Project Gutenberg Australia
a treasure-trove of literature
treasure found hidden with no evidence of ownership

Title:      Tales of the Austral Tropics
Author:     Ernest Favenc
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.:  0600691.txt
Edition:    1
Language:   English
Character set encoding:     Latin-1(ISO-8859-1)--8 bit
Date first posted:          May 2006
Date most recently updated: May 2006

This eBook was produced by: Richard Scott and Colin Choat

Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions
which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice
is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular
paper edition.

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this

This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at

To contact Project Gutenberg of Australia go to

Title:      Tales of the Austral Tropics
Author:     Ernest Favenc

* * *
Tales of the Austral Tropics
was published
by Osgood, MacIlvaine and Co.,

"The Last of Six": Tales of the Austral Tropics
was published
by The Bulletin Newspaper
* * *

CONTENTS: Tales of the Austral Tropics


[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

*The Last of Six
*The Spell of the Mas-Hantoo
*The Track of the Dead
*Malchook's Doom: A Nicholson River Story
*The Cook and the Cattle-Stealer (The Hut-keeper and the Cattle-stealer)
*The Missing Super

(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

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.




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

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

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

* * * * *

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

* * * * *

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

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

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



Statement Made By Gilbert Vaughan, Manager of the L.S.D. Bank,

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

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

"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

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 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

"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

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

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."


"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

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

"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."


"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.



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'

"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

"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

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

"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

"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

"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."


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

"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.


"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

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."


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

"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

"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

"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

* * * * *

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

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

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

"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

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 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

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.


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

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

"I'll find out about that other dog," said Devine to himself.


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.

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.


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

"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

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

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 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

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

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

"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

"What do you mean?" said the indignant Joseph; "I speak by right of my

"Sit down and have some tucker," said the cook, "you're not a bad sort, I
can see, but don't come the blooming innercent."

The indignant pastor refused. He saw that his words were treated lightly,
that no one would listen to him, and he left in high dudgeon. Charley had
told him that there was a good lagoon about twelve miles on the road back
to Upton Downs; he would go on there and camp--they had plenty of
provisions on the pack-horse--and taking his bridle and calling the boy
he went to catch his horse.

As he came back he overheard the fag-end of a remark the cook was making
to the others. "They came round the end of the scrub chatting as thick as
thieves, and when I seed who it was--Lord! you could have wiped me out
with one hand."

This was worse than Greek to the Reverend. Greek he might have
understood. In spite of a clumsy apology from the delinquent, he
departed, and near sundown arrived at the lagoon Charley had spoken of.
It was a lovely spot. One end was thick with broad-leaved water-lilies,
but there was a clear patch at the other end promising the swim the good
parson enjoyed so much.

When the tent was pitched he stood in Nature's garb about to enter the
water, when Charley called to him. Pointing towards the lilies he told
Mr. Simmondsen that he would get him some seed-pods which the blacks
thought splendid eating. The clergyman had only got up to his waist
before he heard a plunge behind him and saw Charley's dark form
half-splashing, half-swimming towards the lilies. Presently his head
emerged from a dive, and he beckoned towards the clergyman to come over
and taste the aboriginal luxury. The Reverend paddled lazily over and
investigated. The seed-pods proved of very pleasant flavour, and as the
sun was nearly down, Mr. Simmondsen wended his way to the bank and
emerged in the shallow water, with Charley a few paces behind him. For
some reason he looked back. Shocking predicament! There was no shirking
the fact: all the quiet laughter about "the customs of the country," the
unexplained allusions, the ribald manner of the cook, were evident at a
flash. Charley was a woman!

The wicked superintendent of Upton Downs had started him on his travels
with ("after the customs of the country") a black gin dressed in boy's
clothes as a valet, and that gin had evidently been recognised by
everyone on the road. Mr. Simmondsen thought of the past and blushed.
That night was spent in fervent prayer.

* * * * *

"My dear sir," said Davis, the super. of Upton Downs, "I did the best I
could for you. Charlotte is as good as any blackboy and knows all the
country round here. Now, own up, did not she look after you well?"

"You forget the scandal that may arise," said the Reverend Mr.

"Lord, man! who cares about what is done out here? Nobody will ever hear
of it."

* * * * *

Davis was wrong. Everybody did hear of it. The Reverend Mr. Simmondsen
received indignant letters from his Bishop, his churchwardens, the
Reverend Mr. Wriggle, the West Australian Missionary, several missionary
societies, and, last and worst, a letter of eternal farewell from the
young lady to whom he was engaged. Fortunately he inherited some money at
the time; so he did the best thing possible--threw up the church, went
into squatting, and is now one of the most popular men in the district.


"WHAT do you make of it, Jim?"

"Looks remarkably like an E, but what can be the meaning of the
extraordinary triangular thing that follows?"

"That's the puzzle. The first mark one could swear had been made by a
white man; but the other is apparently one of those queer carvings which
the blacks make. There, however, is the scar plain enough, where the bark
was stripped, and from the shape of the piece removed I think it's like a
white man's work."

"Moreover," added Jim, "it has been done with a steel tomahawk."

The two men were standing in front of a dead coolibah tree of some size,
on which the marks they were trying to decipher had been deeply cut. It
was the shore of a broad, shallow lake surrounded by a forest of similar
dead trees--white skeletons, lifting heavenwards their writhing, bare
limbs. A stranger, set down there suddenly would say that the axe of the
ring-barker had been at work; but the locality was away in the far
interior, where the white man had only just intruded on the solitude.
Round the lake, which at its deepest only averaged a few feet, was a
border of green, luscious grass; back from that ring of verdure reigned
desolation and sterility.

Loose, puffy soil, broken into mounds and hollows, seamed with gaping
cracks. On these dusty mounds were heaped thousands of tiny shells; in
the hollows drooped a few withered stalks of nardoo. On all sides the
gaunt, lifeless trees. Two exceptionally wet years had, in some remote
time, deluged the plain, and the long-standing, stagnant water destroyed
the timber.

This state of things is not uncommon in many parts of the North
Australian interior. In the deepest hollows of these dry lake-beds lie
the bones of fish, which have escaped their feathered enemies, to perish
slowly as their native element evaporated. On the broader expanse,
bleached skeletons are mouldering; the grotesque-headed pelican and the
dingo, with a wild-dog snarl on his fleshless jaws. Bird and beast have
made for the lake after long, long flight, and hot, dusty tramp, only to
find there drought, disappointment and death. To the north-west, where a
bank has been formed by the action of the steady south-east monsoon,
layer after layer of dead shells has been deposited by the
constantly-lapping wavelets, weak forms of life that have lived and died
in the waters of the ephemeral lake. Beyond and around these depressions
wherein the overflow of a rarely heavy rainfall accumulates, are the
great plains whose treeless edges meet the sky in an unbroken straight
line. Where the tall columns of dust revolve in a wild waltz; where, in
summer time, the air is so aglow with heat that it throbs like a living
thing, and in this fierce atmosphere is born the treacherous mirage: a
bush becomes a tree, a stone a rock, and the hard, baked clay-pan a blue
lakelet. This is riverless Australia, the sun-god's realm, the region of
short-lived creeks, lost for ever in these dead, dry lake-beds.

The elder of the brothers who had been regarding the tree copied the
inscription in his note-book, and the two strolled back to their camp
where a blackboy was watching the boiling of a piece of dried beef. They
sat down and commenced smoking.

"How long do you suppose these trees have been dead?" said Sam Gilmore,
the elder of the two.

"Impossible to say, for certain, but about ten or fifteen years."

"Yes," returned Sam, after some silent puffs, "that would be about it.
There was a devil of a wet season all over the north in '72 and '73. That
mark was made before then, when the tree was alive."

"Certainly it was, and if you remember the Herbert was settled in the
sixties. Some fellow from the tableland has been out here, that's about
all it is."

Sam looked at his note-book. "I've got it!" he exclaimed. "'E.
triangle.' It's a station-brand. Many fellows have a trick of cutting
their brand on a tree instead of their initials."

"That will be it," replied his brother, "there were no registered brands,
all of one pattern, in those days."

The two thought little more about the matter, but were busily employed
the next two days in examining the surrounding country, it being part of
a large block they had taken up in the Northern Territory. One evening
the blackboy, who had been left in camp to look after the spare horses
and see that they did not get bogged, remarked with the laconic
suddenness of the aboriginals: "Old man horse sit down," indicating by a
motion of his hand the far side of the lake.

"Which one horse?" said Sam, thinking he meant that one of their own had
got bogged.

"Baal mine know. Long time that fellow sit down. Old man bone."

"A skeleton of a horse?" queried Jim, looking at his brother.
Sam nodded. "We will have a look at it to-morrow--too late to go all
round there this evening."

Next morning, guided by the blackboy, they were soon beside the bones of
the animal, which lay in a patch of grass, almost concealed from view.
Evidently the moist border of the lake had saved them from destruction by
the bush fires that annually swept the surrounding country.

"A horse, but how the deceased came here, there is no evidence to show,"
said Jim.

The blackboy was poking about with a stick. "That fellow bin carry
saddle," and from the mouldering rubbish he dragged out the corroded

Inspired by this discovery a closer search was made. The plated buckles
of a saddlepouch were found, a plated sandwich-case, such as hunting-men
carry in England, and the blade of a large pocket-knife. Everything in
the shape of leather had long vanished.

They devoted all the morning to examining the vicinity, but no further
relics were forthcoming, and, taking what they had found with them, the
brothers returned to camp.

During the afternoon Sam set to work cleaning the old sandwich-case. By
dint of hard rubbing he succeeded in restoring it to something like
cleanliness, and although time and exposure had dealt hardly with the
metal, a monogram became faintly visible on one side, and on the other
was roughly scratched the mark they had found on the tree, "E and a

"Now," said Jim, after the examination, "let's have a look at the
inside." He inserted the point of his knife beneath the half-cover and,
after some trouble, raised it. Inside were some papers, loose sheets,
torn from a note-book, on which the pencil-writing was faint and
illegible; but there was a larger sheet of blue letter-paper, on which
the writing was in ink and, although slightly yellow, plain and distinct.
The battered old case had been true to its trust and, despite all, had
preserved the message confided to it.

The brothers perused their strange find and, at the conclusion, looked at
each other in silence for a few moments.

"This is a strange document to drop across in such a howling wilderness,"
said Sam at length.

Jim whistled in sympathy. "I suppose," he remarked, "the writer came to
grief, and his horse made back to the water, got bogged and died. Is that
how you read it?"

"I think so. At any rate, it's too long ago for us to bother looking up
tracks. The date on this--December 4th, 1870--coincides with the time we

"I suppose you'll keep it?" queried Jim.

"Most carefully. It belongs to the man's children, and may be valuable,
or, perhaps, only waste paper. Possibly we shall find out when we get
back to civilisation; meanwhile I vote we make a start for home tomorrow.
We are satisfied, I suppose, that this country is good enough."

"All right," said the younger; and for the rest of the day they devoted
themselves to preparations for an early departure on the morrow,
dismissing the subject of their strange discovery from their minds.


Young Simpson propped himself up against the slabs and gazed
disconsolately down the sunny road. He was suffering a bad recovery, his
pockets were empty, and his credit exhausted. He had lately finished a
job of horse-breaking, and had knocked his cheque down in orthodox style.
Now, life was all dust and ashes, and everything a mockery and a
delusion. He was only thirty-six, and had already managed to break every
breakable bone in his body, and pull through several bad attacks of
delirium tremens. He was the son of a well-to-do squatter, but ere he was
twenty had managed to incense his father so bitterly that he had been
cast forth without even the proverbial shilling, and a younger brother, a
good and well-behaved youth, reigned in his stead. Since his expulsion
from home he had steadily gone to the dogs, and it was a pity, for,
however weak, he was a good-hearted young fellow. A strong, helping hand
would have saved him, but he never got it, and now it was too late. At
least so everybody thought and said.

Simpson had been dozing on a rude bench in the verandah, and had just got
on to his feet, under the impression that somebody had ridden up and
aroused him. Presumably this impression was correct, for a horse was
hitched up to the rail outside, and voices could be heard in the bar.
Possibly there was a drink on hand. He licked his dry lips with a still
dryer tongue, and lurched inside.

A deeply sun-tanned man, with bright eyes, was talking to the landlord.
"Here, Joe," said the latter to Simpson, "come and have a wet, you look

This was most astonishing; only that morning his credit had been
peremptorily stopped, and now he was invited to refresh himself. The
landlord shifted down the bar a bit and Simpson followed him.

"This gent," said the publican in a subdued tone, "has got a mob of
cattle going north, and wants another hand badly. I'll put in a good word
for you, and, perhaps, he'll be right for a bit of an advance, so that
you can square up with me before you go."

Simpson "dropped" to the situation at once. He immediately poured out a
drink so "long" that it made the landlord eager to clutch the bottle
again. Refreshed by this, he accosted the stranger, and with few words a
bargain was struck, and Joe Simpson went off to roll up his scanty
belongings in his blanket.

"As good a man as ever crossed a horse," said the effusive publican;
"only keep him off the booze. Born a gentleman, too."

Jim Gilmore, for it was he, on his way out with cattle to stock the
country he and his brother had lately examined, looked curiously after
the retreating form. He was warm-hearted, and something in the
ne'er-do-well had appealed to him.

* * * * *

The long trip drew to an end, and tired men, leg-weary horses, and
listless cattle all desired the arrival of that morning when they should
mutually take leave of each other. Dry stages had been successfully
crossed, wet, blustering nights experienced, and death in many forms had
taken toll of the herd before Jim, with a sigh of relief, dismounted on
the bank of a long serpentine lagoon, some twenty miles from the shallow
lake where they had formerly camped. Leaning on his horse he watched the
long string of cattle troop in to the water.

"Poor Joe!" he thought, as he caught sight of Simpson steadying the
leaders, "he's got a bad touch of this northern fever. Glad we are here
so that he can get a spell."

The blatant publican's recommendation had turned out true. A better man
than Joe Simpson had proved himself could scarce be found. Ever ready
when the weather was bad and the cattle rowdy on camp; always alert
during the long sleepless nights across the dry plains, and alas! never
neglecting the opportunity of a short spree in the few townships they had
passed, Joe had been young Gilmore's right hand throughout the tedious
journey. Now, the malarial fever that the cattle seem to turn up with
their hoofs from the virgin soil in new country had recognised his
ill-used constitution and seized on him. The day after the herd was
turned out Joe lay delirious under a bough shade.

Jim devoted all his spare time to him, and at last had the satisfaction
of witnessing his return to reason. But Simpson was very weak--he had
played too many tricks with his physique to be able to stand a severe
attack of fever with impunity, and lay almost apathetic as regarded his
chances of final recovery.

One morning Jim noticed that the patient had been idly tracing letters
and signs on the dusty earth alongside his rude bed of dry grass. Amongst
them he recognised with a start the E followed by a triangle.
"What are you up to, Joe?" he said quietly.

"Just trying to remember a lot of brands," returned Simpson, in his weak

"Whose brand is that?" asked Gilmore, indicating the one he was
interested in.

Simpson's wasted face flushed hotly. "When a fellow gets down in the
world," he said, after a pause, "he does not always stick to his right
name. That brand was our old station brand on my father's place. There
were three partners at first, Emerson, Unthorpe, and Charters, and, as
their initials made the first syllable of Euclid, they took the triangle
as a brand with my father's initial before it. Finally he bought them
out, and my brother has the place now."

"Then," said Jim, staring hard at him, "your name is----?"


"Good God!"

"What is the matter? What do you know about me?" cried the invalid

"Nothing, nothing, go on. Tell me, where did your father die? How is it
you were left so badly off?"

Joe Emerson looked at his questioner with some surprise, but answered
quietly enough. "My father died in his bed on Bellbrook station, where I
was born. He and I had quarrelled some years before and finally he
disowned me. I was a bad lot, there's no denying."

"Was your father ever up this way?"

"Yes. He had a share in a station in the north of Queensland, and took a
trip out west, I know. In fact, it was through some terrible hardship he
endured that he afterwards died. He was too old to stand it. I never
heard the rights of it, but I believe through some stupid blunder of one
of the men some of their horses got away from them on a dry stage with
packs and saddles on. My father and the others managed to get into water,
but the horses made back and probably perished."

