Michael had lived like a child, with an open heart at the disposal of his mates always; and the sense of Charley's guilt descending on him, had created a subtle ostracism, a remote alienation from them.
He could not go to Newton's in the evening and talk things over with the men as he ordinarily would have. He wandered over the dumps of deserted rushes at the Old Town, his eyes on the ground or on the distant horizons. He could still only believe he had done the best thing possible under the circumstances. If he had let Charlie go away with the stones, Sophie would have been saved, but Paul would have lost his stones. As it was, Sophie was saved, and Paul had not lost his stones.
And Michael could not have given Charley away. Charley had been his mate; they had worked together. The men might suspect, but they could not convict him of being what he was unless they knew what Michael knew.
Charley had played on the affection, the simplicity of Michael's belief in him. He had used them, but Michael had still a lingering tenderness and sympathy for him. It was that which had made him put the one decent piece of opal he possessed into the parcel he had made up for Charley to take instead of Paul's stones. It was the first piece of good stuff he had found on the Ridge, and he had kept it as a mascot--something of a nest egg.
Michael wondered at the fate which had sent him along the track just when Charley had taken Paul's stones. He was perplexed and impatient of it. There would have been no complication, no conflict and turmoil if only he had gone along the track a little later, or a little earlier.
But there was no altering what had happened. He had to bear the responsibility of it. He had to meet the men, encounter the eyes of his mates as he had never done before, with a reservation from them. If he could give the stones to Paul at once, Michael knew he would disembarass himself of any sense of guilt. But he could not do that. He was afraid if Paul got possession of the opals again he would want to go away and take Sophie with him.
Michael thought of taking Watty and George into his confidence, but to do so would necessitate explanations--explanations which involved talking of the promise he had made Sophie's mother and all that lay behind their relationship. He shrank from allowing even the sympathetic eyes of George and Watty to rest on what for him was wrapped in mystery and inexplicable reverence. Besides, they both had wives, and Watty was not permitted to know anything Mrs. Watty did not worm out of him sooner or later. Michael decided that if he could not keep his own confidence he could not expect anyone else to keep it. He must take the responsibility of what he had done, and of maintaining his position in respect to the opals until Sophie was older--old enough to do as she wished with her life.
As he walked, gazing ahead, a hut formed itself out of the distance before him, and then the dark shapes of bark huts huddled against the white cliff of dumps at the Three Mile, under a starry sky. A glow came from the interior of one or two of the houses. A chime of laughter, and shredded fragments of talking drifted along in the clear air. Michael felt strangely alone and outcast, hearing them and knowing that he could not respond to their invitation.
In any one of those huts a place would be eagerly made for him if he went into it; eyes would lighten with a smile; warm, kindly greetings would go to his heart. But the talk would all be of the stealing of Rouminof's opal, and of Charley and Jun, Michael knew. The people at the Three Mile would have seen the coach pass. They would be talking about it, about himself, and the girls who had driven away with Charley and Jun.
Turning back, Michael walked again across the flat country towards the Ridge. He sat for a while on a log near the tank paddock. A drugging weariness permeated his body and brain, though his brain ticked ceaselessly. Now and again one or other of Rouminof's opals flashed and scintillated before him in the darkness, or moved off in starry flight before his tired gaze. He was vaguely disturbed by the vision of them.
When he rose and went back towards the town, his feet dragged wearily.
There was a strange lightness at the back of his head, and he wondered whether he were walking in the fields of heaven, and smiled to think of that. At least one good thing would come of it all, he told himself over and over again--Paul could not take Sophie away.
The houses and stores of the New Town were all in darkness when he passed along the main street. Newton's was closed. There were no lights in Rouminof's or Charley's huts as he went to his own door. Then a low cry caught his ear. He listened, and went to the back door of Charley's hut. The cry rose again with shuddering gasps for breath. Michael stood in the doorway, listening. The sound came from the window. He went towards it, and found Potch lying there on the bunk with his face to the wall.
He had not heard Michael enter, and lay moaning brokenly. Michael had not thought of Potch since the people at Newton's told him that a few minutes, after the coach had gone Potch had come down to the hotel to cut wood and do odd jobs in the stable, as he usually did. Mrs. Newton said he stared at her, aghast, when she told him that his father had left on the coach. Then he had started off at a run, taking the short cut across country to the Three Mile.
Michael put out his hand. He could not endure that crying.
"Potch!" he said.
At the sound of his voice, Potch was silent. After a second he struggled to his feet, and stood facing Michael.
