NEW ZEALAND STORIES.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XLV, Issue 18, 2 November 1910, Page 43

NEW ZEALAND STORIES.

THE FATAL GULLY.

(By

RONALD BUCHANAN.)

[The Editor desires to announce that New Zealand Stories by New Zealand writers, will be published on this page regularly, The page will be open to any contributor, and all accepted stories will be paid for at current rates. Terse, bright sketches of Dominion life and people, woven in short story form, are required, and should be headed “New Zealand Stories.”]

IT had been blowing persistently all day. The clouds, in huge cumulus masses, -were hurrying away to the

south-east. In the streets of the jcity great columns of dust rolled along mercilessly, while from the swaying scores of wires overhead came a conitinuous wail that filled the nervous (passer-by with a vague apprehension of impending disaster. It was only a Dejeember day in New Zealand’s Empire JDity, and to the seasoned Wellingtonian, .■who tried to believe it was the same pll the world over, it was nothing very imuch out of the common. But to the visitor from other parts it was a day of Isore discomfort. In the bay-window of a house on the Western slope of Mount Victoria, a young iWoman sat with her chin irpon her hand, booking out rather absently towards the nipper waters of the harbour, where a few (small craft swung and pitched at anchor, and the waves broke in showers of spray Jiigh over the breastwork. There was little in the outlook to inspire comfort, nor

(were the howling of the wind and the Vibration of the building calculated to cheer one who was evidently already in trouble; and as Bertha Sinclair started »t each fresh gust she declared to heriself that such a climate was enough to ruin the nerves of any woman. On the little table before her lay a letter, the crumpled envelope of which bore a postmark six weeks old. The letter had ibcen read and re-read a dozen times, not only because such is the lover’s nvay, but also because it still remained the latest piece of news from one whose long silence was beginning to cause her some anxiety. Mie had long lost count ■of the number of mails that had arrived from the South since she had received that letter. Each in turn had 'brought fresh disappointment, and the continually deferred hope was beginning to make her •lek at heart. That some mischance hail befallen her lover she was hardly able

to doubt, and there was that within her recollection that tended to surround the position with a strange, indefinite fear.

Only a few weeks ago Alec Fraser had finished his course at the Otago School of Mines. Crowned with the honours of his college, and blessed with a splendid constitution and a sturdy self-reliance, he had formed great hopes for the future. He was glad, too, in the knowledge that once his professional prospects were assured there remained nothing, to delay the event for which he Had long waited—■ his marriage with Bertha Sinclair. But the “lust of life,” the thirst for adventure, was strong within him; and freed at last from the trammels of college life, he looked about for some direction in which to find legitimate gratification for this desire before settling down to the anxieties of a profession and the felicities of domestic life. It was then that Fraser recalled a story told him some years before by Bertha herself, while they were schoolmates and neighbours in Dunedin. He

had often noticed in her mother’s house a portrait which he knew to be that of the girl’s father—a handsome, stalwart, weather-beaten miner; and one day, with boyish simplicity, he had said, pointing to the picture, “Tell me about him.” And this was the substance, of her story: Adam Sinclair had for some years acted as manager of a mining company in Central Otago. The capita! was not large, but the reef was rich, and the claims had turned out well. Sinclair had been able to establish for himself a comfortable little home in the vicinity of the workings, and there, within sound of the Shotovcr, Bertha was born and spent her early childhood. But a change occurred in the fortunes of the company. Suddenly the reef was lost. Thai somewhere in the immediate neighbourhood the rich vein was continued no one doubted, but all trace of it had for the time disappeared, and it might be long

before their labours would be rewarded by the discovery in some new direction of the gold-bearing lode. For some weeks the work was continued without success. Then came instructions that the operations of the company were to be suspended, and Adam Sinclair set out alone to seek his fortune in other fields. He had beard vague rumours of rich finds having been made in the Upper Taieri Valley, and thither he bent his steps. He remembered that the information had been given to him with a certain mysterious reserve that left the impression that there was more that might be told; nevertheless it was with no disquieting presentiment of evil that he left home to seek out the locality that had been described to him, equipped with jsuch simple tools and appliances as might serve the purposes of a lone prospector. It was Christmas morning when the little home by the Shotover was thrown into dismay by the arrival of the tidings of his fate. In a lonely ravine through which ran one of the smaller tributaries