"Your brother then took your place in your father's will, and you were
left out in the cold. Do you know the date of that will?"

"It was the time of our final row, in the beginning of '69."

Jim strode outside and thought for a moment, then he returned. "This is
the strangest thing I ever came across outside of a novel. I have good
news for you. Your father must have been in a tight place before the
horses were lost, and when he anticipated death he repented of his
harshness to you, and wrote out another will. It commences: 'I, George
Henry Emerson, now expecting death, and being desirous of making amends
to my dear son Joseph for my stern conduct.' I do not remember any more,
but it was duly witnessed by Isaac Wright and Thomas Peberdy. Do you know
anything about them?"

Young Emerson was looking at Jim as though bewildered by what he heard,
and answered slowly. "Peberdy was an old servant of my father's, and went
north with him; he has a selection now, down south. Wright I don't know.
But surely you remember the purport of this will?"

"Certainly. It left the whole of his property to you, subject to certain
charges on it for your brother and sister."

"But--but, Mr. Gilmore!" cried the sick man, impatiently, "how did you
find it? Who has it now?"

"My brother has it now. We found it with the remains of your father's
horse, preserved in an old-fashioned sandwich case. Do you remember it?"

"Yes, with his monogram on it; he brought it from England."

"If the two witnesses are alive, it seems to me that the will cannot be
disputed. My brother may be here at any time; he knows when we are due,
and is bringing up supplies from Burketown, and will probably push

There was silence for a short time; then Emerson reached out and felt for
Gilmore's hand. He grasped it and sat upright. "Look here," he said, "I'm
going to do three things."

"Don't be in a hurry," murmured Jim.

"I'm going to get well."

"Hear, hear!"

"I'm going to knock off liquor."

"Hear, hear, hear!" from Gilmore.

"And I'm going to get the skeleton of that old horse set up and mounted
on a pedestal."

"When the will is proved, I presume," said his companion.

No need to tell much more. One witness was alive and able to swear to the
signatures. Joe kept to his three resolutions. The skeleton of the old
horse adorns the hall of Bellbrook station, and Jim Gilmore's wife was
once Miss Emerson.


A Tale of the Seventies

DUNCAN MCINTYNE sat on the cap of the stockyard-fence, smoking quietly,
contemplating a colt which, in his capacity of horse-breaker, he was
about to mount for the first time. The colt was also contemplating
Duncan, and wondering what fresh devilry he meditated. Only a week ago
and he was as free as air; now he was penned in by posts and rails, his
mouth sore with a breaking-bit, a roller had been buckled around him, in
which he felt as comfortable as a girl in her first corset, his mane and
tail had been pulled, and to-day a saddle had been girthed on him--all
these indignities he justly attributed to the man "cockatooing" on the
fence. He had been violently taking it out of himself bucking round the
yard, and now stood breathlessly gazing at his enemy.

Duncan knocked the ashes out of his pipe, replaced it in his pouch, and
sprang lightly down into the enclosure. A blackfellow, who had been
sunning himself in a corner, arose also on noticing the movement. Between
fear and exertion the colt was sweating profusely, the perspiration
dropped from his body on to the dusty ground, and ran in dirty streams
down his legs. After a smart display of equine temper, Duncan got his
hand on the youngster's mane and spoke soothingly to him.

"Steady, old boy, you've had your fling like the rest of us, and now work

The pair looked in each other's eyes like two duellists. Neither man nor
horse could foresee the future; there they were on an equality of
ignorance. No instinct could tell the animal that a time would come when
he would appeal to his hated foe with piteous whinnies for relief, and
die with that hand caressing him, and those eyes full of unshed tears for
his fate.

The blackboy approached the horse's head while Duncan made his usual
preparations to mount. "My word!" said the boy as he got hold of the
colt's ear, "this the fellow Sherman Jarley say, kick out mid his front
feet that time we brand him."

"Yes, Billy," returned Duncan, flipping the stirrup-leather once or twice
against the flap of the saddle; "and if you don't let go quick he'll
shake hands with you as he did with German Charley. Now!"

With a quick, easy movement he was in the saddle, and the boy stepped
back. For a moment the colt stood motionless, then started pawing and
rearing, and again stood doggedly still.

"Now don't sulk," said McIntyre, but the words were no sooner uttered
than the colt started bucking in a vicious and roundabout fashion, which
called upon all the rider's powers of horsemanship. The struggle lasted a
short time only, and then the horse gave in defeated.

"Get your horse, Billy," says McIntyre, and the boy, after letting down
the rails, mounts an old horse which has been standing indifferent and
half-asleep in an adjacent yard; then the colt, after a little coaxing,
goes off quietly down the paddock alongside the old stager.

Duncan McIntyre was a gentleman who had gone down in the world. He was
one of the curst victims of heredity; only, unfortunately for himself, he
had not succeeded to the whisky-proof head of his Scottish ancestors.
Liquor ever turned him from a generous, easy-going, mild-tempered fellow
into a mad rowdy, ready to ride a wild race through the main street of a
bush township, fight with his best friend, or drink with his worst enemy.
Fortunately, his manly, adventurous character had prevented him sinking
into the ranks of the sponger and the loafer. He had fallen from his own
set to an ordinary bush-hand, and could always earn a good cheque at any
kind of work, but this was surely followed by the fatal and inevitable
"spree." Some morning he would awake possessed of nothing but the clothes
he had slept in, "a liver" a blue-blanket and a bottle of "sudden death,"
kindly given him by the publican to stave off the impending "horrors."

One day Fate led him to Darromine, a medium-sized cattle-station.
Mitford, the managing partner, was a man gifted with an exceptionally
good and kindly heart. He knew McIntyre's story, soon recognised the
worth dormant beneath the assumed roughness of the fallen nature, and,
after some trouble, induced him to come and live with him, and endeavour
to assume once more the habits of his better days. Naturally, the
besetting sin betrayed itself from time to time, but Mitford set himself
to banish the unclean spirit, and by untiring vigilance, unaccompaned by
any ostentatious display of solicitude, he partly succeeded. Needless to
say that Duncan had conceived a strong and lasting friendship for the


Some fifteen miles from Darromine there was a small township, and in that
township lived the fair and only daughter of the police-magistrate
thereof, a widower. She was nineteen and the belle of the district. Not
that she prided herself on that distinguished position, for there were
only five girls in the district, all told, and the other four were so
uncommonly hard-featured that to be the acknowledged belle in such company
was, after all, but a doubtful distinction. Doubtless Miss Jennie Webster
cherished a hidden conviction, in which she was quite justified, that,
had she to compete with more favoured rivals she would have held her own;
but this notion she kept to herself, and did not assume any undue airs as
the belle of Corraville. Needless to say that all the youths of the
district were madly in love with her, even those who professed
engagements with absent fair ones in Sydney or Melbourne. Jennie smiled
upon all alike, but favoured no one in particular.

Now it happened that the very day on which Duncan gave the colt his first
lesson had been selected by Mr. Webster to drive his daughter to
Darromine on a visit. McIntyre and Billy were walking the horses quietly
homeward along the Corraville road, which led through the paddock, when
at a turn amongst some scrub they were suddenly overtaken by the buggy.
The colt shied violently and commenced to buck. It was rather awkward in
the scrub, and Duncan was nearly getting into trouble two or three times
ere he brought his green mount under control. After offering his
apologies for unintentionally frightening the colt, which the young lady
accepted with a frank smile of admiration, for most women like to see
good horsemanship, the police-magistrate and his daughter drove on.

"What a quiet man that Mr. McIntyre is," said Jennie, "I can never get
half-a-dozen words out of him; but he can ride."

Her father smiled somewhat grimly; McIntyre's past was known to him, and
he was glad to see the change that was being worked.

"It's a case of still waters, my girl," he replied, "but he is a good
fellow, I believe."

Mitford was one of Jennie's victims. For a long time he had been ready to
lay himself and his share of Darromine at her feet; the present visit,
therefore, translated him to the seventh heaven.

"How well you ride, Mr. McIntyre!" said Miss Webster in the course of the
dinner. "I must confess I like to see a bit of good buckjumping."

Duncan smiled. "I nearly came to grief under that low brigalow though,"
he said.

"I saw it," she returned; "and I can assure you my heart was in my mouth,
for it was all our fault."

"How does he shape?" asked Mitford, alluding to the colt.

"Very well indeed. I have taken a great fancy to him, he has no
vice--it's only nervousness. In a week he'll get confidence, and in a
month I'll make a lady's hack of him."

"There! Miss Webster," said Mitford; "may I send him in for you to ride
this day month if McIntyre guarantees that he is fit?"

"Certainly, I accept the challenge," she returned, for she was a good
horsewoman. "I will rely upon Mr. McIntyre's skill and judgment."

Duncan bowed and the subject dropped; but thenceforth the colt,
christened Challenger, became the object of special care and attention.

The month passed, and Miss Webster, arrayed in a workmanlike habit of
dark blue serge, was seated in the verandah reading a book, and
occasionally glancing along the road which led to Darromine. A rider with
a led horse presently made his appearance, but, sooth to say, the young
lady looked slightly disappointed. "He might have come too, to see how
the colt went," she thought.

"Are you ready, dad?" she called out; "here comes Mr. Mitford with the

Mitford rode into the stable yard, and the magistrate and his daughter
came out to inspect the colt. What a difference to the sullen,
fierce-eyed rebel who had snorted defiance at his enemy only thirty days

"Oh, dad, isn't he a beauty!" cried the little lady in her delight.

"McIntyre has handled him so that a child could ride him, but he is full
of pluck all the same," said Mitford, delighted at her pleasure.

Challenger was soon saddled, and the three set out; the trim-figured
Jennie forgetting her annoyance at the non-appearance of McIntyre in the
pleasure of her mount. The ride was a success, and thenceforth Challenger
was entirely at Miss Webster's disposal.

It is impossible for a girl and a man to be on the verge of a violent
passion for each other without both knowing it, although never a word may
have been interchanged on the subject. Jennie had not quite suffered
herself to fall in love with the interesting Duncan, but she was
perilously near it. McIntyre himself was lost. He had fought against the
feeling tooth and nail; had told himself over and over again that the
curse which shadowed his life made it a heinous crime for him to think of
marriage; and had almost won the fight. Suddenly the fatal knowledge came
to him that it needed but a word from him to obtain the confession of her
affection. The flower was unfolding for him to pluck. He almost threw
caution to the winds. Almost--not quite.

Mitford came back from Corraville one evening with his sunny face
clouded: he had ventured all, and lost.

"I am sure she would have had me, old man," he innocently confided to his
friend, "but there's another fellow in the way; she as good as admitted

Duncan was silent for some time; then he rallied his companion, and
somewhat roused him from his despondency.

"Look here, McIntyre," said Mitford, "I have a plan in my head about
which I have already consulted my partner and obtained his consent. You
have heard of the country out west beyond the Queensland border? We are
thinking of taking a bit up, and sending out some of our spare stock to
form for us a station. Will you go out and manage for a third share and a

Duncan rose and shook the other's hand. "Your offer is too generous. You
could get a man anywhere for a couple or three hundred a year."

"No, we couldn't, not such an all-round man as you. Besides, it's not all
beer and skittles living out there. What with fever and blacks and short
commons, you'll earn your third share."

"When do you propose to start?"

"You and I and a blackboy will go as soon as possible and inspect the
country. When we come back we will start the cattle, provided we find
anything good enough. We have three years' grace to stock."

"There is nothing much to do here," returned McIntyre, "we can start in a
fortnight." After a few more words they parted for the night. McIntyre
lay sleepless, thinking of what the day had brought forth. She might have
accepted Mitford, but for that other fellow. He, Duncan McIntyre, the
ne'er-do-well, was "that other fellow." His way was clear: before him lay
escape from the temptation of love, and perhaps a drunkard's death; he
must go, and go quickly without speaking.

Of a sudden he asked himself would she forget him? Would not his exile in
the wilderness arouse the very flame he sought to extinguish, by adding
the touch of absence and romance? No, that other fellow must go under in
a way that would conclude the matter. Mitford on his return would
probably get a favourable answer. "That other fellow" went under that
night, although Mitford on his restless bed little thought so.

McIntyre had broken out again. That was the last news in the little
township where news was so scarce. Everybody said they had expected it
all along, and everybody, saving the local publicans, said they were very
sorry. It had been "an old man spree." Duncan had damaged the sergeant of
police, who was good-naturedly trying to induce him to leave town.
Mitford had to come in and bail him out of the lock-up. Jennie had heard
of it, and shed some bitter tears but, with all a woman's faith in the
reforming power of love, still believed that had she the right she could
exorcise the evil spirit. Alas for Jennie! the worst was yet to come.

McIntyre went "on the tear" again, and this time capped all his former
delinquencies. One of the publicans had imported a new barmaid, a young
damsel with gold-washed hair, who rejoiced in the name of Flossie. Duncan
rode Challenger into town, and an hour or two afterwards Flossie might
have been seen steering the colt down the main street in the sight of all
people. Jennie saw her, saw this garish young party mounted on the horse
that had been kept sacred to her use, that McIntyre had devoted weeks to
breaking in for her--Challenger, her pet who ate sugar from her hand!

From that moment poor Duncan was to her a thing of the most bitter scorn
and contempt. He might have damaged the whole of the police-force and
painted the town scarlet, and been forgiven; but this insult was too
much. That other fellow went under for good and all.

One small bit of triumph was afforded her. The vainglorious Flossie,
flushed with the pride that precedes a fall, took opportunity, when
parading before the P.M.'s house, to give Challenger a cruel and
undeserved cut across the ears. This for a horse of spirit, accustomed to
be treated as a gentleman, was unendurable. Already irritated by the
antics of his strange rider, he gave a side-bound that seated Flossie, to
her sudden astonishment, in the middle of the dusty road. Challenger
trotted off, and the forlorn damsel, holding up her skirt, had to follow
on foot, amidst much chaff from the spectators.

Mitford got McIntyre out of town, somehow. Hurt as he was he refrained
from reproach, and he was rewarded. Ere they started, he asked once more,
and this time he was told, "When you come back I may say yes." What more
would he have?

Once only did Jennie allude to the disgraceful episode. "I hope you are
taking that horse with you, I never want to see him again." Mitford
assured her that the innocent animal which had done its best to protest
against indignity, would never more be seen by her, little dreaming of a
time to come when life and hope would be bound up in Challenger's
endurance and his rider's faith.

They parted, and Jennie, watching, saw another horseman join him in the
main street, and she turned into the house with a bright sparkle in her
eye and a flush upon her cheek.


A wide stretch of grey plain, bounded by a shimmering haze, a haze that
grotesquely magnifies what few objects are visible, turning a stone into
a rock, a bush into a tree. A shallow depression, bordered by dry
polygonum bushes, with here and there a crooked, distorted coolibah tree,
threads this plain. At one point in this apology for a creek, there is a
pool of milky looking water. From the edge of this pool a short growth of
green grass extends for a little distance up the bank, and on this patch
of sward, the only green thing visible, some horses are feeding. Under a
scanty shade of boughs, erected near one of the largest coolibah trees,
Mitford and McIntyre are sitting; blackened by sun and wind, thin with
semi-starvation, and cursed with "the infinite torment of flies." The
blackboy is curled up under the trunk of the tree. He lets the flies
cluster around his eyes, infest his mouth and nostrils, and makes no
effort, like the white men, to drive them away. The others are less
patient, and a hasty exclamation continually escapes them. "When shall we
get out of this purgatory?" says Mitford.

They were in a trap. They had penetrated far into the unknown country
west of the Queensland border. From one scanty water-hole to another they
had made their way to their present position, and now they could neither
advance nor retreat. Before them there was an illimitable expanse of dry
country; behind them the water-holes had dried up, and their return was
cut off. Sturt, at the Dept Camp, was in the same fix, and scores of men
since have been caught in a similar way. A hundred and twenty miles of
dry, cracked, gaping plains lay between them and a large permanent lagoon
they had found on their outward journey. No horse could travel that
distance without water under the vertical summer sun. No horse could
traverse half the distance over the soft, spongy soil full of holes and
deep cracks and live. Their only hope was a kindly thunderstorm, for the
water-hole where they were camped was fast shrinking, and when that was
gone it meant death.

