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Title: Tales of the Austral Tropics
Author: Ernest Favenc
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0600691h.html
Edition: 1
Language: English
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Tales of the Austral Tropics (1893)
by
Ernest Favenc (1846-1908)
* * *
Tales of the Austral Tropics
was published
by Osgood, MacIlvaine and Co.,
London
1894
"The Last of Six": Tales of the Austral Tropics
was published
by The Bulletin Newspaper
Sydney
1893
* * *
CONTENTS: Tales of the Austral Tropics
PREFACE
A CUP OF COLD WATER
THE RUMFORD PLAINS TRAGEDY
A HAUNT OF THE JINKARRAS
TRANTER'S SHOT
SPIRIT-LED
THE MYSTERY OF BAINES' DOG
THE HUT-KEEPER AND THE CATTLE-STEALER
THE PARSON'S BLACKBOY
A LUCKY MEETING
THE OTHER FELLOW
THE STOLEN COLOURS
BUNTHORP'S DECEASE
THE STORY OF A BIG PEARL
[This ebook contains a number of stories from『'The Last of Six', Tales
of the Austral Tropics』which was published in 1893, a year before
"Tales of the Austral Tropics." The Table of Contents for『'The Last
of Six', Tales of the Austral Tropics』is included here and the
stories included from that publication are indicated with an *.
All the other stories were included in "Tales of the Austral Tropics",
see CONTENTS above.
CONTENTS: 'The Last of Six', Tales of the Austral Tropics
PREFACE
*The Last of Six
A CUP OF COLD WATER
A HAUNT OF THE JINKARRAS
THE RUMFORD PLAINS TRAGEDY
SPIRIT-LED
TRANTER'S SHOT
*The Spell of the Mas-Hantoo
*The Track of the Dead
THE MYSTERY OF BAINES' DOG
*Pompey
*Malchook's Doom: A Nicholson River Story
*The Cook and the Cattle-Stealer (The Hut-keeper and the Cattle-stealer)
THE PARSON'S BLACKBOY
A LUCKY MEETING
THE STORY OF A BIG PEARL
*The Missing Super
THAT OTHER FELLOW
(The Cook and the Cattle-Stealer was retitled The Hut-keeper and the
Cattle-stealer in Tales of the Austral Tropics--see above) ]
PREFACE (by Rolf Boldrewood)
In these "Tales of the Austral Tropics" will be found the strange
romances which write themselves, often in letters of blood, amid the
half-unknown, mysterious regions of Tropical Australia. That they are
not less true than terrible, I take it upon myself to affirm. That
such is far from being the case with the larger proportion of
literary manufacture professing to describe Australian life and
character, I most distinctly assert.﹃Those who know seldom write,
and those who write don't know,﹄remarks the veteran colonist with
accentuated emphasis. But this author's name is a household word
among bushmen and bookmen from Albany to Thursday Island, from﹃The
Gulf﹄to the Snowy River--
Alike to him the sea, the shore,
The pen, the bridle, and the oar.
To him, familiar as highways are the endless solitudes of the
"Never Never Country"--he has tempted the Desert Sphinx, gazed upon
gold matrix and opal hoards which gleamed in mockery of the exhausted
wanderer. Trusted for dear life in forest glades to a steady eye and
a true rifle. Listened in a canoe on the Coral Sea to the moaning of
the approaching tempest.
Long a leading actor upon Dame Nature's stage, he has turned
scene-painter for the nonce, and limned with lifelike effect the
drama of the Waste.
ROLF BOLDREWOOD.
A CUP OF COLD WATER
A SILENT and gloomy man. For a man of wealth, who, at one time,
had been noted for his social qualities and his hospitality, Marten
was looked upon with some little wonder by those who lived in his
neighbourhood. People spoke of his solitary habits and the
frightened, hunted look he always had in his eyes. Rumour even said
that that stalwart and attentive man-servant of his was, in reality,
a keeper.
Marten was a man whom vengeance had overtaken in this world and he
could never forget it.
Dull, dark scrub all around, a sandy, barren soil underfoot, a
cloudless sky and a hot, relentless sun overhead. Even more desolate
than the usual dreary-looking scrub of the interior of Australia is
this lonely thicket. The trunks of the stunted trees are gnarled and
crooked, the foliage is scant and almost shadeless, the ground
absolutely free from all undergrowth, and a deep, lifeless quiet
reigns throughout. Footsteps and laboured breathing; and the repose
of the scene is broken by the appearance of a human figure, a worn
and wearied man slowly and painfully dragging himself along some
horse-tracks forming a trail through the scrub. The unfortunate
traveller is a pitiable sight, his sun-scorched face is thin and
haggard with starvation, and his bloodshot eyes gleam with the
delirium of thirst, his boots are absolutely ragged, and he leaves a
bloody track on the baked ground. At times he sinks beneath the
mockery of shade thrown by one of the scrub-trees, then, after a
brief rest, renews his toilsome way.
Presently a break is visible ahead, and with restored hope the
exhausted man pushes on, and ere long, with a hoarse, inarticulate
cry of joy, emerges from the scrub on to the bank of a river. A river
such as had haunted his dreams--clear, bright, sparkling, splashing
in tiny rivulets amongst granite boulders, and rippling from one wide
pool to another.
But the river has a strange appearance--no trees line its banks,
no rushes fringe its shore, the bed is like a broad channel cut
through the sandy waste around; down the centre runs the stream of
water, the sight of which has brought fresh life to the worn-out
wanderer. Slowly he toils across the hot and heavy sand to one of the
shallow pools that sparkle in the sunlight, flings himself down and
plunges his burning face and cracked lips into the crystal stream,
then raises his head quickly with a bitter cry of pain--for this
delusive, mocking river is salter than the sea.
The first moments of despair passed, the traveller gathers himself
together again for a struggle to the last, retraces his steps to the
bank and searches for the continuation of the horse-tracks he has
been following. Finding these, he once more plunges into the sea of
scrub that lines either bank of the river, and slowly staggers on.
Three hours have passed and the sun is getting low when there is
again a break in the weary, monotonous thicket--a small,
comparatively clear patch of country, in the centre of which rises a
conical hill of bare granite rock, lifting its bald crest and smooth,
glistening sides nearly a hundred feet above the expanse of
sad-coloured tree-tops. The open space encircling the foot of the
rock is covered with short grass, there are several clumps of
cork-trees scattered about, and in a deep depression at the base of
the hill is one of the rock-holes peculiar to Western Australia,
nearly half full of rain-water--a deep hole almost like a tank
hollowed out by human hands.
Refreshed by a long drink, the man eagerly surveys the signs of a
late encampment. He thrusts his hand into the ashes of the fire, but
they are cold. He searches anxiously for any scraps of food that may
have been left behind, but without avail. Then another hope comes to
him, and with his last remaining strength he climbs the side of the
naked rock and stands upright on the summit gazing around.
A terribly depressing panorama meets his view, lit up by the last
rays of the declining sun. North, south and east is a grim, black
expanse of scrub without opening, save that here and there he can
recognise the sheen of the treacherous saltwater river. As far as eye
can see stretches this lonely, lifeless waste, that owns no boundary
save the blue haze of the horizon. He then turns to the west. The
same stern uniformity, the only difference being that a dark-blue,
square-topped range is visible far off. No smoke arises anywhere,
neither break nor clearing is visible; all is silent, merciless and
dead. With one last, despairing look he recognises that the great
wilderness has pronounced his doom, and, with hopeless step, descends
to the rocky hole and throws himself down to await the coming of his
last and only friend.
Darkness sets in; the clear stars shine bright in a moonless sky,
one by one the southern constellations sink lower and lower until
they are swallowed up in the black shadow of the gloomy scrub. The
distant whoop of an owl, or the melancholy wail of some other
night-bird alone breaks the oppressive stillness, but the sleeper
heeds them not. Nature has been kind to him at last and brought him
painless slumber. In pleasant dreams his mind wanders far away from
the foot of the giant rock where his body rests. The grey dawn finds
him still alive, but the bitterness of death has passed, he neither
cares nor thinks of rescue or relief; the encircling desert has lost
its terrors, he is half-way to another world. Still there is
something to be done, and he takes a loose bit of stone, and drags
himself alongside a flat rock which is covered with rude markings,
the work of the aborigines: imitations of the tracks of kangaroos and
emus, the trails of serpents and lizards, and, keeping guard over
all, a gigantic human track with six toes, the mystic footprint of
the aboriginal devil.
Amongst these savage emblems the dying man scrawls his name and
the date; that done, he feels that his earthly cares are over. He
thrusts his hand inside his shirt as though to grasp some object
there with loving care, and with a sigh of relief his head falls back
and he thinks no more of heat or thirst or hunger, for Death, the
comforter, has brought him full release.
Four months have passed, the weather has been unchanged. Day after
day a cloudless sun has looked down on the lonely body, gradually
shrivelling up into a withered mummy: day after day has seen it
untouched by bird or beast; even the scavenger crows have shunned the
spot, and the dead white man has lain in solitude all the time. Two
men are now standing by the remains, horses are feeding around on the
dry grass, and two black boys are kindling a fire a short distance
away. One of the men, a young fellow of about three-and-twenty,
kneels down and reverently takes from the fleshless hand the object
it has held so long in the clutch of death--a worn and
weather-stained note-book. Rising, he calls to one of the blacks to
bring a blanket, which he throws over the body, and the two go
silently to their camp.
"Tom," says the young man, "we have found what we started to look
for sooner than I expected. God help Marten when I meet him!"
"The black boy's yarn must have been right," returned Tom.
"True as Gospel. Over a hundred and fifty miles he must have come
in on foot, starving, and for every mile my father trod to meet his
death here on this rock, the murdering cur who left him out there to
die shall suffer bitterly in return, or my name's not Manning. Now,
let us see what he has written."
The message of the dead man to his son was short, but pregnant. It
ran:--
"While I was away from camp Marten packed up, and taking all the
horses and the two boys, started home. I came back with my horse
knocked up and sore-footed and found the camp deserted. We discovered
some splendid country on the heads of the G--and the L--, and I think
he means to go down and take it up for himself, trusting to my never
turning up again. I must follow on foot as best I can, for my horse
is dead lame. ... I have been walking now for two days and my feet
are cut to pieces on the ranges; perhaps when I get down on the level
country I may get along better. ... Quite knocked up; I have done my
best but can hold out no longer; if anyone finds this let them take
it and the note to my son, John Manning, Ballarat, Victoria."
Between the leaves was one, torn out and folded note-shape. It
ran:--
"DEAR JACK,--Marten left me to die of starvation at the head of
the L----River. I have struggled along so far, but must lie down and
die here. God bless you, my boy."
There was silence after reading this. Tom broke it first.
"Marten sold the country well, didn't he?"
"Yes, almost immediately he got back, there was a bit of a craze
for country just then."
"But for that nigger we'd never have dropped on the rights of
it."
"No, Marten supposed that the two boys would go back to their
country--never dreamt that I would come over here on a forlorn hope
of finding my father and run across one of them. He said, too, that
he found the good country after my father was lost, so that I had no
share in the proceeds of the sale."
"Shall we bury him now?" said Tom at last, after a pause.
Young Manning nodded, and they proceeded with their task. By
sundown the long-neglected body, that had lain unwatched on the
desolate rock, was consigned to the earth, and, next morning, the son
set himself the labour of carving out in more permanent characters
the name of the man who rested there.
"Tom," said Manning, when his work was done, "I have made up my
mind how to act, and I want you to keep quiet about my father's
death. I intend giving that fellow rope enough and coming down on him
when he least expects it. It would be impossible to sheet this home
to him by law, so I shall use other means. I can trust you, I
know."
"About the boys?" returned Tom.
"We'll discharge them before we get back to town, and it's not
likely Marten will ever run against any of them again."
In an hour's time the rock mound and the new-made grave were as
lonely as before.
James H. Marten, Esq., was a rich man, the few thousands he had
made out of pastoral country in the western colony had been well
invested in mining shares, and he had been one of the few who had
made money by a mining-boom. He still dabbled in it, although there
was no necessity for him doing so, but the fever was yet in his
veins, and the fascination of a new reef had all its old attraction
for him. At the present time he had, as he thought, "a big thing on"
in Kimberley[*]--he had just had a satisfactory interview with a man
who showed him specimens﹃rich enough to boom any company along until
the bottom dropped out of it.﹄Marten had half a mind to go up north
and look at it himself; he was getting too stout, he thought, and a
good rough trip would set him up again--why, he'd been leading a
sedentary life ever since that trip with Manning. And as the thought
came back to him he picked up his hat and went out hastily, for he
felt as though there was something strange locked up in the office
with him.
[* Kimberley, in N.W. Australia.]
Thus affected by nervous fears, due, as he thought, to inertia,
Marten, after some hesitation, finally decided on the Kimberley trip,
and, in company with the prospector who had brought him the
specimens, whose name was Tom Howard, started for the North. The camp
where the reef was situated was one of the furthest outlying ones,
and by the time they reached it Marten felt that he was rapidly
getting back to hard condition again. Nearly a week passed, and the
mining magnate was quite satisfied that he had a most profitable
speculation, whatever the public might find it in the end, when there
was a new arrival in the camp--a friend of the prospector's, who had
been on a long trip southward. After some mysterious conferences,
Marten was taken into confidence and shown specimens that made his
mouth water. The man who brought them into camp had found them nearly
one hundred and fifty miles to the south-west; there was a patch of
desert country to cross, but that was nothing with such a lure ahead.
Marten, who now felt in his old bush form, consented to go with the
stranger and look at the new find so that he could make a personal
report in Melbourne, and they started.
Marten found his new companion taciturn and reserved; he would
take his meals apart in solitary fashion, and sleep some distance
off. Marten had seen the same moodiness before in men who had long
lived an "outside" life, and he thought nothing of it--the more
stupid the man, the better for him. Strange schemes intruded
themselves into his brain of playing his companion the trick he had
played Manning, if the reef turned out anything like the specimens
that had been produced. If Fortune dealt trumps in his hand why
should he not take advantage of them? Their way was a weary one, some
of it across sandy spinifex plains, and part of it through
mulga--only twice did they come to any water, in each instance a
brackish native well. On the fourth day they reached rough, broken
country, and his companion pointed to a range and said that the reef
was there. That night they camped at a small rock-hole which just
sufficed for their wants and those of their horses. Next morning the
prospector said they must leave their spare horses and ride on, look
at the reef, and come back, as there was no water beyond this
place.
After about three hours' ride they halted at the foot of a
frowning range from which some deep ravines ran down into the lower
country. Here the prospector pulled up. "We had better," he said,
"tie our horses to this tree and go up the gully on foot--it's too
rough for horses." They dismounted. "I am not quite sure which of the
two gullies it is--they are both so much alike; you go up this one
and I'll go up the other. If you see anything of my old tracks fire
your revolver; if not, come back here and wait for me."
They parted, and Marten made an unsuccessful ascent of the gully.
There were no tracks nor any signs of auriferous country, and tired,
thirsty, and disgusted, he returned to the rendevous.
The horses were gone! Was it possible he had made a mistake? No;
there were the tracks. Had they broken their bridles and made off? A
distant noise drew his attention to a ridge about half-a-mile away.
There was the prospector riding homewards, leading Marten's horse.
Marten yelled and "coo-eed" without attracting any attention; then he
drew his revolver to fire a shot, but an empty click was the only
response. He looked at it; the cartridges had been removed. There was
no doubt he was being purposely left behind. As this thought flashed
through his mind, the receding man pulled up on the crest of the
ridge and looked back. Taking off his hat, he waved a mocking salute,
and then vanished down the far side.
With all the terror that now crowded into Marten's brain there was
one predominant question--what was the motive for deserting him? Then
a cold shiver ran through him. Had Manning come to life after all and
paid someone to play him this trick? He rallied himself and started
to follow the track of the horses. It was evident no one would come
back for him; he must help himself. It was dark when he got to the
rock-hole where they had camped the night before, and, although he
knew that it could not be otherwise, yet it was with horror he
noticed that the place was deserted, packs, horses, everything gone.
There was a little muddy water at the bottom of the hole, and he
drank it greedily. He passed an awful night, the mysterious
suddenness of the blow overwhelmed him. If he had had a chance to
argue or explain it would have been different, but all around him was
silence and the desert. "Plead to that!" a mocking voice seemed to
say.
Next morning at grey dawn he was off along the back track, and
doggedly pursued his way until the loose sand and spinifex compelled
him to seek rest. He had no water-bag, so he had thrown his useless
revolver away and filled the pouch with some of the muddy water,
perhaps he could struggle through to the second native well--but 60
miles!--it was a long way. That night was passed in the slumber of
exhaustion; next morning, with stiffened limbs, he recommenced his
march, and now his watersupply was exhausted. Noontide found him
lying under a mulga-bush, praying for death. The sound of an
approaching horse aroused him; the prospector had repented and turned
back. He halted near the exhausted man, and, leaning on his horse's
neck looked calmly at him. "Do you know who I am?" he said.﹃I am
Jack Manning, the son of the man you murdered. I have brought you out
here to die the same death you condemned him to. I know everything, I
found his dead body, his note-book, and a letter to me, I also found
one of the boys you had with you. My father followed you nearly one
hundred and fifty miles, then he died of hunger and exhaustion; I
intend you to do the same, and also to have the pleasure of watching
you do it. I have no intention of letting you die just yet, so I will
give you a quart of water and you must make that do until you reach
the second well.﹄Manning dismounted, filled his quart-pot from the
water-bag he was carrying and placed it on the ground, when, just as
he was riding off, the wretched man broke the spell of shameful
silence that held him and begged and implored mercy. It was useless.
As though stone-deaf, Manning rode away and left him to plead to the
sand, the mulga, and the spinifex; once more the silence and horror
of the desert were around him.
On the fourth day, in a state of delirium, he staggered to the
native well and buried his face in the tepid, brackish water. His
enemy was not visible. Should he wait here for death? He fell
unconscious while thinking.
When he awoke it was morning, and he thought he would make the
attempt to reach the other well; perhaps his foe would relent. He
staggered wearily on, and when the day grew hot sank down at the foot
of a sand-ridge.
"Do you repent?" said a voice. Manning was standing over him. His
swollen tongue refused to answer, but he feebly raised his hand.
"Drink," said his enemy: "I cannot see even you die of thirst."
With all the fierce longing burning within him for the sweet, cool
draught, he yet thought that it were better to die now than live to
undergo it all once more, and, with a last effort, he put the
proffered bag aside. "Let me die," he groaned in a scarcely audible
voice. "Drink," said the other, "I will spare your life, though I
cannot forgive; drink, and repent."
He held the mouth of the bag to his enemy's lips and moistened
them. The touch of the cool water was too much; with a feverish grasp
the half-dead man seized the bag and drank greedily. Then, with a
wild laugh, he fell back insensible.
"Is it too late, I wonder?" thought Manning, looking at him. It
was not too late for his life; but his reason never quite recovered.
Ever since he has been haunted by the nightmare of that dreadful
tramp through the waterless desert, with the avenger ever dogging his
footsteps.
THE RUMFORD PLAINS TRAGEDY
I.
Statement Made By Gilbert Vaughan, Manager of the L.S.D. Bank,
Wattleville.
IT was a serious difficulty, and had occurred so suddenly that my
presence of mind entirely forsook me--I saw no way out of it save
instant flight. There lay the dead body, slain by my hand, and in a
few moments I should be confronted with the girl whom I had intended
to make my wife. How was I to face her, knowing how fondly she had
loved the poor victim?
The act had been quite unintentional. Although there had never
been much love lost between us, I had not meant his death. It had
been simply the fault of hasty temper on my side and unfortunate
curiosity on his. I had ridden out that day, my heart filled with the
gentlest feelings; the bright morning and sunny landscape seemed to
whisper naught but peace, and now, by an inconsiderate blow, I had
dispelled all my hopes, and saw no escape but in prompt and immediate
disappearance from the scene. To continue standing by the poor corpse
would be the act of an idiot. By a strange chance no one was about; I
had ridden up quite unperceived. So I mounted my horse and hastened
back to the township which I had left that morning with such
different feelings.
My duties at the bank that day (I was the manager of a small
country branch) were, fortunately for me, of the slightest, for my
mind was constantly running on the morning's tragedy, and I was
ceaselessly wondering if my deed had been discovered, and picturing
the sorrow of the innocent girl whom I so fondly loved. At three
o'clock I heard a voice in the bank asking the teller if I was in,
and soon afterwards, to my amazement, Ah Foo, the Chinese cook at
Rumford Plains, walked into the small apartment that served as
manager's room.
As he glanced at me with his cunning almond eyes I saw in a moment
that my secret was known, and it did not need that he should take out
two small objects and place them on the table to confirm this
suspicion. For an instant I had wild thoughts of shooting him down
with the bank revolver and swearing that he had tried to stick up the
place, but I restrained myself in order to hear what he had to
say.
"I saw you kill him, Misser Vawn, and I welly glad. No fear I say
anyting. Evelybody ask. I no savee. Evelybody say Misser Muspius; I
no savee, only laugh. Missee Lawrence she cly, cly, all day. Think it
Misser Muspius doee."
"Ah Foo," I said, "you're a brick; here's a sovereign for
you."
"Allight, Misser Vawn. I no savee who kill him, only, when
evelybody say, Misser Muspius, I laugh--" and he laughed himself out
of the room, only to reappear for an instant.﹃You go, see Missee
Lawrence to-night?﹄he whispered in a stage aside, and vanished.
Of course I would. I would make the most of the golden
opportunity. Muspius, my hated rival, was evidently suspected, and Ah
Foo had slyly confirmed these suspicions. I was safe, so long as I
could bribe Ah Foo; at any rate, I would take his advice and go to
Rumford Plains at once; it was only five miles, and I would arrange
that the suspicions thrown on Muspius should be confirmed. I had
taken the first step in crime; the second was easy. II.
Statement Made by John Muspius, Superintendent of Merridale
Station.
It was a pure accident, but a most unfortunate one, to happen on
the very morning when I rode over to Rumford Plains to propose to
Miss Lawrence. Just as I was going to hang my horse up I saw Tommy
standing at the low fence, with his head over the second rail,
watching me. Now, I had had more than one bridle broken through his
tricks, and after ineffectually telling him several times to clear
out, I gave him a tap with the double of my whip. It caught him on
the back of the neck, and, to my astonishment, he dropped down dead.
It struck me at once that no one would believe it was an accident,
for only the other evening I had got into a dispute with Lawrence
about shooting blacks in North Queensland; and he had said that he
would not trust anyone's life in my hands. Of course he was in a
temper because I had the best of the argument, but this accident
happening just after such a remark would look altogether too
suspicious; and besides, I dared not face Miss Lawrence, for I knew
how fond she was of Tommy. There was no one about, so I just rode
quietly off into Wattleville to think it over.
About half-past two that afternoon old Jennings, landlord of the
Royal, told me that Ah Foo, the cook at Rumford Plains, wanted to see
me. "Well, Ah Foo," I said, when the old scoundrel came in,﹃what do
you want?﹄I had no suspicion at the time that he had witnessed the
unhappy affair. He grinned and made a motion with his arm like
striking a blow, which at once told me that he knew all.﹃Welly
unlucky, Misser Muspius,﹄he said, "poor Tommy--dead."
"Ah!" I said,﹃it can't be helped. You know I never meant to kill
him.﹄"I savee," he replied, "I saw you. Evelyone say Misser Vawn
kill Tommy. I no savee, only laugh. Missee Lawrence cly, cly, cly."
So that confounded bank jackeroo, Vaughan, was suspected, was he?
Well, the best thing that could happen. I gave Ah Foo a sovereign,
and he winked and said,﹃You go see Missee Lawrence, I tink welly
good.﹄Then he vanished. Under the circumstances this was excellent
advice, and I determined to follow it. Of course I would not go out
of my way to shift the blame on Vaughan, but if anything were said
about the matter I would not hide my opinion of him. All's fair in
love and war. Besides, he had no business to be out there at that
time in the morning; serve him right if it proved the means of
getting him into trouble.
III.
Extract From the Diary of Miss Selina Lawrence.
May 1st.--Such an unhappy commencement to the day; I never thought
I should feel so glad afterwards as I do now. About 11 o'clock papa
came to me to say that poor Tommy was dead--killed, seemingly, by a
blow on the back of the neck! I almost fainted when I heard it. The
men were all away at the yards, and no stranger had been seen about
the place. Poor Tommy! I cried bitterly all the morning. His body was
laid out and I put some flowers on it, he was such a good-hearted,
faithful fellow. Papa is very indignant, and says he will never rest
until the guilty party is found out; I never saw him so roused
before. He says it is a most abominable crime to be committed in
broad day. While I was still sorrowing over poor Tommy's fate the
mail arrived. Such glorious news! A letter from Fred, saying that his
uncle has retired and handed his practice over to him; so now there's
no reason why we can't get married at once and bring our long
engagement to an end--so he writes. Papa's very pleased, too; he said
that the practice is worth nearly two thousand a year, and we are
actually going to start for Sydney tomorrow morning, so I'm tired out
packing up.
Mr. Vaughan and Mr. Muspius came over this evening. They both
seemed very absent-minded and jealous of each other. I suppose Papa
told them what had happened when they went out on the verandah to
smoke, for they both, I am glad to say, went away early.
Poor Tommy! this good news put his death right out of my head for
the moment.
IV.
Statement of Ah Foo, Cook at Rumford Plains. (Translated into
ordinary English.)
I remember May 1st. I was looking out of the kitchen window when I
saw Mr. Vaughan ride up. Just as he approached the house, Tommy, Miss
Lawrence's pet emu, went up and pecked at the buckles on his
saddlepouch, and his horse started back and broke the bridle. Mr.
Vaughan turned back and caught his horse, and when Tommy came up
again, he hit him with the butt-end of his whip on the back of the
neck, and knocked him down. After looking at him for a moment, he got
on his horse again and rode back to town. I went out to see if Tommy
was dead, and as he still moved, I finished him, for he was always in
mischief. Just then I saw Mr. Muspius coming, so I put Tommy up
against the fence with his head through, to hold him up, and returned
to the kitchen. Mr. Muspius looked round when he got off and saw
Tommy, so he gave him a flick with the double of the stock-whip he
was carrying, and Tommy tumbled down. He thought he'd killed him, for
he got on his horse again and rode away just the same as Mr. Vaughan.
I put poor Tommy up again with his head through the fence, and then
Mr. Lawrence came along. "There's that d---- emu," he said,﹃trying
to get into the garden;﹄and he picked up a stick and threw it at
him, and down went Tommy. I came out and looked at him and he looked
at me.
"My word," I said, "Missee Lawrence make a fuss."
"Hush," he said, "you no savee anything"; and he gave me a
pound--and he went in and tell Missee some "bomniable wletch" killed
Tommy.
That afternoon I went into Wattleville, and Mr. Muspius gave me a
pound not to tell, and Mr. Vaughan gave me another. Then, in the
evening, Missee Lawrence came into the kitchen and said: "Ah Foo, I'm
going to Sydney to-morrow to get married. Here's a pound to bury poor
Tommy properly."
Next morning, young Wilson, the new-chum from the next station,
came over, and he said, when he saw Tommy: "Ah Foo, I want an
emu-skin to send home to England to say I shot him. You skin me this
nicely and I'll give you a pound."
That welly good emu, that makee me flive pounds.
A HAUNT OF THE JINKARRAS
(A Story of Central Australia)
In May, 1889, the dead body of a man was found on one of the
tributaries of the Finke River, in the extreme North of South
Australia. The body, by all appearances, had been lying there for
months and was accidentally discovered by some surveyors making a
flying survey with camels. Amongst the few effects was a diary
containing the following narrative, which, although in many places
almost illegible and much weather-stained, has been since, with some
trouble, deciphered and transcribed by the surveyor in charge of the
party.--Transcribed from the Dead Man's Diary.
MARCH 10, 1888.--Started out this morning with Jackson, who is the
only survivor of a party of three who lost their horses on a dry
stage when looking for country; he was found and cared for by the
blacks, and finally made his way into the telegraph-line, where I
picked him up when out with a repairing-party. Since then I got him a
job on the station, and in return he has told me about the ruby-field
of which we are now in search; thanks to the late thunder-storms we
have as yet met with no obstacles to our progress. I have great faith
in him as a bushman, but being a man without any education and
naturally taciturn, he is not very lively company, and I find myself
thrown on to the resource of a diary for amusement.
March 17.--Seven days since we left Charlotte Waters, and we are
now approaching the country familiar to Jackson during his sojourn
with the natives two years ago. He is confident that we shall gain
the gorge in the M'Donnell Ranges to-morrow, early.
March 18.--Amongst the ranges, plenty of water, and Jackson has
recognised several peaks in the near neighbourhood of the gorge,
where he saw the rubies.
March 19.--Camped in Ruby Gorge, as I have named this pass, for we
have come straight to the place and found the rubies without any
hindrance at all. I have about twenty magnificent stones and hundreds
of small ones; one of the stones in particular is almost living fire,
and must be of great value. Jackson has no idea of the value of the
find, except that it may be worth a few pounds, with which he will be
quite satisfied. As there is good feed and water, and we have plenty
of rations, will camp here for a day or two and spell the horses
before returning.
March 20.--Been inspecting some caves in the ranges. One of them
seems to penetrate a great distance--will go tomorrow with Jackson
and take candles and examine it.