of the Taieri, far removed from any human habitation, he had been found in his tent. A little bag of gold showed the result of his brief labours, and scratched on the blackened bottom of his billy was the simple message: “It is richer than they said; God bless my wife and little ones. .. .” The silence was unbroken save by the gurgle of the creek that rippled merrily over its rocky bed, and the hawk that circled slowly overhead was the only sign of life in all tlie dreary waste that met the eye of the discoverer of the silent camp. There was nothing to show how Sinclair had died, but the mystery surrounding his fate detracted little from the interest that naturally attached to the testimony he had left. Mrs Sinclair had a brother of the “ne’er-do-weel” order. He had tried his hand at a variety’ of occupations, from boundary-riding in Australia to gum-

digging and sheep shearing in New Zealand. His sister had not seen him since shortly after her marriage, when, after a lengthened absence from home, he had made his appearance—ostensibly to congratulate her on her fortunate union with such a decent, steady fellow as Adam Sinclair, but really to see how far the young mine manager might be looked to for financial assistance. He happened, in the course of his wanderings, to turn up again unexpectedly just as the keen stroke of bereavement had fallen upon the little household, and he became immediately involved in a mental discussion with himself as to whether he should stay and help his widowed sister, or follow up the prospecting begun by Adam Sinclair, and so contrive to help himself. He finally decided to compromise with his better nature, and seek out. the lonely gully that promised so much. After he had amassed enough of the precious metal—well, he would be all the better able to do something for his sister and the children. So it was with a light heart and an easy conscience that Dick Watson set out to try his luck with the shovel and dish in the gloomy gully where his brother-in-law had died. It was a short-lived venture, and the last in a life that had been throughout a scries of experiments, all more or less unsuccessful. That nothing was heard of him after his departure surprised no one, least of all his sister. He had never been careful to keep in touch with his relatives, nor, indeed, were they greatly concerned that he should be. But it was none the less a painful shock to Mrs Sinclair when there came to Dunedin, whither she had removed after the death of her husband, the news of her errant brother’s end. Again there was but little to tell. The discovery of the tattered remnants of a tent; a few scattered tools and camp utensils—untouched for many months by hand of man—and amid them all the bleaching skeleton of the ne’er-do-weel, that was all. And Bertha Sinclair had not forgotten that again it was Christmas Day that the fatal intelligence broke in upon the peace and joy of home. This was the story that recurred to the mind of Alee Fraser as he proceeded to map out his movements for the few weeks that were his before he must fulfil his promise anil go and spend Christmas with Bertha in Wellington, where, with a married sister, she had lived since the loss of her mother had left her an orphan. “Capital!” lie exclaimed to himself, as lie recalled the details of the narrative, mid contemplated the splendid possibilities that doubtless lay wrapped up in that mysterious gully, which, so far as he was aware, had not been further prospected, since Dick Watson had made bis final bid for fortune ten years ago, “An ideal holiday for an Associate of the University School of Mines of Otago!” And Alec revolved his academic title in his mind at full length with soma relish, and not vyithout a touch of pride. “And the primitive simplicity of the thing,” he went on, as his interest in the project warmed. "No gold dissolvents, battery plants or cyanide processes or such like, dust a little dipping into Nature's treasury after the fashion of the. good old times, with no worry, and no more work than one cares to do.” Fraser, in common with most of his colleagues at the school, thad given a year to the practical operation of mining, and the contemplated experiment with ithe methods of earlier days struck his fancy, and gave an increased interest to the scheme he was planning. “And then,” he continued, “the mystery’ of the business! There is something rather fascinating in the thought of going alone to prospect ground to which some strange fatality seems to attach. Perhaps I shall be able to successfully investigate the mystery, and read the riddle of those fatal efforts of the past. But then, on the other hand, suppose I don’t succeed in breaking the spell—•suppose I, too, should But no, that is superstitious nonsense. I mustn’t allow any such childish notions to influence me.” Alec’s exuberance, however, was somewhat subdued as his thoughts continued to run in this channel, and a look almost of gravity overspread the handsome, open face, whose habitual expression was •one of manly -and joyous hopefulness. He •sat down to consider the matter seriously. “After all, perhaps it may be better not to go alone. One never knows what may happen in nn out-of-the-world spot like that, and It is just as well to have help at hand in case of accidents. Besides, there’s no doubt the thought of congenial companionship does put th*