Day after day they watched the clouds gather, dark and threatening, only
to break in wind and dust, and a few fierce flashes of lightning.

At last, an ominous cloud gathered in the east. As night drew on, the
heavens darkened and the setting sun was reflected from the opposite
hemisphere in a quickly-fading flush of angry scarlet. A black night
closed in. The air was heavy, oppressive and sultry; the two men and the
boy stood silently watching. Their fate was hidden in that sullen bank of
vapour. Quick, bright flashes of lightning soon commenced to blaze,
followed, after a long interval, by a low, distant mutter of thunder.
Presently even this ceased, and, with a sigh of bitter disappointment,
the men stretched themselves on their blankets and sought forgetfulness
in sleep.

"How far off was that storm?" said Mitford, breaking the silence.

"Any distance over seventy miles," returned Duncan. "Did you not notice
the long interval between the flash and the thunder?"

Mitford replied wearily, and both men soon slept.

In an hour or two McIntyre awoke, and instantly noticed a change in the
atmosphere. The wind was blowing faintly from the direction of the late
storm, and with it came the unmistakeable smell of wet earth. Rain had
fallen to the eastward at last. The wind had brought the message, but
from how far had it come?

Duncan aroused Mitford, and together they stood and sniffed the cool,
damp air.

"We must get out of here somehow," said McIntyre at last. "Now, listen. I
am going to take Challenger and a pack-horse with water, and ride in the
direction that wind comes from; I have the bearing, a little south of
east. I will let the packhorse go in about twenty miles, after I have
given Challenger a drink from the bags; the pack-horse will come back
here. I shall go on until I find where that storm fell. If I don't come
back you will know it is too far, and that I am done for; then you must
shift for yourself. If I find water I shall come back."

"But, Duncan, what nonsense! Why can't we all go and chance it?"

"Because I might get a little puddle of water that would serve me and the
horse and would not be enough for all of us. Man, don't you understand! I
owe you a debt and must pay you in my own way. For God's sake, don't
thwart me."

Mitford could say no more. McIntyre roused up Billy, and they strode into
the darkness after the horses, which were soon caught, and, under the now
starlit sky, the two men said good-bye.

About three hours after daylight, McIntyre pulled up, watered Challenger
by means of a tin dish he had on the pack, then released the pack-horse
to find its own way back to camp, and proceeded on his lonely way. Hour
after hour of monotonous progress over the dead, dry plain, the only
break an occasional shallow depression bordered with brown polygonum.
Hour after hour through the great stillness of the night, save for a
short occasional rest for his gallant horse.

Daylight again, and the outlook unchanged--no sign of rainfall visible.
As the sun got hotter Challenger began to show signs of distress, so
Duncan started to walk, and together man and horse stumbled over the
treacherous plain. He had a small canvas bag of water on his saddle, but
only a scanty remnant of the former contents was now left. Death was
walking beside them, step for step.

At last Challenger began to give in, his flanks were pinched and the
hollows over his eyes deep sunken; he rubbed his nose against Duncan's
arm, whinnied, and looked pleadingly at him. These are the things to
break a man's heart in the wilderness. Still there was nothing in sight
but the heat-haze and the tall columns of dust raised by the wandering
whirlwinds that crossed their track. A false step and the horse went
down. McIntyre tried to get him up, but Challenger was too far gone--he
must proceed alone. Wetting his lips with a few drops of the water fast
evaporating from the bag, he went forward on the course he had been

Suddenly, right in front of him, rose a small flock of birds. They
wheeled and chattered and settled down again! It could only mean water,
for since leaving camp he had seen no living thing, and now he recognised
the birds as spur-winged plover.

With perspiration nearly blinding him, he staggered on, and then he must
have crossed the crest of an almost imperceptible rise, for before him
the plain was covered with sheets of shallow water. He had reached the
extreme edge of the thunderstorm.

When Duncan lifted his face from the tepid pool after slaking his thirst,
his first thought was of the dying horse on the plain. He filled his felt
hat and the bag, and dragged himself back to his dumb companion.
Challenger lifted his head when he saw him, and whinnied piteously. Four
times more he made the journey backwards and forwards, and then the
plucky horse managed to get on its legs and follow him down to the water.
There was a solitary coolibah tree not far off, and in the miserable
shade that it afforded Duncan sat down and tried to eat some of the dried
horse-flesh he had brought with him. He was conscious of a fearful
headache, for he had been bareheaded when carrying the water to
Challenger. He must get back as soon as possible, for the water on the
plain was but a few inches deep and fast disappearing. Still he must
spell his horse, for after such an ordeal the colt would not carry him
half way without rest. At last he felt too stupid to think, and sank into
a sleep that lasted until sundown. His head was still throbbing painfully
when he awoke, and he arose and bathed it in one of the pools, but the
water was warm and afforded him no relief. Challenger seemed greatly
recovered, and was feeding on the dry Mitchell grass.

One thought haunted Duncan during the ensuing night of pain--the
scorching ride back over the drought-smitten country. Suddenly a whisper
seemed to come from the darkness, "Why go back?" To the eastward the
country was well watered, and a few easy stages would take him to the
Queensland border and safety. Mitford would wait, and at last give him
up, start back on some other course, and probably perish. It was one or
other of them. The colt would not carry him more than half way back to
camp; then he must walk, and the sun would soon make an end of him. All
through the dark hours of semidelirium the voices from the surrounding
solitude kept up the refrain, "Why go back?"

On the fifth day after McIntyre's departure Mitford started on Duncan's
tracks with a pack-horse laden with water, hoping to encounter him. The
pool was falling rapidly and in a few days would be dry. Fifteen miles
from camp he thought he saw a figure moving towards him. It could only be
McIntyre, for in that solitude there was no living soul but themselves.
He hastily dismounted and, water-bag in hand, hurried to meet him. Duncan
did not know him; he was blindly, instinctively following his tracks back
to the camp, and it was not until Mitford had poured the water over his
head and breast and down his baked throat that his bloodshot eyes lost
some of their wildness. His friend had dragged him out of the sun into
the only shade there was on that bare plain--beneath the belly of the
pack-horse. Here he lay a while with his eyes half closed. At last he
began to speak coherently.

"I've got back, old man. Follow my tracks out and you will get to the
water, but be quick, for it's drying up fast. Poor old Challenger! I shot
him--it was all I could do for him; he never gave in until he was dying."
His head fell back on his friend's knee, and he was silent for a time. "I
must go on," he muttered presently. "Blast that sun! it has done for me;
but I will get back"--and he struggled to rise. Mitford kept him down,
and he sank into unconsciousness once more.

An hour passed during which Mitford kept pouring water over the burning
head; then Duncan opened his eyes and his friend saw that his senses had
returned. "Mitford, old man, I tell you that you must go back to camp and
start at once, or it will be late, too late. The water is so shallow it
will dry up in a day or two. Poor old Challenger, you'll see his body as
you go; but start now and you'll get home safe. That other fellow is
going another road. Goodbye."


AN exclusively male society, such as ours was on the Baroma River, is apt
to get along very smoothly for years, provided that all of the
individuals composing it are fairly companionable. There were five
stations on the Baroma, all cattle-stations. Sheep had been tried on the
country but without success, and now the only marks of their former
presence were some roofless huts and the bare patches of ground where
once stood sheep-yards; for it was before the days of fences and
boundary-riders. Three of the stations were managed by their owners; the
other two belonged to Sydney and Melbourne firms, and were in the charge
of superintendents, of whom I was one.

Markwell, the other superintendent, was perhaps the only man who did not
quite fit in to our little coterie. There was no gainsaying his smartness
and ability, but he had a bad temper, and an evil habit of sneering.

Elliot, the owner of Bendalla, the largest station on the river, was a
widower. He had one son, who lived on the station with him, and two
daughters, who at the time of my story had just arrived on a protracted
visit, and created quite an upset in the hitherto even tenor of our way.

Hayward, who owned Pixie, the next station to the one I was managing, was
a professed woman-hater, and affected to look on the interest displayed
in the newcomers with lofty scorn. Kelly, who had the station on the
opposite side of the river, called after that stream, Baroma Plains, fell
head over ears in love straight away with Mary Elliot, the elder girl,
and having successfully persuaded that young lady that she was in as
hopeless a condition, in less than three months their engagement was a
proclaimed fact.

Agnes Elliot was two years younger than her engaged sister, and of a very
different character. Both were handsome girls, but Mary was easy-going
and good-tempered to a fault, while Agnes was of a more active and
passionate nature. A tale of wrong that would win from Mary a few
compassionate remarks, would wring hot indignation from Agnes.

Jack Elliot, their brother, had always been my especial mate on the
river, and naturally on the arrival of his sisters I was thrown a good
deal into their society; nor was it long before I learned to love the
bright and eager Agnes with a love that could never have been inspired in
me by her placid sister. I kept my secret, as I thought, very well, for I
had no more prospect of marrying on the extremely limited screw of a
cattle-station super. than I had of being made Governor. I might even
have got over the fit altogether and cured myself by enforced absence,
but for the rivalry of Markwell.

He was my senior by some four or five years had travelled more, and had
far more social qualities, when he chose to exert them, than I had; but
no better worldly position to recommend him, and knowing the real nature
of the man I felt that to suffer him to win such a girl as Agnes Elliot
would be a downright wrong to her.

That, you may say, is always the way in which the jealous man argues. Men
do not love women so deeply as they hate their rivals in the affections
of those women. Marriage is more often the result of a man's
determination to avoid injury to his own amour propre than of anything

Kelly and Mary Elliot were duly married, Baroma Plains rejoiced in a new
house and other embellishments, and I was still uncertain as to whether
the wayward heart of Agnes inclined to me or not. She had come over to
stay with her sister for a while, and one evening I rode across the river
ostensibly to see Kelly on some station-business. That was one of the
evenings that has ever dwelt in my memory. Never had Agnes been so kind
to me. Kelly and his bride, with whom I was first favourite, left us much
to ourselves, and half a dozen times an avowal of my love was on my lips.
How different things might have been had I spoken then!

She came on to the verandah to say "Good night!" to me when I left. For a
moment I lingered with her warm hand in mine, and her bright eyes looking
at me from the dusky shadow of the verandah; then, with sudden
desperation, I pressed her hands to my lips and, with a broken "Good
night!" hurried to my horse, mounted, and rode away. She was still
standing in the doorway as I turned for a last look, and waved her hand
in reply to my salute; and I rode home, the happiest man on the river.
When I entered my small sitting-room I saw that, during my absence, the
mail had arrived, for the station-bag was lying on the table. I opened it
without much interest in the contents, for I was quite absorbed in a
dream of Agnes, but was rather surprised to find among the ordinary
correspondence a letter from my only brother in England, with whom I had
not corresponded for years--not from any quarrel, but simply through the
disinclination to write that grows on most men in the bush. The letter
had been delayed through going to a former address. The contents were
important, as they notified to me the death of an uncle, who had left his
money to my brother and myself and two cousins.

My first thought naturally was that now I was in a position to propose to
Agnes, and I lay awake all night, determined that not many hours of
daylight should elapse ere I was over at Baroma Plains.

The next morning the delays seemed never-ending. Horses had escaped from
the paddock, a blackboy got bucked off and broke his collar-bone, which I
had to set, and a messenger came over from Hayward with a letter
requiring a reply. It was eleven o'clock ere I was once more in sight of
the verandah where I had last seen Agnes.

Mrs. Kelly met me with her usual kind smile. Agnes had gone home nearly
an hour ago. Jack Elliot had come up for her in a hurry, as his father
was starting down to port and wanted Agnes to go down with him. I
hesitated whether to go on to Bendalla on the chance of overtaking them,
but my presence was absolutely necessary on the station: I could not
leave without going back first.

"When will they be back?" I asked, blushing, as I thought that my fair
hostess was doubtless reading me like a book.

"They will stop until the races. You know we are all going down, and you
must come with us."

The local races were coming off in about a week at the little shipping
port; and most of us on the river had entered horses for the occasion. I
thanked Mrs. Kelly for her invitation, which I gladly accepted, and,
without telling my news, rode home.

Only a week! but it loomed before me like a year. I could not even write,
for we had only a weekly mail, and I would be down myself by that time.
To add to my annoyance, Markwell, whose place was at the head of the
river, came over that night, on his way down to port. I managed to be
civil to him, but when I saw him ride away in the morning to the
township, where he would be within call of Agnes for the whole week
during which I should be tied to the station, I felt inclined to try on
him the range of my new rifle. Hayward came to see me next day, and to
him I confided the news of my inheritance. He had been talking of going
out west and taking up some country for which, at that time, there was a
great rush, and he urged me to accompany him now that I had the means. He
was a shrewd man, for whom I had a great liking, and I promised to weigh
the matter carefully.

At last the time came when I could fling dull care aside, and, seated on
the box beside Kelly, relieving him occasionally of the task of tooling
four horses along an abominable road, I felt that every mile brought me
nearer to the consummation of my hopes. Arrived in the little port which
in those days had not assumed its present dimensions or importance, my
first thought, after I had made myself presentable, was naturally to call
upon Mr. Elliot. The family, including Kelly and his wife, were located
in the house of a friend, a widower, with one little girl, whose
habitation was far too big for him. Agnes was out--gone out for a ride
with her brother and Markwell.

This was a check at the start.

While chatting with Elliot the party returned, and, with a very sore
feeling in my heart, the meeting I had been so longing for came off.

How bright and handsome she looked in her close-fitting riding-habit as
she came along the verandah and greeted me! Every jealous thought in my
mind would have been exorcised but for the presence of Markwell, who gave
me a supercilious nod and looked on with an air of insolent
proprietorship--at least I thought so--while the ordinary commonplace
words were exchanged. She noticed instinctively the change in my manner
and her pride took fire. Ah! these wretched conceits of self, which do
work we can never undo!

I stayed to dinner with the Elliots, but had no opportunity to speak to
Agnes until some time afterwards, when by chance I saw her sitting apart
from the others in the drawing-room with the little girl, the daughter of
their host, at her knee. She was stitching industriously at some ribbon
and I lost not a minute in reaching her side.

"What is the work, Miss Elliot?" I said rather awkwardly to break the ice.

"My colours for to-morrow's races," she returned.

"And who is to wear them?" I asked, bending down and speaking earnestly.

"That depends," she answered, glancing up at me with a smile that put
every sore feeling to flight, for I knew they were meant for me.

"So we have to congratulate you, Murray," said the hateful voice of
Markwell close behind.

I turned sharply round, and Agnes flushed quickly, for his words seemed
to have a double meaning.

"What do you mean?" I asked, rather rudely.

"Why, they say you have come in to a pot of money. Is it true?"

So some gabbling idiot from the station had brought the yarn down and now
it was blurted out like this when I had meant to tell Agnes just when I
asked her to be my wife! I replied very shortly that an uncle of mine was
dead from whom I inherited some money; but my chance was spoilt, and if
it had been my rival's object to break up our chat, he succeeded
admirably. I guessed that Agnes was hurt that I had not told her brother
or father, who had so long been my friends, of my good fortune, not
divining my reason for keeping silence.

Next morning the whole township was on the race course. I rode out the
two miles with Jack Elliot, for Kelly had his trap full. I wondered
whether Agnes had entrusted the knot of ribbons to her brother, but
apparently he was charged with no such mission; so I took the earliest
opportunity of presenting myself before the party as soon as I saw them
arrive I had promised to steer a horse of Kelly's in the hurdle race,
for, as a newly married man, all such pleasures had been sternly denied
him, and Markwell, who was a sporting man, had entered a horse of his

It was in vain that I lingered around the buggy. Agnes several times
seemed on the point of speaking to me confidentially, but something
always interfered, and I had at last to go away unsatisfied as the time
for our race was approaching.

I had donned my jacket, or rather Kelly's, when the man himself came into
the tent.

"Now, then, Davie," he said, "just one word. I want to win this race, and
you can do it if you race Markwell right away from the jump. The others
have no show; his horse has more foot than Beeswax (Kelly's horse), but
he can't fly his jumps like old Bee can, and if you make it hot from the
start, he'll either come to grief or drive you home."

I signified my comprehension, and was leaving the tent when he added: "By
the way, Mary gave me a message for you from Agnes--something about
having lost something; however, she can tell you herself after you've won
the race;" and so we sallied forth, I much puzzled at the meaning of the
half-forgotten message.