"He's gone, Michael!" he cried.
"He might have taken you," Michael said.
"Taken me!" Potch's exclamation did away with any idea Michael had that his son was grieving for Charley. "It wasn't that I minded----"
Michael did not know what to say. Potch continued:
"As soon as I knew, I went after him--thought I'd catch up the coach at the Three Mile, and I did. I told him he'd have to come back--or hand out that money. I saw you give it to him the other night and arrange about going to Warria.... Mr. Ventry pulled up. But _he_ ... set the horses going again. I tried to stop them, but the sandy bay let out a kick and they went on again.... The swine!"
Michael had never imagined this stolid son of Charley's could show such fire. He was trembling with rage and indignation. Michael rarely lost his temper, but the blood rushed to his head in response to Potch's story. Restraint was second nature with him, though, and he waited until his own and Potch's fury had ebbed.
Then he moved to leave the hut.
"Come along," he said.
"Michael!"
There was such breaking unbelief and joy in the cry. Michael turned and caught the boy's expression.
"You're coming along with me, Potch," he said.
Potch still stood regarding him with a dazed expression of worshipful homage and gratitude. Michael put out his hand, and Potch clasped it.
"You and me," he said, "we both seem to be in the same boat, Potch....
Neither of us has got a mate. I'll be wanting someone to work with now.
We'd better be mates."
They went out of the hut together.
CHAPTER VI
Michael and Potch were at work next morning as soon as the first cuckoos were calling. Michael had been at the windlass for an hour or thereabouts, when Watty Frost, who was going along to his claim with Pony-Fence Inglewood and Bully Bryant, saw Michael on the top of his dump, tossing mullock.
"Who's Michael working with?" he asked.
Pony-Fence and Bully Bryant considered, and shook their heads, smoking thoughtfully.
Snow-Shoes, where he lay sprawled across the slope of Crosses' dump, glanced up at them, and the nickering wisp of a smile went through his bright eyes. The three were standing at the foot of the dump before separating.
"Who's Michael got with him?" Pony-Fence inquired, looking at Snow-Shoes.
But the old man had turned his eyes back to the dump and was raking the earth with his stick again, as if he had not heard what was said. No one was deafer than Snow-Shoes when he did not want to hear.
Watty watched Michael as he bent over the windlass, his lean, slight figure cut against the clear azure of the morning sky.
"It's to be hoped he's got a decent mate this time--that's all," he said.
Pony-Fence and Bully were going off to their own claim when Potch came up on the rope and stood by the windlass while Michael went down into the mine.
"Well!" Watty gasped, "if that don't beat cock-fighting!"
Bully swore sympathetically, and watched Potch set to work. The three watched him winding and throwing mullock from the hide buckets over the dump with the jerky energy of a new chum, although Potch had done odd jobs on the mines for a good many years. He had often taken his father's turn of winding dirt, and had managed to keep himself by doing all manner of scavenging in the township since he was quite a little chap, but no one had taken him on as a mate till now. He was a big fellow, too, Potch, seventeen or eighteen; and as they looked at him Watty and Pony-Fence realised it was time someone gave Potch a chance on the mines, although after the way his father had behaved Michael was about the last person who might have been expected to give him that chance--much less take him on as mate. Like father, like son, was one of those superstitions Ridge folk had not quite got away from, and the men who saw Potch working on Michael's mine wondered that, having been let down by the father as badly as Charley had let Michael down, Michael could still work with Potch, and give him the confidence a mate was entitled to. But there was no piece of quixotism they did not think Michael capable of. The very forlornness of Potch's position on the Ridge, and because he would have to face out and live down the fact of being Charley Heathfield's son, were recognised as most likely Michael's reasons for taking Potch on to work with him.
Watty and Pony-Fence appreciated Michael's move and the point of view it indicated. They knew men of the Ridge would endorse it and take Potch on his merits. But being Charley's son, Potch would have to prove those merits. They knew, too, that what Michael had done would help him to tide over the first days of shame and difficulty as nothing else could have, and it would start Potch on a better track in life than his father had ever given him.
Bully had already gone off to his claim when Watty and Pony-Fence separated. Watty broke the news to his mates when he joined them underground.
"Who do y' think's Michael's new mate?" he asked.
George Woods rested on his pick.
Cash looked up from the corner where he was crouched working a streak of green-fired stone from the red floor and lower wall of the mine.
"Potch!" Watty threw out as George and Cash waited for the information.