whole business in a better light. I think I’ll try it! - ’ As the spirit of youthful buoyancy •gain took possession of him he rose and began to pace up and down the little sitting-room of his lodgings. “Good!” he thought, as the names of two of his university chums occurred to him; “111 look them up at once if they are still in town. What a capital trio. Now for a jolly time. With Medical Brown and Divinity Dunean T shall be proof against all the evil spells of the fatal gully, as Bertha wsed to call it.” Then, breaking out in the words of a ditty which, in his undergraduate days he had helped to compose and render at the annual capping ceremony in honour of his professor, he sang gaily, to the tune of “White Wings”: “Farewell to mines and tail-races.” His song was cut short by a boisterous knocking at the door, and before he had time to utter a response the two friends who were then uppermost in his mind stood before him in the room. The first cordial greetings over, they explained that they had conie to ask him to join them in a lengthy walking tour. “That you have turned up so opportunely,” replied Fraser, “is a promise of the good fortune that will attend a little scheme of my own. Sit down and listen to me, and if I don't convince you that I have a plan worth two of yours I’m no true Scot.” Alee had little difficulty in winning them over to his project, and the first thing he did after they had left him was to write to Bertha Sinclair, telling her that as soon as the necessary preliminaries could be arranged, he and his friends would leave Dunedin and epend the next few weeks in prospecting “The Gully.” This was the letter that Bertha now had before her. She had tried in vain to discover some satisfactory explanation of the long silence that had followed it. Making every allowance for the absence of postal facilities.in the isolated locality ho had gone to, she could not understand why he, who was usually such a regular and zealous correspondent, should have allowed so long a time to elapse Without sending some further communication. There was some consolation in the fact that he was not alone. But she could not escape the depressing influence of the memory of those bygone Christinas days. In a few days it would be Christmas again. What would be his message for her? She was not superstitious beyond the ordinary, but she was a very human little woman, with an affectionate heart, rather prone to misgiving, and a set of nerves that all too readily absorbed the influence of her surroundings. The door opened, and her sister entered the room.

“Well, are you still worrying about your young fortune hunter?” she inquired cheerfully. “Won't you come out with mo for an hour? I have some shopping to do before, tea, and the walk will do you good. It will never do for Alec to arrive and find you ill worrying about nothing. What kind of character will he give me if he finds his plump and rosy little lassie wasted away into the thin and colourless young lady you threaten to become? And, remember, he promised to be here for Christmas, and that is only a few days off now.” The kindly rebuke was not without its effect. Bertha rose, and kissing her sister warmly, said: “You dear old girl; I know it is foolish of me, and I do try not to worry; but now and then, when I think of all that place has meant to us I wish Alec hadn't gone. I could bear the waiting for news if it were not for the harassing recollection that father and Uncle Dick died there, 1 suppose it is silly.” And a suggestion of tears could be detected in the girl’s voice. “Silly ? Of course, it is,” replied her sister. “Now come along with me, and aee if you can't develop a more seasonable frame of mind. Down in the dumps at Christmas-tide! Whoever heard of such a thing I” “You are quite right, Nell, I know,” answered Bertha; “but don't you see it is just because Christmas is so near that I think so much about Alec's strange silence. To be greeted with ‘A Merry Christmas,’ when this uncertainty makes anything like merriment or gladness impossible to me—it would sound like mockery. Besides, you know it was at Christmas that the wretched place brought us trouble before. But I mustn’t keep you, Nell. I won’t come out with you Just now. That wind has given me a headache, and I think I would rather stay at home this afternoon. But I promise I shall be in quite