Markwell was already mounted and had taken his horse over a hurdle, and
was walking him back when I passed him, and there, on the breast of his
jacket, was the identical knot of black-and-orange ribbons I had seen
Agnes putting together the night before.

The sight roused every jealous passion within me; I knew they must be the
same, or else why had I not received them according to the half promise

"I'll win this race or break Markwell's neck," I muttered to Kelly as he
gave me a leg into the saddle. He squeezed my hand, and the next moment
Beeswax was over the hurdle like a swallow.

There were six of us in the race, but Markwell's horse was the only one I
dreaded. We had a good start although Beeswax, excited by his canter, was
dancing to get off. I took the lead at once at a pace that few hurdle
races are ever ridden, and for half a mlle kept it, without seeing a
horse, Beeswax taking his jumps just as a matter of course. At the end of
the half-mile I heard a rap and a clatter, and glancing round found
Markwell just behind me.

His horse had twice the pace of Beeswax and he had bustled him over the
jumps so far without coming to grief. On the flat he raced up to me
without an effort and I knew that my only chance was to rush him at the
hurdles. Twice his horse blundered dreadfully, and I was well ahead when
we were two jumps from home. If he got over those two jumps safely I was
beaten, for he would catch me on the straight run in.

I knew Markwell's horse was as excitable as he could be, so I pulled
Beeswax a little and let him come up and get about half a length ahead,
then I put Beeswax at the next jump "all I knew," and he seemed to take
the hurdle in his stride. Not so my rival's mount; maddened with the rush
of the other horse alongside of him, he scarcely attempted to jump and
went down headlong, but fortunately for his rider, sending him rolling

The others were all out of it, so I pulled Beeswax in; put him quietly
over the last hurdle and cantered past the winning-post.

"He's all right," said Kelly, as he came and took my bridle to lead me in
to be weighed, "but he got a devil of a purler."

Strange to say, Markwell had escaped almost without a bruise. He had been
flung forward, a little to one side, just as the horse was in the act of
turning over, and had rolled out of harm's way. The saddle was smashed,
and the horse could never be got to face a jump again, but I was really
glad that no worse accident had happened.

He came up pluckily, in spite of his shaking, and forced a jesting remark
about the pace we had ridden. I changed my jacket, and after the usual
noisy congratulations, found my way up to Mrs. Kelly and Agnes.

"Your colours were unlucky, Miss Elliot," I said, regretting the words
the next moment.

"My colours, Mr. Murray! I did not know they were in the race."

"Mr. Markwell wore them, at any rate," I answered, rather surprised.

"You are joking," she replied; "and I don't think it in good taste."

I drew back, snubbed and offended. Mrs. Kelly put her hand on my shoulder
as I stood beside the buggy, and, stooping down, whispered to me, quite
energetically for her, "Davie, don't be a fool."

I guessed her meaning, and if I could have made my peace then, I would;
but I was not afforded the opportunity. Agnes kept me at a distance for
the rest of the day.

There was a race-ball that night, and I fondly hoped that I should have a
chance of an explanation. Markwell, in spite of the heavy fall he had
experienced, was there, and exerting all the agreeable qualities he
possessed to the utmost.

Agnes gave me no excuse for trying to get a moment's private
conversation, and in the course of the evening I was lounging in a sulky
fit on the verandah, when I saw her and Markwell in deep conversation in
a secluded part of it. She was speaking earnestly, although I could not
see the expression of her face. I had seen enough, however, for my then
temper; apparently she had afforded him the benefit of the confidential
interview that she had avoided giving me. I left the ball, and a month
afterwards Hayward and I were out west. I stayed out there two years. I
heard from Kelly and Jack Elliot, but the name of Agnes seemed carefully
tabooed in their letters.

One evening I received a visit from an old friend who had a station not
very far from the little port where my love-dream had been shattered. He
had taken up country beyond Hayward and me, and was on his road to port
when he called.

"By the way," he said, "you may remember Markwell who got such a spill at
the races that time; but, of course, you do, as you rode against him."

I nodded assent, and he went on.

"I heard he had come out this way to take up country for his firm."

"He didn't marry Miss Elliot then?" I said in as easy a voice as I could

"I should think not," replied my friend, "she found him out in a most
shabby trick. I'll tell you all about it. You remember the ball after the
races? I was out on the verandah behind a screen of plants and flags
doing a quiet flirtation, when Miss Elliot and Markwell came on the other
side. We couldn't well get out and had to sit there and listen to what
they were saying. It seems he had bribed the little girl at the house
where the Elliots were staying to steal a knot of ribbon that Miss Elliot
had made for somebody else and he had worn it openly at the races as
though she had given it to him. That young lady could be very indignant
when she liked, and I shouldn't have liked the sarcasm she lashed
Markwell with."

I was silent for some time, while Russel smoked vigorously, recalling the

"I'm tired of this place," I suddenly said; "I'll go down to port with

"That's famous," he returned, "I wanted a mate down." And he turned in
while I commenced my preparations.

Half-way across what was known as "the dry stage" was a shanty,
professedly an accommodation house; but, of course, a slygrog shop. The
man who kept it met us outside the rude thatched verandah and said he was
glad we had come, as there was a man inside who had "a touch of the sun"
and he was afraid he was going to die.

We went in to see the poor fellow, and there, on the frowsy bunk, lay my
old rival, Markwell. The man said he arrived the day before, on foot; his
horse had fallen with him and got away, and he had walked on to borrow
another to go after him. He was light-headed and had been so ever since.

Russel and I sat up all night doing what we could, but it was useless;
the poor fellow died before morning. Once he recognised me and laughed
wildly, "You didn't get Agnes after all, Murray," he said, then he
relapsed into mad talk about racing.

* * * * *

It was a lovely evening when, with my heart in my mouth, I rode up to
Baroma Plains, for I preferred to see Mrs. Kelly first. She and her
husband were standing on the verandah watching me curiously as I came up.
Suddenly Kelly gave a wild whoop and sprang off the verandah. "It's
Davie, by gum!" he exclaimed, and I was soon standing between them.

I looked hard at Mrs. Kelly, hoping she would take pity on me, but I had
to ask the question after all.


Kelly pursed up his lips, "Don't you know?" he asked.

"Know what?" I demanded, swallowing a big lump in my throat.

"Why, Agnes was married a year ago--she lives--let's see--in Melbourne!"

I suppose I could not smile, nor even look cheerful, for kind Mrs. Kelly
broke in with, "It's a shame. Nothing of the sort, Davie. Agnes Elliot is
in there just now; and to tell you the truth, she must have recognised
you before we did, for she slipped in without a word when you were a long
way off. Go in and ask her."

I did not ask her. I only said one word, and that was her Christian name;
and when I took her in my arms for the first time we forgot all about
mutual explanation until some time afterwards.


"WRITES poetry, does he?"

"Yes, and worse."

"Worse? Impossible!"

"Tries to set it to music, and accompanies himself on the concertina."

"Great heavens! I must see about it. Deane was a real good fellow, and I
can't let his son go to the dogs without an attempt to save him. Tell
Billy to run up Rocket and Revolver from the big paddock first thing in
the morning."

So spoke old Bunthorp, of Wattlemere Station, as he and his nephew yarned
on the verandah one evening, after the return of the latter from
attending a general muster at Branksia Downs, some forty miles distant.

Bunthorp shortly retired to bed, and Jim Newton strolled over to "the
quarters," to play euchre for tobacco, any higher stakes being strictly
forbidden on Wattlemere.

Next morning saw the old man seated in a buck-board buggy behind Rocket
and Revolver, trotting sedately along the road, winding through alternate
belts of scrub and plain, that separated the two stations.

"Awful thing," he thought, as he sipped the midday quart of tea at "the
yellow water hole," rather more than half-way. "Fancy Deane's boy taking
to scribbling poetry. Why, the cattle will go to the deuce in no time. I
don't believe Deane ever wrote anything but a horse-receipt or his name
to a cheque."

Musing thus on his dead friend the old gentleman dropped off into a
pleasant doze under a sheltering brigalow tree, while Rocket and
Revolver, carefully hobbled out, stood nose to tail in an adjacent patch
of scrub, sleepily whisking the flies off each other.

"I say, guv'nor!"

Old Bunthorp opened his eyes and looked sternly at the disturber of his
forty winks. A swagman with "genus sundowner" written all over him, had
cast his rolled blanket on the ground and was busy putting together the
smouldering sticks that had boiled Bunthorp's quart-pot.

"S'pose you'll give a fellow a feed?" he remarked.

Bunthorp nodded majestically, as if to impress the man with the idea that
he had only closed his eyes for a few minutes in order to meditate better
over the advantage of only a first cross of Herefords; but the new-comer,
quite unimpressed, strolled down to the water to fill the small "billy"
he was carrying. When he returned, Bunthorp was just starting off with
the winkers in his hand to catch his horses; he indicated the remainder
of the bread and beef to the man, who acknowledged the favour with an
easy nod as he piled the blazing sticks around his billy to facilitate a
speedy boil. When the old gentleman returned with the nags the stranger
enquired for the tea and sugar with the cool familiarity of an
acquaintance. "Not a bad sort of a prad that brown one," he remarked;
"looks a little gone in the near fore-leg."

Bunthorp was speechless. Rocket, the prad in question, was rising five
and as sound as a bell. He slipped on the collars whilst the swagman made
and sweetened his tea. Then he busied himself putting the contents of the
buggy straight. Meantime his uninvited guest attacked the bread and beef.

"How far to Branksia Downs?" he said, as Bunthorp was preparing to start.
"About fifteen miles."

"You wouldn't give a fellow a lift, would you? I'm dog-tired."

Now, Bunthorp was the best-natured of men, and, moreover, was never slow
in boasting how he had risen from the ranks himself; but the idea of
driving up to Banksia Downs homestead with this disreputable-looking
dead-beat beside him, was rather a staggerer. He hesitated.

"Come, guv'nor, if you knew how just about done up I am, you wouldn't
think twice. What's my weight to two such bits of stuff as those?"

"Well, look sharp and finish your grub," said the old fellow, "I won't
wait long."

The seedy stranger made but a few bites of the remainder, swallowed his
tea scalding hot, without winking, and in a few minutes took his seat
with the greatest coolness beside James Bunthorp, Esq., of Wattlemere.

Rocket and Revolver soon covered the fifteen miles, the swagman beguiling
the way with a little general advice on pastoral matters, hints as to
breeding, & c., winding up by urging his disgusted companion to always
drive with a cross-bar on the pole in future. In fact, when they arrived
at the paddock-gate, half a mile from the station, Bunthorp could
scarcely determine whether he had given the stranger a lift, or the
stranger had given him one. At the gate he saw his opportunity. The man
got down to open it. "I will send your swag to the men's hut," said
Bunthorp, as whipping up his horses he drove on, leaving the discomfited
wayfarer to close the gate and follow on foot.

"Well, Fred, my boy," said the old man, as a young fellow came out to
greet him. "Heard such terrible accounts of you from Jim that I had to
come over myself and see about it."

"What has Jim been saying?" returned the other, as he shook him heartily
by the hand. "But come inside first; George will see to the buggy and
horses. Glory! what sort of a swag is that you've got on board?"

"Oh! I gave a fellow a lift on the road There he is, coming up the
paddock now. Give him his swag, George, when he comes up," he continued
to the groom, and then both men went inside the house.

"Have you got any of the old whisky left, Fred, or was it all swamped
this muster?"

"Not quite!" returned the other; "rather too good for the general public,
who only want something that bites as it goes down. No fear, here we

"His heart is in the right place," murmured old Bunthorp as he put the
amber-coloured fluid to his lips. "Your father and I bought this whisky
in bond six years ago," he continued aloud. "Unfortunately my share is
gone, but--here's to his memory. Now, Fred, I must speak seriously."

"Suppose we wait until after dinner, it will be ready at six. I just want
to run down to the yard for a minute; meantime you know your old room. Go
and rinse some of the dust off."

"Seems nothing wrong with him--wonder if Jim has been taking a rise out
of me!" thought the old man, as he turned into the bedroom he generally
occupied. "My word!"

There had been some changes in the interior arrangements of Branksia
since his last visit, and young Deane had forgotten that he had
transferred his own belongings to the former guest-chamber; consequently,
when Bunthorp turned into what he thought was his room, he found himself
in Fred's. But this had not occasioned the exclamation. Fred's room in
its simple bareness was quite familiar to him. There was the collection
of whips, the rows of boots, from a dandified pair of tops that he once
rode a steeplechase in, to the reach-me-down bluchers that he wore in the
drafting-yard, a few native weapons, a picture of Carbine, and the
necessary furniture--that was all as it should be. But there was
something fresh--a new picture on the wall: a photograph got up and
finished in the style these things are done now-a-days--the likeness of
an exceedingly pretty girl.

Bunthorp picked up his valise again and beat a retreat, chuckling. "The
young dog, won't I roast him!" And it was only after three or four
immersions in cold water that he managed to wash the sly look out of his
jolly face.

Meantime Deane was astonished to find no one at the yard. There were a
few head of cattle to be drafted, some outsiders, missed during the
muster, and he wished to draft them overnight, so that the calves could
be branded at daylight in the morning. A sustained yell brought two or
three men out of the hut.

"Nearly forgot all about the cattle, Mr. Deane," said one, as he swung
himself over the cap. "Blessed if we were not all laughing so at that
cure of a fellow Mr. Bunthorp gave a lift to."

"Regular bush lawyer," said another.

"Then he won't get a job from me," replied Deane, as he picked up the
draftingpole and opened the gate.

"Job!" said the man who had first spoken, "he don't want no job--lives
upon blow."

At dinner Bunthorp was brimming over with facetiousness. Mysterious
allusions to a coming volume of poetry, to the expense of re-furnishing
the house and building "a weaning paddock" (nursery), to breaking in
side-saddle horses, and various other old jokes, at which he laughed so
much himself that Fred had to join him.

"Now, when is it to be!" he said when they were seated in the verandah
doing the regulation-pipe.

Fred felt glad it was comparatively dark, for the old man's fun was
rather merciless.

"I suppose," he said, "that beggar Jim has been telling tales about me."
"He said you had taken to writing poetry, to spouting it, and singing it
to a concertina."

"Confounded old ass he must be! I only asked him his opinion on a few
lines of verse, and as for the concertina business--why, we were just
trying to pick out a tune together. But I suppose I may as well own up--I
am engaged."

"Who is she, Fred?"

"Come in to the light," returned Deane; and going to his room he returned
with the portrait Bunthorp had seen hanging on the wall. "Do you know
her?" he asked, as Bunthorp regarded it admiringly and curiously.

"I seem to recognise the face," said the old gentleman; "seems as
familiar as possible now and again, and then it's all different."

"You have not seen her for five years, and she was only thirteen

"Not Maggie Barlow?" cried Bunthorp, with the fun gone clean out of his
face and voice.

"Certainly it is. Why, she used to be your greatest pet at one time."

"Ah, that was before Deane found Barlow out. I admit I did like her
immensely, as a child; but you can't alter a bad breed, no matter how
good-looking the calf is: it will come out by-and-bye."

Fred coloured, although he also felt inclined to laugh. "Of course, I
stand you saying things I would not let anybody else utter; but you're
very unjust, to say the least of it."

"Unjust! Why? Was I not acquainted with the whole of the circumstances?
Did not your father confide everything to me, and, by my advice, did not
prosecute him? Only for me, Fred Barlow would now be in prison. Your
father was not a merciful man, you know, although nobody could be

"I know the man yielded to a great temptation, and he has bitterly
repented it ever since," returned Deane; "but I believe, and I think you
do, that it was done to save his son."

"That's another pretty thing," cried the old gentleman, who was now
excitedly walking up and down the room. "You mark my words: so soon as
ever you are married, that precious scamp will turn up and sponge on

"I think you know me better than that. Am I such a weak-minded

"No, Fred, you've got plenty of backbone; but he'll try it on. He'll hear
of it, even if he's in Pentridge or Darlinghurst."

"I think he must be dead. Maggie has not heard his name mentioned for
years. But we won't talk any more to-night. Sleep on it, and I know
you'll give me your best wishes in the morning."