March 25.--Had a terrible experience the last four days. Why did I
not return at once with the rubies? Now I may never get back. Jackson
and I started to explore the cave early in the morning. We found
nothing extraordinary about it for some time. As usual there were
numbers of bats, and here and there were marks of fire on the rocks,
as though the natives had camped in it at times. After some search,
Jackson discovered a passage which we followed down a steep incline
for a long distance. As we got on we encountered a strong draught of
air and had to be very careful of our candles. Suddenly the passage
opened and we found ourselves in a low chamber in which we could
scarcely stand upright. I looked hastily around, and saw a dark
figure like a large monkey suddenly spring from a rock and disappear
with what sounded like a splash. "What on earth was that?" I said to
Jackson. "A jinkarra," he replied, in his slow, stolid way. "I heard
about them from the blacks; they live underground."
"What are they?" I asked.
"I couldn't make out," he replied; "the blacks talked about
jinkarras, and made signs that they were underground, so I suppose
that was one."
We went over to the place where I had seen the figure and, as the
air was now comparatively still and fresh, our candles burnt well and
we could see plainly. The splash was no illusion, for an underground
stream of some size ran through the chamber, and, on looking closer,
in the sand on the floor of the cavern we could see tracks like those
of human feet.
We sat down and had something to eat. The water was beautifully
fresh and icily cold, and I tried to extract from Jackson all he knew
about the jinkarras. It was very little beyond what he had already
told me. The natives spoke of them as something, animals or men, he
could not make out which, living in the ranges under ground. They
used to frighten the children by crying out "jinkarra!" to them at
night.
The stream that flowed through the cavern was very sluggish and
apparently not deep, as I could see the white sand at a distance
under the rays of the candle; it disappeared beneath a rocky arch
about two feet above its surface. Strange to say, when near this
place I could detect a peculiar smell as of something burning, and
this odour appeared to come through the arch. I drew Jackson's
attention to it, and proposed wading down the channel of the stream
if not too deep, but he suggested going back to camp first and
getting more rations, which being very reasonable, I agreed to.
It took us too long returning to camp to think of starting that
day, but next morning we got away early and were soon beside the
subterranean stream. The water was bitterly cold but not very deep,
and we had provided ourselves with stout saplings as poles and had
our revolvers and some rations strapped on our shoulders. It was a
nasty wade through the chilly water, our heads nearly touching the
slimy top of the arch, our candles throwing a faint, flickering gleam
on the surface of the stream. Fortunately the bottom was
splendid--hard, smooth sand--and, after wading for about twenty
minutes, we suddenly emerged into another cavern, but its extent we
could not discern at first, for our attention was taken up with other
matters.
The air was laden with pungent smoke, the place illuminated with a
score of smouldering fires, and tenanted by a crowd of the most
hideous beings I ever saw. They espied us in an instant, and flew
wildly about, jabbering frantically, until we were nearly deafened.
Recovering ourselves, we waded out of the water, and tried to
approach some of these creatures; but they hid away in the dark
corners, and we could not lay hands on any of them. As well as we
could make out in the murky light, they were human beings, but
savages of the most degraded type, far below that of the common
Australian blackfellow. They had long arms, shaggy heads of hair,
small twinkling eyes, and were very low of stature. They kept up a
confused jabber, half whistling, half chattering, and were utterly
without clothes, paint, or any ornaments. I approached one of their
fires, and found it to consist of a kind of peat or turf; some small
bones of vermin were lying around, and a rude club or two. While
gazing at these things I suddenly heard a piercing shriek, and,
looking up, found that Jackson, by a sudden spring, had succeeded in
capturing one of these creatures, who was struggling and uttering
terrible yells. I went to his assistance, and together we succeeded
in holding him still while we examined him by the light of our
candles. The others, meanwhile, ceased their clamour and watched us
curiously.
Never had I seen so repulsive a wretch as our prisoner. Apparently
he was a young man about two or three and twenty, hardly five feet
high at the outside, lean, with thin legs and long arms. He was
trembling all over, and the perspiration dripped from him. He had
scarcely any forehead, and a shaggy mass of hair crowned his head,
and grew a long way down his spine. His eyes were small, red and
bloodshot; I have often experienced the strong odour emitted by
aborigines when heated or excited, but never did I meet with anything
so offensive as the rank smell emanating from this being. Suddenly
Jackson exclaimed: "Look! look! he's got a tail!" I looked and nearly
relaxed my grasp of the brute in surprise. There was no doubt about
it, this strange being had about three inches of a monkey-like
tail.
"Let's catch another," I said to Jackson after the first emotion
of surprise had passed. We looked around after sticking our candles
upright in the sand. "There's one in the corner," muttered Jackson to
me, and as soon as I saw the one he meant we released our prisoner
and made a simultaneous rush at the cowering form. We were
successful, and when we dragged our captive to the light we found it
to be a woman. Our curiosity was soon satisfied--the tail was the
badge of the whole tribe, and we let our second captive go.
My first impulse was to go and rinse my hands in the stream, the
contact had been so repulsive to me. It was the same with Jackson. I
pondered what I should do. I had a great desire to take one of these
singular beings back with me, and I thought with pride of the
reputation I should gain as their discoverer. Then I reflected that I
could always find them again, and it would be better to come back
with a larger party after safely disposing of the rubies and securing
the ground.
"There's no way out of this place," I said to Jackson.
"Think not?" he replied.
"No," I said, "or these things would have cleared out; they must
know every nook and cranny."
"Umph!" he said, as though satisfied; "shall we go back now?"
I was on the point of saying "yes," and had I done so all would
have been well, but, unfortunately, some motive of infernal curiosity
prompted me to say--"No! let us have a look round first." Lighting
another candle each, so that we had plenty of light, we wandered
round the cave, which was of considerable extent, the unclean
inhabitants flitting before us with beast-like cries. Presently we
had made a half-circuit of the cave and were approaching the stream,
for we could hear a rushing sound as though it plunged over a fall.
This noise grew louder, and now I noticed that all the natives had
disappeared and it struck me that they had retreated through the
passage we had penetrated, which was now unguarded. Suddenly Jackson,
who was ahead, exclaimed that there was a large opening. As he spoke
he turned to enter it; I called out to him to be careful, but my
voice was lost in a cry of alarm as he slipped, stumbled, and with a
shriek of horror disappeared from my view. So sudden was the shock,
and so awful my surroundings, that I sank down utterly unnerved,
comprehending but one thing: that I was alone in this gruesome cavern
inhabited by strange, unnatural creations.
After a while I braced myself up, and began to look about. Holding
my candle aloft I crawled on my stomach to the spot whence my
companion had disappeared. My hand touched a slippery decline;
peering cautiously ahead I saw that the rocks sloped abruptly
downwards, and were covered with slime, as though under water at
times. One step on the treacherous surface and a man's doom was
sealed--headlong into the unknown abyss he was bound to go, and this
had been the fate of the unhappy Jackson. As I lay trembling on the
edge of this fatal chasm, listening for the faintest sound from
below, it struck me that the noise of the rushing water was both
louder and nearer. I lay and listened. There was no doubt about
it--the waters were rising. With a thrill of deadly horror it flashed
across me that if the stream rose it would prevent my return, as I
could not thread the subterranean passage under water. Rising hastily
I hurried back to the upper end of the cavern, following the edge of
the water. A glance assured me I was a prisoner--the flood was up to
the top of the arch, and the stream much broader than when we
entered. The rations and candles we had left carelessly on the sand
had disappeared, covered by the rising water. I was alone, with
nothing but about a candle and a half between me and darkness and
death.
I blew out the candle, threw myself on the sand and tried to think
calmly. I brought all my courage to bear on the prospect before me,
so as not to let it daunt me. First, the natives had evidently
retreated before the water rose too high, their fires were all out,
and a dead silence reigned. I had the cavern to myself, which was
better than their horrid company. Next, the rising was periodical,
and evidently caused the sliminess of the rock, which had robbed me
of my only companion. I remembered instances in the interior where
lagoons rose and fell at certain times without any visible cause.
Then came the thought--for how long would the overflow continue? I
had fresh air and plenty of water, and so I could live for days;
probably the flood only lasted twelve or twenty-four hours. But a
deadly fear seized on me. Could I maintain my reason in this worse
than Egyptian darkness--a darkness so thick, definite and palpable as
to be indescribable, truly a darkness that could be felt? I had heard
of men who could not endure twenty-four hours in a dark cell, but had
clamoured to be taken out. Supposing my reason deserted me, and
during some delirious interlude the stream rose and fell again!
These thoughts were too agonising. I rose and paced a step or two
on the sand. I made a resolution during that short walk. I had
matches--fortunately, with a bushman's instinct, I had put a box in
my pouch when we started to investigate the cavern. I had a candle
and a half, and, thank Heaven! my watch. I would calculate four hours
as nearly as possible, and every four hours I would strike a match
and enjoy the luxury of a little light. I pursued this plan, and by
doing so left that devilish pit with my reason. It was sixty hours
before the stream fell, and what I suffered during that time no
tongue can tell, no brain imagine.
That awful darkness was at times peopled by forms which, for
hideousness, no nightmare could surpass. Invisible, but still
present, they surrounded and sought to drive me down the chasm
wherein my companion had fallen. The loathsome inhabitants of that
cavern came back in fancy and gibbered and whistled around me. I
could smell them--feel their sickening touch. If I slept I awoke
from, perhaps a pleasant dream to the stern fact that I was alone in
darkness in the depth of the earth. When first I found that the water
was receding was perhaps the hardest time of all, for my anxiety to
leave the chamber tenanted by such phantoms was overpowering. But I
resisted. I held to my will until I knew I could safely venture, and
then waded slowly and determinedly up the stream; up the sloping
passage, through the outer cave, and emerged in the light of day--the
blessed, glorious light, with a wild shout of joy.
I must have fainted: when I came to myself I was still at the
mouth of the cave, but now it was night, the bright, starlit, lonely,
silent night of the Australian desert. I felt no hunger nor fear of
the future; one delicious sense of rest and relief thrilled my whole
being. I lay there watching the dearly-loved Austral constellations
in simple, peaceful ecstasy. And then I slept, slept till the sun
aroused me, and I took my way to our deserted camp. A few crows arose
and cawed defiantly at me, and the leather straps bore the marks of a
dingo's teeth, otherwise the camp was untouched. I lit a fire, cooked
a meal, ate, and rested once more. The reaction had set in after the
intense strain I had endured, and I felt myself incapable of thinking
or purposing anything. This state lasted for fourand-twenty
hours--then I awoke to the fact that I had to find the horses, and
make my way home alone--for, alas, as I bitterly thought, I was now,
through my curiosity, alone, and, worst of all had been the cause of
my companion's death. Had I come away when he proposed, he would be
alive, and I should have escaped the terrible experience I have
endured.
I have written this down while it is fresh in my memory; to-morrow
I start to look for the horses. If I reach the telegraph-line safely
I will come back and follow up the discovery of this unknown race,
the connecting and long-sought-for link; if not, somebody else may
find this and follow up the clue. I have plotted out the course from
Charlotte Waters here by deadreckoning.
March 26th.--No sign of the horses. They have evidently made back.
I will make up a light pack and follow them. If I do not overtake
them I may be able to get on to the line on foot. The stages between
the water-holes on our way out were not very long, and I ought to
manage it safely.
End of the Diary
NOTE.--The surveyor, who is well-known in South Australia, adds
the following postscript:--
"The unfortunate man was identified as an operator on the overland
line. He had been in the service a long time, and was very much
liked. The facts about picking up Jackson when out with a repairing
party have also been verified. The dead man had obtained six months'
leave of absence, and it was supposed he had gone down to Adelaide.
The tradition of jinkarras is common among the natives of the
McDonnell Range. I have often heard it. No rubies or anything of
value were found on the body."
TRANTER'S SHOT
"I SHOT him like a dog!" said Tranter, as he got off his horse and
proceeded to unsaddle.
"Whom did you shoot?" asked the new superintendent, who was
standing by.
"Never mind," returned Tranter. "I'm not going to give myself
away, but I shot him like a dog."
There was bad blood between Tranter and the new super., and, as
Tranter was about to leave, he was far from respectful in his
manner.
The new super. was a young man from the South, and Tranter was an
old Gulf hand. The new super. was a black-protector and
temperance-advocate, and objected to swearing. Tranter, to sustain
his character as an old Gulf hand, swore the most blood-curdling
oaths in his presence, and told the most awful lies he could invent
about black atrocities. Consequently, they fell out, and Tranter was
leaving the station.
"Now, look here," said the super., "I'll get to the bottom of
this--I'll just follow your tracks and find out what you have been up
to."
"You'll find him safe enough," said Tranter, "he won't get
away."
The wrathful superintendent had his horse brought up, and started
back on Tranter's track, taking another man with him. The trail was
not hard to follow, as Tranter had been after horses and they had
come home along a cattle-track.
The two had gone about five miles when a loud, wailing cry
suddenly startled them. They were in scrubby country at the foot of a
low conglomerate rise, with many boulders strewn about.
Following the direction of the cry, they came to an old gin seated
on the ground cutting herself, or endeavouring to do so, with a piece
of broken glass, and occasionally uttering the wail that had first
attracted their notice. Green, the super., knew that this was a sign
of mourning, and guessed that he was on the right track.
"There's been murder here," he said, dismounting and approaching
the gin. She took no notice of them, but kept on moaning and scraping
at her breast.
"Let's look about," said the man, "they always go on like this,
and we can't stop her."
They searched a while without result, the gin still maintaining
her lamentation. Then Green, having made up his mind that a vile
outrage had been committed, remounted, and they cantered back to the
station.
"I will get F----," he said, naming the native-police inspector,
"to bring a trooper and search."
The "barracks" were only some three miles from the station, and
F----was soon up there with his smartest tracker.
Meantime, Green had been trying to extract from Tranter what he
had done with the body of his victim.
"I shot him like a dog, and I buried him like a dog," was all he
could obtain in answer. "Go and find him, he won't run away."
Green was infuriated, but he knew he could do nothing until
evidence of the murder was established.
With one delay and another it was late in the afternoon ere Green,
F----, and the black trooper arrived at the scene of the tragedy. The
old gin was still sitting there raising her requiem song, but the
black boy could obtain no information from her.
"Some fellow bin go bung," was all he was assured of.
They searched without avail until dusk, and then had to depart
unsatisfied, the most astonishing thing being that they could find no
tracks of blacks other than those of the gin. Green took counsel with
F----, but the latter could say nothing, except that the fact of the
presence of the gin sounding the death-wail and Tranter's boasting
were not sufficient evidence to obtain a warrant on. For himself he
thought, from what he had seen, that Tranter had shot a blackfellow
there, but his mere belief would go for nothing. However, he slept at
the station and promised to renew the search as early as
possible.
Green passed a sleepless night. Here was a chance right into his
hands of vindicating his opinions as to the murderous treatment of
the natives, and he seemed most unaccountably baffled. He vowed that
he would leave no stone unturned on the morrow, and at daylight fell
asleep and slept so long that it was late when they got away.
Arrived at the fatal spot they at once set to work and began to
examine the ground. The old gin had gone back to camp, and they were
undisturbed by her outcries. Green had brought two men with him, so
they were a strong party.
Suddenly the black trooper stopped and stamped his foot.﹃What for
me----fool?﹄he exclaimed. "Me know what that fellow shoot!"
"What?" cried the others, crowding round.
"You know, can't find em track--only old gin's track."
"Yes."
"Of course, that one shoot em piccaniny. Gin bin carry it."
This probable solution, so much more horrible than they had
expected, struck them all as the true one, and they hastened to the
spot where the old native woman had been squatting. The trooper set
to work and rolled away the boulder she had been leaning against,
then he threw out some of the smaller stones, and, putting down his
hand, drew forth by one leg the ghastly object of their search--the
corpse of a fine fat dog, evidently the late property of the
lamenting lubra.
Tranter was even with the super., who never got over the chaff,
but returned south.
SPIRIT-LED
I.
IT was the hottest day the Gulf[*] had seen for years. Burning,
scorching and blistering heat, beating down directly from the
vertical sun, in the open; radiating from the iron roof which
provided what was mistakenly called shade. In the whole township
there was not a corner to be found where a man could escape the
suffocating sense of being in the stoke-hole of a steamer.
[* Gulf of Carpentaria.]
The surroundings were not of a nature to be grateful to eyes
wearied with the monotony of plain and forest. The few stunted trees
that had been spared seemed to sadly regret not having shared the
fate of their comrades, and the barren ironstone ridge on which the
township was built gave back with interest all the sun's heat it had
absorbed.
Two men were seated on canvas chairs in the verandah of one of the
principal "hotels," both lightly attired in shirt and trousers only,
busily engaged in mopping the perspiration from their steaming faces,
and swearing at the flies.
"Deuced sight hotter lounging about here than travelling," said
Davis, the elder of the two; "I vote we make a start."
"I'm agreeable," replied his companion; "the horses must be
starving in the paddock. But we shall have a job to get Delaine away,
he's bent on seeing his cheque through."
"That won't take long at the rate he's going. He's got every
loafer in the town hanging about him."
"Hullo! what's that?" said the other, as the shrill whistle of a
steam-launch was heard. "Oh! of course, the steamer arrived at the
mouth of the river last night; that's the launch coming up. Shall we
go down and see who is on board?"
The two men got up and joined the stragglers who were wending
their way across the bare flat to the bank of the river. Some of the
passengers were strangers to the place; one of them, a man with white
hair and beard, though otherwise young-looking, immediately attracted
Davis' attention.
"See that chap, Bennett?" he said.
"Yes, Dick, who is he?"
"Some years ago he was with me on a droving trip; when we started
he was a fine fellow with dark hair. It's a true bill about a man's
hair going white in one night. His did."
"What from? Fright?"
"Yes. We nearly buried him alive by mistake.
"The deuce you did!"
"He had a cataleptic fit on watch one night. The other man--we
were double-banking the watch at the time--found him as stiff as a
poker, and we all thought he was dead, there were no signs of life in
him. It was hot weather--as bad as this--and we couldn't keep him, so
we dug a grave, and started to bury him at sundown. He came to when
we were filling in the grave, yelled blue murder, and frightened the
life out of us. His hair that night turned as you see it now,
although he vows it was not the fright of being buried alive that did
it."
"What then?"
"Something that happened when he was in the fit, or trance. He has
never said more than that he was perfectly conscious all the time,
and had a very strange experience."
"Ever ask him anything?"
"No, he didn't like talking about it. Wonder what he's doing up
here?"
By this time the river bank was deserted. Davis and Bennett
strolled up after the others, and on arrival at the hotel found the
hero of the yarn there before them.
"Hullo, Maxwell," said Davis, "what brought you up this way?"
Maxwell started slightly when he saw his quondam sexton, but he
met him frankly enough, although, at first, he disregarded the
question that had been asked.
In the course of the conversation that followed, Maxwell stated
that he was on his way out to the Nicholson river, but with what
object did not transpire.
"Bennett and I were just talking of making a start to-morrow, or
the next day. Our cattle are spelling on some country just this side
of the river. You had better come with us."
"I shall be very glad," replied the other, and the thing was
settled.
Bennett had been looking curiously at this man who had had so
narrow an escape, but beyond the strange whiteness of his hair (which
contrasted oddly with the swarthy hue of his sunburnt face) and a
nervous look in his eyes, he showed no trace of his singular
experience. On the contrary, he promised, upon nearer acquaintance,
to be a pleasant travelling companion.
The next morning broke hot and sullen as before. Davis had risen
early to send a man out to the paddock after the horses, and was in
the bar, talking to the landlord.
"You'll have to knock off his grog or there'll be trouble," he
said. "He was up all last night wandering about with his belt and
revolver on, muttering to himself, and when a fellow does that he's
'got 'em' pretty bad."
"I'll do what I can, but if he doesn't get drink here he will
somewhere else," replied the publican, reluctantly.
"Then I'll see the magistrate and ask him to prohibit his being
served. It's the only way to get him straight."
At this moment the subject of their remarks entered the bar--a
young fellow about five or six and twenty--who evidently had not been
in bed all night. The whites of his eyes were not blood-shot, but
blood-red throughout, and the pupils so dilated that they imparted a
look of unnatural horror to his face.
"Hullo, Davis!" he shouted; "glad to see a white man at last. That
old nigger with the white hair has been after me all night--the old
buck who was potted in the head. He comes along every night now with
his flour-bag cobra[*] all over blood. Can't get a wink of sleep for
him. Have a drink?"
[* White head.]
His speech was quite distinct, he was past the stage when strong
waters thicken the voice; his walk was steady, and but for the wild
eyes, he might have passed for a man who was simply tired out with a
night's riding or watching.
The landlord glanced enquiringly at Davis, as if to put on him the
responsibility of serving the liquor.
"Too early, Delaine, and too hot already; besides, I'm going to
start to-day and mustn't get tight before breakfast," said the latter
soothingly.
"Oh, be hanged! Here, give us something," and the young fellow
turned towards the bar, and as he did so caught sight of Maxwell, who
had just come to the door and was looking in.
The effect on his excited brain of seeing the dark face and
snow-white hair was awful to witness. His eyes, blazing before,
seemed now simply orbs of fire. Davis and the landlord turned to see
what the madman was looking at, and that moment was nearly fatal to
the newcomer. Muttering:﹃By----, he's taken to following me by
daylight as well, has he? But I'll soon stop him!﹄he drew his
revolver and, only that Davis turned his head again and was just in
time to knock his hand up, Maxwell would have been past praying for.
The landlord ran round the bar, and with some trouble the three men
got the pistol from the maniac, who raved, bit, and fought like a
wild beast. The doctor, who slept in the house, was called, and
injected some morphia into the patient's arm, which soon sent him
into a stupor.
"By jove, Davis, you saved my life," said Maxwell; "that blessed
lunatic would have shot me sure enough only for you. Whom did he take
me for?"
"He's got the horrors, his name is Delaine, and he's from a
station on the tableland. They had some trouble with the blacks up
there lately, and, I suppose, it was the first dispersing-match[*] he
had ever seen. There was one white-haired old man got a bullet
through his head, and he says he felt as though his own father had
been shot when he saw it done. He's a clergyman's son, so, of course,
he drinks like a fish, and is superstitious as well."
[* Nigger raid.]
"I trust they'll lock him up until I get out of the town; but I'll
remember your share of this. Wait until we get away and I will tell
you what brought me up here, but don't ask me any questions now. Is
your friend Bennett to be trusted?"
"In what way? Wine, women, or gold? I don't know about the first
two, but the last I can answer for."
"It's a secret. Possibly connected with the last."
"I hope so, I want some badly enough. I think I know where to put
you on to a couple of good horses, and then we'll make a start."
II.
The stove-like township is three days' journey away; four men,
Davis, Bennett, Maxwell, and a blackfellow, are camped for the night
by the side of a small lagoon covered with the broad leaves of the
purple water-lily. In the distance the cheery sound of horse-bells
can be heard, and round the fire the travellers are grouped listening
to Maxwell, who is telling the tale he has never yet told:
"When I fell down on watch that night and became to all appearance
a corpse, I never, for one instant, lost either consciousness or
memory. My soul, spirit, or whatever you like to call it, parted
company with my body, but I retained all former powers of
observation. I gazed at myself lying there motionless, waited until
my fellow-watcher came around and awakened the sleeping camp with the
tidings of my death; then, without any impulse of my own, I left the
spot and found myself in a shadowy realm where all was vague and
confused. Strange, indistinct shapes flitted constantly before me, I
heard voices and sounds like sobbing and weeping.
"Now, before I go any further, let me tell you that I have never
been subject to these fits. I never studied any occult arts, nor
troubled myself about what I called 'such rubbish.' Why this
experience should have befallen me I cannot say. I found I was
travelling along swiftly, carried on by some unknown motive power,
or, rather, drifting aimlessly with a current of misty forms in which
all seemed confusion. Suddenly, to my surprise, I found myself on the
earth once more, in a place quite unknown to me.
"I was in Australia--that much I recognised at a glance--but
whereabouts?
"I was standing on the bank of a river--a northern river,
evidently, for I could see the foliage of the drooping ti-trees and
Leichhardt trees further down its course. The surrounding country was
open, but barren; immediately in front of me was a rugged range
through which the river found its way by means of an apparently
impenetrable gorge. The black rocks rose abruptly on either side of a
deep pool of water, and all progress, except by swimming, was barred.
On both sides the ranges were precipitous, cleft by deep ravines; all
the growth to be seen was spinifex, save a few stunted bloodwood
trees.
"What struck me most forcibly was, that in the centre of the
water-hole, at the entrance of the gorge, there arose two rocks, like
pillars, some twelve or fifteen feet above the surface of the
water.
"Below the gorge the river-bed was sandy, and the usual timber
grew on the banks. At first I thought I was alone, but, looking
round, I found that a man was standing a short distance away from me.
Apparently he was a European, but so tanned and burnt by the sun as
to be almost copper-coloured. He was partially clothed in skins, and
held some hunting-weapons in his hand. He was gazing absently into
the gorge when I first noticed him, but presently turned, and,
without evincing any surprise or curiosity, beckoned to me.
Immediately, in obedience to some strange impulse, I found myself
threading the gloomy gorge with him, although, apparently, we
exercised no motion. It was more as though we stood still and the
rocks glided past us and the water beneath us. We soon reached a
small open space or pocket; here there was a rude hut, and we
halted.
"My strange companion looked around and, without speaking, drew my
attention to a huge boulder close to the hut, on which letters and
figures were carved. I made out the principal inscription:--
"'Hendrik Heermans, her vangecommen, 1670.'
"There were also an anchor, a ship and a heart, all neatly cut. I
turned from these records to the man. He beckoned me again; I
followed him across the small open space and up a ravine. The man
pointed to a reef cropping out and crossing the gully. I looked at it
and saw that the cap had been broken and that gold was showing freely
in the stone. The man waved his hand up the gully as though
intimating that there were more reefs there.
"Suddenly, sweeping up the gorge came a gust of ice-cold wind, and
with it a dash of mist or spray. Looming out of this I saw for a
moment a young girl's face looking at me. Her lips moved. 'Go back.
Go back!' she seemed to whisper.
"When I heard this I felt an irresistible longing to return to my
discarded body, and, in an instant, gorge, mountains and all my
surroundings disappeared, and I found myself in the twilight space
battling despairingly on, for I felt that I had lost my way and
should never find it again.
"How was I to reach my forsaken body through such a vague, misty
and indeterminate land? Impalpable forms threw themselves in my path.
Strange cries and wailings led me astray, and all the while there was
a smell as of death in my nostrils, and I knew that I must return or
die.
"Oh, the unutterable anguish of that time! Ages seemed to pass
during which I was fighting with shadows, until at last, I saw a
sinking sun, an open grave, and men whose faces I knew, commencing to
shovel earth on a senseless body.
"Mine!
"I had felt no pain when my soul left, but the re-entrance of it
into its tenement was such infinite agony, that it forced from me
terrible cries that caused my rescue from suffocation."
Maxwell paused, and the other two were silent.
"You will wonder," he resumed, "what all this has to do with my
present journey. I will tell you. You remember Milford, a surveyor up
here--at one time he was running the boundary-line between Queensland
and South Australia for the Queensland Government? A year ago I met
him, and we were talking about the country up this way. In running
the line he had to follow the Nicholson a good way, until finally he
was completely blocked. He described to me the place where he had to
turn back. It was the water-hole in the gorge with the two rock-like
pillars rising out of the water."
Again there was silence for a while. Then Davis said
musingly--
"It's impossible to pronounce any opinion at present; the
coincidence of Milford's report is certainly startling. But why
should this sign have been vouchsafed to you? Apparently this being
you saw was the ghost of some old Dutch sailor wrecked or marooned
here in the days of the early discovery of Australia. Had you any
ancestors among those gentry?
"Not that I am aware of," returned Maxwell, "but if we find the
place we shall certainly make some interesting discovery, apart from
any gold."
"And the girl's face?" enquired Bennett.
Maxwell did not answer for a minute or two.
"I may as well tell you all," he said then; "I was in Melbourne,
after I saw Milford, and I met a girl with that same face, in the
street. Strange, too, we could not help looking at each other as
though we knew we had met before. That meeting decided me on taking
the trip up here. Now, that is really all. Are you ready for the
adventure?"
"I should think so," said Davis, "we have fresh horses at the
camp, and nothing to do with ourselves for three months or more.
Please God, we'll soon be on Tom Tiddler's ground picking up gold in
chunks."
"One question more," put in Bennett. "Have you ever had any return
of these trances or cataleptic fits?"
"Never since, not the slightest sign of one."
III.
There was no doubt about the strange proof or coincidence,
whichever it should turn out to be. The three men stood on the bank
of the Nicholson gazing at the gorge and the water-hole, from the
bosom of which rose the two upright pillars of rock. A fortnight had
elapsed since they were camped at the lagoon.
"It's the same place," muttered Maxwell--and, as the overwhelming
horror of his fight through shadowland came back to him, he leant on
his horse's shoulder and bowed his head down on the mane.
Bennett made a sign to Davis, and both were silent for a while.
Then Davis spoke--
"Well, old man, as we aren't possessed of the supernatural power
you had when you were last here, we'll have to get over that range
somehow."
Maxwell lifted his head. "We must tackle the range, but I expect
we shall have a job to get the horses over. How about leaving them
here in hobbles and going up on foot?"
"Not to be thought of," replied Davis; "why, the niggers' tracks
just back there in the bed of the river are as thick as sheep-tracks.
The horses would be speared before we got five miles away. I know
these beggars."
"That's true," said Bennett.
Davis eyed the range curiously for some time.﹃There's a spur
there that we can work our way up, I think,﹄he said at last,
indicating with his hand the spot he meant. The other two, after a
short inspection, agreed with him. It was then nearly noon, so the
horses were turned out for a couple of hours' spell, a fire lit and
the billy boiled.