a Christmas mood when you return. I see you have Bracken here. 1 shall read him while you are away.” And opening the bookcase she took down “Musings in Maoriland,” and resumed her seat at the window, while her sister set out for town. Bertha turned at once to “Nichol’s Creek,” and read the poet’s description of the waterfall she had so often visited and admired: “A shower of molten silver falling down An eiu’rald 'moss-clad precipice of roc-k.” It recalled to her memory some of the happiest moments of her life. It brought to her mind another Christmas Day, a day of unclouded happiness, when, in the first flush of their early love she and Alee had climbed up the stony ereek and gathered ferns from the steep sides of the narrow gulch that led up to the waterfall. There in the illustration was the old treetrunk lying across the creek at the foot of the fall, on which they had sat together as they told anew the story of their love, and painted in the fairest hues the picture of the days to come. She eould almost hear again the soothing murmur of the water as it fell like a bridal veil over the face of the cliff, and there came back to her as she looked at the picture something of the gladness and peace of that happy time. “I see you have kept your promise, Bertha,” said the elder sister on her return from town. “You look quite yourself again. Bracken has worked wonders, surely.” “I believe he has,” answered Bertha, with a smile, as she laid aside her book,

and proceeded to set the table for the evening meal. The light was beginning to fail when she took her seat again at the window and looked oiit over the city. The wind had dropped suddenly, and there was now hardly ‘breeze enough to give direction to the smoke that issued from the tail chimney of the destructor —the Gehenna of the city. The sun had already gone down behind the hills skirting the western side of the town, leaving the sky aglow with gold and ruby light. Bertha watched dreamily as the colours changed and faded and passed, and the stars, like wakeful sentinels, took their places one by one in the dear evening sky. The world seemed to be going to its rest in peace, and something whispered to the listening heart of the girl that all was well. She was aroused from her reverie by the entry of her sister with the evening paper. “Bertha,” said the elder woman, as she turned on the electric light, “I wonder if this will interest you?” And the twinkle in her eyes and the droll humour of her expression told at once that the girl had nothing to fear from the news she had brought. "Listen: ‘Dunedin, 21st December, [that’s yesterday.] A small party, who have been prospecting for some weeks near the head of the Taieri River, have struck some remarkably rich gravel. The ground has been well tested over a considerable area, and a company is now

in course of formation to work the field on the most up-to-date lines. It is expected th»t the lower flats near the river •will be successfully dealt with by dredging, but operations will also be carried on some distance up the stream that joins the Taieri at this point. Mr Alexander —[Alexander, it says, Bertha] —Mr Alexander Fraser, one of the prospecting party, who is an Associate of the Otago (School of Mines—[sounds well, doesn’t it?]—and a gentleman of considerable practical experience, will probably be appointed to the full charge of the workings. He is leaving to-morrow [that's to-day, Bertha] for Wellington, on business connected with his company.’ I don’t think ‘Alexander’ told •the whole truth if he said that was all he was coming here for, eh, Bertha? but it looks as if you were going to have a Merry Christmas after all, doesn’t it? There’s the door bell.” Dropping the paper hurriedly, this vivacious and kindly elder sister went off to answer the call, leaving Bertha to collect her scattered senses. Nell returned almost immediately, and holding a telegram aloft teasingly, said, “Guess whom it is from.” Then handing it over submissively, she waited for the news. “Alec, will be here the day after tomorrow —the day before Christmas,” said Bertha, and her face was radiant, if her voice was rather uncertain. ******* It was Christmas Eve. Alee and Bertha stood together on the verqndah, looking out across the waters of the harbour, over which the rising moon was silvering a rippling pathway. What