Half-an-hour afterwards Deane was alone, strolling about in front of the
verandah, smoking and thinking of the late conversation. The night was
dead calm, and the voices from the men's quarters sounded clear and
distinct; one in particular, which he could not recognise, seemed to
monopolise the conversation.

"The bush lawyer, I suppose," thought Fred, and by way of amusement he
sauntered within hearing. The men were lounging about in the broad
verandah of the kitchen, and the traveller was holding forth.

"Bunthorp! Who's Bunthorp?" he was saying; "why, you coves seem to think
that he's the Hemperor of China. Now, I'll bet you a fiver all
round"--here there was a burst of laughter--"What are you laughing at?"
demanded the unabashed swagman.

"Produce your fivers, old man," said one of his audience.

"Well, I ain't got 'em about me just now," returned the shabby stranger,
"but I would bet you if I had 'em that you give old Bunthorp a French
book to read and he won't understand a word of it, and give it to me and
I'll translate it straight off the reel. Yet he drives his buggy and I
have to walk."

"Except when he gives you a lift," said the cook.

"Hang his lift!" returned the other. "Mighty generous thing to do with a
couple of fat, strong horses in the traces."

"I don't know whether he understands French or not," said the stockman,
"and I don't care, but he's a decent old boy, and I wish there were a few
more of his sort knocking about the district."

"Decent old boy!" sneered the swagman. "Who couldn't be decent with a
good-paying station and a fat balance in the bank?"

"Plenty of 'em," said the cook. "I know lots far richer than Bunthorp who
are as mean as you make 'em."

"Just so," returned the traveller, "and the worst of it is, it's
catching. Now, if old Bunthorp came to you and said 'Bill, I'm short of
change; lend me a note,' you'd say, 'certainly, Mr. Bunthorp, take two,'
now, wouldn't you?"

"Of course I would, if I had it."

"Of course you would, and if I came to you and said 'Bill, I'm stone
broke; lend me a note till I get a job,' what would you say?"

There was an ominous silence; then the stockman reared up his long, lean
form, and, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, remarked; "I'm going to
camp; we've got to be up the first thing to brand those calves, boys."

There was a general dispersal, and the disgusted swagman was left with
his question unanswered.

"I wonder," thought Deane, as he made his way to bed, "how it is that
that fellow's voice is so familiar to me? Bad egg, I suppose, who speaks
like a gentleman by accident now and again."


Barlow had been Crown Lands Commissioner in the neighbouring township
five years before. He was a widower, with one girl, but people who knew
anything said that the Barlow who got three years for embezzlement from
one of the banks was his son. It was a much-talkedof case, from the
despicable efforts made by the culprit, who was bank-teller, to put the
guilt on to an innocent man. Deane and Bunthorpe knew the truth, for they
had been fast friends of the commissioner until the fatal day when a
broken, miserable man rode to Branksia Downs and confessed to the owner
that he had used his name criminally to obtain money; and gave him back
the price of his shame. Bunthorp, who was there, believed that it was a
mad attempt, made too late, to save his son from disgrace, and begged his
old friend, whose nature was less placable, to take the money and spare
the unfortunate father. Deane did so, Barlow applied for a change, and
his name was never willingly mentioned by the two who had been his
friends. All these things came into Bunthorp's mind before he fell
asleep; and as the old man knew, too, that black sheep were to be found
in nearly every flock, he gradually came round to the opinion that
possibly a young fellow like Deane, with his head screwed on right, could
not come to much grief by marrying a girl like Maggie, whose only fault
was a disgraced brother, and a father prematurely broken down by that
son's disgrace. Before Bunthorp fell asleep, he had in spirit bestowed a
fatherly blessing on the young people.

Fate seemed determined that his slumbers should not be as calm as his
conscience merited. Somebody touched him, somebody whispered, "Mr.

Bunthorp was not nervous, he had gone through too many rough episodes.
"Who is there?" he asked in an equally low tone.

"Bell! Sergeant Bell! We are after somebody, and I think he's here. I
don't want to disturb the place or he might give us the slip. Any
strangers here to-night?"

"I'm Bunthorp. Fred has changed his room. There was a traveller on the
road. I gave him a lift. He's here to-night, I suppose."
"Where did you pick him up?" said the sergeant, still in a whisper. "At
the yellow water-hole."

"Yes, that's where we lost his tracks; we guessed you might have picked
him up, so we came straight on here. I suppose he's in the men's hut. But
I'm glad I saw you first"--this was allegorical, for it was
pitch-dark--"can you come outside for a minute?" Bunthorp noiselessly
slipped on some clothes and, barefooted, followed the policeman, who had
also left his boots outside. Out of hearing of the house they put on
their foot-gear and went a short distance to where a black tracker stood
holding three horses.

"I should like to get this fellow away quietly without troubling Mr.
Deane," said the sergeant, "now that I have the chance; for I'll tell you
who he is: that son of old Barlow's who served his time for the bank

Bunthorp whistled. "What has he been up to?"

"Valueless cheques, for one thing; and doctoring a cheque, for
another--turned seven into seventy; very neatly too, I understand. He got
a warning from somebody and gave the Brisbane police the slip; he's
splendidly got up as a hard-up loafer, and has got all the patter off
like a professional hand. No one suspected him but a girl at the Royal,
in----, who knew him in his bank days. She gave him away. Of course, you
know, Deane is sweet on the sister, so I should like to take him quietly
for both their sakes."

"Very thoughful of you, Bell, I am sure;" said Bunthorp; "how can we
manage it?"

"We can't take him now without waking the place, and if we wait till
daylight he might give us the slip--he's so artful," returned Bell.

"Deane will be down at the yard for an hour or two after daylight, there
are a few calves to brand. Could you manage it then?"

"I think so, it's not more than two hours off daylight now. We'll turn
our horses out behind that patch of scrub, and be up there at crow-chirp
and catch my gentleman in his blankets as soon as the others go down to
the yard. There's an old hut alongside the kitchen we can plant in."

"I'll slip in and get you a bit of grub, our supper is still on the
table," said the hospitable Mr. Bunthorp, and like a substantial phantom
he disappeared in the darkness, and presently returned with some
provender and a drop of the incomparable whisky, which he had smuggled
out without wakening Deane, the only other occupant of the house.
Bunthorp had no desire to return to bed, but shared the sergeant's watch
until the first streak of light in the eastern horizon warned them to be
on the alert. Quietly they stationed themselves in the old hut, whence,
through the chinks between the slabs, they could see what went on.

It was done without any trouble at all. Deane and his men were busy at
the yard, when Bell stood over the sleeper and requested the pleasure of
his company. Before they started, Bunthorp got leave to say a few words
privately to the prisoner.

"I know who you are," he said, "and for your father's sake, whom you
nearly ruined, I should like to do something for you. What can I do? I
presume you are guilty of this charge?"

Barlow looked at him with his manner partly changed; and the old man
noted with sorrow the likeness to his sister, which he now saw plainly.
"I may get out of this," was the answer, "I think there's a legal quibble
or two in my favour; if I do, may I ask a favour of you?"
"Yes, I will do what I can. What is it?"

"When the time comes I will ask it," and he turned away. Next minute the
sergeant and his prisoner were gone.

When Fred came up to breakfast, he was in blissful ignorance that his
prospective brother-in-law had just been marched off in handcuffs; and
there was some laughter amongst the men when they were told of the
swagman's exit.

Bunthorp naturally scanned the papers with some degree of interest, until
he saw that Barlow's favourable anticipation had been only partially
fulfilled. He had managed to wriggle out of the graver charge, and
escaped with twelve months' imprisonment and a severe lecture from the
judge for one of the minor offences.

Fred Deane was married, and Bunthorp had beamed on the union. Eighteen
months had flown by, when he received a letter he had been for some time
expecting; it was from young Barlow, asking for the promised help. The
letter touched the good old man. There was no hypocritical pretence of
reformation: the writer simply stated his desire to leave Australia and
begin life anew in another country, mentioning the Cape as the colony to
be honoured with his patronage, and asking for a sum of money to enable
him to go there. Needless to say it was at once forwarded; and Bunthorp
trusted that that page was folded down for good.

"My dear Fred," he wrote, some six months afterwards, "I have just
remembered that the 5th of next month is your wife's birthday, so I am
coming over the day before to stop the night, and bring a present to
deliver the next morning. Don't show this to Maggie, or she may be

On the evening of the 4th, according to promise, Bunthorp and Jim Newton
drove up to Branksia, but the most inquisitive glances cast into the
buggy, still drawn by the faithful Rocket and Revolver, could not discern
anything unusual in its contents. This was not to be wondered at, for
"the present" was but a letter with a Cape of Good Hope stamp on it,
telling of young Barlow's bright prospects, and conveying a kind message
to his sister, and an assurance that the future would atone for the past.
The old man had a small gift as well, but this was the surprise he had
planned. That night he slept in the room made memorable by the visit of
Sergeant Bell, and it was with a decidedly nervous start that he found
his slumbers once more disturbed. Somebody was moving about the room,
apparently examining the contents of the dressing-table. Bunthorp sprang
out of bed as fast as a stout, old gentleman, who had been sleeping on
his back, could be expected to spring. As this was not very rapidly, the
intruder had gone before Bunthorp had reached the spot where his shadowy
form had been visible. Bunthorp went out to the verandah, but an outcry
of dogs by the stables told him that the pursuit was vain; the quarry had
too good a start. Returning to his room he struck a match, and, having
lit a candle, proceeded to investigate. Apparently nothing had been
taken, but on the table was a leaf from a pocket-book, folded and
addressed to himself. "If you want to save your friend Deane some trouble
and distress," it ran, "take a walk down the paddock, as far as the gate,
before breakfast, as soon after sunrise as possible."

"Is this Queensland or one of the disturbed districts of Ireland?"
muttered the old man savagely, as he got into bed again. "I'll take a
walk down the paddock with a good whip in my hand, and all the dogs with
me;" and in a few minutes he was sound asleep again. Like all bushmen he
instinctively awoke at daybreak, and, dressing himself, went out just as
the red sun appeared above the low tree line. He had a heavy crop in his
hand, and a whistle brought at least half-a-dozen demonstrative dogs of
all breeds to his heels, eager for a morning gambol.

The paddock-gate was out of sight of the homestead, being screened by
some clumps of scrub; leaning against it was a man, who, when he turned
and faced the new-comer, revealed to Bunthorp's intense amazement the
features of the former swagman, young Barlow.

He was fairly well-dressed, and a good horse was fastened to the fence a
few panels away.

"So you've come back from the Cape?" was Bunthorp's exclamation.

"I've never been to the Cape, you old fool!" was the amazing reply. "That
letter was posted by a friend of mine who went there. No; I have got a
long score to settle with you before we have done with each other."

"You d----d thief, you took my money----" began Bunthorp, violently.

"Yes," interrupted the other, "I took your money under false pretences;
and I put it on the Melbourne Cup, and, by George, I won, and I intend to
get some more out of you, so there."

"No, I'll be boiled down if you will," said the old man. "What score have
you to settle with me?"

"Didn't you put that----sergeant on to me? He told me all about it. When
you found out who I was, why didn't you give me warning and get me away?
You could easily have managed it. Hang you all your friendship for my
father. Between you all I've been shamefully treated, and I intend to
take it out of you."

During this harangue Bunthorp had been, so to say, stoking; he was now at
boiling heat and ripe for an explosion. "You hangdog gaol-bird!" he
commenced, "you been shamefully treated? why, you have never had your
deserts yet! Take it out of me, you abominable scoundrel? Why don't you
do it?" and he fairly danced with rage.

"Keep cool, old boy," said Barlow, "you'll want all your breath before
you've done with me. To-day is Maggie's birthday, and I am going to
present myself to wish her many happy returns. I can assure you some of
my prison anecdotes will quite liven up the conversation, and I really
won't stop away under a high consideration."

"You'll not get a red cent, that I guarantee. Fred Deane is not such a
fool as to be blackmailed by you; try it, and see what you'll get,"
returned Bunthorp, whose business faculties at once came to the front.

"Oh, but that is not all: you and Fred's father compounded a felony; you
know you did. That will be a nice little story to rake up."

"Whether we broke the law or not I do not know, but every honest man will
be on our side, and I don't care a snap of the fingers for the rest."

The two men looked at each other defiantly across the gate, but the
swindler had failed and he knew it. He turned away jauntily. "Well," he
said airily, "I'll call round after breakfast, see you again. So long,
old Bun."

This was the crowning insult. Flinging open the gate Bunthorp with
upraised whip rushed at the sneering Barlow, while the joyous dogs surged
tumultuously around. The two men struggled together and the dogs, wild
with delight, sent up a chorus of yelling, barking, and snapping that
raised some laggard cur at the station and attracted everybody's
attention. Barlow's horse, startled at the uproar, broke his bridle with
an indignant snort and trotted away in the bush.

"The dogs have got a kangaroo stuck up at the back of the scrub," said
one of the men, and two or three of them came running down.

Bunthorp had got in serveral stinging cuts before Barlow seized the whip,
and then they struggled hard for the possession of it, the dogs making
indiscriminate and quite impartial snaps at the legs of both. The younger
man succeeded in wresting the crop from his opponent, who was soon
winded; he threw him off and gave him a blow with the butt as he did so,
unfortunately on the head. Bunthorp went down senseless and Barlow
started to pursue his horse, but the pack of dogs had to be first
scattered with the whip. By this time two active men who had taken a
short cut through the scrub appeared on the scene. They vaulted over the
fence, and as Barlow's horse was now nearly out of sight, he saw it was
useless to run, so stood still to await them.

"The old fellow turned on me with his whip, and in the struggle I knocked
him down," he said, when they reached the spot. They bent over Bunthorp,
and one of them gave a loud coo-ee that brought others down--amongst them
Deane and Newton. They carried the old man up to the house and marched
Barlow along. He did not reveal himself, although some of them recognised
him with surprise as the swagman.

Once at the station he requested to see Deane alone, and told him who he
was, asserting that it was only in self-defence he had struck Bunthorp,
which was literally true, and insisting on being allowed to depart in
search of his horse. Deane was rather puzzled; he compromised matters by
sending a blackboy after the horse and telling his brother-in-law that he
would not allow him to leave until Bunthorp was conscious: meantime, if
he wanted any assistance, he had better keep himself quiet and not
attempt to see his sister.

Between them, Mrs. Deane and Newton had now recalled the unconscious
Bunthorp to life once more. "I gave it to him, Jim," were the first words
he spoke. "Called me old Bun." Then he lay back and closed his eyes.
Presently he opened them again; "Maggie," he said, "I want to be alone
with Jim for a minute." Mrs. Deane nodded and left the room. "Look here,
Jim," said the old man eagerly: "I'm going to die."

"Go to blazes!" replied his astonished nephew.

"In about an hour's time I shall expire," repeated his uncle. "No, I'm
not wandering. I'm in solemn earnest. Do you think you could get me a
drop of that old whisky; I feel faint?"

Newton, with astonishment all over his face, left the room, and Bunthorp
went off into a series of chuckles; evidently he had got hold of a
brilliant idea.

His nephew returned, and Bunthorp swallowed the spirits. "What's become
of that fellow?" he asked.

"Deane has locked him up somewhere."

"Right! Now, Jim, I'll explain myself. So far as dying is concerned, it
would take more than a knock like that to kill me; but that scamp is
young Barlow, who, of course, you've heard of. Now, he can't do any real
harm, and Fred is not the man to be sponged on and robbed, but he might
make things unpleasant. People would talk, Maggie would feel it, and
there might be trouble between husband and wife, because, after all,
people are only human. Now, if I die--you twig? Barlow will stand his
trial for murder. Deane gives him a chance to clear out and he'll take
care never to show up in Queensland again, where he'll think there's a
halter waiting for him. Savee, James?" And the restored Bunthorp dug his
amazed nephew in the ribs.

Barlow was confined in the store; he had been reposing on the top of a
pile of flourbags reading a yellow-back, for some time, when the door
opened and Deane appeared. He appeared greatly excited. "The old man is
dead," he said hurriedly, "I can't see you hanged, for you're Maggie's
brother after all. Your horse is tied up at the paddock gate, the men are
at dinner, slip down through the scrub and be off before Newton comes,
for he's going to take you into the police-camp himself."