"What could have led your Dutch sailor up this way?" said Davis
as, the meal over, they were enjoying a pipe.
"That is what has puzzled me. I have read up everything I could
get hold of on the subject of Dutch discovery and can find no record
of any ship visiting the Gulf about that date," replied Maxwell.
"There may have been plenty of ships here, of which neither
captain nor crew wanted a record kept. Those were the days of the
buccaneers," said Bennett.
"Yes, but with the exception of the ship which had Dampier on
board, they did not come out of their way to New Holland," returned
Maxwell.
"The Bachelor's Delight' and the 'Cygnet' were on the west coast,
as you say; why not others which had not the luck to be associated
with Dampier?"
"True; but the Dutch were not noted as buccaneers. However, plenty
of ships may have been lost in the Gulf of which all record has
disappeared. The question is, what brought the man up into this
region?" said Davis.
"I firmly believe we shall get the clue to that secret when we
find the ravine. It seems incredible that a shipwrecked or marooned
man should have left the seacoast, whereon was his only hope of
salvation, and have made south into an unknown land, through such a
range as this."
"Well, boys, we'll make a start for it," said Davis, jumping up;
and the party were soon in their saddles.
The range proved stiff climbing, and they were so often baulked,
and forced to retrace their steps, that it was sundown ere they
reached the top.
It was a desolate outlook for a camp. A rough tableland of
spinifex--evidently extending too far for them to cross and descend
the other side before darkness set in--lay before them.
"Nothing for it but to go on and tie the horses up all night,"
said Bennett. Fortune, however, favoured them; in about a mile they
came to a small patch of grass, sufficient for the horses, and as
their water-bags were full, they gladly turned out.
"Well, Maxwell," said Davis, as they were discussing breakfast,
"hear anything from your old Dutch navigator last night?"
"No, only I had some confused sort of dream about this place; I
thought I heard that voice once more telling me to 'go back.' But
that, of course, is only natural."
"I think we are close to the spot," remarked Bennett. "When I was
after the horses this morning I could see down into the river, and
there appeared to be a pocket there."
Bennett proved right. In half-an-hour's time they were scrambling
down the range, and soon stood in an open space which Maxwell at once
identified.
Naturally everyone was somewhat excited. Although at first
inclined to put the story down to hallucination, the subsequent
events had certainly shaken this belief in the minds of the two
friends. Maxwell silently pointed to the boulder; there was something
carved on it, but it was worn and indistinct. Two centuries of
weather had almost obliterated whatever marks had been there.
"They were fresh and clear when I saw them," said Maxwell, in an
awed voice.
By diligent scrutiny they made out the inscription that he had
formerly repeated, but had they not known it the task would have been
most difficult. The words had not been very deeply marked, and as the
face of the boulder fronted north-west, the full force of two hundred
years' monsoons had been experienced by the inscription.
"This is a wonderful thing," said Davis. "There can be no doubt as
to its age."
"Let's go up the ravine and look for the reef and then get back as
soon as possible. I don't like this place. I wish I had not come,"
returned Maxwell.
They left the pack-horses feeding about and rode up the gully,
taking with them the pick and shovel they had brought.﹃It was here,
I think,﹄said Maxwell, looking round, "but the place seems
altered."
"Very likely the creek would change its 'course slightly in a
couple of hundred years, but not much. That looks like an outcrop
there."
"This is the place," replied Maxwell, eagerly, "I know it now, but
it is a little different."
The three dismounted, and Davis, taking the pick, struck the cap
of the reef, breaking off some lumps of stone. As he did so, a wild
"Holloa!" rang up the gully. All started and looked at each other
with faces suddenly white and hearts quickly beating. There was
something grisly in such a cry arising out of the surrounding
solitude.
"Blacks?" said Bennett, doubtfully. Davis shook his head. Once
more the loud shout was raised, apparently coming from the direction
of the inscribed rock.
"Let's go and see what it is, anyhow," said Davis--and they
mounted and rode down the gully again, Bennett, who had picked up a
piece of the quartz, putting it into his saddle-pouch as they went
along.
Maxwell had not spoken since the cry had been heard, his face was
pale, and occasionally he muttered to himself, "Go back, go back!"
The pack-horses were industriously cropping what scanty grass there
was; all seemed peaceful and quiet.
"I believe it was a bird, after all; there's a kind of toucan
makes a devil of a row--have a look round," said Davis to Bennett,
and they both rode up and down the bank of the river, leaving Maxwell
standing near the rock where he had dismounted. Nothing could be
seen, and the two returned and proposed going up the gully again.
"You fellows go and come back quickly, I want to get out of
this--I'm upset," said Maxwell in a constrained voice, speaking for
the first time.
Davis glanced at his friend. "Right you are, old man, no wonder
you don't feel well; we'll just make sure of the reef and come back.
If you want us, fire your pistol; we sha'n't be far off."
The two rode back to their interrupted work, and hastily commenced
their examination of the stone. There was no doubt about the richness
of the find, and the reef could be traced a good distance without
much trouble. They had collected a small heap of specimens to take
back, when suddenly the loud "Holloa!" came pealing once more up the
gully, followed instantly by a fainter cry and two
revolver-shots.
Hastily mounting, the two galloped back.
The pack-horses, as if startled, were walking along their tracks
towards home, followed by Maxwell's horse with the bridle trailing.
Its rider was stretched on the ground; nothing else was visible.
Jumping from their horses they approached the prostrate man. Both
started and stared at each other with terror-stricken eyes. Before
them lay a skeleton clad in Maxwell's clothes.
"Are we mad?" cried Davis, aghast with horror.
The fierce sun was above them, the bare mountains around, they
could hear the horses clattering up the range as if anxious to leave
the accursed place, and before them lay a skeleton with the shrunken
skin still adhering to it in places--a corpse that had been rotting
for years, that had relapsed into the state in which it would have
been had the former trance been death. Blind terror seized them both,
and they mounted to follow the horses, when an awful voice came from
the fleshless lips: "Stay with me, stop! I may come back; I
may----"
Bennett could bear no more, he stuck spurs in his horse and
galloped off. Davis would have followed, but he was transfixed with
terror at what he saw. The awful object was moving, the outcast
spirit was striving desperately to reanimate the body, that had
suddenly fallen into decay. The watcher was chained to the spot. Once
it seemed that the horrible thing was really going to rise, but the
struggle was unavailing; with a loud moan of keenest agony and
despair that thrilled the listener's brain with terror, it fell back
silent and motionless. Davis remembered nothing more till he found
himself urging his horse up the range.
In an asylum for the insane in a Queensland town there is a
patient named Bennett, who is always talking about the wonderful reef
he knows of up North. He has a specimen of very rich quartz, which he
never parts with day or night. He is often visited by a friend named
Davis, who nursed him through a severe attack of fever out on the
Nicholson. The doctors think he may yet recover.
THE MYSTERY OF BAINES' DOG
Prologue
THE trouble was first caused by the Malingerites, and, needless to
say, it was a case of cherchez la femme. One of the youthful members
of that tribe had forcibly abducted a maiden of the clan of Layovah,
and red war ensued. The worst of it was that they selected as
convincing ground a spot close to a much-frequented cattle-camp, on
the boundary of two large runs where the herds met. This greatly
extended the circle of commotion. The noise and tumult of battle,
"the thunder of the captains and their shouting," coupled with the
shrill yells of the gins, were enough to unsettle the temper of any
well-regulated beast, and at the end of the engagement the casualties
were--one blackfellow seriously injured by falling over a stump
during the heat of combat, two slightly scratched, and one gin very
hoarse through screeching. The cattle scattered to the four winds.
Most of the Seldon Downs beasts fled on to Inverlochy, and most of
the Inverlochy ones to Seldon Downs--all vowing in their bovine
hearts never again to set foot on that camp.
So two stations, whereon the owners had dwelt for years in peace
and amity, fell out on account of an obscure aboriginal quarrel. Jack
Bell, of Seldon Downs, said it was the fault of Tom Devine, who
should have kept his niggers in better order; and Devine said that
Bell knew as much about managing blacks as he did about squaring the
circle. The cattle were soon mustered and put right; but the remarks
were repeated and remembered.
The two erstwhile friends were in this embittered state when
Baines, the hawker, was murdered at the old boundary hut. Then the
smouldering feud broke out. Devine maintained that it was evident the
man had been killed by the natives on Bell's station; and Bell held
as his salvation that the unfortunate fellow met his death at the
hands of whites, probably some men lately discharged from Devine's.
So the matter stood when our story opens, and the ends of justice
were finally defeated because the Malingerites quarrelled with the
Layovahs. It is as well to trace things back to their first
cause.
I.
Dick Baines, the hawker, had been murdered; of that there was no
manner of doubt. He had camped at the boundary-hut, an old, deserted
sheep-station, and a traveller passing the next day found him lying
alongside his dray with his head cut open. His own axe, with a
blood-stained blade, lay beside the body. Evidently he could not have
done it himself. On that point everyone agreed.
His horses were safe and his goods apparently untouched, and
herein lay the mystery of the crime. He had only just started on his
round with a full load, and what little money he had taken was found
on his body. There seemed no motive for a white man to commit the
deed, and if any of the blacks had done it, why had they not sacked
the dray? It was an enigma worthy of a first-class detective-story.
Meantime, during its elucidation, there was nothing to do but hold an
inquest over what was once Baines, bury it, and let the law do the
rest.
The deceased had been some time in the district, and was noted for
his reserved manner. He always travelled and camped alone, and seldom
drank. He was not extremely popular, and most people suspected that
he had "a past." One singular feature of the tragedy was that his
dog, a smart little fox-terrier, had disappeared. The matter had
almost run the orthodox nine days, when interest in it was suddenly
revived by the arrest of a man in the small township of Boolah, a
short distance from the scene of the murder, who was formally charged
with the crime. He had Baines' dog with him.
McFarlane, the man accused, was well known in the district and
bore an excellent character. He had been working at Devine's on a
fencing contract and had been paid off and left the morning before
the hawker was killed. Had started for Seldon Downs, the road to
which led past the boundary-hut. Thence he had gone round by two
other stations to Boolah. He stated that he found the dog astray in
the township, recognised it as the missing animal, called it by name,
and the dog followed him. He was about to inform the police when he
was arrested by the sergeant.
Scarcely had the surprise occasioned by this been well digested,
before a more astonishing one turned up. Baines' dog was also found
in a blacks' camp on Seldon Downs.
One of the men riding by the camp noticed a gin scuttling away
with something in her arms that yelped and struggled. Rounding her
up, he found she was vainly trying to conceal Baines' well-known and
apparently ubiquitous dog. Further search revealed nothing more, and
the gin made the astounding assertion that the dog had been given to
her by a white woman. Beyond that no intelligible information could
be elicited from her. The blacks were well watched and the dog taken
down to Boolah, where McFarlane was to appear before the magistrates'
court.
It now transpired that there were two dogs marked exactly the
same, identical in size and appearance, and both answering to the
name of "Rattler." But the question was, which of the pair was
Baines' dog? Never since the judgment of Solomon had law-court a more
knotty problem. The animals on being introduced promptly fell on each
other tooth and claw and were with difficulty separated. Bell and
Devine, both J's. P., were sitting on the bench with the
police-magistrate. They differed in opinion. Bell declared that the
dog found with McFarlane was the dead hawker's; Devine was equally
confident that the dog found on Seldon Downs was the one wanted.
After much heated discussion Bell left the bench and desired to give
evidence.
He stated that the last time he saw Baines, the hawker showed him
a trick he had been teaching his dog. It was an old and well-known
performance. The dog sat up on his hind legs with a piece of meat or
biscuit balanced on the tip of his nose; at the words﹃ready,
present, fire!﹄he tossed it up, caught and swallowed it, and dropped
on all fours again. Bell selected the dog he thought was the
hawker's, and put him through the performance amidst the hushed
attention of a crowded court-room. It was a complete success and he
looked up with an air of triumph.
"Yes. That's the dog found on Seldon Downs," said Devine from the
bench.
"Nothing of the sort," returned Bell hotly, forgetting his
position as witness. "It's the dog found with McFarlane."
Devine was indignantly replying, when the P.M. interfered and
asked the sergeant which dog it was. The sergeant looked at the dogs,
then at the two policemen, and they looked blankly back at the
sergeant. Then the truth burst upon everybody with such suddenness
that a roar of laughter convulsed the court.
The two dogs had got so irretrievably mixed up in the fight that
now no one could tell one from the other.
When order was restored (Bell and Devine had nearly come to blows)
the P.M. decided to remand the case for a week. Bail was allowed
McFarlane, which Devine readily found. One of the dogs, the one which
could perform the trick, was ordered to have a collar put on for
distinction, and both were given in charge of the lock-up keeper. The
enquiry had simply complicated matters. Baines' dog was identified,
but nobody could say for certain at which place it had been found.
Bell and Devine were, of course, equally positive, but that was mere
party feeling. Most people believed in McFarlane's innocence, but
Bell vowed that he would bring the murder home to him.
"Can you recall anything suspicious the night you passed Baines?"
said Devine to McFarlane, as they went out after signing the bail
bonds.
"No, sir. He had hobbled his horses out and was lighting a fire. I
got off, lit my pipe, and stopped yarning for about twenty minutes.
Then I went on to Seldon Downs."
"And from there?"
"I came to Boolah by Thirglemere and Bingledoon. I had been here
about two hours when I recognised the dog, and directly after I had
coaxed him to follow me I was arrested."
"From the boundary-hut, going round by Seldon Downs, Thirglemere,
and Bingledoon, you made it about eighty miles to here and took your
time?"
"I stopped two days at Thirglemere and two at Bingledoon. I was a
week coming here altogether."
"But anyone could ride from the boundary-hut straight in to here
in about thirty-five miles."
"Yes, by the old track, but you have fenced that across now."
"The wires could be easily strapped down, or cut, for that matter.
Let's see, I don't suppose it's been used for years, and there has
been no rain since Baines was killed. I'm going to run the old
track." "Will they let me go with you?"
"I'll fix that," said Devine--and the next morning the two
departed for the old track to the boundary-hut.
During their absence, however, Bell was not idle. He returned to
the station, and, after much ado, he had the old gin, from whom the
dog had been taken, brought into Boolah. As they arrived Devine and
McFarlane rode in, returning from their trip to the old hut.
On being shown the two dogs, the gin immediately claimed the one
without the collar as being her property. This was satisfactory, to
Bell, at any rate, but at this moment Devine came upon the scene.
Disdaining to do more than civilly sneer at the test just gone
through, he drew the sergeant on one side and held a short conference
with him. The sergeant disappeared with the two dogs; the others
waited, Bell scornfully impatient. Presently the two dogs reappeared.
On being told to pick out her dog, the gin at once again selected the
collarless one.
"That's the other one this time, is it not, Sergeant?" said
Devine. "Yes, sir, I shifted the collar just now."
"It's not fair!" broke in Bell.﹃The poor devil's frightened out
of her wits; she picked right the first time, but you've bothered
her;﹄and he marched out of the yard in deep disgust.
When Devine and McFarlane left the township they did not trouble
to look for tracks until they were well clear of all the stray
animals. When about ten miles away the old bridle-path was quite
plain. Both men rode on in silence, scanning the ground carefully; at
times, with a low whistle, one would call the other's attention to
something he saw. Just as they got within sight of the fence, they
pulled up.
"It's plain enough, McFarlane," said Devine; "a horse has been
ridden along here about the time of the murder."
McFarlane nodded. "We shall make sure at the fence," he answered,
and they rode on. It was a wire fence, and where it crossed the track
the wires were taut and evidently untampered with. The two turned and
rode along the fence in opposite directions. A shout from McFarlane
brought Devine back to him. He had come to a panel that bore marks of
rough usage, from the way the upper wires sagged.﹃The top wires have
been strapped down and then brushed across,﹄said the fencer,
pointing to the withered boughs lying about.
"And the horse did not fancy tackling it," added Devine;﹃look how
he has been hanging back.﹄Inside the fence the ground was much more
bare and dusty, and the tracks of a horse's stamping hoofs deeply
indented were plainly visible.
"Whew!" said McFarlane, getting through the fence, "look here!"
Devine followed him. On a particularly dry and dusty bit of ground
was the plain imprint of a boot. There should have been nothing
strange in this to make the men stare so intently at it; it was only
what they might have expected to find.
Placing his hand on McFarlane's shoulder to steady himself, Devine
put his foot down close to the track without actually touching the
ground. The difference in size was at once apparent.
"Either a boy or a woman," said McFarlane.﹃And the gin said a
woman gave her the dog,﹄returned the other.
Carefully getting back so as not to deface the tracks the two men
mounted and rode a short distance down the fence to where they knew
was a small gate. Making for the old bridle-path again, they followed
it on towards the hut, McFarlane drawing Devine's attention to the
track of a small dog now plainly visible on that of the horse.
They stayed that night at the old sheep-station, but no further
evidence rewarded their careful search, beyond the fact that some
blacks had camped in the neighbourhood, apparently about the date of
the murder. They returned to Boolah in time for Devine to be present
at the dog-test, as already narrated. McFarlane met him as he was
coming out. "It has just struck me to whom that second dog belongs,"
he said.
"Whose is it?"
"Mrs. Brown's; you know, at Boomerang Creek."
"By Jove, you're right," said Devine. "It must have been stolen
from there."
Devine was doubtful whether to communicate the discovery of the
suspicious track to the police or not. Against his better judgment he
did so, thinking it his duty. They went out, accompanied by Bell, who
volunteered his services, examined the track, and reported that it
had been made some time since the hawker's death, and so had nothing
to do with that occurrence. In this they were partly prompted by
Bell, and partly by the fact that as they had searched for tracks,
without success, at the time of the murder, it would never do for
them to go back on themselves. Devine cursed himself for a fool, and
that was all he could do. When McFarlane's case came on again he was,
of course, discharged. The evidence was altogether too slight, and
several people came forward and testified to having seen the dog in
Boolah before McFarlane's arrival.
"I'll find out about that other dog," said Devine to himself.
II.
Nearly forty miles from Boolah, on the way to the seaport, in the
opposite direction to the scene of the tragedy, stood a wayside
public-house, on the bank of a large creek, crossed by the road. Mrs.
Brown's, on Boomerang Creek, was noted east and west for its
neatness, cleanliness and good accommodation. People travelling
stretched a point to make the place for the night's stay. The
coach-passengers who grumbled at the meagre fare of the other
accommodation-houses were told to wait till they came to Mrs.
Brown's. Brown, for there was a Mr. Brown, was devoted to outdoor
work, but Mrs. Brown was the presiding genius of comfort indoors,
and, therefore, the place was generally known as "Mrs. Brown's."
When the Judge was on circuit, he always carefully fell ill for a
day or two at Mrs. Brown's. Men from the hot western plains, who had
lived for weary months upon pigweed and "salt-horse," rested at Mrs.
Brown's with calm contentment. Freshest of vegetables, of butter, of
eggs, and best of cooking, what could a man with a salt-junksaturated
liver want more?
As cheery as her well-kept table was the appearance of the hostess
herself, a plump little woman, who perennially had a smile upon her
pretty face, and a kindly greeting for everybody. She was devoted to
her quiet, easy-going husband, who warmly reciprocated the feeling. A
word from Mrs. Brown would steady the most drunken fellow, and when
she was in the bar the language of all hands was painfully
discreet.
It was at this calm haven of rest that Tom Devine dismounted one
evening in his character of amateur detective. He was, of course,
well known, and Mrs. Brown, as she flitted in and out of the room
seeing after his comfort, kept up a lively flow of chatter.
"I suppose you miss something, Mr. Devine?" she said as she
invited him to table.
"Well, no! Everything seems as comfortable as usual, Mrs.
Brown."
"I've lost my dog since you were here last. You remember little
Rattler?"
"Of course. Why, that must be your little terrier the police have
in Boolah," said Devine, with infinite hypocrisy.
Mrs. Brown nodded and smiled brightly. "Yes, I only heard of it
the other day. I must send up and claim him."
"How did you lose him?"
"I am not sure. He was stolen, I believe; but we had so many
travellers staying here at the time that I don't know whom to
suspect." "Any women amongst them?" asked Devine, quickly.
"Yes, one. I don't know who she was; she was going with her
husband to some station out west."
"Would you know her again if you saw her?"
Mrs. Brown was positive that she would, and in her turn asked what
made Mr. Devine so curious.
"I will tell you," he said, after a pause. "You have heard all
about the murder of Baines, the hawker? Well, one of the dogs was
found in a blacks' camp, and the gin who had it asserts that it was
given her by a white woman."
Mrs. Brown looked down on the table upon which her hand rested.﹃I
should be sorry to hear that she was mixed up in it, for she seemed
to be a very nice person,﹄she replied.
"But if the gin has told the truth she must have stolen your
dog."
"That is true," she remarked.
Devine was up at sunrise next morning, after restless dreams about
a strange woman who went about stealing dogs and killing hawkers. He
strolled out and commenced yarning with Brown, who, bucket in hand,
was standing at the milking-yard waiting for the cows.
"The missus has gone down the paddock for them this morning," he
confided to Devine; "got up very early--she couldn't sleep at all
last night."
At this moment the first of the lowing herd made its appearance.
Mrs. Brown was behind on foot, driving them up and leading her horse.
One after the other they blundered over the rails that had been
carelessly let down at one end only. Mrs. Brown followed, but the
horse she was leading suddenly stopped and refused to step over the
rails.
"Confound that horse!" said Brown, "he wouldn't lift his legs over
a pack-thread if he could help it."
Devine did not answer. His thoughts were engrossed in a sudden
flash of memory. The horse that obstinately hung back on being
required to step over anything! The tracks at the wire fence!
Brown went into the yard and commenced milking. Mrs. Brown having
succeeded in getting her horse over the rails, went on to the stable,
Devine walking by her side.
"Mrs. Brown," he said quietly. "I know who killed Baines, the
hawker."
She started, stopped, and looked him for one moment in the eyes,
read there that he knew the truth, and turned so deadly white that he
was afraid she would faint. She recovered herself, however, and
walked steadily on to the stable. Stopping at the door she glanced
around to see if anybody was within hearing, then said firmly: "Had I
better tell you everything, or go and give myself up to the
police?"
"Perhaps you had better tell me," he replied, after a pause.
"Very well. I will, presently."
Mrs. Brown went about her work that morning apparently unmoved by
any unusual emotion. It was not until nearly noon that she found time
and opportunity to see Devine.
Her story, which, for the most part is unfortunately a common one,
need not be given in full. She was an orphan brought up on a farm by
some distant and not overkind relatives. When only an ignorant girl
of eighteen, Baines, who then travelled that district, persuaded her
to elope with him under a promise of marriage that he never kept. For
two years she lived with him as his wife, until, tired of ill-usage
and broken vows, she ran away and took service as a barmaid in a
country town, where her husband met and married her.
Fate, unfortunately, brought them to settle close to the district
where Baines was now plying his trade. The township of Boolah,
however, was his limit, and he had never been to their house until
about a week before his death. Then, on recognising his former
victim, he revengefully threatened to expose her past life to her
husband.
"He was one of those evil-minded men," she went on, "who must have
something to torture. It was only out of sheer love of cruelty that
he threatened me, because he saw I was happy with Brown. He vowed
that when he came back from his trip he would do it, and showed me
some old letters and photographs of mine which would prove his words.
You can fancy my feelings when he left me with this hanging over my
head My home to be broken up, and my husband turned against me! At
times I was tempted to confess it all to my husband, but then I
should have to admit that I only did it under fear of exposure. I
made up my mind that if I could succeed in getting the letters and
things from Baines, I would dare him to do his worst, and some days
after he left, I started under the pretence of paying a visit to a
friend in Boolah, with a mad idea of somehow stealing the
letters.
"I overtook him at the old hut, and intended to wait in the scrub
until he was asleep; but my little dog, which had followed me,
betrayed me when he caught sight of the other one. They were twin
puppies, and were called 'Rattler the First' and 'Rattler the
Second,' and when I ran away from that wretch I took one with me. I
had nothing for it but to come forward when he recognised the
dog.
"You may guess what brutal taunts he used towards me, and when, in
despair of getting what I wanted, I was going away, he tried to stop
me by force. His axe was leaning against the wheel, and I picked it
up and dared him to touch me. He laughed, and the next moment I
struck him down. I scarcely knew I had done it until I saw him lying
there." She stopped, and, after a pause went on:
"My first thought, of course, was to get away; then I remembered
my letters. The deed was done, I might as well get what I came for. I
soon found the letters and things, and left the spot.
"And what about the dogs?"
"They both followed me. About a mile from the hut some blacks were
camped. One gin was squatting at the fire, and I called her over, and
gave her what I thought was Baines' dog, thinking it would get away
from them and go back to the dray in the morning. It was dark, and in
my flurry I made a mistake and gave her mine. When daylight came I
found it out, but I could not drive the dog away, and it followed me
home, for it remembered me. After hanging about, however, for a few
days it disappeared, and, I suppose, made back to Boolah, where it
was found. Everybody, of course, took it for my dog while it was
here." "How did you come to know of the old track."
"I did not know of it. I came on it by chance in the dark, and my
horse followed it. As it was leading in the right direction I kept on
until I came to the country I knew near Boolah."
"And had some difficulty in getting your horse over the fence?"
said Devine. "Did it not strike you that giving the dog to the blacks
would throw suspicion on them? I hope it was not done with that
motive."
"It was not," she said eagerly; "I made sure that the dog would
get away, and I scarcely gave myself time to think. Afterwards, when
it was too late, what you say occurred to me. Now I have told you
everything. What I did was done almost in self-defence, and it was
only what a father or brother would have done for me had I had
one."
She ceased and Devine was silent for a while. At last he
spoke.
"Nobody has any suspicion of this but I. McFarlane saw the tracks,
but I can easily put him off. The best thing to do is for Brown to
ride back with me to Boolah and get your dog. For my part I shall
hold my tongue and advise you to do the same."
Now if the Malingerites had not quarrelled with the Layovahs,
Devine and Bell would not have taken opposite sides in the affair.
Devine would not have constituted himself an amateur detective, and
the matter would have been left to the proper authorities, who might,
possibly, have blundered on to the real culprit. As it is, the death
of Baines, the hawker, has remained a mystery to all save one woman
and one man.
THE HUT-KEEPER AND THE CATTLE-STEALER
SOME few years ago, ere the picturesque, grey, box-bark roofs on
bush huts had given place to hard, ugly, angular galvanised iron;
when real living shepherds were still in existence, and the stockmen
who wore cabbage-tree hats, and made their own stockwhips instead of
buying them from a store, had not all gone to the main camp, the
following curious incident took place.
Alexander Macpherson, to give him his full name, was hut-keeping
at a small outstation where, just at the period this story opens, he
had only a couple of stockmen for companions. It was summer time; an
iron drought had set in, and there was nothing to do but wait for
rain and put off the mustering until more favourable weather. Under
the circumstances, Sandy's two mates had got a few weeks' holiday and
gone to the nearest town to spend it, that is, if they had succeeded
in passing the first grogshanty--a matter of much doubt.
Sandy was noted as a careful soul who did not surrender himself to
unrestrained joviality. He was reputed to have "a stocking"
somewhere, and was respected accordingly.
"Blessed if I'd stop here by myself for a week or two," remarked
Jim, the younger of the two, as he said good-bye on mounting.
"I don't see much in it," returned Sandy; "it's bound to be
lonely, but I'll have my cheque in my pouch after all, and the
publican will have yours."
"But I'll have some fun, as well, old man; and you won't be lonely
at this time of the year, if all they say's true," was the reply.
"How's that? Who comes here?" demanded the hut-keeper.
"Some queer coves, according to all accounts, especially when they
find a man alone"--and Jim waved his hand and cantered after his
companion, leaving Sandy rather perplexed.
The out-station was twenty miles from the head-station. No other
road led to it. To the West and North lay an unoccupied waste, and
Sandy pondered over Jim's parting words without finding any clue to
their meaning. In past days the blacks had been troublesome, but now
they were all gone, so there was no harm to be apprehended from
them.
Sandy turned into the hut and prepared for a fortnight's laziness.
He had laid in a couple of bottles of whisky which, as he was a
temperate man, would last him through the two weeks; he had the usual
station luxuries, if he liked thus to enlarge his account, and the
super, had sent him out a big bundle of old newspapers, so he felt
equal to the occasion and dismissed his companion's words as
idle.
Nothing happened in any way to disturb his serenity for ten days,
and Sandy had by that time to acknowledge that solitude was a trifle
monotonous. The summer night was moonless and dark, the mosquitoes
were aggressive, and Sandy pricked up his slush-lamp, covered his
fire over, and retired under the mosquito-net he had rigged round his
bunk, taking with him a paper to read himself to sleep.
His eyelids were just commencing to grow heavy when he was aroused
by the tramp of a horse. Then came the noise of a man dismounting,
and before Sandy could get outside his carefully-tucked-in net, the
door was opened and a stranger entered.
Sandy was a slow-going fellow who took things coolly; so he
returned the stranger's greeting as a matter of course, and in the
usual bush style made up the fire and put the billy on.
The new-comer was a silent man with a large red beard, and as he
turned his head Sandy saw a livid weal or bruise encircling his
neck.
After a few remarks intimating that he was a traveller wanting a
night's shelter, he went out again, and Sandy heard him unsaddling
and hobbling his horse; then he returned. He ate like a hungry man,
but seemed to have an unaccountable difficulty in swallowing, and
spoke little during his meal. Twice Sandy asked him where he came
from without getting any reply, until on a third repetition, the
new-comer told him curtly that that was no business of his, and a
somewhat irksome silence ensued.