questions he had answered since his arrival in the morning! With what attention to detail she had endeavoured to extract from him every item of his experience since he had turned prospector, and with what enthusiasm they had discussed the outlook that now opened before them! And that long silence —how short and trivial it seemed now, and how easily it had been explained, albeit there were passages in the explanation that had made her hold her breath. He had narrated how, a day or two after his arrival on the field, when he had just been able to see enough to satisfy himself of the richness of the ground, he had stumbled over a steep, rock face, and had lain senseless at the bottom, with a sprained wrist and a bruised head, until discovered by his companions, and how Medical Brown had nursed him back to consciousness and strength, though the process was all too slow for his active temperament. lie had told how, as soon as his hand was able to wield a pen he had written a long letter, tailing of the excellent work being done by his mates under his direction (for he could do little more yet than supervise) ; and how the messenger to whom he had entrusted it had been carried away by the flood-swollen river, losing the letter and almost all else but his life. He had explained how the river had continued to rise, until communication with outside was entirely cut off for many days. And finally, he had recounted how, when at last he had suo

needed in getting • letter conveyed safely to the nearest poet office, the building, which wa» at once post office and store and sly-grog shanty, had been burned down as the result of a drunken brawl. It was a singular series of mischances, but since all had ended well he coulj look back upon these experiences and rd* gard them lightly. But he had not yet told all. “ And you were able to solve the mystery?” asked Bertha. The question had been in her mind all day, but she had hesitated to put it before. “ Poisoned I” answered Alec, with the) emphasis of one who has investigated! fij problem, and solved it beyond all question. An exclamation of horror escaped thqi girl at this announcement. “ Whoever could” she began. “ Oh, I don't mean that,” interjected! Alee. “ Nature is the only culprit in this matter. I had held the theory for a long time, and I went to the ground prepared as far as possible to investigate it. Jt kept my suspicions to myself, however', intending, of course, to speak when th<s time arrived. As it happened, my silenfld very nearly led to a third fatality. Wet spent our first day prospecting ths lower ground near the main river, and next} day worked up Sinclair’s Gully the position on the hillside which WO readily recognised as the site of the tw«ji previous camps. It was then, when Some! distance ahead of my companions, that J met with the accident of which I bavd already told you. As I had not put Ini an appearance by the time they had pitched their tent Brown set out to look! for me, and as I was not very far off, he had no difficulty in getting me to that eamp only to find further trouble await* ing him there. When, thanks to his skill and attention, I came to myself, my first; words were, * Did you drink it ?’ ‘No,’ ha replied, his glance alternating between mij and the opposite side of the tent, ‘ bufl Dunean did. You knew about the wster, then, did you? But keep quiet just now. We can talk about that when you ar® well. Meanwhile, you see I have my) hands full, though I am glad to say that both my patients are progressing favourably.’” “ Was the water of the stream really) poisoned?” asked Bertha. “Yes,” said Alee; “we made analyses of the water and portions of the ground over which it runs, and satisfied ourselves, quite apart from, the testimony of Dunean's experience, that the stream! at that part is highly charged with it mineral poison. I have no doubt thafa this is the solution of the mystery of those two fatalities. We found, now* ever, that higher up the stream the water is quite harmless. We have set a limit to the evil influence of the place. ‘The fatal gully’ need be feared no longer* But it’s a good thing we had Brown with us, isn’t it? . . . Hark, there is Nell at the organ.” “Yes,” replied Bertha, awakening from the reverie into which she had fallen, “she is going to have some Christmas hymns with the children. Listen, it’s! dear old ‘ Noel.’ And as the voices of the little ones swelled out in the musld of the hymn, Bertha took up the straint and sang with them; ■— “It came upon a midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth ‘ To touch their harps of gold. Peace on the earth, good will to men, From Heaven’s all-gracious King, The world in solemn stillness lay, ’ To hear the angels sing." It was a happy family that gathered round the breakfast fable next morning. “ Well, Bertha, you won’t mind mel wishing you a Merry Christmas now, will you?” asked Nell. “ No, dear,” said Bertha, “and if youf care to wish us a Happy New Year alsoj you may, for I feel sure it is coming.

THE BUSTLE: