NEW ZEALAND STORIES BY NEW ZEALAND WRITERS.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1507, 17 January 1901, Page 7

NEW ZEALAND STORIES BY NEW ZEALAND WRITERS.

STEVE BARTON’S GOLD. (NO. XXIV.) (Written for the N.Z. -“Mail.”) BY THOMAS MdMAHON. (All rights reserved by the Author.) Steve Barton lay in his 'bunk and thought long, seriously and deeply. And, strange to say, „thought unusually. Now this was a remarkable fact, for it was very seldom Barton allowed himself to think in any way, not to say long, seriously and deeply. But to-night he brok© the rule. He thought of his old mate, Jack Dalton. Ten years ago him_ self and Jack had one. of the best claims in Bradshaw’s iCreek. But Jack was a useless duffer, wine and the gambling table had clutched him firmly, and he was beyond redemption. , If he wasn't exuding the fumes of bad! liquor he was indulging in euchre.; poker, cribbage, or some other game at the card table, and if not there was at some worse occupation. He worked on an average about one day in ten at the claim; and! from the effects of'his constant debauch ; was as Old Steve put it, “as useless - at the face with a pick as a hen with a, tin beak.” ( ... Still 'Steve never growled. He knew his mate’s weaknesses, and as well as he could overlooked them. But it was very hard to put up with Jack. At times he was cantankerous . in the extreme, and 1 one day they had a row; he made so-me remark, or called Barton something which was too much for him to stand'. 'So they split up partnership and Jack cleared. Steve kept the claim going for a while after he left, then sold out and! shifted! to Mopok© Gully, where 'he lay in his hunk night thinking over Jack and wondering if he’d) altered! his way® at all. “Poor fool Jor himself, no harm, in him', only that bad as h© was he was honest, anyhow. an’ that’s the leadin’ .quality in a man that I admires —fact it’s everything. But, bah, what am I thinkin* about? Jack —Jaek; more’n likely his

"bones are manurin’ the earth somewhere by this time.” There was no habitation anywhere close to Barton’s place ; he had the little creek where he was camped all to himself. It was a moonlight, though not an extraordinary bright night. The wind sang a wheezing sort of a song amongst the trees outside, in which the gurgling creek chimed in. Barton listened dreamily to the weird musical dirgeT and thought on —his eyes fixed on the side of the tent. His gold was buried in a meat tin a few feet down in the earthern floor at the foot of his bunk, a good hit of gold, too, the washings up of about a- mouth’s work. .Suddenly Barton observed the outline of a figure on the calico come creeping, as he thought, stealthily from out the hush toward the tent. Closer it came, and seemed to be making for the gold at the foot of the bunk. “Well, that licks Old Harry. How did' the shister get to know where I kept the rhino? Curse him, cornin’ disturbin’ a chap just when he’s doin’ a quiet think. I’ll back my shirt he reckons I’m asleep. Well, we’ll soon see who’ll be asleep first,” Barton muttered to himself, as he groped- beneath his pillow for his revolver. Distinctly now he could see the figure of a man stoop down and grope about close to where the gold was buried right against the wall of the tent. Click, click, click, three times in sharp succession went Barton’s revolver. The man outside heard the warning, gathered himself up and ran. “Curse you.” Barton growled as he threw the useless unloaded weapon on the bunk. “Curse you, I say again, Dut. it’s me that deserves kickin’ for not loadin’ you -through the day. How could I expect to drop that varmint with fired-off cartridges.” Then he suddenly bethought himself and! made off in pursuit of the fugitive —he could hear him cracking through the bush ahead, and soon overtook him. He grabbed him by the shoulders, threw him- to the ground, and said—- “ Well.” “Let me go,” said the fugitive. “Yes, when Im done with you,” Barton calmly answered. “Not- a bad gag to pitch, let me go, scot free, after bein’ within an ace of snarin’ my month’s washin’s up. No, Td l like you to understand a,nd if you don’t mind to remember, that Steve Barton didn’t come down in the last shower.” “Steve Barton! Steve Barton. vens! Don’t you know me, Steve? Jack Dalton, your old mate !” “Stop,” interjected Steve, in a hard, ironical voice. “No Kunef’s going to call himself a mate o’ mine.” “Bus I’ll—” “Stop,”' thundered Steve, “or I’ll kill you where you lay. You might a’ been once a mate o’ mine. In fact, I remember you and knows you was. "’Course I always k)iew you was bad enough, but I never thought you’d come to this. Jack. I never thought you’d be a thief. You can thank youtr stars my gun was empty to-niglit. Now' you can get up and scoot. Hear what I say, scoot, and whatever you do, never mention to anybody in this -world again that you’re a mate o’ mine. The man rose from- the ground, and the two glared at each other in the moonlight. Then Steve turned and walked away. The next moment a sharp report rang out through the still hush, and Steve Barton fell dead. “What a fool he was to release me,” said Dalton, putting his revolver back in his belt and coming forward to look at "his dead jpa-te. “After the false -unfounded charge he made against me. Drunkard, gambler andi sptend) thrift I have been, but thief never, d it, never. Still I might ha' took it a little cooler, Steve wasn’t a bad' sort.” What came -out at Jack Dalton’s trial was simply this, that the night he went to Steve Barton’s tent" it was only for a drink -of water. The season was dry and water was scarce at the time, so that while travelling past that way he just stopped to take a drink from the billy outside before going into the tent. He didn’t even know Steve was living there. In fact, had no idea of where he was. And Steve’s gold remained buried for years after, until discovered by a digging party who were sluicing the ground.