"But," said the other, "it was only manslaughter; he attacked me. I'll
stand my trial."

"You infernal fool, what show have you got? Look at your character, who
saw him strike you? who will believe you? The men took you red-handed
with the whip in your hand. Stay and be hanged if you like. Newton will
swear your life away, he's furious."

"I have very little money," said Barlow sullenly.

"Here, take this; it is enough to pay your passage, and give you a start
somewhere. Now, for God's sake go, before it is too late."

Barlow moved to the door; he was beginning to grasp the situation, and
didn't like it.

"Keep off the roads," said Deane, "and slip out of the country like
greased lightning; everybody liked Bunthorp and they will search high and
low for you."

Deane stood at the door as though keeping watch; he saw his
brother-in-law disappear in the first patch of scrub, and that was the
last he ever saw of him.

Few livelier corpses have ever been seen at a dinner-table than
Bunthorp's was that evening. Newton said that "a crack on the cobra" must
have a more stimulating effect on the brain than any amount of the
incomparable whisky.


LAZILY riding at anchor, in company with some half-dozen others, is a
small lugger, one of a pearling fleet. It is almost a dead calm, and on
the northern horizon there is a hazy suspicion of land, the coast of New
Guinea. The midday spell is drawing to a close, and the coloured crew are
rousing themselves from their short nap under the awning stretched
amidships. In the cabin, permeated, as is all the rest of the vessel, by
an ancient and fishlike smell, a couple of Malays are in earnest
conference: Abdrahim, the diver, and Syed, his tender. In the bronzed
hand of the former lies a lustrous and beautiful pearl, a globe of soft
moonlight, such a pearl as is found but twice in a century. Both men know
that it is of priceless value, and are eagerly gloating over it,
discussing, meanwhile, the best way of disposing of their find to the
greatest possible advantage. Presently Abdrahim wraps up the treasure in
a piece of rag and places it in his box, which he locks; then, followed
by Syed, goes on deck, and proceeds to array himself in his diving-gear.
This completed, he is helped over the side and stands on the wooden rung
of the short ladder, with his head and shoulders above the surface of the
water, waiting while Syed and a Kanaka put on the helmet and screw in the
mouthpiece. Take your last look at the bright sunlight, and inhale your
last breath of the fresh sea-breeze, Abdrahim, for that pure, flawless
gem has done its work.

The helmeted head disappears beneath the unruffled surface of the sea,
and Syed takes his place at the pump. The nondescript crew pay little
heed to his actions; again and again the life-line quivers, but Syed is
lost in a pleasant dream of the future in which he wonders at the
surpassing folly of his countryman in trusting his life in his hands just
after showing him the glorious pearl hidden away in the cabin. Abdrahim,
he knows well, is suffocating below the lugger's keel, but the Malay's
swarthy features are calm and emotionless until he suddenly calls loudly
to the others, and they drag to the surface the now lifeless form of the
diver. An accident, of course--something must have gone wrong with the
pump, he rapidly explains to the men as they divest the corpse of the
dress, and laying it on the deck, cover it with a spare sail. Towards
evening a breeze springs up, and the lugger, with the dead Malay on
board, steers for Thursday Island.

* * * * *

The little township on the island is fast asleep, eight bells have been
struck on board the E. and A. steamer at anchor in the stream, and the
last sound of revelry has died away. Near an old boatshed, in whispered
conversation, stand Syed and a Chinaman. The Malay is excited and eager,
the Chinaman apathetic, with a cunning assumption of indifference. The
big pearl is being extolled on one side and depreciated on the other.
Subtle Hi Long is assuring Syed that he has quite overestimated the worth
of his find, and the Malay is vehemently asserting its wonderful value.
They part, after long dispute, Hi Long calm and confident, Syed angry and
upset. He coils up in his blankets under the old boatshed, and after an
hour or two of troubled tossing falls into a deep slumber that lasts
until long after sunrise. When he awakes he sits up, fumbles underneath
the bundle that serves him for a pillow, and draws out a common red silk
handkerchief with a knot tied in one corner; glancing apprehensively
around, he unties the knot to feast his gaze upon his treasure. With a
yell he springs up, his eyes ablaze with fury and despair, for the big
pearl is gone. He has been robbed during his late sleep. A mist of blood
swims before his eyes and blots out all his dreams of wealth. Blood--that
is what he wants, and he draws his knife and rushes through the door out
on the beach, no longer a man but a beast of prey, a Malay running amok,
seeking to glut his raging thirst for vengeance on the first object
crossing his path. A group of coloured men are right in his way, and
almost before they are aware of it he is amongst them, striking and
stabbing right and left, seeing before him nothing but a crowd of
grinning chinese, taunting him with the loss of his fortune. Two are
knifed before they can recover from their surprise; one of the remainder
has, fortunately, an axe in his hand, and before the madman can stab
again he is cut down. He rises once more with the blood streaming down
his face and rushes out on the boat-jetty, leaving a ruby track on the
rough stones. With one last wild stab at the phantom fleeing before him,
he plunges into the sea, and Syed has gone to reckon with the ghost of
the murdered Abdrahim.

The E. and A. steamer going south that morning has an additional steerage
passenger in the person of Hi Long, who finds he has urgent business
which compels him to leave Thursday Island immediately.

* * * * *

Through the still waters, guarded by the great barrier of coral, the
steamer pursues her southern course. For two nights she has had to anchor
amongst the then little known dangers of the treacherous northern coast,
and now, on the third, the steady pulsation of the engines tells that she
is running at half-speed through a comparatively open sea. The officer on
the bridge is talking to the coast pilot as they pass backwards and
forwards. Unobserved a figure rises from amongst those recumbent on the
fore-hatch and approaches the side. The coloured man on watch on forward
happens to turn round. "Hoy, Chinaman!" he yells. Too late: there is a
splash, and the two men on the bridge are just in time to see a white
face gleam past the bar of light.

The telegraph rings and the steamer comes quickly round.

"One of the Chinese passengers just jumped overboard, sir," says the
officer to the captain when he comes on the bridge.

A boat is lowered, uselessly of course. Hi Long, after gambling away all
his gains, including the big pearl stolen from Syed, has gone to the

"Why the deuce couldn't he have done it quietly?" says the captain, as
the boat is being run up to the davits; "we've lost half-an-hour through


PERHAPS no more desolate, depressing scenery can be found
anywhere in the world than on the mangrove-flats of Northern
Queensland. As you row slowly up some saltwater creek, nothing is
visible on either side but low banks of oozy mud, awash at high tide,
covered with writhing and distorted trees. Now and then a branch creek
breaks the monotony of the scrub, for the shore is here a perfect labyrinth
and network of watercourses, whilst the only living denizens visible are
armies of hideous crabs, and an occasional evil-looking alligator, which
glides noiselessly off the mud into deep water as your boat approaches.

By day it is dismal enough; by night it is worse. The venomous
mosquitoes buzz about you in myriads, strange cries resound through the
twisted roots of the trees left bare by the receding tide; and, as the night
wears on, a white mist, cold and dank, breathes deadly clamminess over all.

It was just sunrise in this delectable region. The rays had even gilded
the sombre upper branches of the mangroves with a sparkle of golden
colour, although as yet the sullen mist was still rising in white wreaths
from the bosom of the sluggish tide. Anchored in mid-stream was a small
boat, apparently without occupants, but presently the sail, that in a
tumbled heap had been lying on the bottom, was disturbed and a sleepy
man emerged from beneath its shelter; as he stood up, another threw the
sail back and got up too. They were both towzled, dirty, and looking
about as cross-grained as men might be expected to do who had passed
the night cramped up in the bottom of a boat, with millions of
mosquitoes thirsting for their blood--and getting it.

"No wind!" said the first; "pull again, I suppose, until ten o'clock!"
And he stepped forward and commenced to haul up the heavy stone that
served as anchor.

"I suppose so;" returned the other; "tide against us too, but I think it's
just on the turn"--and he settled himself down on the after-thwart and
prepared to put out an oar.

"My God! he's coming back!" cried the first and elder man, dropping
into the bottom of the boat the stone he had just hauled up. The other
sprang up and gazed stupidly at the object indicated, that, carried down
by the still-receding tide, passed slowly within an oar's length of the boat.

It was the dead body of a man; the shoulders and the back of the head
were alone visible, but the horror of it was unmistakeable--it needed no
second glance to tell its character.

"Pull," suddenly cried the younger, dropping on his seat, his voice
rising to a shriek; "he's coming aboard!" Released from her anchorage
the boat had started to voyage down stream in company with the dead
man. A few desperate strokes took them away from the corpse, and then
they rested on their oars and gazed at each other with the sweat of fear
upon their faces.

"The very alligators won't touch him!" murmured the younger man at
last; "let's get out of this. I'm not fit for anything after yesterday."

They pulled a few strokes in silence, then the elder spoke. "Let's get
back to camp before we do anything. I'm like you, done up altogether.
We'll turn down this creek and then we shan't have to pass him again."
And he indicated the direction of the corpse.

The boat was headed down a branch creek, and now went with the tide
aided by a few lazy strokes from the men, who silently kept on their
course. In about an hour's time the creek widened and the sound of surf
was audible; then suddenly they shot out from the gloomy, reeking
mangrove swamp into sight of the ocean, and a fresh sea breeze came
with a puff in their faces, as if to welcome their return.

"We're close to the camp," said the elder man as they rested on their
oars; "we might have got here last night instead of catching fever and
ague in that accursed place."

"There's so many of these creeks," returned the other; "we could not
have made sure in the dark. However, let's land and go across the spit."
Pulling the boat well up the sand and making her fast with a long painter
to a straggling mangrove-tree, they stepped ashore; then, having taken
the sail out and spread it to dry on the sand they shouldered their oars
and ascended the low spit. Before them, within a short half-mile, lay a
semicircular bay protected by a sand-bank, on which the long surf rollers
were breaking white. Within shelter of the bank lay a small lugger, and
on the beach, above high water-mark, were rough sheds, and frame
erections indicating that it was a bche-de-mer station.

As the two men approached the camp, a woman came out to meet
them; a few aborigines and a Kanaka or two were also visible. The
woman who advanced was dark in complexion, with wild black eyes and
hair. She was rudely dressed and barefooted; there was an air of
semi-madness about her that was startling, yet fascinating--such awful
horror shone in her eyes.

"Well," she said in fairly good English, "you found them?"

"One of them," said the elder man, "and when we've had a feed we'll
go and look for the other."

"One of them!" cried the woman; "which?--which?"

"The one you call Alphonse--the big one."

"Oh!" shrieked the woman, "where is he? Why is he not here?"

"Why! he's in that creek out there, and there he can stop for me; after
what you told us he's not fit to be buried."

"Dead!" she returned in an awestruck whisper. "But no! the devil
cannot die."

"Devil or not, he's dead; dead enough, and nearly turned our stomachs
this morning, for his ugly carcase came drifting right on top of us after
we thought he went out to sea yesterday."

"Now, missus," said the other, "suppose you let us get something to
eat, for it was nigh this time yesterday when we started."

"You have brought good news," said the woman, "the devil is dead, I
will wait on you"--and she hastened to the rude cooking-place and
soon returned with food and tea.

The meal finished, the two men lit their pipes, the women watching
them anxiously.

"You will go again?" she said at last, timidly. One man looked at the
other, and then the elder spoke--

"Well, we'll have another hunt, but I warn you, there's little hope."

"No matter," she said, "but let me go with you."

"I suppose it's not much odds," returned the man. "Come, Jim, the
tide's turning now." They shouldered the oars and, followed by the
woman, walked back to the boat. The tide was about the same height as
when they landed, only now it was flowing. Stepping in they pushed off,
and were soon once more amongst the mangroves.

* * * * *

The two trepang-fishers had picked up a leaky boat with a starving
crew, a strange crew--two men and a woman--escapees from New
Caledonia, whom they brought to the station and fed. The fishers had no
intention of handing them over to justice--or, let us say, to the law; the
affair was no business of theirs; but if they took them in to Cooktown the
capture of their guests would be certain. Then the refugees organised a
plan. The two men would take their boat and pull up one of the salt-water
creeks to the open country; here they would sink the boat, and make their
way, as best they could, through the bush till they happened upon some
of the outlying stations. The woman, who spoke good English, could go
with the fishermen to Cooktown and take her chance; it was impossible
she could stand the hardship of a bush tramp. To this plan the woman
vehemently objected, and begged the man she called her husband not to
go. Apparently he consented, but during the night the two men slipped
away, and in the morning the woman found herself deserted. Then
followed a scene of wild lamentation, during which the horrified
Englishmen learned some of the ghastly details of the voyage from New
Caledonia--horrors that made them shudder and vow that if one of the
men ever turned up he should be delivered over to justice. With frantic
passion the woman appealed to them to go after the two fugitives and
persuade her husband to return; for, she said, the other man had an old
and bitter grudge against him, and had only lured him away to his death.
Overcome by her entreaties, the two men started and found the body of
one man floating in the mangrove creek; of the other they could see
nothing, and, returning, were benighted.

* * * * *

Arrived at the spot where the two creeks joined, the boat, with the
woman in the stern, was headed up stream with the tide, and they pulled
quietly between the dreary groves of trees.

"Have you been up there?" she said suddenly, pointing to an opening
on the right.

"No," said one of them, and they turned up the branch.

"There it is!" she exclaimed quickly. "I knew it, I felt it!"

Sure enough there was the Frenchmen's boat just ahead of them, ashore
on a small open space, a chance patch of clear ground. They pulled up to
her, but the dead body of the second man was visible before they got
there. The woman was quite calm, and stood by while her companions
examined the corpse. The man had been stabbed in the side and had bled
to death; a hideous stain was in the old boat.

"How did Pierre kill him?" she muttered to herself in French. "Ah, I
know, he was stabbed from behind, then he turned and knocked the devil
overboard. Then he fell and died."

"You will take him back and bury him," she said, in a sad, almost
sweet voice. "See, it will be no trouble; just tow the boat;" and she
indicated her meaning with a wave of the hand. Then she took her seat in
the boat with her dead, the men having thrown the sail over the body, and
so they started back.

Arrived at the junction she spoke again. "You will wait, will you not?
He will come back, perhaps--I must see myself that the devil is dead."

The men looked at each other, and then, with a few strokes of their oars
kept the boat motionless in the tideway.

"He comes!" said the awfully quiet voice of the woman, and with
indescribable horror the men saw the now bloated corpse come up the
stream once more.

As if influenced by some terrible attraction in the glaring eyes of the
woman, the ghastly thing approached the side of the boat where she sat.
She rose to her feet, in her hand one of the oars. "Dog! devil!" she cried,
dashing it into the face of the corpse. "O you, who ate my child before
my eyes. You! who lived on man's flesh to save your life--you who
have assassinated my husband! Wolf! what are you now? Dead, dead!
And you who ate others shall be eaten by the foul things of this place!"
At every epithet she spurned the corpse with the oar until with a hideous,
life-like action it slowly turned over and disappeared.

The spell-bound men, who had not understood a word of what she said,
for she spoke in French, now started into action, and called to her to sit
down. She obeyed; and, hastening to leave the scene the two men, their
hearts in their throats, were soon back at the mouth of the creek.

They buried the murdered man, and next morning the lugger hoisted
sail for Cooktown having on board the woman, the last survivor of the
party of six who had escaped from New Caledonia.


PONTIANAK, at the mouth of the Kapoeas River, is not a place much
visited by Europeans, but one can obtain an exceptional experience there.

Pontianak is the headquarters of the Dutch in Borneo, and the
Resident-General has a small joke of his own, which he plays off on the
unsuspecting new-chum. As is customary in those torrid settlements,
business is generally transacted during the comparatively cool hours
immediately succeeding daylight. As you discuss it with the courteous
old Resident, he inveigles you into a stroll up and down the verandah,
and after a little of this exercise, he informs you that the equatorial line
passes right through the centre of his bungalow, and that during the
morning walk you have crossed and re-crossed the equator several times.

I have other cause to remember Pontianak. It was my starting-point on
an expedition destined to be a very memorable one. I had long
contemplated a trip into the interior of Borneo, allured partly by the
reports of the half-worked diamond mines, and partly by natural curiosity
to see a place so little known. I had accidentally met with a young
travelling Englishman, an enthusiastic sportsman, who eagerly jumped at
the notion, and the result was that we soon found ourselves at Pontianak,
where, after the necessary official permission had been obtained, we
made our arrangements for departure.