"You can take that bunk, mate," said Sandy, stiffly, to break the
spell, indicating the one belonging to the absent Jim.
"Thanks," said the stranger; "if you don't mind my keeping the
fire going I'll sit up a bit--I don't feel sleepy."
"Must be warm where you came from," returned Sandy, "when you want
a fire such a night as this."
"It is hot down there," said the traveller, grimly.
Under cover of the mosquito-net Sandy lay and watched his taciturn
guest. The man sat upon the rude slab bench, with his chin in his
hands, gazing into the fire with an unwinking stare that made the
watcher in the bunk feel that he should like very much to get up and
seek some Dutch courage in a moderate dram. This could not be thought
of, for he could scarcely infringe the laws of Australian hospitality
so far as to drink without offering the other man anything.
So Sandy lay quiet, and was dropping off into a dose when a
movement of the stranger aroused him.
The man had turned slightly, and the cook saw distinctly that
little drops of blood were oozing from the discoloured bruise on his
neck and running on to the collar of his shirt, where they merged
into another and a deeper stain.
Sandy was horrified, and when the man presently arose, he almost
gave a nervous start and cry, but he restrained himself. The stranger
looked toward the darker portion of the hut, which was of some
length, and shook his fist at a shadowy tie-beam just visible.
Sandy's horror-stricken gaze followed in the same direction
and--could he believe his eyes?--a rope with a noose at the end of it
dangled from the beam!
"Get up, Sandy McPherson!" cried the visitor in a terrific voice,
"and don't lie shaking there any longer. I'm the man who hung himself
here four years ago this night. Get up--I've got work for you!"
He made a stride as though to second his injunction, and Sandy
with a quaking heart slipped out on to the earthen floor.
"Now, look here. To-morrow morning, sharp, you get a horse up and
ride to Murderer's Camp--you know it--where all the niggers were
shot, as you've heard tell of. I did most of that, and their black
ghosts worried me till, at last, I up and hung myself. You go and
watch on that camp all to-morrow until daylight next morning, and say
a bit of a prayer for me, and mayhap I'll get some rest. If not--if
you don't obey me--I'll haunt you, and hunt you, until you follow my
example." And he pointed with threatening finger to the shadowy beam
and dangling noose.
The red-bearded man did not wait for any answer--in fact, Sandy
could not have made one, his teeth chattered so. He watched his awful
visitor open the door and close it after him; then he thought of the
whisky. He got the bottle, took a deep draught without using a
pannikin, and sank down on to his bunk half stupid and half
asleep.
The sun was shining when he awoke, and he sprang up and looked
about him. The rope and noose resolved itself into an ordinary halter
thrown over the tie-beam, though Sandy could not for the life of him
remember having seen it there before. There was certainly low tide in
the whisky bottle, but he could not determine whether the bread and
beef were in the same condition as before the stranger's visit.
His spirits fell, however, when he found the unmistakably fresh
tracks of a horse outside the verandah. But if his visitor was a
ghost, how did he come to ride a horse that made tracks? There could
be no error, as he had swept all around the hut since the two men
met. This thought struck Sandy very hard, and he sat down to work it
out.
As a Highlander, Sandy was rather superstitious, but he had plenty
of sense notwithstanding, and felt very sore at being caught
unprepared and having shown the white feather.﹃It's some lark of the
fellows at the station,﹄he muttered to himself; "going to make me
spend a day out on Murderer's Camp and then 'chiack' me about it. Not
if I know it."
Then a new thought struck him. The red-bearded man was certainly
not one of the station men, nor from anywhere about. He was a
stranger, and not anybody he knew in disguise; he had looked at him
too well for that--no man can disguise his eyes. He knew the yarn of
Murderer's Camp, and how men, gins, and piccaninies, had been
ruthlessly slaughtered there; but he never heard of anyone committing
suicide in the hut, and he began to doubt that there had been such an
occurrence.
After referring for advice to the sadly-diminished whisky-bottle
he made up his mind. He would go to Murderer's Camp--it was eight
miles up the river. He would wait there until dark; then he would
come back quietly and try to turn the tables.
Sandy had a horse of his own in the paddock. As a hut-keeper's
horse should be, it was fat and fresh, and, with a supply of food,
mental and otherwise, and an allowance of the second bottle of
whisky--broached, alas! before its time--Sandy was soon on his way up
the river.
Arrived at the Camp, he tied his horse up, for it was too fresh to
trust in hobbles so near home. He then passed the day reading his
newspapers and smoking. He kept his eyes about him, but could not say
for certain that anyone was watching him, although at times his horse
cocked its ears and whinnied suspiciously.
Night came on, and Sandy cautiously stole away, leading his horse
and listening intently every now and then. But he heard nothing, and
soon mounted and turned his willing steed homeward.
When within a mile or two of the hut, the familiar sound of cattle
came to him on the faint wind. To a trained ear the noise made by
cattle when freshly yarded is as distinct as possible from any sound
they make when at large. "Cattle in the yard!" thought Sandy; "what's
the matter?"
The stockyard was on his way, and he rode up to it. Although only
hut-keeping, he had been too long on cattle-stations not to know the
routine of the work.
The continued drought had deferred mustering so long that many of
the unbranded calves were between six and twelve months old. At least
two hundred cows with calves of the age mentioned had been yarded and
drafted apart into different yards. The mothers were bewailing their
lot at one end of the stockyard, and their children gnashing their
teeth at the other.
Sandy grasped the situation at once; there was no room for doubt
left. A raid had been made by a gang of cattle-duffers, and his
absence had been desired in order that they might utilise the yard
for drafting purposes; for, in spite of the tall "blowing" of some
bush hands, no one has ever yet, in a satisfactory manner, succeeded
in drafting weaners from their mothers on a camp.
The men at the head station were idle, and he was supposed to be
keeping watch on Murderer's Camp. He rode round the yard, thinking of
these matters, amidst the furious bellowings going on, and then his
attention was arrested by two things.
On the "killing-gallows" hung a freshly-slaughtered beast, and in
the yard immediately alongside were some ten or twelve horses.
More than that. As he ranged up alongside the rails in the clear
moonlight, a head familiar to him was thrust through and exchanged
friendly equine greetings with the horse he was riding.
He at once recognised the familiar front of Boomerang, the
well-known racehorse belonging to the head station. Probably the
others were also station horses, but it was too late to
determine.
His first impulse was to throw down the slip-rails, let horses and
cattle go, and then ride for his life, and had he done so he would
have been saved a bitter experience. But his heart was full of rage
at the manner in which he had been fooled, and he made up his mind to
identify, at whatever personal risk, the men who had played the trick
upon him.
He rode towards the hut, and, dismounting some distance off, crept
cautiously up at the back and peered through the ill-fitting
slabs.
A strong smell of fried steak proved that somebody had usurped his
position. A party of five men were seated at the table, eating and
drinking from the iron plates and tin pannikins he had so often
cleaned. Listening, he heard their talk was of him. Redbeard was at
the head of the table, and with much humour was describing his
ghostly experience with Sandy the night before.
"I give you my word, boys, he's out at Murderer's Camp now,
shaking in his shoes and praying that all hands and the cook up above
will take pity on the soul of yours truly"
"How did you fix him?" said one.
"With a painted mark round my neck and my own devil's humour. It
was the greatest fun out."
Sandy listened with ears acock to the fullest extent, but shortly
his attention was engaged by a man sitting opposite to the crack
through which he was taking observation. The man's face was familiar
to him. He had just served a sentence of ten years for
cattle-stealing accompanied by armed violence. Sandy knew him before
he was sentenced; knew him for the best rider in the district, and
the most dreaded scoundrel. As he watched the lowering eyes and
dogged, sullen manner, the man spoke:
"Now, boys! Time flies, and we must shape. That----fool may be
safe at Murderer's Camp or he may not; we don't know. Meantime, we
must make sure. Two of you get up to the yard and let the weaners
out, and steady them there as well as you can until we come, and
catch our horses."
Sandy's nerve betrayed him; he might have crept quietly off in the
darkness under cover of the noisy bellowing going on at the yard, but
he felt that the murderous eye of the black-muzzled ruffian opposite
was on him, and that discovery meant death. In an instant the reins
were over his horse's neck, his foot in the stirrup, and the next he
was galloping for dear life over the flat.
Shouts, and a couple of shots, told him he had betrayed himself.
The two men, whose horses were saddled, started in pursuit.
Fortunately for Sandy, both he and his horse knew the bridle-track to
the station, and his pursuers did not. One of them came to grief
against a tree, and the other soon dropped behind, for the cook's
horse was fresh, and, thanks to being tied up all day on the flat, in
good fettle for a run.
Sandy galloped on three or four miles, and then pulled up to
listen. Silence? No! the distant noise of a horse. A sudden
conviction shot through Macpherson's mind, that it was the man he
dreaded, mounted on Boomerang. He was lost! The horse was the fastest
in the district, and the man who rode it a demon with a cat's eyes
which could see on the darkest night, a man who could stick to
anything that was ever foaled. The cook stuck the spurs in his nag
and the race commenced. A deep sandy creek intervened about half way,
and as he eased his horse over the shingle, under the gloomy sheoaks,
it seemed to him that his enemy must be right on top of him, despite
the long start he had got.
On, for another mile or two, and then Sandy thought his only
chance was to turn and fight, for his game little horse showed signs
of exhaustion, and took the spur without flinching. Suddenly he
remembered that about six miles from the station there was a short
cut across a rocky boulder-strewn hill. If he could turn off there,
his pursuer might keep on the main track and miss him, so with eyes
strained and heart beating he pushed on, while the clatter of
Boomerang's hoofs drew nearer and nearer.
At last there was a turn in the road, and a dead tree that he
knew; the short cut was close at hand, none too soon, for now the
other horse was within two hundred yards. His horse knew the short
cut as well as he did, and turned off of his own accord. Up the stony
hill and down the other side, and then he pulled up and listened
anxiously. His pursuer must have kept on. No! here he was close to
him, and, with a mad, excited whinny, Boomerang dashed up to
him--riderless.
Sandy felt like fainting for a moment, the tension had been so
sharp, but he recovered himself and listened eagerly; save the
hurried panting of the two horses the night was still as death.
Boomerang had a saddle on, so he must have been ridden; but Sandy had
no intention of enquiring after the fate of the rider at present,
and, leading the racehorse, he made his way on to the station.
"For he's a jolly good fellow, for he's a jolly good fellow!" was
the mocking chorus he heard as he approached the head station.
Some fun was evidently on the board, but his appearance and the
tale he told soon stopped the festivity. There were fresh horses in
the paddock, and a party was quickly on the way back.
"Hullo! what's up?" cried one, as the leader's horse shied
suddenly near the junction of the short cut.
"There's a man on the road."
Sandy's pursuer was lying there--with his neck broken. It had been
a very near thing, after all. Boomerang had turned instinctively to
follow the other horse along the short cut, his rider had pulled him
off, and the racer had blundered and rolled over on the unfortunate
man, who was the one Sandy had dreaded.
The cattle had been left in the yard, and only three station
horses of not much value were missing. Suspicion lit on the owners of
a small place, some seventy miles away, but nothing could be proved,
and the red-bearded man had disappeared.
Years passed, and Macpherson had thriven. He was at Wagga once
when a murder case was being tried, and made his way into the court
just before the judge pronounced sentence. During the silence which
followed the awful words Sandy, who was close up to the dock, turned
to look at the prisoner. It was the ghost of the old hut! The
hardened criminal recognised him too, and, with a grim and
significant wink, put his hand to his neck, where the painted scar
had been.
THE PARSON'S BLACKBOY
THE Rev. Joseph Simmondsen had been appointed by his bishop to a
cure of souls in the Far North, in the days when Queensland was an
ungodly and unsanctified place. Naturally, the Rev. J., who was
young, green, and zealous, saw a direct mission in front of him. His
predecessor had never gone twenty miles outside the little seaport
that formed the commercial outlet of the district; but this did not
suit Joseph's eager temperament. Once he felt his footing and gained
a little experience, he determined on a lengthened tour that should
embrace the uttermost limits of his fold.
Now, although beset with the conceit and priggishness inseparable
from the early stages of parsonhood, Simmondsen was not a bad fellow,
and glimpses of his manly nature would at times peep out in spite of
himself. This, without his knowledge, ensured him a decent welcome,
and he got a good distance inland under most favourable auspices,
for, the weather being fine, everybody was willing to lend him a
horse or drive him on to the next station upon his route. The Rev.
Joseph began to think that the roughness of the back country had been
much exaggerated.
In due course he arrived at a station which we will call Upton
Downs; beyond it there were only a few newly-taken-up runs. On Upton
Downs they were busy mustering, and when the parson enquired about
his way for the next day the manager looked rather puzzled.﹃You
see,﹄he said, "we are rather short-handed, and I can't spare a man
to send with you; at the same time the track from here to Gundewarra
is not very plain, and I am afraid you might not be able to follow
it. However, I will see what I can do."
Mr. Simmondsen was retiring to rest that night when a whispered
conversation made itself audible in the next room. No words were
distinguishable, but from the sounds of smothered laughter a good
joke seemed to be in progress.
"I think I can manage for you," said the superintendent at
breakfast next morning. "When you leave here you will go to
Gundewarra, twenty-five miles. From there it is thirty-five miles to
Bilton's Camp and ten on to Blue Grass. From Blue Grass you can come
straight back here across the bush, about forty miles. I will lend
you a blackboy who knows the country well and will see you round
safely."
The young clergyman thanked his host, and, after breakfast,
prepared to leave. The blackboy, a good-looking little fellow arrayed
in clean moles and twill shirt, was in attendance with a led
pack-horse, and the two departed.
For some miles the Reverend Joseph improved the occasion by a
little pious talk to the boy, who spoke fairly good English, and
showed a white set of teeth when he laughed, as he constantly did at
everything the parson said. At midday they camped for an hour on the
bank of a lagoon, in which Mr. Simmondsen had a refreshing swim. In
the evening they arrived at their destination, and received the usual
welcome.
"I see you adapt yourself to the customs of the country," said his
host at mealtime, and a slight titter went round the table. The
Reverend Joseph joined in, taking it for granted that his somewhat
unclerical garb was alluded to. In reply to enquiries he was informed
that Bilton's Camp was a rough place, and Blue Grass even worse; and
he was pleased to hear it, for up to now his path had been too
pleasant altogether; he hadn't had a chance to reprove anybody.
Bilton's Camp proved to be indeed a rough place. The men were
civil, however, and as the parson had had another exhilarating bath
at the midday camp he appreciated the rude fare set before him,
although here, as at the other place, there seemed to be a joke
floating about that made everybody snigger.
The next day's journey, to Blue Grass, was but a short stage, and
as the reverend gentleman had by this time become very friendly with
Charley, the blackboy, the two rode along chatting pleasantly until
they came somewhat unexpectedly on the new camp.
A very greasy cook and two or three gins in dilapidated shirts
were the only people at home, and they stood open-eyed to greet the
stranger.
Although Mr. Simmondsen had suited his attire to his surroundings,
he still retained enough of the clerical garb to signify his
profession. The cook, therefore, at once took in the situation, and
invited the parson under the tarpaulin which did temporary duty as a
hut.
He informed his visitor, at whom he looked rather curiously, that
"everyone" was away, camped out, and that no one would return for a
couple of days; that he was alone, excepting for two men who were at
work in a yard a short distance off, and who would be in to dinner;
in fact, they came up while he was speaking. Mr. Simmondsen took
great interest in this, the first real "outside" camp he had seen,
and as the two bushmen had gone down to the creek for a wash, and the
cook was busy preparing a meal, he called Charley to ask him a few
questions.
"What are these black women doing about the place, Charley?"
"O! all about missus belongah whitefellow," was the astonishing
reply.
It was some moments before Joseph could grasp the full sense of
this communication; then he considered it his duty to read these
sinners a severe lecture, and prepared one accordingly.
"Do you not understand," he said, when the three men were
together, "the trespass you are committing against both social and
Divine laws? If you do not respect one, perhaps you will the
other."
The cook stared at the bushmen in blank amazement, and the bushmen
at the cook.
"I allude to these unfortunate and misled beings," said the
parson, waving his hand towards the half-clad gins.
A roar of laughter was the reply.﹃Blessed if that doesn't come
well from you!﹄said the cook, when he could speak. The others
chuckled in acquiescence.
"What do you mean?" said the indignant Joseph; "I speak by right
of my office."
"Sit down and have some tucker," said the cook, "you're not a bad
sort, I can see, but don't come the blooming innercent."
The indignant pastor refused. He saw that his words were treated
lightly, that no one would listen to him, and he left in high
dudgeon. Charley had told him that there was a good lagoon about
twelve miles on the road back to Upton Downs; he would go on there
and camp--they had plenty of provisions on the pack-horse--and taking
his bridle and calling the boy he went to catch his horse.
As he came back he overheard the fag-end of a remark the cook was
making to the others. "They came round the end of the scrub chatting
as thick as thieves, and when I seed who it was--Lord! you could have
wiped me out with one hand."
This was worse than Greek to the Reverend. Greek he might have
understood. In spite of a clumsy apology from the delinquent, he
departed, and near sundown arrived at the lagoon Charley had spoken
of. It was a lovely spot. One end was thick with broad-leaved
water-lilies, but there was a clear patch at the other end promising
the swim the good parson enjoyed so much.
When the tent was pitched he stood in Nature's garb about to enter
the water, when Charley called to him. Pointing towards the lilies he
told Mr. Simmondsen that he would get him some seed-pods which the
blacks thought splendid eating. The clergyman had only got up to his
waist before he heard a plunge behind him and saw Charley's dark form
half-splashing, half-swimming towards the lilies. Presently his head
emerged from a dive, and he beckoned towards the clergyman to come
over and taste the aboriginal luxury. The Reverend paddled lazily
over and investigated. The seed-pods proved of very pleasant flavour,
and as the sun was nearly down, Mr. Simmondsen wended his way to the
bank and emerged in the shallow water, with Charley a few paces
behind him. For some reason he looked back. Shocking predicament!
There was no shirking the fact: all the quiet laughter about﹃the
customs of the country,﹄the unexplained allusions, the ribald manner
of the cook, were evident at a flash. Charley was a woman!
The wicked superintendent of Upton Downs had started him on his
travels with ("after the customs of the country") a black gin dressed
in boy's clothes as a valet, and that gin had evidently been
recognised by everyone on the road. Mr. Simmondsen thought of the
past and blushed. That night was spent in fervent prayer.
"My dear sir," said Davis, the super. of Upton Downs, "I did the
best I could for you. Charlotte is as good as any blackboy and knows
all the country round here. Now, own up, did not she look after you
well?"
"You forget the scandal that may arise," said the Reverend Mr.
Simmondsen.
"Lord, man! who cares about what is done out here? Nobody will
ever hear of it."
Davis was wrong. Everybody did hear of it. The Reverend Mr.
Simmondsen received indignant letters from his Bishop, his
churchwardens, the Reverend Mr. Wriggle, the West Australian
Missionary, several missionary societies, and, last and worst, a
letter of eternal farewell from the young lady to whom he was
engaged. Fortunately he inherited some money at the time; so he did
the best thing possible--threw up the church, went into squatting,
and is now one of the most popular men in the district.
A LUCKY MEETING
I.
"WHAT do you make of it, Jim?"
"Looks remarkably like an E, but what can be the meaning of the
extraordinary triangular thing that follows?"
"That's the puzzle. The first mark one could swear had been made
by a white man; but the other is apparently one of those queer
carvings which the blacks make. There, however, is the scar plain
enough, where the bark was stripped, and from the shape of the piece
removed I think it's like a white man's work."
"Moreover," added Jim, "it has been done with a steel
tomahawk."
The two men were standing in front of a dead coolibah tree of some
size, on which the marks they were trying to decipher had been deeply
cut. It was the shore of a broad, shallow lake surrounded by a forest
of similar dead trees--white skeletons, lifting heavenwards their
writhing, bare limbs. A stranger, set down there suddenly would say
that the axe of the ring-barker had been at work; but the locality
was away in the far interior, where the white man had only just
intruded on the solitude. Round the lake, which at its deepest only
averaged a few feet, was a border of green, luscious grass; back from
that ring of verdure reigned desolation and sterility.
Loose, puffy soil, broken into mounds and hollows, seamed with
gaping cracks. On these dusty mounds were heaped thousands of tiny
shells; in the hollows drooped a few withered stalks of nardoo. On
all sides the gaunt, lifeless trees. Two exceptionally wet years had,
in some remote time, deluged the plain, and the long-standing,
stagnant water destroyed the timber.
This state of things is not uncommon in many parts of the North
Australian interior. In the deepest hollows of these dry lake-beds
lie the bones of fish, which have escaped their feathered enemies, to
perish slowly as their native element evaporated. On the broader
expanse, bleached skeletons are mouldering; the grotesque-headed
pelican and the dingo, with a wild-dog snarl on his fleshless jaws.
Bird and beast have made for the lake after long, long flight, and
hot, dusty tramp, only to find there drought, disappointment and
death. To the north-west, where a bank has been formed by the action
of the steady south-east monsoon, layer after layer of dead shells
has been deposited by the constantly-lapping wavelets, weak forms of
life that have lived and died in the waters of the ephemeral lake.
Beyond and around these depressions wherein the overflow of a rarely
heavy rainfall accumulates, are the great plains whose treeless edges
meet the sky in an unbroken straight line. Where the tall columns of
dust revolve in a wild waltz; where, in summer time, the air is so
aglow with heat that it throbs like a living thing, and in this
fierce atmosphere is born the treacherous mirage: a bush becomes a
tree, a stone a rock, and the hard, baked clay-pan a blue lakelet.
This is riverless Australia, the sun-god's realm, the region of
short-lived creeks, lost for ever in these dead, dry lake-beds.
The elder of the brothers who had been regarding the tree copied
the inscription in his note-book, and the two strolled back to their
camp where a blackboy was watching the boiling of a piece of dried
beef. They sat down and commenced smoking.
"How long do you suppose these trees have been dead?" said Sam
Gilmore, the elder of the two.
"Impossible to say, for certain, but about ten or fifteen
years."
"Yes," returned Sam, after some silent puffs, "that would be about
it. There was a devil of a wet season all over the north in '72 and
'73. That mark was made before then, when the tree was alive."
"Certainly it was, and if you remember the Herbert was settled in
the sixties. Some fellow from the tableland has been out here, that's
about all it is."
Sam looked at his note-book. "I've got it!" he exclaimed. "'E.
triangle.' It's a station-brand. Many fellows have a trick of cutting
their brand on a tree instead of their initials."
"That will be it," replied his brother, "there were no registered
brands, all of one pattern, in those days."
The two thought little more about the matter, but were busily
employed the next two days in examining the surrounding country, it
being part of a large block they had taken up in the Northern
Territory. One evening the blackboy, who had been left in camp to
look after the spare horses and see that they did not get bogged,
remarked with the laconic suddenness of the aboriginals:﹃Old man
horse sit down,﹄indicating by a motion of his hand the far side of
the lake.
"Which one horse?" said Sam, thinking he meant that one of their
own had got bogged.
"Baal mine know. Long time that fellow sit down. Old man
bone."
"A skeleton of a horse?" queried Jim, looking at his brother. Sam
nodded. "We will have a look at it to-morrow--too late to go all
round there this evening."
Next morning, guided by the blackboy, they were soon beside the
bones of the animal, which lay in a patch of grass, almost concealed
from view. Evidently the moist border of the lake had saved them from
destruction by the bush fires that annually swept the surrounding
country.
"A horse, but how the deceased came here, there is no evidence to
show," said Jim.
The blackboy was poking about with a stick.﹃That fellow bin carry
saddle,﹄and from the mouldering rubbish he dragged out the corroded
iron-work.
Inspired by this discovery a closer search was made. The plated
buckles of a saddlepouch were found, a plated sandwich-case, such as
hunting-men carry in England, and the blade of a large pocket-knife.
Everything in the shape of leather had long vanished.
They devoted all the morning to examining the vicinity, but no
further relics were forthcoming, and, taking what they had found with
them, the brothers returned to camp.
During the afternoon Sam set to work cleaning the old
sandwich-case. By dint of hard rubbing he succeeded in restoring it
to something like cleanliness, and although time and exposure had
dealt hardly with the metal, a monogram became faintly visible on one
side, and on the other was roughly scratched the mark they had found
on the tree, "E and a triangle."
"Now," said Jim, after the examination,﹃let's have a look at the
inside.﹄He inserted the point of his knife beneath the half-cover
and, after some trouble, raised it. Inside were some papers, loose
sheets, torn from a note-book, on which the pencil-writing was faint
and illegible; but there was a larger sheet of blue letter-paper, on
which the writing was in ink and, although slightly yellow, plain and
distinct. The battered old case had been true to its trust and,
despite all, had preserved the message confided to it.
The brothers perused their strange find and, at the conclusion,
looked at each other in silence for a few moments.
"This is a strange document to drop across in such a howling
wilderness," said Sam at length.
Jim whistled in sympathy. "I suppose," he remarked, "the writer
came to grief, and his horse made back to the water, got bogged and
died. Is that how you read it?"
"I think so. At any rate, it's too long ago for us to bother
looking up tracks. The date on this--December 4th, 1870--coincides
with the time we surmised."
"I suppose you'll keep it?" queried Jim.
"Most carefully. It belongs to the man's children, and may be
valuable, or, perhaps, only waste paper. Possibly we shall find out
when we get back to civilisation; meanwhile I vote we make a start
for home tomorrow. We are satisfied, I suppose, that this country is
good enough."
"All right," said the younger; and for the rest of the day they
devoted themselves to preparations for an early departure on the
morrow, dismissing the subject of their strange discovery from their
minds.
II.
Young Simpson propped himself up against the slabs and gazed
disconsolately down the sunny road. He was suffering a bad recovery,
his pockets were empty, and his credit exhausted. He had lately
finished a job of horse-breaking, and had knocked his cheque down in
orthodox style. Now, life was all dust and ashes, and everything a
mockery and a delusion. He was only thirty-six, and had already
managed to break every breakable bone in his body, and pull through
several bad attacks of delirium tremens. He was the son of a
well-to-do squatter, but ere he was twenty had managed to incense his
father so bitterly that he had been cast forth without even the
proverbial shilling, and a younger brother, a good and well-behaved
youth, reigned in his stead. Since his expulsion from home he had
steadily gone to the dogs, and it was a pity, for, however weak, he
was a good-hearted young fellow. A strong, helping hand would have
saved him, but he never got it, and now it was too late. At least so
everybody thought and said.
Simpson had been dozing on a rude bench in the verandah, and had
just got on to his feet, under the impression that somebody had
ridden up and aroused him. Presumably this impression was correct,
for a horse was hitched up to the rail outside, and voices could be
heard in the bar. Possibly there was a drink on hand. He licked his
dry lips with a still dryer tongue, and lurched inside.
A deeply sun-tanned man, with bright eyes, was talking to the
landlord. "Here, Joe," said the latter to Simpson, "come and have a
wet, you look sleepy."
This was most astonishing; only that morning his credit had been
peremptorily stopped, and now he was invited to refresh himself. The
landlord shifted down the bar a bit and Simpson followed him.
"This gent," said the publican in a subdued tone, "has got a mob
of cattle going north, and wants another hand badly. I'll put in a
good word for you, and, perhaps, he'll be right for a bit of an
advance, so that you can square up with me before you go."
Simpson "dropped" to the situation at once. He immediately poured
out a drink so "long" that it made the landlord eager to clutch the
bottle again. Refreshed by this, he accosted the stranger, and with
few words a bargain was struck, and Joe Simpson went off to roll up
his scanty belongings in his blanket.
"As good a man as ever crossed a horse," said the effusive
publican; "only keep him off the booze. Born a gentleman, too."
Jim Gilmore, for it was he, on his way out with cattle to stock
the country he and his brother had lately examined, looked curiously
after the retreating form. He was warm-hearted, and something in the
ne'er-do-well had appealed to him.
The long trip drew to an end, and tired men, leg-weary horses, and
listless cattle all desired the arrival of that morning when they
should mutually take leave of each other. Dry stages had been
successfully crossed, wet, blustering nights experienced, and death
in many forms had taken toll of the herd before Jim, with a sigh of
relief, dismounted on the bank of a long serpentine lagoon, some
twenty miles from the shallow lake where they had formerly camped.
Leaning on his horse he watched the long string of cattle troop in to
the water.
"Poor Joe!" he thought, as he caught sight of Simpson steadying
the leaders, "he's got a bad touch of this northern fever. Glad we
are here so that he can get a spell."
The blatant publican's recommendation had turned out true. A
better man than Joe Simpson had proved himself could scarce be found.
Ever ready when the weather was bad and the cattle rowdy on camp;
always alert during the long sleepless nights across the dry plains,
and alas! never neglecting the opportunity of a short spree in the
few townships they had passed, Joe had been young Gilmore's right
hand throughout the tedious journey. Now, the malarial fever that the
cattle seem to turn up with their hoofs from the virgin soil in new
country had recognised his ill-used constitution and seized on him.
The day after the herd was turned out Joe lay delirious under a bough
shade.
Jim devoted all his spare time to him, and at last had the
satisfaction of witnessing his return to reason. But Simpson was very
weak--he had played too many tricks with his physique to be able to
stand a severe attack of fever with impunity, and lay almost
apathetic as regarded his chances of final recovery.
