Title:      Tales of the Austral Tropics
Author:     Ernest Favenc
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Title:      Tales of the Austral Tropics
Author:     Ernest Favenc


* * *
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.



TALES OF THE AUSTRAL TROPICS

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 gar