Travelling there is far more luxurious than in the Australian back-
blocks. Our destination was the Sintang district, and our highway the
river Kapoeas. A large roofed-in native boat, known as a gobang, a
native crew under a mandor, or headman, and a good outfit of stores
were obtained, and we started for the land of the Dyaks.

For days our journey was most auspicious. The dense jungle on either
hand afforded a good supply of game for my sporting companion, and
the native tribes we met were friendly and interesting.

As time went on we found ourselves amongst Dyaks, permission to
pass through whose country cost some diplomacy, but patience and a
friendly demeanour overcame all objections, and we soon got well into
the mountainous districts on the upper reaches of the river. As yet I had
not met the object of my search--the abandoned diamond mines,
legends of which were often repeated by the coastal Malays. Once or
twice I was shown places where gold-mining on a most primitive fashion
had undoubtedly been pursued in some long-forgotten age. Circular holes
had been sunk in three places in the form of a triangle, and drives had
then been made from one to another, but by whom it had been done the
Dyaks could not tell. Certainly not by their forefathers. Some told me
that it was the work of slaves long ago, when the sultans from India had
swept down on the archipelago and enthroned themselves in Java and
Sumatra, thence enforcing tribute over Borneo, Celebes, and the smaller

No ruins or inscriptions were to be found indicating that the country
had ever been permanently settled by the men of that time. Sometimes I
heard mysterious reports of a wild race whose descent was more ancient
than that of the Dyaks: they were known as the Orangpooenan, or forest
men, and were marked with a white spot in the middle of the forehead,
an indication, at any rate, of their Hindu origin.

One afternoon about 4 o'clock the mandor came to me and pointed to a
rope of twisted rattan stretched across the river--a sign that we were to
go no further. Some Dyaks were assembled on the bank, and we went
ashore to parley with them.

They were apparently as friendly as usual, and accepted small presents
of tobacco, but declined to give us any reason for refusing the required
permission to proceed. We visited the village and partook of fruit there,
and after dark returned to our boat. Morton was very hurt at our sudden
detention, and wished to go on in spite of the natives. I pointed out to
him the folly of such a course, and he consented to take things quietly
and wait for a day or two. During those two days I made every effort to
conciliate our neighbours, and with perfect success excepting in the one
one direction. We were not to go up the river. I could obtain no reason
for this refusal, and concluded that we must perforce return.

My enquiries as to the ancient gold and diamond mines seemed to
amuse the old men mightily. One of them told me that I had seen the
Kambing-Mas. This is a golden sheep which appears to certain doomed
men. So infatuated does the victim become at sight of it, that he follows
it on through jungles and mountains day after day until he dies of fatigue.

Of legends and traditions I got my fill, but permission to go ahead was
not to be had. My old friend who told me of the Kambing-Mas asked me
if I desired to try for the great diamond which was supposed to be in a
lake at the head of a river. This star-like gem, described as of enormous
size and unspeakable lustre, can be plainly seen at the bottom, but woe to
the rash man who dives down after it! The infuriated spirit-guardians
seize and strangle him, and his dead body floats on the surface as a
warning to others.

"Perhaps," went on my loquacious host, "you would go to the land of
the Mas-hantoo, the spirit-gold?" This district, rich in the precious metal,
was cursed by a sultan of old, on account of the death of his son, and
although you may go there and fill your pockets with gold-dust and
nuggets, they all turn to sand and pebbles when you cross the boundary
on your return.

Meanwhile Morton chafed greatly at our delay, and I had to exercise
much tact to pacify him. The third evening I saw him in close talk with
the mandor; he then left the boat and went to the village, returning about
dark with the information that we now had permission to proceed.

It seemed strange to me that I had heard nothing about it, but at the
time I had no suspicions. It was a bright moonlight night. Taking the
mandor's kris, Morton went ashore and severed the rattan rope where it
was tied round the butt of a tree. The men took their places and the boat
was once more under way.

I dropped off to sleep about ten o'clock. I awoke amidst the crash of
boughs and branches, bringing ruin and destruction on us and our craft.
Although half-stunned, I managed to struggle from beneath the crushed-
in roof, and, as the boat sank, struck out feebly for the shore, which I had
no sooner reached than I fainted.

What had happened to us was the result of Morton's rashness. Poor
fellow, he paid for it with his life. The villagers had not given him
permission to go on, but he had bribed the mandor to do so nevertheless.
Along the bank of the river the Dyaks had selected certain leaning trees
under which we would pass. These had been cut through to breaking
point, and temporarily secured from falling outright by twisted rattans.
As we passed, these guys were cut, and we were swamped by the falling
trees. Morton was killed instantly, but I strangely escaped, and most of
the crew were more or less hurt. All this I learned afterwards.

When I came to my senses I was lying by a fire in a small clearing in
the jungle, with two or three Dyaks sleeping around. One man was
awake, apparently watching. When he saw me looking about he came
over to me and brought me a drink. He was very light-coloured, dressed
in the ordinary chawat or apron with a jacket, called a "bagu," on his
body. He smiled pleasantly, and, addressing me in the native dialect,
said, "Saki" (a name they had given me at the village), you were ill-
advised to seek the Tampat-Mas (gold-mine) here. "Why did you not
watch the flight of the fish-hawk first?" I asked after Morton, and he
told me of his death.

I was well treated, and the fate of Morton, whom they knew to be
guilty of the offence, had apparently atoned for our trespass.

On the second day I was much recovered, and Abiasi, the Dyak who
had just spoken to me, was sitting by my side showing me how to use the
blow-pipe, when a strange old man came from the jungle and advanced
in the clearing.

He was tall, white-haired and white-bearded, and on his forehead was a
round mark made with a white pigment of some sort. Abiasi rose and
said something to him of which I could only catch the word "Saghie,"
another name for the forest men. Presently the old man, who had only a
ragged chawat on, came over and regarded me earnestly, then he and
Abiasi renewed their conversation.

"Saki," said the latter at last, addressing me directly, "if you still wish
to see the Tampat-Mas where the Mas-hantoo is, this old saghie will take
you there." He then further told me that the old saghie, or Orangpooenan,
lived in the mountains where there were many old mines, but it
was all spirit-gold, that turned into sand and gravel after it was taken
away. The saghie thought that the presence of a white man might break
the charm. I eagerly agreed to go, and Abiasi gave me many instructions
as to my return, lent me a parang, or heavy knife, and bade me farewell.

It was evening when we started, and the old man led me through the
jungle by a well-beaten path. Although the moon was bright, the
shadows were dense where it did not penetrate, and I confess to having
felt very nervous as we pushed on in silence, starting at intervals some
sleeping bird or a troop of monkeys.

Presently we came to a small opening and halted in front of a low-
thatched hut. In answer to his call a young woman, evidently just aroused
from sleep, came out; she brought some living embers and made a fire.
Like the old man, she was very fair in colour, good-looking, with
wellshaped limbs, which, as her only attire was the chawat, or apron,
were fully displayed. After eating some rice and fruit, I lay down by the
fire and slept for the remainder of the night.

I was not sorry to see a fine large fish cooking on the coals for
breakfast, as my returning health brought with it a good appetite. When
we had finished the meal the old man and the girl, whom I guessed to be
his granddaughter, took a large rush-woven basket between them and
started along a narrow path leading through the forest, motioning me to

In about two miles we reached an open space, and before us rose the
rugged side of a hill. We followed the base of this round for some time
until the face of the hill grew steep and precipitous, and I noticed we
were amongst some ancient workings.

At the mouth of what seemed a drive in the cliff the old saghie stopped,
and they set down the basket. He then spoke rapidly to the girl, whom he
called Suara, and she collected dry wood and built a fire, the old man
lighting some tinder with a flint and steel. Suara then broke down the
branches of a resinous kind of pine common to the hilly country, and
with the assistance of my parang dressed them into rude torches. I now
understood what these preparations meant, and when we had lit the
torches the two picked up the basket and led the way into the tunnel or

As seen by the dim, flaring light, it presented far more finished work
than any of the ancient workings I had yet seen. We must have gone at
least a hundred yards before the old man stopped, and I then saw that
somebody had recently been at work, for there was loose dirt lying about,
and some native tools.

The old saghie put down the basket, and motioned to me to come and
fill it with the shovel. I did so, and naturally took the opportunity of
examining the dirt. I sifted some in my hands, and blew part of the finer
dirt away, and am satisfied, even now, that there was a large quantity of
coarse gold through it and several specimens, as they are generally called
by diggers. Of this I am quite sure, despite what afterwards occurred.

The old saghie was peering over my shoulder while I blew the dust
away, and grinned hideously as he saw the gold exposed here and there. I
remember wondering at the time what possible ambition could be his for
the yellow dross. Perhaps he thought the same of me.

Anyhow, we were both satisfied with our inspection, and I went on
filling up the bag until it could hold no more. The old man and the girl
picked it up and carried it out of the tunnel. Instead of taking the
homeward track as I anticipated, they turned down another one, and in a
short time we were beside a small stream which descended from the
range. Here there were rude appliances for washing, and I selected, as the
most convenient, a shallow baked-clay dish, and commenced washing
out a prospect.

Not a speck, not a trace of gold was there. I did not look at my two
companions, for it struck me that possibly the dirt at the top of the basket
was different from what I had examined in the tunnel. I therefore took
another prospect from the very bottom and proceeded to wash it.

It was a strange scene. The narrow path leading down to the small
stream, just cutting a thin gap in the dense forest. The shrill chattering
and screaming of parrots overhead, and the noises made by the troops of
monkeys, which swung from bough to bough, and from one long
hanging vine to another. Behind me, as I squatted by the water's edge, the
two yellow, semi-nude figures of the old man and the girl, bending over
my shoulders in rapt attention.

The dirt was rapidly reduced as I swirled the water round in the dish,
and when I tilted it to and fro, there, at either end of the grit and gravel,
appeared the yellow sheen of gold. I heard the two behind me heave a
sigh of satisfaction as this sight appeared. Surely the spell of the Mashantoo
was broken at last?

Suddenly, without a sound of warning, a glistening, flashing object
dropped from overhead and struck me and the girl into the water.
Blinded and frightened, I staggered to my feet, for the stream was but
shallow, and in an instant saw what had happened. A huge boa had
dropped from one of the trees above, where it is their custom to hang,
watching the paths by which the deer go to water, and snatched its victim
from our midst. The old man was crushed against the trunk by three or
four folds of the creature, whose tail was still in the branches above, and
he was already in the pangs of death.

Suara, who, like myself, had been knocked forward by a blow from a
coil of the reptile as it dropped on its prey, was standing near me gazing
with horror-stricken eyes on the death-scene. The crunching of the
unhappy man's bones was quite audible, but his collapsed body showed
that life was over.

The dish had floated on the surface, and was held from going down the
stream by a tussock of reeds. Suara picked it up and handed it to me with
a look of despair. Instinctively, despite the near presence of the monster,
now gloating over its meal. I finished washing the prospect. The spell of
the Mas-hantoo held good. Nothing but gravel and sand was in the
earthen dish, which I dashed to pieces on a rock.

Together, Suara and I left the spot and made our way to the hut, which
we reached that evening and there rested for the night. Next morning she
conducted me through jungle paths to within sight of the village where
Abiasi lived.

Here she stopped and pointed in another direction, nor would she
accompany me a step towards the village; and so, neither able to say
farewell to the other in language both could understand, we parted.
Abiasi told me afterwards that more of her people lived in the direction
in which she had pointed.

Most of our goods had been recovered, and the crew were now nearly
all well. A fresh gobang was provided, and I parted from the Dyak
villagers with strangely mixed feelings, although it was with some sense
of satisfaction that I saw mile after mile increase the distance between
me and the mines of the Mas-hantoo.


"WHAT'S the matter with you? Why the deuce can't you sleep?"

"I don't know," returned Alf., "got a touch of insomnia. If I do go off I
have the most awful dreams, all about men I used to know--men who
are dead now."

"Bah! don't start such talk at this time of night. Sit by the fire and
smoke your pipe," I answered, wearily, as I turned my back to the blaze
and drew my blanket around me.

"Right you are, old man," he replied, good-naturedly, and I fell into

I awoke with a start. The fire was out, or nearly so, and the camp was
silent. Just above the horizon the spectral last quarter of the moon was
hanging, throwing ghostly long shadows around. It was the hour before
dawn, the uncanny time when the vital forces are at their lowest ebb.
"The only courage worth talking about," said some great general, "is
three o'clock in the morning courage."

I roused myself a little and looked around. Alf. was sleeping on the
other side of the fire; where he had made his bed was now in deep
shadow, and I could see nothing. I tried to go to sleep again, but it was
useless. Perhaps a smoke might send me off; so, seeing a spark still
smouldering, I arose, blew the end of a glowing firestick into a blaze, lit
my pipe, and then, holding up the lighted stick, looked over to where my
companion should have been lying. His blankets were tenantless.

May I never again experience such a thrill as went through me when I
made this discovery! I put my hand on the blankets where they had been
thrown aside. They were cold, and the dew had gathered on them: he
must have been gone some hours. I listened long and intently, but the
night was silent. For a man to wander from camp in the middle of the
night, out in the Never-Never country, and remain away for hours, is a
most unusual thing. If he had heard the horses making off he would have
called me ere leaving; if--but I exhausted all conjectures before
daylight dawned. I could do nothing until then.

The light came very slowly, or so it appeared to me. We were camped
at the foot of a spinifex rise, on a narrow flat bordering a creek. When the
light grew strong I could see the horses feeding quietly a short distance
away, and, picking up my bridle, I soon had one caught and saddled.
Firing off my rifle two or three times without eliciting an answering shot,

I started to look for my missing mate. After much trouble I found his
track leading straight up the ridge, which, near the crest, was sandy, the
prints of his footsteps being there very clearly defined. The spinifex was
scantier, and as I gazed intently down I saw something that made me pull
up and hastily dismount to scan the tracks more closely. Alf. was not
alone--somebody had walked ahead of him.

Step by step I followed, leading my horse, but I could make nothing of
the foremost track, for Alf.'s almost covered it every time. At last they
diverged, and the two ran side by side. It was a bright morning and the
sun just glinted under the stunted trees. What little live nature there was
in that lonely spot was awake and joyously greeting the day; but I arose
from my examination of that awful footmark with the dew of
superstitious terror on my forehead. No living man had made that track.

I had to follow on, scarce knowing what to think or expect. I tried to
persuade myself that the footprint was that of some attenuated old gin.
lean and shrunken as a mummy, but that was against reason. The track
was that of the skeleton of a man; and Alf. was not following it, but
following whatever was making it.

With varying fortune, now finding, now losing the trail, I kept on for
about two hours; then, halfway down a slight incline, I came upon the
object of my search. He was sitting on the ground talking to himself, I
thought at first, but when I got closer I saw he was addressing some
object on his lap. He was nursing the head and shoulders of the remains
of a human being. It lay at full length amidst a patch of rank green grass
fertilised by the decayed body, a skeleton with fragments of rotten
clothing still clinging to it. Alf. had his arm under the skull as one would
support a sick man, and was murmuring words of affection. He raised his
head as I approached, but evinced no surprise.

"This is my brother Jack," he said. "Fancy his coming to the camp last
night to show me where he was! We must take him into the nearest
station and bury him, for he can't rest here, it's too lonely."

I did not answer. My mate's mind had evidently given way, and I could
not reason with him. He carried the body back to our camp, and I
commenced a ghastly ride to the nearest station, over seventy miles
away, with a madman and a corpse for companions. The third day after
starting we arrived at Ulmalong, then the outside station, and here I
learnt the story of Alf.'s twin brother.

He had been a stockman on the place when it was first settled, and had
ridden out on his rounds one day and never returned. There was little
doubt that the skeleton we brought in was his, but what had led the living
twin to its resting-place? I held my tongue about the track, for they
would only think I was as mad as my companion.

After we buried the remains Alf. relapsed into almost constant silence.
He was quite harmless and they found him some light work to do about
the place, but he died, prematurely aged, in about a year's time. He was
buried with his brother.