One morning Jim noticed that the patient had been idly tracing
letters and signs on the dusty earth alongside his rude bed of dry
grass. Amongst them he recognised with a start the E followed by a
triangle. "What are you up to, Joe?" he said quietly.
"Just trying to remember a lot of brands," returned Simpson, in
his weak voice.
"Whose brand is that?" asked Gilmore, indicating the one he was
interested in.
Simpson's wasted face flushed hotly.﹃When a fellow gets down in
the world,﹄he said, after a pause, "he does not always stick to his
right name. That brand was our old station brand on my father's
place. There were three partners at first, Emerson, Unthorpe, and
Charters, and, as their initials made the first syllable of Euclid,
they took the triangle as a brand with my father's initial before it.
Finally he bought them out, and my brother has the place now."
"Then," said Jim, staring hard at him, "your name is----?"
"Emerson."
"Good God!"
"What is the matter? What do you know about me?" cried the invalid
anxiously.
"Nothing, nothing, go on. Tell me, where did your father die? How
is it you were left so badly off?"
Joe Emerson looked at his questioner with some surprise, but
answered quietly enough. "My father died in his bed on Bellbrook
station, where I was born. He and I had quarrelled some years before
and finally he disowned me. I was a bad lot, there's no denying."
"Was your father ever up this way?"
"Yes. He had a share in a station in the north of Queensland, and
took a trip out west, I know. In fact, it was through some terrible
hardship he endured that he afterwards died. He was too old to stand
it. I never heard the rights of it, but I believe through some stupid
blunder of one of the men some of their horses got away from them on
a dry stage with packs and saddles on. My father and the others
managed to get into water, but the horses made back and probably
perished."
"Your brother then took your place in your father's will, and you
were left out in the cold. Do you know the date of that will?"
"It was the time of our final row, in the beginning of '69."
Jim strode outside and thought for a moment, then he returned.
"This is the strangest thing I ever came across outside of a novel. I
have good news for you. Your father must have been in a tight place
before the horses were lost, and when he anticipated death he
repented of his harshness to you, and wrote out another will. It
commences: 'I, George Henry Emerson, now expecting death, and being
desirous of making amends to my dear son Joseph for my stern
conduct.' I do not remember any more, but it was duly witnessed by
Isaac Wright and Thomas Peberdy. Do you know anything about
them?"
Young Emerson was looking at Jim as though bewildered by what he
heard, and answered slowly. "Peberdy was an old servant of my
father's, and went north with him; he has a selection now, down
south. Wright I don't know. But surely you remember the purport of
this will?"
"Certainly. It left the whole of his property to you, subject to
certain charges on it for your brother and sister."
"But--but, Mr. Gilmore!" cried the sick man, impatiently, "how did
you find it? Who has it now?"
"My brother has it now. We found it with the remains of your
father's horse, preserved in an old-fashioned sandwich case. Do you
remember it?"
"Yes, with his monogram on it; he brought it from England."
"If the two witnesses are alive, it seems to me that the will
cannot be disputed. My brother may be here at any time; he knows when
we are due, and is bringing up supplies from Burketown, and will
probably push ahead."
There was silence for a short time; then Emerson reached out and
felt for Gilmore's hand. He grasped it and sat upright. "Look here,"
he said, "I'm going to do three things."
"Don't be in a hurry," murmured Jim.
"I'm going to get well."
"Hear, hear!"
"I'm going to knock off liquor."
"Hear, hear, hear!" from Gilmore.
"And I'm going to get the skeleton of that old horse set up and
mounted on a pedestal."
"When the will is proved, I presume," said his companion.
No need to tell much more. One witness was alive and able to swear
to the signatures. Joe kept to his three resolutions. The skeleton of
the old horse adorns the hall of Bellbrook station, and Jim Gilmore's
wife was once Miss Emerson.
THAT OTHER FELLOW
A Tale of the Seventies
I.
DUNCAN MCINTYNE sat on the cap of the stockyard-fence, smoking
quietly, contemplating a colt which, in his capacity of
horse-breaker, he was about to mount for the first time. The colt was
also contemplating Duncan, and wondering what fresh devilry he
meditated. Only a week ago and he was as free as air; now he was
penned in by posts and rails, his mouth sore with a breaking-bit, a
roller had been buckled around him, in which he felt as comfortable
as a girl in her first corset, his mane and tail had been pulled, and
to-day a saddle had been girthed on him--all these indignities he
justly attributed to the man "cockatooing" on the fence. He had been
violently taking it out of himself bucking round the yard, and now
stood breathlessly gazing at his enemy.
Duncan knocked the ashes out of his pipe, replaced it in his
pouch, and sprang lightly down into the enclosure. A blackfellow, who
had been sunning himself in a corner, arose also on noticing the
movement. Between fear and exertion the colt was sweating profusely,
the perspiration dropped from his body on to the dusty ground, and
ran in dirty streams down his legs. After a smart display of equine
temper, Duncan got his hand on the youngster's mane and spoke
soothingly to him.
"Steady, old boy, you've had your fling like the rest of us, and
now work begins."
The pair looked in each other's eyes like two duellists. Neither
man nor horse could foresee the future; there they were on an
equality of ignorance. No instinct could tell the animal that a time
would come when he would appeal to his hated foe with piteous
whinnies for relief, and die with that hand caressing him, and those
eyes full of unshed tears for his fate.
The blackboy approached the horse's head while Duncan made his
usual preparations to mount. "My word!" said the boy as he got hold
of the colt's ear, "this the fellow Sherman Jarley say, kick out mid
his front feet that time we brand him."
"Yes, Billy," returned Duncan, flipping the stirrup-leather once
or twice against the flap of the saddle; "and if you don't let go
quick he'll shake hands with you as he did with German Charley.
Now!"
With a quick, easy movement he was in the saddle, and the boy
stepped back. For a moment the colt stood motionless, then started
pawing and rearing, and again stood doggedly still.
"Now don't sulk," said McIntyre, but the words were no sooner
uttered than the colt started bucking in a vicious and roundabout
fashion, which called upon all the rider's powers of horsemanship.
The struggle lasted a short time only, and then the horse gave in
defeated.
"Get your horse, Billy," says McIntyre, and the boy, after letting
down the rails, mounts an old horse which has been standing
indifferent and half-asleep in an adjacent yard; then the colt, after
a little coaxing, goes off quietly down the paddock alongside the old
stager.
Duncan McIntyre was a gentleman who had gone down in the world. He
was one of the curst victims of heredity; only, unfortunately for
himself, he had not succeeded to the whisky-proof head of his
Scottish ancestors. Liquor ever turned him from a generous,
easy-going, mild-tempered fellow into a mad rowdy, ready to ride a
wild race through the main street of a bush township, fight with his
best friend, or drink with his worst enemy. Fortunately, his manly,
adventurous character had prevented him sinking into the ranks of the
sponger and the loafer. He had fallen from his own set to an ordinary
bush-hand, and could always earn a good cheque at any kind of work,
but this was surely followed by the fatal and inevitable "spree."
Some morning he would awake possessed of nothing but the clothes he
had slept in, "a liver" a blue-blanket and a bottle of﹃sudden
death,﹄kindly given him by the publican to stave off the impending
"horrors."
One day Fate led him to Darromine, a medium-sized cattle-station.
Mitford, the managing partner, was a man gifted with an exceptionally
good and kindly heart. He knew McIntyre's story, soon recognised the
worth dormant beneath the assumed roughness of the fallen nature,
and, after some trouble, induced him to come and live with him, and
endeavour to assume once more the habits of his better days.
Naturally, the besetting sin betrayed itself from time to time, but
Mitford set himself to banish the unclean spirit, and by untiring
vigilance, unaccompaned by any ostentatious display of solicitude, he
partly succeeded. Needless to say that Duncan had conceived a strong
and lasting friendship for the other.
II.
Some fifteen miles from Darromine there was a small township, and
in that township lived the fair and only daughter of the
police-magistrate thereof, a widower. She was nineteen and the belle
of the district. Not that she prided herself on that distinguished
position, for there were only five girls in the district, all told,
and the other four were so uncommonly hard-featured that to be the
acknowledged belle in such company was, after all, but a doubtful
distinction. Doubtless Miss Jennie Webster cherished a hidden
conviction, in which she was quite justified, that, had she to
compete with more favoured rivals she would have held her own; but
this notion she kept to herself, and did not assume any undue airs as
the belle of Corraville. Needless to say that all the youths of the
district were madly in love with her, even those who professed
engagements with absent fair ones in Sydney or Melbourne. Jennie
smiled upon all alike, but favoured no one in particular.
Now it happened that the very day on which Duncan gave the colt
his first lesson had been selected by Mr. Webster to drive his
daughter to Darromine on a visit. McIntyre and Billy were walking the
horses quietly homeward along the Corraville road, which led through
the paddock, when at a turn amongst some scrub they were suddenly
overtaken by the buggy. The colt shied violently and commenced to
buck. It was rather awkward in the scrub, and Duncan was nearly
getting into trouble two or three times ere he brought his green
mount under control. After offering his apologies for unintentionally
frightening the colt, which the young lady accepted with a frank
smile of admiration, for most women like to see good horsemanship,
the police-magistrate and his daughter drove on.
"What a quiet man that Mr. McIntyre is," said Jennie, "I can never
get half-a-dozen words out of him; but he can ride."
Her father smiled somewhat grimly; McIntyre's past was known to
him, and he was glad to see the change that was being worked.
"It's a case of still waters, my girl," he replied, "but he is a
good fellow, I believe."
Mitford was one of Jennie's victims. For a long time he had been
ready to lay himself and his share of Darromine at her feet; the
present visit, therefore, translated him to the seventh heaven.
"How well you ride, Mr. McIntyre!" said Miss Webster in the course
of the dinner. "I must confess I like to see a bit of good
buckjumping."
Duncan smiled.﹃I nearly came to grief under that low brigalow
though,﹄he said.
"I saw it," she returned; "and I can assure you my heart was in my
mouth, for it was all our fault."
"How does he shape?" asked Mitford, alluding to the colt.
"Very well indeed. I have taken a great fancy to him, he has no
vice--it's only nervousness. In a week he'll get confidence, and in a
month I'll make a lady's hack of him."
"There! Miss Webster," said Mitford; "may I send him in for you to
ride this day month if McIntyre guarantees that he is fit?"
"Certainly, I accept the challenge," she returned, for she was a
good horsewoman. "I will rely upon Mr. McIntyre's skill and
judgment."
Duncan bowed and the subject dropped; but thenceforth the colt,
christened Challenger, became the object of special care and
attention.
The month passed, and Miss Webster, arrayed in a workmanlike habit
of dark blue serge, was seated in the verandah reading a book, and
occasionally glancing along the road which led to Darromine. A rider
with a led horse presently made his appearance, but, sooth to say,
the young lady looked slightly disappointed.﹃He might have come too,
to see how the colt went,﹄she thought.
"Are you ready, dad?" she called out; "here comes Mr. Mitford with
the horse."
Mitford rode into the stable yard, and the magistrate and his
daughter came out to inspect the colt. What a difference to the
sullen, fierce-eyed rebel who had snorted defiance at his enemy only
thirty days before!
"Oh, dad, isn't he a beauty!" cried the little lady in her
delight.
"McIntyre has handled him so that a child could ride him, but he
is full of pluck all the same," said Mitford, delighted at her
pleasure.
Challenger was soon saddled, and the three set out; the
trim-figured Jennie forgetting her annoyance at the non-appearance of
McIntyre in the pleasure of her mount. The ride was a success, and
thenceforth Challenger was entirely at Miss Webster's disposal.
It is impossible for a girl and a man to be on the verge of a
violent passion for each other without both knowing it, although
never a word may have been interchanged on the subject. Jennie had
not quite suffered herself to fall in love with the interesting
Duncan, but she was perilously near it. McIntyre himself was lost. He
had fought against the feeling tooth and nail; had told himself over
and over again that the curse which shadowed his life made it a
heinous crime for him to think of marriage; and had almost won the
fight. Suddenly the fatal knowledge came to him that it needed but a
word from him to obtain the confession of her affection. The flower
was unfolding for him to pluck. He almost threw caution to the winds.
Almost--not quite.
Mitford came back from Corraville one evening with his sunny face
clouded: he had ventured all, and lost.
"I am sure she would have had me, old man," he innocently confided
to his friend, "but there's another fellow in the way; she as good as
admitted it."
Duncan was silent for some time; then he rallied his companion,
and somewhat roused him from his despondency.
"Look here, McIntyre," said Mitford, "I have a plan in my head
about which I have already consulted my partner and obtained his
consent. You have heard of the country out west beyond the Queensland
border? We are thinking of taking a bit up, and sending out some of
our spare stock to form for us a station. Will you go out and manage
for a third share and a salary?"
Duncan rose and shook the other's hand. "Your offer is too
generous. You could get a man anywhere for a couple or three hundred
a year."
"No, we couldn't, not such an all-round man as you. Besides, it's
not all beer and skittles living out there. What with fever and
blacks and short commons, you'll earn your third share."
"When do you propose to start?"
"You and I and a blackboy will go as soon as possible and inspect
the country. When we come back we will start the cattle, provided we
find anything good enough. We have three years' grace to stock."
"There is nothing much to do here," returned McIntyre,﹃we can
start in a fortnight.﹄After a few more words they parted for the
night. McIntyre lay sleepless, thinking of what the day had brought
forth. She might have accepted Mitford, but for that other fellow.
He, Duncan McIntyre, the ne'er-do-well, was "that other fellow." His
way was clear: before him lay escape from the temptation of love, and
perhaps a drunkard's death; he must go, and go quickly without
speaking.
Of a sudden he asked himself would she forget him? Would not his
exile in the wilderness arouse the very flame he sought to
extinguish, by adding the touch of absence and romance? No, that
other fellow must go under in a way that would conclude the matter.
Mitford on his return would probably get a favourable answer.﹃That
other fellow﹄went under that night, although Mitford on his restless
bed little thought so.
McIntyre had broken out again. That was the last news in the
little township where news was so scarce. Everybody said they had
expected it all along, and everybody, saving the local publicans,
said they were very sorry. It had been "an old man spree." Duncan had
damaged the sergeant of police, who was good-naturedly trying to
induce him to leave town. Mitford had to come in and bail him out of
the lock-up. Jennie had heard of it, and shed some bitter tears but,
with all a woman's faith in the reforming power of love, still
believed that had she the right she could exorcise the evil spirit.
Alas for Jennie! the worst was yet to come.
McIntyre went "on the tear" again, and this time capped all his
former delinquencies. One of the publicans had imported a new
barmaid, a young damsel with gold-washed hair, who rejoiced in the
name of Flossie. Duncan rode Challenger into town, and an hour or two
afterwards Flossie might have been seen steering the colt down the
main street in the sight of all people. Jennie saw her, saw this
garish young party mounted on the horse that had been kept sacred to
her use, that McIntyre had devoted weeks to breaking in for
her--Challenger, her pet who ate sugar from her hand!
From that moment poor Duncan was to her a thing of the most bitter
scorn and contempt. He might have damaged the whole of the
police-force and painted the town scarlet, and been forgiven; but
this insult was too much. That other fellow went under for good and
all.
One small bit of triumph was afforded her. The vainglorious
Flossie, flushed with the pride that precedes a fall, took
opportunity, when parading before the P.M.'s house, to give
Challenger a cruel and undeserved cut across the ears. This for a
horse of spirit, accustomed to be treated as a gentleman, was
unendurable. Already irritated by the antics of his strange rider, he
gave a side-bound that seated Flossie, to her sudden astonishment, in
the middle of the dusty road. Challenger trotted off, and the forlorn
damsel, holding up her skirt, had to follow on foot, amidst much
chaff from the spectators.
Mitford got McIntyre out of town, somehow. Hurt as he was he
refrained from reproach, and he was rewarded. Ere they started, he
asked once more, and this time he was told,﹃When you come back I may
say yes.﹄What more would he have?
Once only did Jennie allude to the disgraceful episode. "I hope
you are taking that horse with you, I never want to see him again."
Mitford assured her that the innocent animal which had done its best
to protest against indignity, would never more be seen by her, little
dreaming of a time to come when life and hope would be bound up in
Challenger's endurance and his rider's faith.
They parted, and Jennie, watching, saw another horseman join him
in the main street, and she turned into the house with a bright
sparkle in her eye and a flush upon her cheek.
III.
A wide stretch of grey plain, bounded by a shimmering haze, a haze
that grotesquely magnifies what few objects are visible, turning a
stone into a rock, a bush into a tree. A shallow depression, bordered
by dry polygonum bushes, with here and there a crooked, distorted
coolibah tree, threads this plain. At one point in this apology for a
creek, there is a pool of milky looking water. From the edge of this
pool a short growth of green grass extends for a little distance up
the bank, and on this patch of sward, the only green thing visible,
some horses are feeding. Under a scanty shade of boughs, erected near
one of the largest coolibah trees, Mitford and McIntyre are sitting;
blackened by sun and wind, thin with semi-starvation, and cursed with
"the infinite torment of flies." The blackboy is curled up under the
trunk of the tree. He lets the flies cluster around his eyes, infest
his mouth and nostrils, and makes no effort, like the white men, to
drive them away. The others are less patient, and a hasty exclamation
continually escapes them. "When shall we get out of this purgatory?"
says Mitford.
They were in a trap. They had penetrated far into the unknown
country west of the Queensland border. From one scanty water-hole to
another they had made their way to their present position, and now
they could neither advance nor retreat. Before them there was an
illimitable expanse of dry country; behind them the water-holes had
dried up, and their return was cut off. Sturt, at the Depôt
Camp, was in the same fix, and scores of men since have been caught
in a similar way. A hundred and twenty miles of dry, cracked, gaping
plains lay between them and a large permanent lagoon they had found
on their outward journey. No horse could travel that distance without
water under the vertical summer sun. No horse could traverse half the
distance over the soft, spongy soil full of holes and deep cracks and
live. Their only hope was a kindly thunderstorm, for the water-hole
where they were camped was fast shrinking, and when that was gone it
meant death.
Day after day they watched the clouds gather, dark and
threatening, only to break in wind and dust, and a few fierce flashes
of lightning.
At last, an ominous cloud gathered in the east. As night drew on,
the heavens darkened and the setting sun was reflected from the
opposite hemisphere in a quickly-fading flush of angry scarlet. A
black night closed in. The air was heavy, oppressive and sultry; the
two men and the boy stood silently watching. Their fate was hidden in
that sullen bank of vapour. Quick, bright flashes of lightning soon
commenced to blaze, followed, after a long interval, by a low,
distant mutter of thunder. Presently even this ceased, and, with a
sigh of bitter disappointment, the men stretched themselves on their
blankets and sought forgetfulness in sleep.
"How far off was that storm?" said Mitford, breaking the
silence.
"Any distance over seventy miles," returned Duncan. "Did you not
notice the long interval between the flash and the thunder?"
Mitford replied wearily, and both men soon slept.
In an hour or two McIntyre awoke, and instantly noticed a change
in the atmosphere. The wind was blowing faintly from the direction of
the late storm, and with it came the unmistakeable smell of wet
earth. Rain had fallen to the eastward at last. The wind had brought
the message, but from how far had it come?
Duncan aroused Mitford, and together they stood and sniffed the
cool, damp air.
"We must get out of here somehow," said McIntyre at last. "Now,
listen. I am going to take Challenger and a pack-horse with water,
and ride in the direction that wind comes from; I have the bearing, a
little south of east. I will let the packhorse go in about twenty
miles, after I have given Challenger a drink from the bags; the
pack-horse will come back here. I shall go on until I find where that
storm fell. If I don't come back you will know it is too far, and
that I am done for; then you must shift for yourself. If I find water
I shall come back."
"But, Duncan, what nonsense! Why can't we all go and chance
it?"
"Because I might get a little puddle of water that would serve me
and the horse and would not be enough for all of us. Man, don't you
understand! I owe you a debt and must pay you in my own way. For
God's sake, don't thwart me."
Mitford could say no more. McIntyre roused up Billy, and they
strode into the darkness after the horses, which were soon caught,
and, under the now starlit sky, the two men said good-bye.
About three hours after daylight, McIntyre pulled up, watered
Challenger by means of a tin dish he had on the pack, then released
the pack-horse to find its own way back to camp, and proceeded on his
lonely way. Hour after hour of monotonous progress over the dead, dry
plain, the only break an occasional shallow depression bordered with
brown polygonum. Hour after hour through the great stillness of the
night, save for a short occasional rest for his gallant horse.
Daylight again, and the outlook unchanged--no sign of rainfall
visible. As the sun got hotter Challenger began to show signs of
distress, so Duncan started to walk, and together man and horse
stumbled over the treacherous plain. He had a small canvas bag of
water on his saddle, but only a scanty remnant of the former contents
was now left. Death was walking beside them, step for step.
At last Challenger began to give in, his flanks were pinched and
the hollows over his eyes deep sunken; he rubbed his nose against
Duncan's arm, whinnied, and looked pleadingly at him. These are the
things to break a man's heart in the wilderness. Still there was
nothing in sight but the heat-haze and the tall columns of dust
raised by the wandering whirlwinds that crossed their track. A false
step and the horse went down. McIntyre tried to get him up, but
Challenger was too far gone--he must proceed alone. Wetting his lips
with a few drops of the water fast evaporating from the bag, he went
forward on the course he had been keeping.
Suddenly, right in front of him, rose a small flock of birds. They
wheeled and chattered and settled down again! It could only mean
water, for since leaving camp he had seen no living thing, and now he
recognised the birds as spur-winged plover.
With perspiration nearly blinding him, he staggered on, and then
he must have crossed the crest of an almost imperceptible rise, for
before him the plain was covered with sheets of shallow water. He had
reached the extreme edge of the thunderstorm.
When Duncan lifted his face from the tepid pool after slaking his
thirst, his first thought was of the dying horse on the plain. He
filled his felt hat and the bag, and dragged himself back to his dumb
companion. Challenger lifted his head when he saw him, and whinnied
piteously. Four times more he made the journey backwards and
forwards, and then the plucky horse managed to get on its legs and
follow him down to the water. There was a solitary coolibah tree not
far off, and in the miserable shade that it afforded Duncan sat down
and tried to eat some of the dried horse-flesh he had brought with
him. He was conscious of a fearful headache, for he had been
bareheaded when carrying the water to Challenger. He must get back as
soon as possible, for the water on the plain was but a few inches
deep and fast disappearing. Still he must spell his horse, for after
such an ordeal the colt would not carry him half way without rest. At
last he felt too stupid to think, and sank into a sleep that lasted
until sundown. His head was still throbbing painfully when he awoke,
and he arose and bathed it in one of the pools, but the water was
warm and afforded him no relief. Challenger seemed greatly recovered,
and was feeding on the dry Mitchell grass.
One thought haunted Duncan during the ensuing night of pain--the
scorching ride back over the drought-smitten country. Suddenly a
whisper seemed to come from the darkness, "Why go back?" To the
eastward the country was well watered, and a few easy stages would
take him to the Queensland border and safety. Mitford would wait, and
at last give him up, start back on some other course, and probably
perish. It was one or other of them. The colt would not carry him
more than half way back to camp; then he must walk, and the sun would
soon make an end of him. All through the dark hours of semidelirium
the voices from the surrounding solitude kept up the refrain, "Why go
back?"
On the fifth day after McIntyre's departure Mitford started on
Duncan's tracks with a pack-horse laden with water, hoping to
encounter him. The pool was falling rapidly and in a few days would
be dry. Fifteen miles from camp he thought he saw a figure moving
towards him. It could only be McIntyre, for in that solitude there
was no living soul but themselves. He hastily dismounted and,
water-bag in hand, hurried to meet him. Duncan did not know him; he
was blindly, instinctively following his tracks back to the camp, and
it was not until Mitford had poured the water over his head and
breast and down his baked throat that his bloodshot eyes lost some of
their wildness. His friend had dragged him out of the sun into the
only shade there was on that bare plain--beneath the belly of the
pack-horse. Here he lay a while with his eyes half closed. At last he
began to speak coherently.
"I've got back, old man. Follow my tracks out and you will get to
the water, but be quick, for it's drying up fast. Poor old
Challenger! I shot him--it was all I could do for him; he never gave
in until he was dying." His head fell back on his friend's knee, and
he was silent for a time. "I must go on," he muttered presently.
"Blast that sun! it has done for me; but I will get back"--and he
struggled to rise. Mitford kept him down, and he sank into
unconsciousness once more.
An hour passed during which Mitford kept pouring water over the
burning head; then Duncan opened his eyes and his friend saw that his
senses had returned. "Mitford, old man, I tell you that you must go
back to camp and start at once, or it will be late, too late. The
water is so shallow it will dry up in a day or two. Poor old
Challenger, you'll see his body as you go; but start now and you'll
get home safe. That other fellow is going another road. Goodbye."
THE STOLEN COLOURS
AN exclusively male society, such as ours was on the Baroma River,
is apt to get along very smoothly for years, provided that all of the
individuals composing it are fairly companionable. There were five
stations on the Baroma, all cattle-stations. Sheep had been tried on
the country but without success, and now the only marks of their
former presence were some roofless huts and the bare patches of
ground where once stood sheep-yards; for it was before the days of
fences and boundary-riders. Three of the stations were managed by
their owners; the other two belonged to Sydney and Melbourne firms,
and were in the charge of superintendents, of whom I was one.
Markwell, the other superintendent, was perhaps the only man who
did not quite fit in to our little coterie. There was no gainsaying
his smartness and ability, but he had a bad temper, and an evil habit
of sneering.
Elliot, the owner of Bendalla, the largest station on the river,
was a widower. He had one son, who lived on the station with him, and
two daughters, who at the time of my story had just arrived on a
protracted visit, and created quite an upset in the hitherto even
tenor of our way.
Hayward, who owned Pixie, the next station to the one I was
managing, was a professed woman-hater, and affected to look on the
interest displayed in the newcomers with lofty scorn. Kelly, who had
the station on the opposite side of the river, called after that
stream, Baroma Plains, fell head over ears in love straight away with
Mary Elliot, the elder girl, and having successfully persuaded that
young lady that she was in as hopeless a condition, in less than
three months their engagement was a proclaimed fact.
Agnes Elliot was two years younger than her engaged sister, and of
a very different character. Both were handsome girls, but Mary was
easy-going and good-tempered to a fault, while Agnes was of a more
active and passionate nature. A tale of wrong that would win from
Mary a few compassionate remarks, would wring hot indignation from
Agnes.
Jack Elliot, their brother, had always been my especial mate on
the river, and naturally on the arrival of his sisters I was thrown a
good deal into their society; nor was it long before I learned to
love the bright and eager Agnes with a love that could never have
been inspired in me by her placid sister. I kept my secret, as I
thought, very well, for I had no more prospect of marrying on the
extremely limited screw of a cattle-station super. than I had of
being made Governor. I might even have got over the fit altogether
and cured myself by enforced absence, but for the rivalry of
Markwell.
He was my senior by some four or five years had travelled more,
and had far more social qualities, when he chose to exert them, than
I had; but no better worldly position to recommend him, and knowing
the real nature of the man I felt that to suffer him to win such a
girl as Agnes Elliot would be a downright wrong to her.
That, you may say, is always the way in which the jealous man
argues. Men do not love women so deeply as they hate their rivals in
the affections of those women. Marriage is more often the result of a
man's determination to avoid injury to his own amour propre than of
anything else.
Kelly and Mary Elliot were duly married, Baroma Plains rejoiced in
a new house and other embellishments, and I was still uncertain as to
whether the wayward heart of Agnes inclined to me or not. She had
come over to stay with her sister for a while, and one evening I rode
across the river ostensibly to see Kelly on some station-business.
That was one of the evenings that has ever dwelt in my memory. Never
had Agnes been so kind to me. Kelly and his bride, with whom I was
first favourite, left us much to ourselves, and half a dozen times an
avowal of my love was on my lips. How different things might have
been had I spoken then!
She came on to the verandah to say "Good night!" to me when I
left. For a moment I lingered with her warm hand in mine, and her
bright eyes looking at me from the dusky shadow of the verandah;
then, with sudden desperation, I pressed her hands to my lips and,
with a broken "Good night!" hurried to my horse, mounted, and rode
away. She was still standing in the doorway as I turned for a last
look, and waved her hand in reply to my salute; and I rode home, the
happiest man on the river. When I entered my small sitting-room I saw
that, during my absence, the mail had arrived, for the station-bag
was lying on the table. I opened it without much interest in the
contents, for I was quite absorbed in a dream of Agnes, but was
rather surprised to find among the ordinary correspondence a letter
from my only brother in England, with whom I had not corresponded for
years--not from any quarrel, but simply through the disinclination to
write that grows on most men in the bush. The letter had been delayed
through going to a former address. The contents were important, as
they notified to me the death of an uncle, who had left his money to
my brother and myself and two cousins.
My first thought naturally was that now I was in a position to
propose to Agnes, and I lay awake all night, determined that not many
hours of daylight should elapse ere I was over at Baroma Plains.
The next morning the delays seemed never-ending. Horses had
escaped from the paddock, a blackboy got bucked off and broke his
collar-bone, which I had to set, and a messenger came over from
Hayward with a letter requiring a reply. It was eleven o'clock ere I
was once more in sight of the verandah where I had last seen
Agnes.
Mrs. Kelly met me with her usual kind smile. Agnes had gone home
nearly an hour ago. Jack Elliot had come up for her in a hurry, as
his father was starting down to port and wanted Agnes to go down with
him. I hesitated whether to go on to Bendalla on the chance of
overtaking them, but my presence was absolutely necessary on the
station: I could not leave without going back first.
