Come and see,' I replied, in a voice singularly unlike my own. lie looked into the saw pit. dropped his load, waved his arms wildly and gasped in a husky voice ' Who haf done dis ?' "That you yourself must answer' I replied, as sternly as I could. He looked bewilderedly from one to the other of us, and then dropping to the ground, sobbed as I never heard a man sob before, and as I hope, I never may again. Then rising, and as if to excuse his weakness, he said, ' It is Yack, my true heart friend, Yack, what dey haf murter. Hut so as (>ott is mein Yutge, so will I be revensh," and he shook his list to Heaven. ' Vengeance is mine ; I will repay, saith the Lord,' interrupted the parson, solemnly. Come, this must be seen into. Let us search. We went into the hut. As before, nothing. Yes, there was though. Quick as lightning the Dutchman looked round ' Ach ! I dink so. De box is move,' he ejaculated, and then going to a spot near the corner of the fireplace, he rapidly threw aside a piece of old shirt, and uncovered a hole in the floor. ' Dat is it,' he said mournfully. *lt is gone, gone, the accursed goldt. It is for dat they haf kill Yack. See, dis isde rag it va3 wrapped in. Oh ! Yack, mine Yack.' Almost unconsciously I picked up the piece of rag, and looked at it. Then I swore an oath too terrible to be set down here. Yes, it was clear to my mind as the noonday sun is to the sight. On the cloth were blood marks, the mark of a hand, and, and—. My brain was in a whirl. I had fathomed the mystery in an instant. And how ? Why thus: A month or to before, just prior to the time the Chicken was warned oIF the Greenstone, I had overtaken him one day on the road, and he had asked me to give him a lift. I didn't like the fellow, but as the coach was light, I couldn't well refuse. As he climbed up to the box, I observed that the middle finger of his right hand was missing, and I asked him how he had lost it. ' < )h, in a row on Bendigo,' he said with a laugh, ' a fellow shot it off, but he paid dearly for it you bet.' I never thought of it again from that day till then, but there it was distinctly marked on the cloth, the print of a blood-stained right hand, with the third finger missing. And that's the end of my yarn." "But," I said, "what about the murderer, was he never found ! " '• Well, as for that," replied Ned, slowly, of course there was a terrible hullabaloo made, and the police were set on, and all that, but they never got him th:it 1 heard of. Though I did hear," he went on dryly, ''some time after, a kind W whisper A

tied together, and a black mark round his neck, and that he was a little blackhaired chap, with the third finger of his right hand missing. It was whispered to me by a Dutchman, who happened to be on the spot, at the time. Singular, wasn't it ? But heie we are at Johnsons', what do you say if we pull up and have a drink, for my throat's dry with talking."