"When will they be back?" I asked, blushing, as I thought that my
fair hostess was doubtless reading me like a book.
"They will stop until the races. You know we are all going down,
and you must come with us."
The local races were coming off in about a week at the little
shipping port; and most of us on the river had entered horses for the
occasion. I thanked Mrs. Kelly for her invitation, which I gladly
accepted, and, without telling my news, rode home.
Only a week! but it loomed before me like a year. I could not even
write, for we had only a weekly mail, and I would be down myself by
that time. To add to my annoyance, Markwell, whose place was at the
head of the river, came over that night, on his way down to port. I
managed to be civil to him, but when I saw him ride away in the
morning to the township, where he would be within call of Agnes for
the whole week during which I should be tied to the station, I felt
inclined to try on him the range of my new rifle. Hayward came to see
me next day, and to him I confided the news of my inheritance. He had
been talking of going out west and taking up some country for which,
at that time, there was a great rush, and he urged me to accompany
him now that I had the means. He was a shrewd man, for whom I had a
great liking, and I promised to weigh the matter carefully.
At last the time came when I could fling dull care aside, and,
seated on the box beside Kelly, relieving him occasionally of the
task of tooling four horses along an abominable road, I felt that
every mile brought me nearer to the consummation of my hopes. Arrived
in the little port which in those days had not assumed its present
dimensions or importance, my first thought, after I had made myself
presentable, was naturally to call upon Mr. Elliot. The family,
including Kelly and his wife, were located in the house of a friend,
a widower, with one little girl, whose habitation was far too big for
him. Agnes was out--gone out for a ride with her brother and
Markwell.
This was a check at the start.
While chatting with Elliot the party returned, and, with a very
sore feeling in my heart, the meeting I had been so longing for came
off.
How bright and handsome she looked in her close-fitting
riding-habit as she came along the verandah and greeted me! Every
jealous thought in my mind would have been exorcised but for the
presence of Markwell, who gave me a supercilious nod and looked on
with an air of insolent proprietorship--at least I thought so--while
the ordinary commonplace words were exchanged. She noticed
instinctively the change in my manner and her pride took fire. Ah!
these wretched conceits of self, which do work we can never undo!
I stayed to dinner with the Elliots, but had no opportunity to
speak to Agnes until some time afterwards, when by chance I saw her
sitting apart from the others in the drawing-room with the little
girl, the daughter of their host, at her knee. She was stitching
industriously at some ribbon and I lost not a minute in reaching her
side.
"What is the work, Miss Elliot?" I said rather awkwardly to break
the ice.
"My colours for to-morrow's races," she returned.
"And who is to wear them?" I asked, bending down and speaking
earnestly.
"That depends," she answered, glancing up at me with a smile that
put every sore feeling to flight, for I knew they were meant for
me.
"So we have to congratulate you, Murray," said the hateful voice
of Markwell close behind.
I turned sharply round, and Agnes flushed quickly, for his words
seemed to have a double meaning.
"What do you mean?" I asked, rather rudely.
"Why, they say you have come in to a pot of money. Is it
true?"
So some gabbling idiot from the station had brought the yarn down
and now it was blurted out like this when I had meant to tell Agnes
just when I asked her to be my wife! I replied very shortly that an
uncle of mine was dead from whom I inherited some money; but my
chance was spoilt, and if it had been my rival's object to break up
our chat, he succeeded admirably. I guessed that Agnes was hurt that
I had not told her brother or father, who had so long been my
friends, of my good fortune, not divining my reason for keeping
silence.
Next morning the whole township was on the race course. I rode out
the two miles with Jack Elliot, for Kelly had his trap full. I
wondered whether Agnes had entrusted the knot of ribbons to her
brother, but apparently he was charged with no such mission; so I
took the earliest opportunity of presenting myself before the party
as soon as I saw them arrive I had promised to steer a horse of
Kelly's in the hurdle race, for, as a newly married man, all such
pleasures had been sternly denied him, and Markwell, who was a
sporting man, had entered a horse of his own.
It was in vain that I lingered around the buggy. Agnes several
times seemed on the point of speaking to me confidentially, but
something always interfered, and I had at last to go away unsatisfied
as the time for our race was approaching.
I had donned my jacket, or rather Kelly's, when the man himself
came into the tent.
"Now, then, Davie," he said, "just one word. I want to win this
race, and you can do it if you race Markwell right away from the
jump. The others have no show; his horse has more foot than Beeswax
(Kelly's horse), but he can't fly his jumps like old Bee can, and if
you make it hot from the start, he'll either come to grief or drive
you home."
I signified my comprehension, and was leaving the tent when he
added:﹃By the way, Mary gave me a message for you from
Agnes--something about having lost something; however, she can tell
you herself after you've won the race;﹄and so we sallied forth, I
much puzzled at the meaning of the half-forgotten message.
Markwell was already mounted and had taken his horse over a
hurdle, and was walking him back when I passed him, and there, on the
breast of his jacket, was the identical knot of black-and-orange
ribbons I had seen Agnes putting together the night before.
The sight roused every jealous passion within me; I knew they must
be the same, or else why had I not received them according to the
half promise made?
"I'll win this race or break Markwell's neck," I muttered to Kelly
as he gave me a leg into the saddle. He squeezed my hand, and the
next moment Beeswax was over the hurdle like a swallow.
There were six of us in the race, but Markwell's horse was the
only one I dreaded. We had a good start although Beeswax, excited by
his canter, was dancing to get off. I took the lead at once at a pace
that few hurdle races are ever ridden, and for half a mlle kept it,
without seeing a horse, Beeswax taking his jumps just as a matter of
course. At the end of the half-mile I heard a rap and a clatter, and
glancing round found Markwell just behind me.
His horse had twice the pace of Beeswax and he had bustled him
over the jumps so far without coming to grief. On the flat he raced
up to me without an effort and I knew that my only chance was to rush
him at the hurdles. Twice his horse blundered dreadfully, and I was
well ahead when we were two jumps from home. If he got over those two
jumps safely I was beaten, for he would catch me on the straight run
in.
I knew Markwell's horse was as excitable as he could be, so I
pulled Beeswax a little and let him come up and get about half a
length ahead, then I put Beeswax at the next jump "all I knew," and
he seemed to take the hurdle in his stride. Not so my rival's mount;
maddened with the rush of the other horse alongside of him, he
scarcely attempted to jump and went down headlong, but fortunately
for his rider, sending him rolling ahead.
The others were all out of it, so I pulled Beeswax in; put him
quietly over the last hurdle and cantered past the winning-post.
"He's all right," said Kelly, as he came and took my bridle to
lead me in to be weighed, "but he got a devil of a purler."
Strange to say, Markwell had escaped almost without a bruise. He
had been flung forward, a little to one side, just as the horse was
in the act of turning over, and had rolled out of harm's way. The
saddle was smashed, and the horse could never be got to face a jump
again, but I was really glad that no worse accident had happened.
He came up pluckily, in spite of his shaking, and forced a jesting
remark about the pace we had ridden. I changed my jacket, and after
the usual noisy congratulations, found my way up to Mrs. Kelly and
Agnes.
"Your colours were unlucky, Miss Elliot," I said, regretting the
words the next moment.
"My colours, Mr. Murray! I did not know they were in the
race."
"Mr. Markwell wore them, at any rate," I answered, rather
surprised.
"You are joking," she replied; "and I don't think it in good
taste."
I drew back, snubbed and offended. Mrs. Kelly put her hand on my
shoulder as I stood beside the buggy, and, stooping down, whispered
to me, quite energetically for her, "Davie, don't be a fool."
I guessed her meaning, and if I could have made my peace then, I
would; but I was not afforded the opportunity. Agnes kept me at a
distance for the rest of the day.
There was a race-ball that night, and I fondly hoped that I should
have a chance of an explanation. Markwell, in spite of the heavy fall
he had experienced, was there, and exerting all the agreeable
qualities he possessed to the utmost.
Agnes gave me no excuse for trying to get a moment's private
conversation, and in the course of the evening I was lounging in a
sulky fit on the verandah, when I saw her and Markwell in deep
conversation in a secluded part of it. She was speaking earnestly,
although I could not see the expression of her face. I had seen
enough, however, for my then temper; apparently she had afforded him
the benefit of the confidential interview that she had avoided giving
me. I left the ball, and a month afterwards Hayward and I were out
west. I stayed out there two years. I heard from Kelly and Jack
Elliot, but the name of Agnes seemed carefully tabooed in their
letters.
One evening I received a visit from an old friend who had a
station not very far from the little port where my love-dream had
been shattered. He had taken up country beyond Hayward and me, and
was on his road to port when he called.
"By the way," he said, "you may remember Markwell who got such a
spill at the races that time; but, of course, you do, as you rode
against him."
I nodded assent, and he went on.
"I heard he had come out this way to take up country for his
firm."
"He didn't marry Miss Elliot then?" I said in as easy a voice as I
could command.
"I should think not," replied my friend, "she found him out in a
most shabby trick. I'll tell you all about it. You remember the ball
after the races? I was out on the verandah behind a screen of plants
and flags doing a quiet flirtation, when Miss Elliot and Markwell
came on the other side. We couldn't well get out and had to sit there
and listen to what they were saying. It seems he had bribed the
little girl at the house where the Elliots were staying to steal a
knot of ribbon that Miss Elliot had made for somebody else and he had
worn it openly at the races as though she had given it to him. That
young lady could be very indignant when she liked, and I shouldn't
have liked the sarcasm she lashed Markwell with."
I was silent for some time, while Russel smoked vigorously,
recalling the scene.
"I'm tired of this place," I suddenly said; "I'll go down to port
with you."
"That's famous," he returned, "I wanted a mate down." And he
turned in while I commenced my preparations.
Half-way across what was known as "the dry stage" was a shanty,
professedly an accommodation house; but, of course, a slygrog shop.
The man who kept it met us outside the rude thatched verandah and
said he was glad we had come, as there was a man inside who had﹃a
touch of the sun﹄and he was afraid he was going to die.
We went in to see the poor fellow, and there, on the frowsy bunk,
lay my old rival, Markwell. The man said he arrived the day before,
on foot; his horse had fallen with him and got away, and he had
walked on to borrow another to go after him. He was light-headed and
had been so ever since.
Russel and I sat up all night doing what we could, but it was
useless; the poor fellow died before morning. Once he recognised me
and laughed wildly, "You didn't get Agnes after all, Murray," he
said, then he relapsed into mad talk about racing.
It was a lovely evening when, with my heart in my mouth, I rode up
to Baroma Plains, for I preferred to see Mrs. Kelly first. She and
her husband were standing on the verandah watching me curiously as I
came up. Suddenly Kelly gave a wild whoop and sprang off the
verandah. "It's Davie, by gum!" he exclaimed, and I was soon standing
between them.
I looked hard at Mrs. Kelly, hoping she would take pity on me, but
I had to ask the question after all.
"Agnes?"
Kelly pursed up his lips, "Don't you know?" he asked.
"Know what?" I demanded, swallowing a big lump in my throat.
"Why, Agnes was married a year ago--she lives--let's see--in
Melbourne!"
I suppose I could not smile, nor even look cheerful, for kind Mrs.
Kelly broke in with, "It's a shame. Nothing of the sort, Davie. Agnes
Elliot is in there just now; and to tell you the truth, she must have
recognised you before we did, for she slipped in without a word when
you were a long way off. Go in and ask her."
I did not ask her. I only said one word, and that was her
Christian name; and when I took her in my arms for the first time we
forgot all about mutual explanation until some time afterwards.
BUNTHORP'S DECEASE
I.
"WRITES poetry, does he?"
"Yes, and worse."
"Worse? Impossible!"
"Tries to set it to music, and accompanies himself on the
concertina."
"Great heavens! I must see about it. Deane was a real good fellow,
and I can't let his son go to the dogs without an attempt to save
him. Tell Billy to run up Rocket and Revolver from the big paddock
first thing in the morning."
So spoke old Bunthorp, of Wattlemere Station, as he and his nephew
yarned on the verandah one evening, after the return of the latter
from attending a general muster at Branksia Downs, some forty miles
distant.
Bunthorp shortly retired to bed, and Jim Newton strolled over to
"the quarters," to play euchre for tobacco, any higher stakes being
strictly forbidden on Wattlemere.
Next morning saw the old man seated in a buck-board buggy behind
Rocket and Revolver, trotting sedately along the road, winding
through alternate belts of scrub and plain, that separated the two
stations.
"Awful thing," he thought, as he sipped the midday quart of tea at
"the yellow water hole," rather more than half-way. "Fancy Deane's
boy taking to scribbling poetry. Why, the cattle will go to the deuce
in no time. I don't believe Deane ever wrote anything but a
horse-receipt or his name to a cheque."
Musing thus on his dead friend the old gentleman dropped off into
a pleasant doze under a sheltering brigalow tree, while Rocket and
Revolver, carefully hobbled out, stood nose to tail in an adjacent
patch of scrub, sleepily whisking the flies off each other.
"I say, guv'nor!"
Old Bunthorp opened his eyes and looked sternly at the disturber
of his forty winks. A swagman with "genus sundowner" written all over
him, had cast his rolled blanket on the ground and was busy putting
together the smouldering sticks that had boiled Bunthorp's
quart-pot.
"S'pose you'll give a fellow a feed?" he remarked.
Bunthorp nodded majestically, as if to impress the man with the
idea that he had only closed his eyes for a few minutes in order to
meditate better over the advantage of only a first cross of
Herefords; but the new-comer, quite unimpressed, strolled down to the
water to fill the small "billy" he was carrying. When he returned,
Bunthorp was just starting off with the winkers in his hand to catch
his horses; he indicated the remainder of the bread and beef to the
man, who acknowledged the favour with an easy nod as he piled the
blazing sticks around his billy to facilitate a speedy boil. When the
old gentleman returned with the nags the stranger enquired for the
tea and sugar with the cool familiarity of an acquaintance.﹃Not a
bad sort of a prad that brown one,﹄he remarked; "looks a little gone
in the near fore-leg."
Bunthorp was speechless. Rocket, the prad in question, was rising
five and as sound as a bell. He slipped on the collars whilst the
swagman made and sweetened his tea. Then he busied himself putting
the contents of the buggy straight. Meantime his uninvited guest
attacked the bread and beef.
"How far to Branksia Downs?" he said, as Bunthorp was preparing to
start. "About fifteen miles."
"You wouldn't give a fellow a lift, would you? I'm dog-tired."
Now, Bunthorp was the best-natured of men, and, moreover, was
never slow in boasting how he had risen from the ranks himself; but
the idea of driving up to Banksia Downs homestead with this
disreputable-looking dead-beat beside him, was rather a staggerer. He
hesitated.
"Come, guv'nor, if you knew how just about done up I am, you
wouldn't think twice. What's my weight to two such bits of stuff as
those?"
"Well, look sharp and finish your grub," said the old fellow, "I
won't wait long."
The seedy stranger made but a few bites of the remainder,
swallowed his tea scalding hot, without winking, and in a few minutes
took his seat with the greatest coolness beside James Bunthorp, Esq.,
of Wattlemere.
Rocket and Revolver soon covered the fifteen miles, the swagman
beguiling the way with a little general advice on pastoral matters,
hints as to breeding, etc., winding up by urging his disgusted
companion to always drive with a cross-bar on the pole in future. In
fact, when they arrived at the paddock-gate, half a mile from the
station, Bunthorp could scarcely determine whether he had given the
stranger a lift, or the stranger had given him one. At the gate he
saw his opportunity. The man got down to open it.﹃I will send your
swag to the men's hut,﹄said Bunthorp, as whipping up his horses he
drove on, leaving the discomfited wayfarer to close the gate and
follow on foot.
"Well, Fred, my boy," said the old man, as a young fellow came out
to greet him. "Heard such terrible accounts of you from Jim that I
had to come over myself and see about it."
"What has Jim been saying?" returned the other, as he shook him
heartily by the hand. "But come inside first; George will see to the
buggy and horses. Glory! what sort of a swag is that you've got on
board?"
"Oh! I gave a fellow a lift on the road There he is, coming up the
paddock now. Give him his swag, George, when he comes up," he
continued to the groom, and then both men went inside the house.
"Have you got any of the old whisky left, Fred, or was it all
swamped this muster?"
"Not quite!" returned the other; "rather too good for the general
public, who only want something that bites as it goes down. No fear,
here we are."
"His heart is in the right place," murmured old Bunthorp as he put
the amber-coloured fluid to his lips.﹃Your father and I bought this
whisky in bond six years ago,﹄he continued aloud. "Unfortunately my
share is gone, but--here's to his memory. Now, Fred, I must speak
seriously."
"Suppose we wait until after dinner, it will be ready at six. I
just want to run down to the yard for a minute; meantime you know
your old room. Go and rinse some of the dust off."
"Seems nothing wrong with him--wonder if Jim has been taking a
rise out of me!" thought the old man, as he turned into the bedroom
he generally occupied. "My word!"
There had been some changes in the interior arrangements of
Branksia since his last visit, and young Deane had forgotten that he
had transferred his own belongings to the former guest-chamber;
consequently, when Bunthorp turned into what he thought was his room,
he found himself in Fred's. But this had not occasioned the
exclamation. Fred's room in its simple bareness was quite familiar to
him. There was the collection of whips, the rows of boots, from a
dandified pair of tops that he once rode a steeplechase in, to the
reach-me-down bluchers that he wore in the drafting-yard, a few
native weapons, a picture of Carbine, and the necessary
furniture--that was all as it should be. But there was something
fresh--a new picture on the wall: a photograph got up and finished in
the style these things are done now-a-days--the likeness of an
exceedingly pretty girl.
Bunthorp picked up his valise again and beat a retreat, chuckling.
"The young dog, won't I roast him!" And it was only after three or
four immersions in cold water that he managed to wash the sly look
out of his jolly face.
Meantime Deane was astonished to find no one at the yard. There
were a few head of cattle to be drafted, some outsiders, missed
during the muster, and he wished to draft them overnight, so that the
calves could be branded at daylight in the morning. A sustained yell
brought two or three men out of the hut.
"Nearly forgot all about the cattle, Mr. Deane," said one, as he
swung himself over the cap. "Blessed if we were not all laughing so
at that cure of a fellow Mr. Bunthorp gave a lift to."
"Regular bush lawyer," said another.
"Then he won't get a job from me," replied Deane, as he picked up
the draftingpole and opened the gate.
"Job!" said the man who had first spoken, "he don't want no
job--lives upon blow."
At dinner Bunthorp was brimming over with facetiousness.
Mysterious allusions to a coming volume of poetry, to the expense of
re-furnishing the house and building "a weaning paddock" (nursery),
to breaking in side-saddle horses, and various other old jokes, at
which he laughed so much himself that Fred had to join him.
"Now, when is it to be!" he said when they were seated in the
verandah doing the regulation-pipe.
Fred felt glad it was comparatively dark, for the old man's fun
was rather merciless.
"I suppose," he said,﹃that beggar Jim has been telling tales
about me.﹄"He said you had taken to writing poetry, to spouting it,
and singing it to a concertina."
"Confounded old ass he must be! I only asked him his opinion on a
few lines of verse, and as for the concertina business--why, we were
just trying to pick out a tune together. But I suppose I may as well
own up--I am engaged."
"Who is she, Fred?"
"Come in to the light," returned Deane; and going to his room he
returned with the portrait Bunthorp had seen hanging on the wall.﹃Do
you know her?﹄he asked, as Bunthorp regarded it admiringly and
curiously.
"I seem to recognise the face," said the old gentleman; "seems as
familiar as possible now and again, and then it's all different."
"You have not seen her for five years, and she was only thirteen
then----."
"Not Maggie Barlow?" cried Bunthorp, with the fun gone clean out
of his face and voice.
"Certainly it is. Why, she used to be your greatest pet at one
time."
"Ah, that was before Deane found Barlow out. I admit I did like
her immensely, as a child; but you can't alter a bad breed, no matter
how good-looking the calf is: it will come out by-and-bye."
Fred coloured, although he also felt inclined to laugh. "Of
course, I stand you saying things I would not let anybody else utter;
but you're very unjust, to say the least of it."
"Unjust! Why? Was I not acquainted with the whole of the
circumstances? Did not your father confide everything to me, and, by
my advice, did not prosecute him? Only for me, Fred Barlow would now
be in prison. Your father was not a merciful man, you know, although
nobody could be juster."
"I know the man yielded to a great temptation, and he has bitterly
repented it ever since," returned Deane; "but I believe, and I think
you do, that it was done to save his son."
"That's another pretty thing," cried the old gentleman, who was
now excitedly walking up and down the room. "You mark my words: so
soon as ever you are married, that precious scamp will turn up and
sponge on you."
"I think you know me better than that. Am I such a weak-minded
individual?"
"No, Fred, you've got plenty of backbone; but he'll try it on.
He'll hear of it, even if he's in Pentridge or Darlinghurst."
"I think he must be dead. Maggie has not heard his name mentioned
for years. But we won't talk any more to-night. Sleep on it, and I
know you'll give me your best wishes in the morning."
Half-an-hour afterwards Deane was alone, strolling about in front
of the verandah, smoking and thinking of the late conversation. The
night was dead calm, and the voices from the men's quarters sounded
clear and distinct; one in particular, which he could not recognise,
seemed to monopolise the conversation.
"The bush lawyer, I suppose," thought Fred, and by way of
amusement he sauntered within hearing. The men were lounging about in
the broad verandah of the kitchen, and the traveller was holding
forth.
"Bunthorp! Who's Bunthorp?" he was saying; "why, you coves seem to
think that he's the Hemperor of China. Now, I'll bet you a fiver all
round"--here there was a burst of laughter--"What are you laughing
at?" demanded the unabashed swagman.
"Produce your fivers, old man," said one of his audience.
"Well, I ain't got 'em about me just now," returned the shabby
stranger, "but I would bet you if I had 'em that you give old
Bunthorp a French book to read and he won't understand a word of it,
and give it to me and I'll translate it straight off the reel. Yet he
drives his buggy and I have to walk."
"Except when he gives you a lift," said the cook.
"Hang his lift!" returned the other. "Mighty generous thing to do
with a couple of fat, strong horses in the traces."
"I don't know whether he understands French or not," said the
stockman, "and I don't care, but he's a decent old boy, and I wish
there were a few more of his sort knocking about the district."
"Decent old boy!" sneered the swagman. "Who couldn't be decent
with a good-paying station and a fat balance in the bank?"
"Plenty of 'em," said the cook. "I know lots far richer than
Bunthorp who are as mean as you make 'em."
"Just so," returned the traveller, "and the worst of it is, it's
catching. Now, if old Bunthorp came to you and said 'Bill, I'm short
of change; lend me a note,' you'd say, 'certainly, Mr. Bunthorp, take
two,' now, wouldn't you?"
"Of course I would, if I had it."
"Of course you would, and if I came to you and said 'Bill, I'm
stone broke; lend me a note till I get a job,' what would you
say?"
There was an ominous silence; then the stockman reared up his
long, lean form, and, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, remarked;
"I'm going to camp; we've got to be up the first thing to brand those
calves, boys."
There was a general dispersal, and the disgusted swagman was left
with his question unanswered.
"I wonder," thought Deane, as he made his way to bed, "how it is
that that fellow's voice is so familiar to me? Bad egg, I suppose,
who speaks like a gentleman by accident now and again."
II.
Barlow had been Crown Lands Commissioner in the neighbouring
township five years before. He was a widower, with one girl, but
people who knew anything said that the Barlow who got three years for
embezzlement from one of the banks was his son. It was a
much-talkedof case, from the despicable efforts made by the culprit,
who was bank-teller, to put the guilt on to an innocent man. Deane
and Bunthorpe knew the truth, for they had been fast friends of the
commissioner until the fatal day when a broken, miserable man rode to
Branksia Downs and confessed to the owner that he had used his name
criminally to obtain money; and gave him back the price of his shame.
Bunthorp, who was there, believed that it was a mad attempt, made too
late, to save his son from disgrace, and begged his old friend, whose
nature was less placable, to take the money and spare the unfortunate
father. Deane did so, Barlow applied for a change, and his name was
never willingly mentioned by the two who had been his friends. All
these things came into Bunthorp's mind before he fell asleep; and as
the old man knew, too, that black sheep were to be found in nearly
every flock, he gradually came round to the opinion that possibly a
young fellow like Deane, with his head screwed on right, could not
come to much grief by marrying a girl like Maggie, whose only fault
was a disgraced brother, and a father prematurely broken down by that
son's disgrace. Before Bunthorp fell asleep, he had in spirit
bestowed a fatherly blessing on the young people.
Fate seemed determined that his slumbers should not be as calm as
his conscience merited. Somebody touched him, somebody whispered,
"Mr. Deane!"
Bunthorp was not nervous, he had gone through too many rough
episodes. "Who is there?" he asked in an equally low tone.
"Bell! Sergeant Bell! We are after somebody, and I think he's
here. I don't want to disturb the place or he might give us the slip.
Any strangers here to-night?"
"I'm Bunthorp. Fred has changed his room. There was a traveller on
the road. I gave him a lift. He's here to-night, I suppose."﹃Where
did you pick him up?﹄said the sergeant, still in a whisper. "At the
yellow water-hole."
"Yes, that's where we lost his tracks; we guessed you might have
picked him up, so we came straight on here. I suppose he's in the
men's hut. But I'm glad I saw you first"--this was allegorical, for
it was pitch-dark--"can you come outside for a minute?" Bunthorp
noiselessly slipped on some clothes and, barefooted, followed the
policeman, who had also left his boots outside. Out of hearing of the
house they put on their foot-gear and went a short distance to where
a black tracker stood holding three horses.
"I should like to get this fellow away quietly without troubling
Mr. Deane," said the sergeant, "now that I have the chance; for I'll
tell you who he is: that son of old Barlow's who served his time for
the bank swindle."
Bunthorp whistled. "What has he been up to?"
"Valueless cheques, for one thing; and doctoring a cheque, for
another--turned seven into seventy; very neatly too, I understand. He
got a warning from somebody and gave the Brisbane police the slip;
he's splendidly got up as a hard-up loafer, and has got all the
patter off like a professional hand. No one suspected him but a girl
at the Royal, in----, who knew him in his bank days. She gave him
away. Of course, you know, Deane is sweet on the sister, so I should
like to take him quietly for both their sakes."
"Very thoughful of you, Bell, I am sure;" said Bunthorp; "how can
we manage it?"
"We can't take him now without waking the place, and if we wait
till daylight he might give us the slip--he's so artful," returned
Bell.
"Deane will be down at the yard for an hour or two after daylight,
there are a few calves to brand. Could you manage it then?"
"I think so, it's not more than two hours off daylight now. We'll
turn our horses out behind that patch of scrub, and be up there at
crow-chirp and catch my gentleman in his blankets as soon as the
others go down to the yard. There's an old hut alongside the kitchen
we can plant in."
"I'll slip in and get you a bit of grub, our supper is still on
the table," said the hospitable Mr. Bunthorp, and like a substantial
phantom he disappeared in the darkness, and presently returned with
some provender and a drop of the incomparable whisky, which he had
smuggled out without wakening Deane, the only other occupant of the
house. Bunthorp had no desire to return to bed, but shared the
sergeant's watch until the first streak of light in the eastern
horizon warned them to be on the alert. Quietly they stationed
themselves in the old hut, whence, through the chinks between the
slabs, they could see what went on.
It was done without any trouble at all. Deane and his men were
busy at the yard, when Bell stood over the sleeper and requested the
pleasure of his company. Before they started, Bunthorp got leave to
say a few words privately to the prisoner.
"I know who you are," he said, "and for your father's sake, whom
you nearly ruined, I should like to do something for you. What can I
do? I presume you are guilty of this charge?"
Barlow looked at him with his manner partly changed; and the old
man noted with sorrow the likeness to his sister, which he now saw
plainly. "I may get out of this," was the answer,﹃I think there's a
legal quibble or two in my favour; if I do, may I ask a favour of
you?﹄"Yes, I will do what I can. What is it?"
"When the time comes I will ask it," and he turned away. Next
minute the sergeant and his prisoner were gone.
When Fred came up to breakfast, he was in blissful ignorance that
his prospective brother-in-law had just been marched off in
handcuffs; and there was some laughter amongst the men when they were
told of the swagman's exit.
Bunthorp naturally scanned the papers with some degree of
interest, until he saw that Barlow's favourable anticipation had been
only partially fulfilled. He had managed to wriggle out of the graver
charge, and escaped with twelve months' imprisonment and a severe
lecture from the judge for one of the minor offences.
Fred Deane was married, and Bunthorp had beamed on the union.
Eighteen months had flown by, when he received a letter he had been
for some time expecting; it was from young Barlow, asking for the
promised help. The letter touched the good old man. There was no
hypocritical pretence of reformation: the writer simply stated his
desire to leave Australia and begin life anew in another country,
mentioning the Cape as the colony to be honoured with his patronage,
and asking for a sum of money to enable him to go there. Needless to
say it was at once forwarded; and Bunthorp trusted that that page was
folded down for good.
"My dear Fred," he wrote, some six months afterwards, "I have just
remembered that the 5th of next month is your wife's birthday, so I
am coming over the day before to stop the night, and bring a present
to deliver the next morning. Don't show this to Maggie, or she may be
curious."
On the evening of the 4th, according to promise, Bunthorp and Jim
Newton drove up to Branksia, but the most inquisitive glances cast
into the buggy, still drawn by the faithful Rocket and Revolver,
could not discern anything unusual in its contents. This was not to
be wondered at, for "the present" was but a letter with a Cape of
Good Hope stamp on it, telling of young Barlow's bright prospects,
and conveying a kind message to his sister, and an assurance that the
future would atone for the past. The old man had a small gift as
well, but this was the surprise he had planned. That night he slept
in the room made memorable by the visit of Sergeant Bell, and it was
with a decidedly nervous start that he found his slumbers once more
disturbed. Somebody was moving about the room, apparently examining
the contents of the dressing-table. Bunthorp sprang out of bed as
fast as a stout, old gentleman, who had been sleeping on his back,
could be expected to spring. As this was not very rapidly, the
intruder had gone before Bunthorp had reached the spot where his
shadowy form had been visible. Bunthorp went out to the verandah, but
an outcry of dogs by the stables told him that the pursuit was vain;
the quarry had too good a start. Returning to his room he struck a
match, and, having lit a candle, proceeded to investigate. Apparently
nothing had been taken, but on the table was a leaf from a
pocket-book, folded and addressed to himself.﹃If you want to save
your friend Deane some trouble and distress,﹄it ran, "take a walk
down the paddock, as far as the gate, before breakfast, as soon after
sunrise as possible."
"Is this Queensland or one of the disturbed districts of Ireland?"
muttered the old man savagely, as he got into bed again.﹃I'll take a
walk down the paddock with a good whip in my hand, and all the dogs
with me;﹄and in a few minutes he was sound asleep again. Like all
bushmen he instinctively awoke at daybreak, and, dressing himself,
went out just as the red sun appeared above the low tree line. He had
a heavy crop in his hand, and a whistle brought at least half-a-dozen
demonstrative dogs of all breeds to his heels, eager for a morning
gambol.
The paddock-gate was out of sight of the homestead, being screened
by some clumps of scrub; leaning against it was a man, who, when he
turned and faced the new-comer, revealed to Bunthorp's intense
amazement the features of the former swagman, young Barlow.
He was fairly well-dressed, and a good horse was fastened to the
fence a few panels away.
"So you've come back from the Cape?" was Bunthorp's
exclamation.
"I've never been to the Cape, you old fool!" was the amazing
reply. "That letter was posted by a friend of mine who went there.
No; I have got a long score to settle with you before we have done
with each other."
"You d----d thief, you took my money----" began Bunthorp,
violently.
"Yes," interrupted the other, "I took your money under false
pretences; and I put it on the Melbourne Cup, and, by George, I won,
and I intend to get some more out of you, so there."
"No, I'll be boiled down if you will," said the old man. "What
score have you to settle with me?"
"Didn't you put that----sergeant on to me? He told me all about
it. When you found out who I was, why didn't you give me warning and
get me away? You could easily have managed it. Hang you all your
friendship for my father. Between you all I've been shamefully
treated, and I intend to take it out of you."
During this harangue Bunthorp had been, so to say, stoking; he was
now at boiling heat and ripe for an explosion.﹃You hangdog
gaol-bird!﹄he commenced,﹃you been shamefully treated? why, you have
never had your deserts yet! Take it out of me, you abominable
scoundrel? Why don't you do it?﹄and he fairly danced with rage.
"Keep cool, old boy," said Barlow, "you'll want all your breath
before you've done with me. To-day is Maggie's birthday, and I am
going to present myself to wish her many happy returns. I can assure
you some of my prison anecdotes will quite liven up the conversation,
and I really won't stop away under a high consideration."
"You'll not get a red cent, that I guarantee. Fred Deane is not
such a fool as to be blackmailed by you; try it, and see what you'll
get," returned Bunthorp, whose business faculties at once came to the
front.
"Oh, but that is not all: you and Fred's father compounded a
felony; you know you did. That will be a nice little story to rake
up."
"Whether we broke the law or not I do not know, but every honest
man will be on our side, and I don't care a snap of the fingers for
the rest."
The two men looked at each other defiantly across the gate, but
the swindler had failed and he knew it. He turned away jauntily.
"Well," he said airily, "I'll call round after breakfast, see you
again. So long, old Bun."
This was the crowning insult. Flinging open the gate Bunthorp with
upraised whip rushed at the sneering Barlow, while the joyous dogs
surged tumultuously around. The two men struggled together and the
dogs, wild with delight, sent up a chorus of yelling, barking, and
snapping that raised some laggard cur at the station and attracted
everybody's attention. Barlow's horse, startled at the uproar, broke
his bridle with an indignant snort and trotted away in the bush.
"The dogs have got a kangaroo stuck up at the back of the scrub,"
said one of the men, and two or three of them came running down.
Bunthorp had got in serveral stinging cuts before Barlow seized
the whip, and then they struggled hard for the possession of it, the
dogs making indiscriminate and quite impartial snaps at the legs of
both. The younger man succeeded in wresting the crop from his
opponent, who was soon winded; he threw him off and gave him a blow
with the butt as he did so, unfortunately on the head. Bunthorp went
down senseless and Barlow started to pursue his horse, but the pack
of dogs had to be first scattered with the whip. By this time two
active men who had taken a short cut through the scrub appeared on
the scene. They vaulted over the fence, and as Barlow's horse was now
nearly out of sight, he saw it was useless to run, so stood still to
await them.
"The old fellow turned on me with his whip, and in the struggle I
knocked him down," he said, when they reached the spot. They bent
over Bunthorp, and one of them gave a loud coo-ee that brought others
down--amongst them Deane and Newton. They carried the old man up to
the house and marched Barlow along. He did not reveal himself,
although some of them recognised him with surprise as the
swagman.
Once at the station he requested to see Deane alone, and told him
who he was, asserting that it was only in self-defence he had struck
Bunthorp, which was literally true, and insisting on being allowed to
depart in search of his horse. Deane was rather puzzled; he
compromised matters by sending a blackboy after the horse and telling
his brother-in-law that he would not allow him to leave until
Bunthorp was conscious: meantime, if he wanted any assistance, he had
better keep himself quiet and not attempt to see his sister.
Between them, Mrs. Deane and Newton had now recalled the
unconscious Bunthorp to life once more. "I gave it to him, Jim," were
the first words he spoke. "Called me old Bun." Then he lay back and
closed his eyes. Presently he opened them again; "Maggie," he said,
"I want to be alone with Jim for a minute." Mrs. Deane nodded and
left the room. "Look here, Jim," said the old man eagerly: "I'm going
to die."
"Go to blazes!" replied his astonished nephew.
"In about an hour's time I shall expire," repeated his uncle. "No,
I'm not wandering. I'm in solemn earnest. Do you think you could get
me a drop of that old whisky; I feel faint?"
Newton, with astonishment all over his face, left the room, and
Bunthorp went off into a series of chuckles; evidently he had got
hold of a brilliant idea.
His nephew returned, and Bunthorp swallowed the spirits.﹃What's
become of that fellow?﹄he asked.
"Deane has locked him up somewhere."
"Right! Now, Jim, I'll explain myself. So far as dying is
concerned, it would take more than a knock like that to kill me; but
that scamp is young Barlow, who, of course, you've heard of. Now, he
can't do any real harm, and Fred is not the man to be sponged on and
robbed, but he might make things unpleasant. People would talk,
Maggie would feel it, and there might be trouble between husband and
wife, because, after all, people are only human. Now, if I die--you
twig? Barlow will stand his trial for murder. Deane gives him a
chance to clear out and he'll take care never to show up in
Queensland again, where he'll think there's a halter waiting for him.
Savee, James?" And the restored Bunthorp dug his amazed nephew in the
ribs.
Barlow was confined in the store; he had been reposing on the top
of a pile of flourbags reading a yellow-back, for some time, when the
door opened and Deane appeared. He appeared greatly excited.﹃The old
man is dead,﹄he said hurriedly, "I can't see you hanged, for you're
Maggie's brother after all. Your horse is tied up at the paddock
gate, the men are at dinner, slip down through the scrub and be off
before Newton comes, for he's going to take you into the police-camp
himself."
"But," said the other, "it was only manslaughter; he attacked me.
I'll stand my trial."
"You infernal fool, what show have you got? Look at your
character, who saw him strike you? who will believe you? The men took
you red-handed with the whip in your hand. Stay and be hanged if you
like. Newton will swear your life away, he's furious."
"I have very little money," said Barlow sullenly.
"Here, take this; it is enough to pay your passage, and give you a
start somewhere. Now, for God's sake go, before it is too late."
Barlow moved to the door; he was beginning to grasp the situation,
and didn't like it.
"Keep off the roads," said Deane, "and slip out of the country
like greased lightning; everybody liked Bunthorp and they will search
high and low for you."
Deane stood at the door as though keeping watch; he saw his
brother-in-law disappear in the first patch of scrub, and that was
the last he ever saw of him.
Few livelier corpses have ever been seen at a dinner-table than
Bunthorp's was that evening. Newton said that "a crack on the cobra"
must have a more stimulating effect on the brain than any amount of
the incomparable whisky.
THE STORY OF A BIG PEARL
LAZILY riding at anchor, in company with some half-dozen others,
is a small lugger, one of a pearling fleet. It is almost a dead calm,
and on the northern horizon there is a hazy suspicion of land, the
coast of New Guinea. The midday spell is drawing to a close, and the
coloured crew are rousing themselves from their short nap under the
awning stretched amidships. In the cabin, permeated, as is all the
rest of the vessel, by an ancient and fishlike smell, a couple of
Malays are in earnest conference: Abdrahim, the diver, and Syed, his
tender. In the bronzed hand of the former lies a lustrous and
beautiful pearl, a globe of soft moonlight, such a pearl as is found
but twice in a century. Both men know that it is of priceless value,
and are eagerly gloating over it, discussing, meanwhile, the best way
of disposing of their find to the greatest possible advantage.
Presently Abdrahim wraps up the treasure in a piece of rag and places
it in his box, which he locks; then, followed by Syed, goes on deck,
and proceeds to array himself in his diving-gear. This completed, he
is helped over the side and stands on the wooden rung of the short
ladder, with his head and shoulders above the surface of the water,
waiting while Syed and a Kanaka put on the helmet and screw in the
mouthpiece. Take your last look at the bright sunlight, and inhale
your last breath of the fresh sea-breeze, Abdrahim, for that pure,
flawless gem has done its work.
The helmeted head disappears beneath the unruffled surface of the
sea, and Syed takes his place at the pump. The nondescript crew pay
little heed to his actions; again and again the life-line quivers,
but Syed is lost in a pleasant dream of the future in which he
wonders at the surpassing folly of his countryman in trusting his
life in his hands just after showing him the glorious pearl hidden
away in the cabin. Abdrahim, he knows well, is suffocating below the
lugger's keel, but the Malay's swarthy features are calm and
emotionless until he suddenly calls loudly to the others, and they
drag to the surface the now lifeless form of the diver. An accident,
of course--something must have gone wrong with the pump, he rapidly
explains to the men as they divest the corpse of the dress, and
laying it on the deck, cover it with a spare sail. Towards evening a
breeze springs up, and the lugger, with the dead Malay on board,
steers for Thursday Island.
The little township on the island is fast asleep, eight bells have
been struck on board the E. and A. steamer at anchor in the stream,
and the last sound of revelry has died away. Near an old boatshed, in
whispered conversation, stand Syed and a Chinaman. The Malay is
excited and eager, the Chinaman apathetic, with a cunning assumption
of indifference. The big pearl is being extolled on one side and
depreciated on the other. Subtle Hi Long is assuring Syed that he has
quite overestimated the worth of his find, and the Malay is
vehemently asserting its wonderful value. They part, after long
dispute, Hi Long calm and confident, Syed angry and upset. He coils
up in his blankets under the old boatshed, and after an hour or two
of troubled tossing falls into a deep slumber that lasts until long
after sunrise. When he awakes he sits up, fumbles underneath the
bundle that serves him for a pillow, and draws out a common red silk
handkerchief with a knot tied in one corner; glancing apprehensively
around, he unties the knot to feast his gaze upon his treasure. With
a yell he springs up, his eyes ablaze with fury and despair, for the
big pearl is gone. He has been robbed during his late sleep. A mist
of blood swims before his eyes and blots out all his dreams of
wealth. Blood--that is what he wants, and he draws his knife and
rushes through the door out on the beach, no longer a man but a beast
of prey, a Malay running amok, seeking to glut his raging thirst for
vengeance on the first object crossing his path. A group of coloured
men are right in his way, and almost before they are aware of it he
is amongst them, striking and stabbing right and left, seeing before
him nothing but a crowd of grinning chinese, taunting him with the
loss of his fortune. Two are knifed before they can recover from
their surprise; one of the remainder has, fortunately, an axe in his
hand, and before the madman can stab again he is cut down. He rises
once more with the blood streaming down his face and rushes out on
the boat-jetty, leaving a ruby track on the rough stones. With one
last wild stab at the phantom fleeing before him, he plunges into the
sea, and Syed has gone to reckon with the ghost of the murdered
Abdrahim.
The E. and A. steamer going south that morning has an additional
steerage passenger in the person of Hi Long, who finds he has urgent
business which compels him to leave Thursday Island immediately.
Through the still waters, guarded by the great barrier of coral,
the steamer pursues her southern course. For two nights she has had
to anchor amongst the then little known dangers of the treacherous
northern coast, and now, on the third, the steady pulsation of the
engines tells that she is running at half-speed through a
comparatively open sea. The officer on the bridge is talking to the
coast pilot as they pass backwards and forwards. Unobserved a figure
rises from amongst those recumbent on the fore-hatch and approaches
the side. The coloured man on watch on forward happens to turn round.
"Hoy, Chinaman!" he yells. Too late: there is a splash, and the two
men on the bridge are just in time to see a white face gleam past the
bar of light.
The telegraph rings and the steamer comes quickly round.
"One of the Chinese passengers just jumped overboard, sir," says
the officer to the captain when he comes on the bridge.
A boat is lowered, uselessly of course. Hi Long, after gambling
away all his gains, including the big pearl stolen from Syed, has
gone to the bottom.
"Why the deuce couldn't he have done it quietly?" says the
captain, as the boat is being run up to the davits; "we've lost
half-an-hour through him."
* THE LAST OF SIX.
PERHAPS no more desolate, depressing scenery can be found
anywhere in the world than on the mangrove-flats of Northern
Queensland. As you row slowly up some saltwater creek, nothing is
visible on either side but low banks of oozy mud, awash at high tide,
covered with writhing and distorted trees. Now and then a branch creek
breaks the monotony of the scrub, for the shore is here a perfect labyrinth
and network of watercourses, whilst the only living denizens visible are
armies of hideous crabs, and an occasional evil-looking alligator, which
glides noiselessly off the mud into deep water as your boat approaches.
By day it is dismal enough; by night it is worse. The venomous
mosquitoes buzz about you in myriads, strange cries resound through the
twisted roots of the trees left bare by the receding tide; and, as the night
wears on, a white mist, cold and dank, breathes deadly clamminess over all.
It was just sunrise in this delectable region. The rays had even gilded
the sombre upper branches of the mangroves with a sparkle of golden
colour, although as yet the sullen mist was still rising in white wreaths
from the bosom of the sluggish tide. Anchored in mid-stream was a small
boat, apparently without occupants, but presently the sail, that in a
tumbled heap had been lying on the bottom, was disturbed and a sleepy
man emerged from beneath its shelter; as he stood up, another threw the
sail back and got up too. They were both towzled, dirty, and looking
about as cross-grained as men might be expected to do who had passed
the night cramped up in the bottom of a boat, with millions of
mosquitoes thirsting for their blood--and getting it.
"No wind!" said the first; "pull again, I suppose, until ten o'clock!"
And he stepped forward and commenced to haul up the heavy stone that
served as anchor.
"I suppose so;" returned the other; "tide against us too, but I think it's
just on the turn"--and he settled himself down on the after-thwart and
prepared to put out an oar.
"My God! he's coming back!" cried the first and elder man, dropping
into the bottom of the boat the stone he had just hauled up. The other
sprang up and gazed stupidly at the object indicated, that, carried down
by the still-receding tide, passed slowly within an oar's length of the boat.
It was the dead body of a man; the shoulders and the back of the head
were alone visible, but the horror of it was unmistakeable--it needed no
second glance to tell its character.
"Pull," suddenly cried the younger, dropping on his seat, his voice
rising to a shriek; "he's coming aboard!" Released from her anchorage
the boat had started to voyage down stream in company with the dead
man. A few desperate strokes took them away from the corpse, and then
they rested on their oars and gazed at each other with the sweat of fear
upon their faces.
"The very alligators won't touch him!" murmured the younger man at
last; "let's get out of this. I'm not fit for anything after yesterday."
They pulled a few strokes in silence, then the elder spoke. "Let's get
back to camp before we do anything. I'm like you, done up altogether.
We'll turn down this creek and then we shan't have to pass him again."
And he indicated the direction of the corpse.
The boat was headed down a branch creek, and now went with the tide
aided by a few lazy strokes from the men, who silently kept on their
course. In about an hour's time the creek widened and the sound of surf
was audible; then suddenly they shot out from the gloomy, reeking
mangrove swamp into sight of the ocean, and a fresh sea breeze came
with a puff in their faces, as if to welcome their return.
"We're close to the camp," said the elder man as they rested on their
oars; "we might have got here last night instead of catching fever and
ague in that accursed place."
"There's so many of these creeks," returned the other; "we could not
have made sure in the dark. However, let's land and go across the spit."
Pulling the boat well up the sand and making her fast with a long painter
to a straggling mangrove-tree, they stepped ashore; then, having taken
the sail out and spread it to dry on the sand they shouldered their oars
and ascended the low spit. Before them, within a short half-mile, lay a
semicircular bay protected by a sand-bank, on which the long surf rollers
were breaking white. Within shelter of the bank lay a small lugger, and
on the beach, above high water-mark, were rough sheds, and frame
erections indicating that it was a béche-de-mer station.
As the two men approached the camp, a woman came out to meet
them; a few aborigines and a Kanaka or two were also visible. The
woman who advanced was dark in complexion, with wild black eyes and
hair. She was rudely dressed and barefooted; there was an air of
semi-madness about her that was startling, yet fascinating--such awful
horror shone in her eyes.
"Well," she said in fairly good English, "you found them?"
"One of them," said the elder man, "and when we've had a feed we'll
go and look for the other."
"One of them!" cried the woman; "which?--which?"
"The one you call Alphonse--the big one."
"Oh!" shrieked the woman, "where is he? Why is he not here?"
"Why! he's in that creek out there, and there he can stop for me; after
what you told us he's not fit to be buried."
"Dead!" she returned in an awestruck whisper. "But no! the devil
cannot die."
"Devil or not, he's dead; dead enough, and nearly turned our stomachs
this morning, for his ugly carcase came drifting right on top of us after
we thought he went out to sea yesterday."
"Now, missus," said the other, "suppose you let us get something to
eat, for it was nigh this time yesterday when we started."
"You have brought good news," said the woman, "the devil is dead, I
will wait on you"--and she hastened to the rude cooking-place and
soon returned with food and tea.
The meal finished, the two men lit their pipes, the women watching
them anxiously.
"You will go again?" she said at last, timidly. One man looked at the
other, and then the elder spoke--
"Well, we'll have another hunt, but I warn you, there's little hope."
"No matter," she said, "but let me go with you."
"I suppose it's not much odds," returned the man.﹃Come, Jim, the
tide's turning now.﹄They shouldered the oars and, followed by the
woman, walked back to the boat. The tide was about the same height as
when they landed, only now it was flowing. Stepping in they pushed off,
and were soon once more amongst the mangroves.
The two trepang-fishers had picked up a leaky boat with a starving
crew, a strange crew--two men and a woman--escapees from New
Caledonia, whom they brought to the station and fed. The fishers had no
intention of handing them over to justice--or, let us say, to the law; the
affair was no business of theirs; but if they took them in to Cooktown the
capture of their guests would be certain. Then the refugees organised a
plan. The two men would take their boat and pull up one of the salt-water
creeks to the open country; here they would sink the boat, and make their
way, as best they could, through the bush till they happened upon some
of the outlying stations. The woman, who spoke good English, could go
with the fishermen to Cooktown and take her chance; it was impossible
she could stand the hardship of a bush tramp. To this plan the woman
vehemently objected, and begged the man she called her husband not to
go. Apparently he consented, but during the night the two men slipped
away, and in the morning the woman found herself deserted. Then
followed a scene of wild lamentation, during which the horrified
Englishmen learned some of the ghastly details of the voyage from New
Caledonia--horrors that made them shudder and vow that if one of the
men ever turned up he should be delivered over to justice. With frantic
passion the woman appealed to them to go after the two fugitives and
persuade her husband to return; for, she said, the other man had an old
and bitter grudge against him, and had only lured him away to his death.
Overcome by her entreaties, the two men started and found the body of
one man floating in the mangrove creek; of the other they could see
nothing, and, returning, were benighted.
Arrived at the spot where the two creeks joined, the boat, with the
woman in the stern, was headed up stream with the tide, and they pulled
quietly between the dreary groves of trees.
"Have you been up there?" she said suddenly, pointing to an opening
on the right.
"No," said one of them, and they turned up the branch.
"There it is!" she exclaimed quickly. "I knew it, I felt it!"
Sure enough there was the Frenchmen's boat just ahead of them, ashore
on a small open space, a chance patch of clear ground. They pulled up to
her, but the dead body of the second man was visible before they got
there. The woman was quite calm, and stood by while her companions
examined the corpse. The man had been stabbed in the side and had bled
to death; a hideous stain was in the old boat.
"How did Pierre kill him?" she muttered to herself in French. "Ah, I
know, he was stabbed from behind, then he turned and knocked the devil
overboard. Then he fell and died."
"You will take him back and bury him," she said, in a sad, almost
sweet voice. "See, it will be no trouble; just tow the boat;" and she
indicated her meaning with a wave of the hand. Then she took her seat in
the boat with her dead, the men having thrown the sail over the body, and
so they started back.
Arrived at the junction she spoke again. "You will wait, will you not?
He will come back, perhaps--I must see myself that the devil is dead."
The men looked at each other, and then, with a few strokes of their oars
kept the boat motionless in the tideway.
"He comes!" said the awfully quiet voice of the woman, and with
indescribable horror the men saw the now bloated corpse come up the
stream once more.
As if influenced by some terrible attraction in the glaring eyes of the
woman, the ghastly thing approached the side of the boat where she sat.
She rose to her feet, in her hand one of the oars. "Dog! devil!" she cried,
dashing it into the face of the corpse. "O you, who ate my child before
my eyes. You! who lived on man's flesh to save your life--you who
have assassinated my husband! Wolf! what are you now? Dead, dead!
And you who ate others shall be eaten by the foul things of this place!"
At every epithet she spurned the corpse with the oar until with a hideous,
life-like action it slowly turned over and disappeared.
The spell-bound men, who had not understood a word of what she said,
for she spoke in French, now started into action, and called to her to sit
down. She obeyed; and, hastening to leave the scene the two men, their
hearts in their throats, were soon back at the mouth of the creek.
They buried the murdered man, and next morning the lugger hoisted
sail for Cooktown having on board the woman, the last survivor of the
party of six who had escaped from New Caledonia.
* THE SPELL OF THE MAS-HANTOO.
PONTIANAK, at the mouth of the Kapoeas River, is not a place much
visited by Europeans, but one can obtain an exceptional experience there.
Pontianak is the headquarters of the Dutch in Borneo, and the
Resident-General has a small joke of his own, which he plays off on the
unsuspecting new-chum. As is customary in those torrid settlements,
business is generally transacted during the comparatively cool hours
immediately succeeding daylight. As you discuss it with the courteous
old Resident, he inveigles you into a stroll up and down the verandah,
and after a little of this exercise, he informs you that the equatorial line
passes right through the centre of his bungalow, and that during the
morning walk you have crossed and re-crossed the equator several times.
I have other cause to remember Pontianak. It was my starting-point on
an expedition destined to be a very memorable one. I had long
contemplated a trip into the interior of Borneo, allured partly by the
reports of the half-worked diamond mines, and partly by natural curiosity
to see a place so little known. I had accidentally met with a young
travelling Englishman, an enthusiastic sportsman, who eagerly jumped at
the notion, and the result was that we soon found ourselves at Pontianak,
where, after the necessary official permission had been obtained, we
made our arrangements for departure.
Travelling there is far more luxurious than in the Australian back-
blocks. Our destination was the Sintang district, and our highway the
river Kapoeas. A large roofed-in native boat, known as a gobang, a
native crew under a mandor, or headman, and a good outfit of stores
were obtained, and we started for the land of the Dyaks.
For days our journey was most auspicious. The dense jungle on either
hand afforded a good supply of game for my sporting companion, and
the native tribes we met were friendly and interesting.
As time went on we found ourselves amongst Dyaks, permission to
pass through whose country cost some diplomacy, but patience and a
friendly demeanour overcame all objections, and we soon got well into
the mountainous districts on the upper reaches of the river. As yet I had
not met the object of my search--the abandoned diamond mines,
legends of which were often repeated by the coastal Malays. Once or
twice I was shown places where gold-mining on a most primitive fashion
had undoubtedly been pursued in some long-forgotten age. Circular holes
had been sunk in three places in the form of a triangle, and drives had
then been made from one to another, but by whom it had been done the
Dyaks could not tell. Certainly not by their forefathers. Some told me
that it was the work of slaves long ago, when the sultans from India had
swept down on the archipelago and enthroned themselves in Java and
Sumatra, thence enforcing tribute over Borneo, Celebes, and the smaller
islands.
No ruins or inscriptions were to be found indicating that the country
had ever been permanently settled by the men of that time. Sometimes I
heard mysterious reports of a wild race whose descent was more ancient
than that of the Dyaks: they were known as the Orangpooenan, or forest
men, and were marked with a white spot in the middle of the forehead,
an indication, at any rate, of their Hindu origin.
One afternoon about 4 o'clock the mandor came to me and pointed to a
rope of twisted rattan stretched across the river--a sign that we were to
go no further. Some Dyaks were assembled on the bank, and we went
ashore to parley with them.
They were apparently as friendly as usual, and accepted small presents
of tobacco, but declined to give us any reason for refusing the required
permission to proceed. We visited the village and partook of fruit there,
and after dark returned to our boat. Morton was very hurt at our sudden
detention, and wished to go on in spite of the natives. I pointed out to
him the folly of such a course, and he consented to take things quietly
and wait for a day or two. During those two days I made every effort to
conciliate our neighbours, and with perfect success excepting in the one
one direction. We were not to go up the river. I could obtain no reason
for this refusal, and concluded that we must perforce return.
My enquiries as to the ancient gold and diamond mines seemed to
amuse the old men mightily. One of them told me that I had seen the
Kambing-Mas. This is a golden sheep which appears to certain doomed
men. So infatuated does the victim become at sight of it, that he follows
it on through jungles and mountains day after day until he dies of fatigue.
Of legends and traditions I got my fill, but permission to go ahead was
not to be had. My old friend who told me of the Kambing-Mas asked me
if I desired to try for the great diamond which was supposed to be in a
lake at the head of a river. This star-like gem, described as of enormous
size and unspeakable lustre, can be plainly seen at the bottom, but woe to
the rash man who dives down after it! The infuriated spirit-guardians
seize and strangle him, and his dead body floats on the surface as a
warning to others.
"Perhaps," went on my loquacious host,﹃you would go to the land of
the Mas-hantoo, the spirit-gold?﹄This district, rich in the precious metal,
was cursed by a sultan of old, on account of the death of his son, and
although you may go there and fill your pockets with gold-dust and
nuggets, they all turn to sand and pebbles when you cross the boundary
on your return.
Meanwhile Morton chafed greatly at our delay, and I had to exercise
much tact to pacify him. The third evening I saw him in close talk with
the mandor; he then left the boat and went to the village, returning about
dark with the information that we now had permission to proceed.
It seemed strange to me that I had heard nothing about it, but at the
time I had no suspicions. It was a bright moonlight night. Taking the
mandor's kris, Morton went ashore and severed the rattan rope where it
was tied round the butt of a tree. The men took their places and the boat
was once more under way.
I dropped off to sleep about ten o'clock. I awoke amidst the crash of
boughs and branches, bringing ruin and destruction on us and our craft.
Although half-stunned, I managed to struggle from beneath the crushed-
in roof, and, as the boat sank, struck out feebly for the shore, which I had
no sooner reached than I fainted.
What had happened to us was the result of Morton's rashness. Poor
fellow, he paid for it with his life. The villagers had not given him
permission to go on, but he had bribed the mandor to do so nevertheless.
Along the bank of the river the Dyaks had selected certain leaning trees
under which we would pass. These had been cut through to breaking
point, and temporarily secured from falling outright by twisted rattans.
As we passed, these guys were cut, and we were swamped by the falling
trees. Morton was killed instantly, but I strangely escaped, and most of
the crew were more or less hurt. All this I learned afterwards.
When I came to my senses I was lying by a fire in a small clearing in
the jungle, with two or three Dyaks sleeping around. One man was
awake, apparently watching. When he saw me looking about he came
over to me and brought me a drink. He was very light-coloured, dressed
in the ordinary chawat or apron with a jacket, called a "bagu," on his
body. He smiled pleasantly, and, addressing me in the native dialect,
said, "Saki" (a name they had given me at the village), you were ill-
advised to seek the Tampat-Mas (gold-mine) here.﹃Why did you not
watch the flight of the fish-hawk first?﹄I asked after Morton, and he
told me of his death.
I was well treated, and the fate of Morton, whom they knew to be
guilty of the offence, had apparently atoned for our trespass.
On the second day I was much recovered, and Abiasi, the Dyak who
had just spoken to me, was sitting by my side showing me how to use the
blow-pipe, when a strange old man came from the jungle and advanced
in the clearing.
He was tall, white-haired and white-bearded, and on his forehead was a
round mark made with a white pigment of some sort. Abiasi rose and
said something to him of which I could only catch the word "Saghie,"
another name for the forest men. Presently the old man, who had only a
ragged chawat on, came over and regarded me earnestly, then he and
Abiasi renewed their conversation.
"Saki," said the latter at last, addressing me directly,﹃if you still wish
to see the Tampat-Mas where the Mas-hantoo is, this old saghie will take
you there.﹄He then further told me that the old saghie, or Orangpooenan,
lived in the mountains where there were many old mines, but it
was all spirit-gold, that turned into sand and gravel after it was taken
away. The saghie thought that the presence of a white man might break
the charm. I eagerly agreed to go, and Abiasi gave me many instructions
as to my return, lent me a parang, or heavy knife, and bade me farewell.
It was evening when we started, and the old man led me through the
jungle by a well-beaten path. Although the moon was bright, the
shadows were dense where it did not penetrate, and I confess to having
felt very nervous as we pushed on in silence, starting at intervals some
sleeping bird or a troop of monkeys.
Presently we came to a small opening and halted in front of a low-
thatched hut. In answer to his call a young woman, evidently just aroused
from sleep, came out; she brought some living embers and made a fire.
Like the old man, she was very fair in colour, good-looking, with
wellshaped limbs, which, as her only attire was the chawat, or apron,
were fully displayed. After eating some rice and fruit, I lay down by the
fire and slept for the remainder of the night.
I was not sorry to see a fine large fish cooking on the coals for
breakfast, as my returning health brought with it a good appetite. When
we had finished the meal the old man and the girl, whom I guessed to be
his granddaughter, took a large rush-woven basket between them and
started along a narrow path leading through the forest, motioning me to
follow.
In about two miles we reached an open space, and before us rose the
rugged side of a hill. We followed the base of this round for some time
until the face of the hill grew steep and precipitous, and I noticed we
were amongst some ancient workings.
At the mouth of what seemed a drive in the cliff the old saghie stopped,
and they set down the basket. He then spoke rapidly to the girl, whom he
called Suara, and she collected dry wood and built a fire, the old man
lighting some tinder with a flint and steel. Suara then broke down the
branches of a resinous kind of pine common to the hilly country, and
with the assistance of my parang dressed them into rude torches. I now
understood what these preparations meant, and when we had lit the
torches the two picked up the basket and led the way into the tunnel or
drive.
As seen by the dim, flaring light, it presented far more finished work
than any of the ancient workings I had yet seen. We must have gone at
least a hundred yards before the old man stopped, and I then saw that
somebody had recently been at work, for there was loose dirt lying about,
and some native tools.
The old saghie put down the basket, and motioned to me to come and
fill it with the shovel. I did so, and naturally took the opportunity of
examining the dirt. I sifted some in my hands, and blew part of the finer
dirt away, and am satisfied, even now, that there was a large quantity of
coarse gold through it and several specimens, as they are generally called
by diggers. Of this I am quite sure, despite what afterwards occurred.
The old saghie was peering over my shoulder while I blew the dust
away, and grinned hideously as he saw the gold exposed here and there. I
remember wondering at the time what possible ambition could be his for
the yellow dross. Perhaps he thought the same of me.
Anyhow, we were both satisfied with our inspection, and I went on
filling up the bag until it could hold no more. The old man and the girl
picked it up and carried it out of the tunnel. Instead of taking the
homeward track as I anticipated, they turned down another one, and in a
short time we were beside a small stream which descended from the
range. Here there were rude appliances for washing, and I selected, as the
most convenient, a shallow baked-clay dish, and commenced washing
out a prospect.
Not a speck, not a trace of gold was there. I did not look at my two
companions, for it struck me that possibly the dirt at the top of the basket
was different from what I had examined in the tunnel. I therefore took
another prospect from the very bottom and proceeded to wash it.
It was a strange scene. The narrow path leading down to the small
stream, just cutting a thin gap in the dense forest. The shrill chattering
and screaming of parrots overhead, and the noises made by the troops of
monkeys, which swung from bough to bough, and from one long
hanging vine to another. Behind me, as I squatted by the water's edge, the
two yellow, semi-nude figures of the old man and the girl, bending over
my shoulders in rapt attention.
The dirt was rapidly reduced as I swirled the water round in the dish,
and when I tilted it to and fro, there, at either end of the grit and gravel,
appeared the yellow sheen of gold. I heard the two behind me heave a
sigh of satisfaction as this sight appeared. Surely the spell of the Mashantoo
was broken at last?
Suddenly, without a sound of warning, a glistening, flashing object
dropped from overhead and struck me and the girl into the water.
Blinded and frightened, I staggered to my feet, for the stream was but
shallow, and in an instant saw what had happened. A huge boa had
dropped from one of the trees above, where it is their custom to hang,
watching the paths by which the deer go to water, and snatched its victim
from our midst. The old man was crushed against the trunk by three or
four folds of the creature, whose tail was still in the branches above, and
he was already in the pangs of death.
Suara, who, like myself, had been knocked forward by a blow from a
coil of the reptile as it dropped on its prey, was standing near me gazing
with horror-stricken eyes on the death-scene. The crunching of the
unhappy man's bones was quite audible, but his collapsed body showed
that life was over.
The dish had floated on the surface, and was held from going down the
stream by a tussock of reeds. Suara picked it up and handed it to me with
a look of despair. Instinctively, despite the near presence of the monster,
now gloating over its meal. I finished washing the prospect. The spell of
the Mas-hantoo held good. Nothing but gravel and sand was in the
earthen dish, which I dashed to pieces on a rock.
Together, Suara and I left the spot and made our way to the hut, which
we reached that evening and there rested for the night. Next morning she
conducted me through jungle paths to within sight of the village where
Abiasi lived.
Here she stopped and pointed in another direction, nor would she
accompany me a step towards the village; and so, neither able to say
farewell to the other in language both could understand, we parted.
Abiasi told me afterwards that more of her people lived in the direction
in which she had pointed.
Most of our goods had been recovered, and the crew were now nearly
all well. A fresh gobang was provided, and I parted from the Dyak
villagers with strangely mixed feelings, although it was with some sense
of satisfaction that I saw mile after mile increase the distance between
me and the mines of the Mas-hantoo.
* THE TRACK OF THE DEAD.
"WHAT'S the matter with you? Why the deuce can't you sleep?"
"I don't know," returned Alf., "got a touch of insomnia. If I do go off I
have the most awful dreams, all about men I used to know--men who
are dead now."
"Bah! don't start such talk at this time of night. Sit by the fire and
smoke your pipe," I answered, wearily, as I turned my back to the blaze
and drew my blanket around me.
"Right you are, old man," he replied, good-naturedly, and I fell into
unconsciousness.
I awoke with a start. The fire was out, or nearly so, and the camp was
silent. Just above the horizon the spectral last quarter of the moon was
hanging, throwing ghostly long shadows around. It was the hour before
dawn, the uncanny time when the vital forces are at their lowest ebb.
"The only courage worth talking about," said some great general, "is
three o'clock in the morning courage."
I roused myself a little and looked around. Alf. was sleeping on the
other side of the fire; where he had made his bed was now in deep
shadow, and I could see nothing. I tried to go to sleep again, but it was
useless. Perhaps a smoke might send me off; so, seeing a spark still
smouldering, I arose, blew the end of a glowing firestick into a blaze, lit
my pipe, and then, holding up the lighted stick, looked over to where my
companion should have been lying. His blankets were tenantless.
May I never again experience such a thrill as went through me when I
made this discovery! I put my hand on the blankets where they had been
thrown aside. They were cold, and the dew had gathered on them: he
must have been gone some hours. I listened long and intently, but the
night was silent. For a man to wander from camp in the middle of the
night, out in the Never-Never country, and remain away for hours, is a
most unusual thing. If he had heard the horses making off he would have
called me ere leaving; if--but I exhausted all conjectures before
daylight dawned. I could do nothing until then.
The light came very slowly, or so it appeared to me. We were camped
at the foot of a spinifex rise, on a narrow flat bordering a creek. When the
light grew strong I could see the horses feeding quietly a short distance
away, and, picking up my bridle, I soon had one caught and saddled.
Firing off my rifle two or three times without eliciting an answering shot,
I started to look for my missing mate. After much trouble I found his
track leading straight up the ridge, which, near the crest, was sandy, the
prints of his footsteps being there very clearly defined. The spinifex was
scantier, and as I gazed intently down I saw something that made me pull
up and hastily dismount to scan the tracks more closely. Alf. was not
alone--somebody had walked ahead of him.
Step by step I followed, leading my horse, but I could make nothing of
the foremost track, for Alf.'s almost covered it every time. At last they
diverged, and the two ran side by side. It was a bright morning and the
sun just glinted under the stunted trees. What little live nature there was
in that lonely spot was awake and joyously greeting the day; but I arose
from my examination of that awful footmark with the dew of
superstitious terror on my forehead. No living man had made that track.
I had to follow on, scarce knowing what to think or expect. I tried to
persuade myself that the footprint was that of some attenuated old gin.
lean and shrunken as a mummy, but that was against reason. The track
was that of the skeleton of a man; and Alf. was not following it, but
following whatever was making it.
With varying fortune, now finding, now losing the trail, I kept on for
about two hours; then, halfway down a slight incline, I came upon the
object of my search. He was sitting on the ground talking to himself, I
thought at first, but when I got closer I saw he was addressing some
object on his lap. He was nursing the head and shoulders of the remains
of a human being. It lay at full length amidst a patch of rank green grass
fertilised by the decayed body, a skeleton with fragments of rotten
clothing still clinging to it. Alf. had his arm under the skull as one would
support a sick man, and was murmuring words of affection. He raised his
head as I approached, but evinced no surprise.
"This is my brother Jack," he said. "Fancy his coming to the camp last
night to show me where he was! We must take him into the nearest
station and bury him, for he can't rest here, it's too lonely."
I did not answer. My mate's mind had evidently given way, and I could
not reason with him. He carried the body back to our camp, and I
commenced a ghastly ride to the nearest station, over seventy miles
away, with a madman and a corpse for companions. The third day after
starting we arrived at Ulmalong, then the outside station, and here I
learnt the story of Alf.'s twin brother.
He had been a stockman on the place when it was first settled, and had
ridden out on his rounds one day and never returned. There was little
doubt that the skeleton we brought in was his, but what had led the living
twin to its resting-place? I held my tongue about the track, for they
would only think I was as mad as my companion.
After we buried the remains Alf. relapsed into almost constant silence.
He was quite harmless and they found him some light work to do about
the place, but he died, prematurely aged, in about a year's time. He was
buried with his brother.
* POMPEY.
MORE than five-and-twenty years ago, on a newly-formed station on a
north-western Queensland river, a young fellow named Hewett was left
in charge, the managing partner having been hastily called down to
Sydney. It was a cattle-station on wide-spreading plains, backed up by
patches of scrubby forest. You could ride for miles and miles without
seeing an elevation of any sort, or anything livelier than a soaring kite.
Naturally, time hung rather heavily on the hands of Hewett and his men,
the loose morality of the day and district was adopted, and although the
blacks were not "let in," as it is termed, several native women found
quarters at the station. However, that was thought no more of then than at
present in some parts of Western Australia.
As things turned out, it was nearly three years ere Hewett was relieved
from duty. Then the station passed into the hands of the bank
mortgagees, and one of their own men came up and took charge.
Amongst the half-caste children about the place was one bright little
fellow who was a great pet with them all, especially with his father,
Hewett. He had a strange white tuft of hair on his head, which the men
used to call "Pompey's brand," he having been named Pompey. Hewett
left and Pompey continued to grow up on the station.
Twelve or thirteen years passed, and by a common freak of fortune,
Hewett returned to take charge of the station in the interests of a
different owner, it having changed hands once more.
Of course there were now many alterations. The cattle had increased,
the improvements were more extensive, and everything more civilised.
One thing, however, was unchanged--the old racial feud with the
blacks, and there was now a native-police barracks established on the
river. Hewett's successor, it seems, had tried the experiment of allowing
the blacks to come in and camp without interference, and although for a
time this gave the men some trouble with the cattle, it answered well,
apparently.
However, the usual outbreak at length took place. The natives took to
killing cattle once more. Then they were hunted out, and with them went
all the "quiet" gins and piccaninies who had been camped at the station.
When Hewett again took charge he found he had much trouble in
keeping the natives away from the herd. Just before he came back, one of
the hands of his former time, an old fellow named Ben. Walker, had been
re-engaged.
Going out on the run to look at a camp of fat cattle intended for
immediate sale, the stockmen were encountered by a panting lot of
bullocks with hanging tongues and heaving sides. Little need to guess
what had happened: the blacks had been amongst them, and the cattle
would be fit for nothing for months. Sending the others to collect and
steady what they could find, Hewett and old Ben rode on to the police-
camp.
The officer in charge was at home, and with a couple of native troopers
they were soon on their way to the camp. The fresh tracks were picked
up and the pursuit commenced. It was easy tracking, and by dusk they
had settled the site of the natives' camp, and arranged to "disperse" it at
day-light.
Day broke and the camp was surrounded before the blacks, who are
always late sleepers, had time to fly. Hewett was after a couple who were
dodging him in the scrub. Suddenly one, a youngster, who had in his
hand a spear which he had picked up in his flight, turned and faced him,
out of breath. Hewett raised his revolver and took aim, when the sheen of
the early morning sun fell straight on the nigger. It acted like a flash of
memory. He saw by the yellowish-brown nude figure that the boy was a
half-caste, and recognised by the white forelock, "Pompey's brand," that
it was his own son he was going to kill. The young fellow saw him
hesitate, took courage, and sent the spear straight through Hewett's body.
The clutching finger pulled the trigger, and Pompey went to the happy
hunting-ground with his father's bullet in his brain.
The officer and Ben. Walker rode up soon afterwards, dismounted
hastily and examined Hewett, but he was on the point of death. They did
all they could to ease him, and then Ben went to look at the black.﹃By
God!﹄he said, as he looked at the white tuft, now partly blood-stained,
"if it isn't Pompey!"
"Who's Pompey?" asked the officer.
"His son," said Ben. shortly, pointing at the dead body of the white
man.
* MALCHOOK'S DOOM: A NICHOLSON RIVER STORY.
IT was Malchook who told the beginning of this story, and Malchook
was supposed to be the biggest liar on the Gulf of Carpentaria. However,
it was on record that he told the truth sometimes, when he was in a blue
funk, for instance, and on this occasion his state of funk was a dazzling
purple--blue was no name for it.
We were camped on the Nicholson for the wet season. The cattle had
been turned out and we had hard work to keep them together, for, after
the rain set in and the country became boggy, the niggers commenced
playing up and we had to keep going. It was raining cats and dogs that
night, and we were all huddled together round the fire under a bit of a
bark lean-to which we had put up. Malchook was not there--his horses
were absent that morning and he had been away all day after them. It was
about eight o'clock when we heard him coming; he had found his horses
and was driving them right up to the camp. Then, instead of hobbling
them, he got a bridle and a halter, caught his steeds and tied them to a
tree.
Some of the fellows sang out to him to know what he was doing, but he
took no notice, and, after turning out the horse he had been riding, came
up to the fire and told Reeve (the boss) that he wanted a word with him.
Reeve got up, and the two walked over to his tent. Presently Malchook
emerged, went to where his belongings were under the tarpaulin that had
been rigged up over the rations, and commenced to roll them up. Reeve
came back to the fire.
"What's up?" asked Thomas, Reeve's cousin.
"Only that fellow wants to leave to-night straight off, so I gave him his
cheque and told him to slide as soon as he liked; he's no great loss,
anyway."
"What does he want to leave for?"
"Says the camp is doomed, and he is going to put as many miles as
possible between himself and us before our fate overtakes us."
There was a general laugh, and just then Malchook came out with his
swag and commenced to saddle up in the pouring rain. There was a good
moon, nearly full, although, of course, it was not visible.
The fellows commenced chaffing him, for he was not a favourite; too
reckless a liar. He stood it without a word until he was ready to mount;
then he got on his horse, and, turning round, said--"Laugh away, this
time tomorrow I'll have the laugh of you; this camp is doomed!" He dug
his heels into his horse and disappeared--swish, swish, swish, through
the bog down the bank of the river, and we heard him swearing at his
pack-horse as he crossed the sand.
There was much laughter and wonderment at what had sent Malchook
"off his chump," but eccentricity was common in those days, from
various causes, and presently we all turned in.
I was sleeping under the tarpaulin where the rations were stored, and
about two o'clock in the morning I suddenly awoke. It was brilliant
moonlight, the wind had changed, the rain had ceased, and the moon, by
reason of the scud which flitted across the sky, seemed to travel at
express rate through an archipelago of cloudlets. Some impulse made me
leave the shelter of the mosquito-net, go to the opening at the end of the
tarpaulin and look out.
Everything was still and quiet; all the horses were camped, for not a
bell could be heard, and I stood some time aimlessly listening and
looking at the glistening pools of water upon the flat between our camp
and the bank, when suddenly I distinctly heard a human voice in the bed
of the river. I waited for a moment to make sure, then I got my Martini
and a couple of cartridges and sneaked towards the bank. Last full-moon
the niggers had nearly clubbed the cook in his mosquito-net when he was
sleeping outside the tent one night; this time, I thought, it would be a
case of the biters bitten.
About a hundred yards from the camp I stopped and listened. The voice
was now much nearer. It was a white man's, it was Malchook's, and he
was kicking his knocked up horse along and dragging the pack-horse
after him. I waited behind a tree until he came up, and then I stepped out.
I was only in my shirt, with the carbine in my hand.
"Great God!" he cried, with a kind of choke, "he's here again!"
"What the deuce is up with you?" I said; "why didn't you stop away
when you went? Got bushed, I suppose, and the horses brought you
back?"
He sat on his horse and panted for a few minutes without speaking.
Then he said: "That infernal old nigger won't let me go. He hunted me
back. I've got to share your fate, so let's get it over."
He jabbed his heels in his horse's ribs, but I stopped him.﹃Don't wake
the camp up,﹄I said. "What nigger do you mean?"
"The nigger that Jacky the Span and I roasted in the spinifex. He's
headed me back every road I've tried, and I give it up. Let me turn the
horses out, and get a wink of sleep."
Jacky the Span was an old blackguard of a Mexican who had been
knocked on the head about six months previously. Everybody said he
richly deserved it, and everybody was right.
"When were you up here with Jacky Span?" I asked.
"About two years ago, the time Bratten was killed; but let me turn out
the horses and I'll tell you all about it."
We went quietly back to camp, and let the tired horses go, and then
Malchook sat down on his blankets beside me. The tarpaulin was rigged
some distance from the other tents, and the boys were done up and
sleeping soundly, so nobody awoke. This is what Malchook told me.
Two years before, he and the old Mexican had come up to join Bratten
in mustering some horses that had got away from the lower part of the
river and were supposed to be knocking about below the first gorge. Like
most half-breeds, Jacky the Span (short for Spaniard) was a most
inhuman brute towards the natives whenever he got a chance, and
Malchook, being a blowhard and a bully, was of the same cowardly
disposition--most liars are. One day they spotted an old man and a
young gin at the foot of a spinifex ridge that runs in on the Upper
Nicholson. I knew the place--real old man spinifex that would go
through a leather legging. They rounded the old black up on the top of
the ridge, but missed the gin, and Jacky Span said he would make the
man find her or he should suffer, and Malchook, in order to keep up his
reputation as a flash man and a real old Gulf-hand, aided and abetted
him.
I suppose the poor devil was too frightened to understand what they
really wanted, but, anyhow, all the halfcaste devilry, which is the worst
devilry in the world, was aroused in the Mexican, and Malchook
followed suit.
They selected a bank of spinifex, and rolled the naked nigger in it﹃for
sport.﹄Now, spinifex is beastly poisonous stuff; get your shins well
pricked, and it is worse than any number of mosquito-bites for irritating
you and making you itch. Horses will not face it after a day or two in
really bad country, and if you run your hand down their shins you will
soon see the reason why. Every little prick festers, and their legs are
covered with tiny boils and ulcers. The blacks always burn it ahead of
them before they travel through it. Out in the "Never-Never" they have
regular tracks which they keep burnt down.
By the time they had rolled this nigger in the spinifex for some
minutes, he must have been in a raging hell of torment; and he knew no
more what they wanted with him than at the start. Then, according to
Malchook, Jacky rolled him into a big bank of dry stuff--they had tied
his feet together--and set fire to it. Spinifex is rare stuff to blaze; being
full of turpentine, it burns with a fierce heat and a black smoke, so the
old nigger was well roasted, and when it burnt out they rolled him into
another bank and set that alight. A gust of wind sprang up and started the
whole ridge ablaze, and the gin, who had been hidden close by, watching
it all, rushed out and ran; Jacky Span picked up the old man's club and
took after her. He was away about half-an-hour; meanwhile the old
fellow died, groaning awfully, and Malchook began to feel as if things
had been better left alone.
Presently, Jacky Span came back with the club in his hand--big two-
handed clubs they use on the Nicholson--and showed Malchook some
blood and hair on it, and laughed like a devil. No need to repeat here all
he said.
Now, if Malchook had there and then blown a Government road
through the brute, there might have been some chance of repentance left
for him, but he didn't. He sniggered and let Jacky Span tell him all about
it, and camped with him for weeks afterwards. Jacky Span was killed, as
I said before, and Malchook assured me, in a sweating blue funk when he
spoke, that just at dark he had met his horses coming back, with the old
roasted nigger behind driving them. He went on to say that this thing had
followed him right up to the river, and shrieked at him that he would die
in the camp. Then he went on to tell that when he tried to get away from
the camp that night the old nigger had met him at every point of the
compass, so that at last he gave it up and returned.
Now, I knew that there had been an importation of brandy lately into
the Gulf country, generally known as the "possum brand," each bottle of
which was calculated to make a man see more devils than six bottles of
any other brand. It was very popular, for it would eat holes in a saddle-
cloth, so I concluded that Malchook had got some of it, for one of the
fellows had returned from Burketown that day. This would account for
the ghost of the blackfellow, but the rest of the yarn about Jacky Span I
felt to be true, so I told Malchook to clear out and sleep somewhere
else--I wouldn't have him under the same tarpaulin with me. He begged
and prayed to be allowed to remain, but I told him I would wake the
camp and tell everything if he didn't go, so he went, sobbing bitterly I
explained to him that the best thing he could do was to shoot himself,
that a man who could follow the lead of a miserable half-caste out of
pure flashness was too contemptible to live; but he didn't appreciate my
kindness, and slouched off to a bit of a sand-hump, about 150 yards from
the camp, and I saw him throw his blankets down and then lie down on
them. I got into my bunk again and went fast asleep in two minutes.
Reeve woke me up. It was broad daylight.﹃The niggers were here last
night,﹄he said. "Did you hear anything?"
"No." I replied: "but Malchook came back; I saw him."
"Yes. They knocked him on the head--bashed his skull in. He was
sleeping out under that tree--I suppose he was ashamed to wake us up."
"Nobody heard anything?" I asked.
"Not a sound. There are the traces of about six niggers coming out of
the river towards the camp, and they must have stumbled right on top of
Malchook. Poor devil! Polished him off and cleared out. The camp was
doomed for him, after all."
I concluded to tell nothing, beyond having seen Malchook come back
and speaking to him. Sometimes I wonder whether I was not responsible
for his death by hunting him away from the camp, but I always console
myself with the reflection that he only got what he deserved.
* THE MISSING SUPER.
"IT'S a bad plan, and generally breeds trouble," said Hervey.
"Well, at any rate, I gave him a pretty severe hiding, and I bet he'll be
all the better for it," replied Ross.
Hervey shook his head. "You can knock a nigger about the head as
much as you like and he thinks nothing of it, but use a whip to him and
he never forgets it. Powlang will have it in for you and wait his chance."
Ross was a fresh hand in outside country where he had lately taken
charge of a station. Like most new-comers, he had a theory of his own
how to treat niggers, and like most new-comers he went to extremes. His
idea was to rule with a hand of iron, and as the blacks had but lately been
allowed to come in to the frontage unmolested, they were constantly
infringing the petty rules he had formulated for their benefit; generally
through ignorance Powlang was a fine young native, nearly six feet high,
with a rather intelligent face. For some reason Ross had an especial
"down" upon him. Catching him one day out hunting near a cattle-camp
the blacks had been told to avoid, he bestowed a flogging on him with
his stock-whip. This was the little affair about which Ross had been
telling his neighbour, Hervey.
Apparently Powlang forgot all about his whipping, despite what
Hervey had said, for he came into the station and was made useful in
many ways, Ross having also seemingly buried the hatchet.
Gradually Powlang learned to ride and became one of the regular
station staff. Matters went very smoothly for nearly a year, Ross,
meanwhile, exercising his whip now and then on some of the refractory
natives, and asking Hervey, whenever they met, "when his fate was to
come off?"
Fifteen miles from the head station was an out-station with a small
stockyard attached. Here a good deal of the mustering and branding was
done to avoid the long drive into the head station. The place simply
consisted of a slab hut and a yard, but a small patch of scrub intervened
between the two, and the yard was not visible from the hut. There had
been a spell of dry weather, then rain fell, and in a week or two
mustering commenced. Nearly all hands were camped at the out-station
for five or six days, and many of the niggers had found their way there
and earned a little tobacco by helping at the branding-yard. Work was
finished at dusk one evening and next morning all started for the head
station. Ross did not leave at the same time as the others, for he and
Powlang were going home by a different route, and when the men left
the other blacks were still in camp.
Ross did not return that day, and next morning all the natives about the
place had left. This was ominous. Hervey came over and a search-party
started. The tracks of the two horses were discovered at the out-station
hut and followed to the river, up which they turned; a few miles further
on they were intermixed with numerous tracks of natives. This
continued, the tracks of the blacks keeping steadily up the river, the
footprints of the two horses being occasionally detected amongst them.
At last a point was reached where the river emerged from the coast-range
through a broken gorge, and the party soon came to a clean-swept bed of
sand with a water-hole at the upper end. This spot, as most of them
knew, was as far as the horses could go up the course of the stream; but
there was plenty to attract the search-party's attention. The natives had
camped there, and the remains of the two horses were scattered on the
sand amongst the ovens of blackened stones where their flesh had been
cooked.
"Twenty-four hours too late!" said Hervey. "But what have they done
with Ross?"
On searching about it was soon found that the blacks had split up. One
party had made for the mountains on the north side, and one for the
southern range. The whites divided in pursuit, and two days afterwards
turned up at the head station tired and hungry, with footsore horses, both
parties unsuccessful.
The fate of Ross could only be conjectured. Nothing belonging to him
had been found in the blacks' camp, and most people believed in the
ghastly story that was circulated, that he had been cooked and eaten as
well as the horses.
A couple of months after this episode two of the men had occasion to
camp at the out-station hut. They reached the place at dusk, turned
outtheir horses, lit a fire, and, while their quart-pots were boiling,
amused themselves by taking down the greenhide ropes kept there for
branding, and unwinding them to see if they had been damaged by weevils.
"What's come of the long catching-rope, Bill?" said one at last.
"Blessed if I know," was the reply, and they searched the hut without
success.
"Must have been left up the yard," said Bill. "The dingoes have got it
by this time, I'll be bound. I'll have a look in the morning."
"Wonder what became of Ross, after all?" said one, as they sat before
the fire discussing the evening meal.
"Hang it! I was just thinking of him, too. Suppose it's because he was
the last man here--hope he doesn't haunt the place."
After a few more words they lit their pipes, and soon retired to the
blankets.
"Blowed if I can sleep, and you don't seem much better," said Bill
about midnight, getting up from his bunk, and poking together the
smouldering sticks in the fireplace.
"No, never was so restless in my life," returned his companion.
Both men started their pipes, and, between smoking and dozing, wore
away the hours till break of day, when one went after the horses, and the
other filled the quarts and stood them by the fire.
The sun had just risen when the horses jogged past the hut on their way
to the yard, rattling their hobble chains. Bill heard his companion walk
after them, whistling as he went, then he threw the tea into the pots and
took them off the fire. Just as he did so, his mate rushed wildly in.
"Bill! Come up to the yard! Ross is there!"
The men stared at each other aghast. One with the horror he had seen;
the other at the horror in his friend's face. Then they both hastened to the
yard.
The horses were standing with their ears cocked, staring with distended
eyes at an awful object in the branding-yard.
A shrunken, eyeless corpse stood erect, in the centre of the yard, with
lolling head and drooping arms.
The two men clutched each other's hands.
"There's the rope!" said Bill, breaking the awed silence.
The commonplace words restored their courage, and they approached
the remains of the murdered man. It was Ross, the missing super.
A loop in the middle of the catching-rope had been twisted round his
neck, the ends passed through the rails on the opposite sides of the little
yard, and then hauled taut, and made fast. Suspended thus by the neck,
the body had the appearance of standing almost upright in the middle of
the yard. Subsequent investigation went to show that, in all probability,
he was senseless when tied up, as the skull bore the mark of a blow; and
one of the gins subsequently confessed that he was first knocked on the
head by Powlang.
The yard was at the back of the hut, with the patch of scrub between,
and the search-party, picking up the tracks at once, had never thought of
looking at the yard. For two months the dead man had swung there, a
gruesome caretaker of the lonely out-station.
Powlang and the other blacks who were known to have camped at the
hut at the time of that fatal muster, were, on different occasions during
the ensuing twelvemonths, "dispersed in the Queen's name."
THE END
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