MORE than five-and-twenty years ago, on a newly-formed station on a
north-western Queensland river, a young fellow named Hewett was left
in charge, the managing partner having been hastily called down to
Sydney. It was a cattle-station on wide-spreading plains, backed up by
patches of scrubby forest. You could ride for miles and miles without
seeing an elevation of any sort, or anything livelier than a soaring kite.
Naturally, time hung rather heavily on the hands of Hewett and his men,
the loose morality of the day and district was adopted, and although the
blacks were not "let in," as it is termed, several native women found
quarters at the station. However, that was thought no more of then than at
present in some parts of Western Australia.

As things turned out, it was nearly three years ere Hewett was relieved
from duty. Then the station passed into the hands of the bank
mortgagees, and one of their own men came up and took charge.

Amongst the half-caste children about the place was one bright little
fellow who was a great pet with them all, especially with his father,
Hewett. He had a strange white tuft of hair on his head, which the men
used to call "Pompey's brand," he having been named Pompey. Hewett
left and Pompey continued to grow up on the station.

Twelve or thirteen years passed, and by a common freak of fortune,
Hewett returned to take charge of the station in the interests of a
different owner, it having changed hands once more.

Of course there were now many alterations. The cattle had increased,
the improvements were more extensive, and everything more civilised.
One thing, however, was unchanged--the old racial feud with the
blacks, and there was now a native-police barracks established on the
river. Hewett's successor, it seems, had tried the experiment of allowing
the blacks to come in and camp without interference, and although for a
time this gave the men some trouble with the cattle, it answered well,

However, the usual outbreak at length took place. The natives took to
killing cattle once more. Then they were hunted out, and with them went
all the "quiet" gins and piccaninies who had been camped at the station.
When Hewett again took charge he found he had much trouble in
keeping the natives away from the herd. Just before he came back, one of
the hands of his former time, an old fellow named Ben. Walker, had been

Going out on the run to look at a camp of fat cattle intended for
immediate sale, the stockmen were encountered by a panting lot of
bullocks with hanging tongues and heaving sides. Little need to guess
what had happened: the blacks had been amongst them, and the cattle
would be fit for nothing for months. Sending the others to collect and
steady what they could find, Hewett and old Ben rode on to the police-

The officer in charge was at home, and with a couple of native troopers
they were soon on their way to the camp. The fresh tracks were picked
up and the pursuit commenced. It was easy tracking, and by dusk they
had settled the site of the natives' camp, and arranged to "disperse" it at

Day broke and the camp was surrounded before the blacks, who are
always late sleepers, had time to fly. Hewett was after a couple who were
dodging him in the scrub. Suddenly one, a youngster, who had in his
hand a spear which he had picked up in his flight, turned and faced him,
out of breath. Hewett raised his revolver and took aim, when the sheen of
the early morning sun fell straight on the nigger. It acted like a flash of
memory. He saw by the yellowish-brown nude figure that the boy was a
half-caste, and recognised by the white forelock, "Pompey's brand," that
it was his own son he was going to kill. The young fellow saw him
hesitate, took courage, and sent the spear straight through Hewett's body.
The clutching finger pulled the trigger, and Pompey went to the happy
hunting-ground with his father's bullet in his brain.

The officer and Ben. Walker rode up soon afterwards, dismounted
hastily and examined Hewett, but he was on the point of death. They did
all they could to ease him, and then Ben went to look at the black. "By
God!" he said, as he looked at the white tuft, now partly blood-stained,
"if it isn't Pompey!"

"Who's Pompey?" asked the officer.

"His son," said Ben. shortly, pointing at the dead body of the white


IT was Malchook who told the beginning of this story, and Malchook
was supposed to be the biggest liar on the Gulf of Carpentaria. However,
it was on record that he told the truth sometimes, when he was in a blue
funk, for instance, and on this occasion his state of funk was a dazzling
purple--blue was no name for it.

We were camped on the Nicholson for the wet season. The cattle had
been turned out and we had hard work to keep them together, for, after
the rain set in and the country became boggy, the niggers commenced
playing up and we had to keep going. It was raining cats and dogs that
night, and we were all huddled together round the fire under a bit of a
bark lean-to which we had put up. Malchook was not there--his horses
were absent that morning and he had been away all day after them. It was
about eight o'clock when we heard him coming; he had found his horses
and was driving them right up to the camp. Then, instead of hobbling
them, he got a bridle and a halter, caught his steeds and tied them to a

Some of the fellows sang out to him to know what he was doing, but he
took no notice, and, after turning out the horse he had been riding, came
up to the fire and told Reeve (the boss) that he wanted a word with him.
Reeve got up, and the two walked over to his tent. Presently Malchook
emerged, went to where his belongings were under the tarpaulin that had
been rigged up over the rations, and commenced to roll them up. Reeve
came back to the fire.

"What's up?" asked Thomas, Reeve's cousin.

"Only that fellow wants to leave to-night straight off, so I gave him his
cheque and told him to slide as soon as he liked; he's no great loss,

"What does he want to leave for?"
"Says the camp is doomed, and he is going to put as many miles as
possible between himself and us before our fate overtakes us."

There was a general laugh, and just then Malchook came out with his
swag and commenced to saddle up in the pouring rain. There was a good
moon, nearly full, although, of course, it was not visible.

The fellows commenced chaffing him, for he was not a favourite; too
reckless a liar. He stood it without a word until he was ready to mount;
then he got on his horse, and, turning round, said--"Laugh away, this
time tomorrow I'll have the laugh of you; this camp is doomed!" He dug
his heels into his horse and disappeared--swish, swish, swish, through
the bog down the bank of the river, and we heard him swearing at his
pack-horse as he crossed the sand.

There was much laughter and wonderment at what had sent Malchook
"off his chump," but eccentricity was common in those days, from
various causes, and presently we all turned in.

I was sleeping under the tarpaulin where the rations were stored, and
about two o'clock in the morning I suddenly awoke. It was brilliant
moonlight, the wind had changed, the rain had ceased, and the moon, by
reason of the scud which flitted across the sky, seemed to travel at
express rate through an archipelago of cloudlets. Some impulse made me
leave the shelter of the mosquito-net, go to the opening at the end of the
tarpaulin and look out.

Everything was still and quiet; all the horses were camped, for not a
bell could be heard, and I stood some time aimlessly listening and
looking at the glistening pools of water upon the flat between our camp
and the bank, when suddenly I distinctly heard a human voice in the bed
of the river. I waited for a moment to make sure, then I got my Martini
and a couple of cartridges and sneaked towards the bank. Last full-moon
the niggers had nearly clubbed the cook in his mosquito-net when he was
sleeping outside the tent one night; this time, I thought, it would be a
case of the biters bitten.

About a hundred yards from the camp I stopped and listened. The voice
was now much nearer. It was a white man's, it was Malchook's, and he
was kicking his knocked up horse along and dragging the pack-horse
after him. I waited behind a tree until he came up, and then I stepped out.
I was only in my shirt, with the carbine in my hand.

"Great God!" he cried, with a kind of choke, "he's here again!"

"What the deuce is up with you?" I said; "why didn't you stop away
when you went? Got bushed, I suppose, and the horses brought you

He sat on his horse and panted for a few minutes without speaking.
Then he said: "That infernal old nigger won't let me go. He hunted me
back. I've got to share your fate, so let's get it over."

He jabbed his heels in his horse's ribs, but I stopped him. "Don't wake
the camp up," I said. "What nigger do you mean?"

"The nigger that Jacky the Span and I roasted in the spinifex. He's
headed me back every road I've tried, and I give it up. Let me turn the
horses out, and get a wink of sleep."

Jacky the Span was an old blackguard of a Mexican who had been
knocked on the head about six months previously. Everybody said he
richly deserved it, and everybody was right.

"When were you up here with Jacky Span?" I asked.

"About two years ago, the time Bratten was killed; but let me turn out
the horses and I'll tell you all about it."

We went quietly back to camp, and let the tired horses go, and then
Malchook sat down on his blankets beside me. The tarpaulin was rigged
some distance from the other tents, and the boys were done up and
sleeping soundly, so nobody awoke. This is what Malchook told me.

Two years before, he and the old Mexican had come up to join Bratten
in mustering some horses that had got away from the lower part of the
river and were supposed to be knocking about below the first gorge. Like
most half-breeds, Jacky the Span (short for Spaniard) was a most
inhuman brute towards the natives whenever he got a chance, and
Malchook, being a blowhard and a bully, was of the same cowardly
disposition--most liars are. One day they spotted an old man and a
young gin at the foot of a spinifex ridge that runs in on the Upper
Nicholson. I knew the place--real old man spinifex that would go
through a leather legging. They rounded the old black up on the top of
the ridge, but missed the gin, and Jacky Span said he would make the
man find her or he should suffer, and Malchook, in order to keep up his
reputation as a flash man and a real old Gulf-hand, aided and abetted

I suppose the poor devil was too frightened to understand what they
really wanted, but, anyhow, all the halfcaste devilry, which is the worst
devilry in the world, was aroused in the Mexican, and Malchook
followed suit.

They selected a bank of spinifex, and rolled the naked nigger in it "for
sport." Now, spinifex is beastly poisonous stuff; get your shins well
pricked, and it is worse than any number of mosquito-bites for irritating
you and making you itch. Horses will not face it after a day or two in
really bad country, and if you run your hand down their shins you will
soon see the reason why. Every little prick festers, and their legs are
covered with tiny boils and ulcers. The blacks always burn it ahead of
them before they travel through it. Out in the "Never-Never" they have
regular tracks which they keep burnt down.

By the time they had rolled this nigger in the spinifex for some
minutes, he must have been in a raging hell of torment; and he knew no
more what they wanted with him than at the start. Then, according to
Malchook, Jacky rolled him into a big bank of dry stuff--they had tied
his feet together--and set fire to it. Spinifex is rare stuff to blaze; being
full of turpentine, it burns with a fierce heat and a black smoke, so the
old nigger was well roasted, and when it burnt out they rolled him into
another bank and set that alight. A gust of wind sprang up and started the
whole ridge ablaze, and the gin, who had been hidden close by, watching
it all, rushed out and ran; Jacky Span picked up the old man's club and
took after her. He was away about half-an-hour; meanwhile the old
fellow died, groaning awfully, and Malchook began to feel as if things
had been better left alone.

Presently, Jacky Span came back with the club in his hand--big two-
handed clubs they use on the Nicholson--and showed Malchook some
blood and hair on it, and laughed like a devil. No need to repeat here all
he said.

Now, if Malchook had there and then blown a Government road
through the brute, there might have been some chance of repentance left
for him, but he didn't. He sniggered and let Jacky Span tell him all about
it, and camped with him for weeks afterwards. Jacky Span was killed, as
I said before, and Malchook assured me, in a sweating blue funk when he
spoke, that just at dark he had met his horses coming back, with the old
roasted nigger behind driving them. He went on to say that this thing had
followed him right up to the river, and shrieked at him that he would die
in the camp. Then he went on to tell that when he tried to get away from
the camp that night the old nigger had met him at every point of the
compass, so that at last he gave it up and returned.

Now, I knew that there had been an importation of brandy lately into
the Gulf country, generally known as the "possum brand," each bottle of
which was calculated to make a man see more devils than six bottles of
any other brand. It was very popular, for it would eat holes in a saddle-
cloth, so I concluded that Malchook had got some of it, for one of the
fellows had returned from Burketown that day. This would account for
the ghost of the blackfellow, but the rest of the yarn about Jacky Span I
felt to be true, so I told Malchook to clear out and sleep somewhere
else--I wouldn't have him under the same tarpaulin with me. He begged
and prayed to be allowed to remain, but I told him I would wake the
camp and tell everything if he didn't go, so he went, sobbing bitterly I
explained to him that the best thing he could do was to shoot himself,
that a man who could follow the lead of a miserable half-caste out of
pure flashness was too contemptible to live; but he didn't appreciate my
kindness, and slouched off to a bit of a sand-hump, about 150 yards from
the camp, and I saw him throw his blankets down and then lie down on
them. I got into my bunk again and went fast asleep in two minutes.

Reeve woke me up. It was broad daylight. "The niggers were here last
night," he said. "Did you hear anything?"

"No." I replied: "but Malchook came back; I saw him."

"Yes. They knocked him on the head--bashed his skull in. He was
sleeping out under that tree--I suppose he was ashamed to wake us up."

"Nobody heard anything?" I asked.

"Not a sound. There are the traces of about six niggers coming out of
the river towards the camp, and they must have stumbled right on top of
Malchook. Poor devil! Polished him off and cleared out. The camp was
doomed for him, after all."

I concluded to tell nothing, beyond having seen Malchook come back
and speaking to him. Sometimes I wonder whether I was not responsible
for his death by hunting him away from the camp, but I always console
myself with the reflection that he only got what he deserved.


"IT'S a bad plan, and generally breeds trouble," said Hervey.
"Well, at any rate, I gave him a pretty severe hiding, and I bet he'll be
all the better for it," replied Ross.

Hervey shook his head. "You can knock a nigger about the head as
much as you like and he thinks nothing of it, but use a whip to him and
he never forgets it. Powlang will have it in for you and wait his chance."

Ross was a fresh hand in outside country where he had lately taken
charge of a station. Like most new-comers, he had a theory of his own
how to treat niggers, and like most new-comers he went to extremes. His
idea was to rule with a hand of iron, and as the blacks had but lately been
allowed to come in to the frontage unmolested, they were constantly
infringing the petty rules he had formulated for their benefit; generally
through ignorance Powlang was a fine young native, nearly six feet high,
with a rather intelligent face. For some reason Ross had an especial
"down" upon him. Catching him one day out hunting near a cattle-camp
the blacks had been told to avoid, he bestowed a flogging on him with
his stock-whip. This was the little affair about which Ross had been
telling his neighbour, Hervey.

Apparently Powlang forgot all about his whipping, despite what
Hervey had said, for he came into the station and was made useful in
many ways, Ross having also seemingly buried the hatchet.

Gradually Powlang learned to ride and became one of the regular
station staff. Matters went very smoothly for nearly a year, Ross,
meanwhile, exercising his whip now and then on some of the refractory
natives, and asking Hervey, whenever they met, "when his fate was to
come off?"

Fifteen miles from the head station was an out-station with a small
stockyard attached. Here a good deal of the mustering and branding was
done to avoid the long drive into the head station. The place simply
consisted of a slab hut and a yard, but a small patch of scrub intervened
between the two, and the yard was not visible from the hut. There had
been a spell of dry weather, then rain fell, and in a week or two
mustering commenced. Nearly all hands were camped at the out-station
for five or six days, and many of the niggers had found their way there
and earned a little tobacco by helping at the branding-yard. Work was
finished at dusk one evening and next morning all started for the head
station. Ross did not leave at the same time as the others, for he and
Powlang were going home by a different route, and when the men left
the other blacks were still in camp.

Ross did not return that day, and next morning all the natives about the
place had left. This was ominous. Hervey came over and a search-party
started. The tracks of the two horses were discovered at the out-station
hut and followed to the river, up which they turned; a few miles further
on they were intermixed with numerous tracks of natives. This
continued, the tracks of the blacks keeping steadily up the river, the
footprints of the two horses being occasionally detected amongst them.
At last a point was reached where the river emerged from the coast-range
through a broken gorge, and the party soon came to a clean-swept bed of
sand with a water-hole at the upper end. This spot, as most of them
knew, was as far as the horses could go up the course of the stream; but
there was plenty to attract the search-party's attention. The natives had
camped there, and the remains of the two horses were scattered on the
sand amongst the ovens of blackened stones where their flesh had been

"Twenty-four hours too late!" said Hervey. "But what have they done
with Ross?"

On searching about it was soon found that the blacks had split up. One
party had made for the mountains on the north side, and one for the
southern range. The whites divided in pursuit, and two days afterwards
turned up at the head station tired and hungry, with footsore horses, both
parties unsuccessful.

The fate of Ross could only be conjectured. Nothing belonging to him
had been found in the blacks' camp, and most people believed in the
ghastly story that was circulated, that he had been cooked and eaten as
well as the horses.

A couple of months after this episode two of the men had occasion to
camp at the out-station hut. They reached the place at dusk, turned
outtheir horses, lit a fire, and, while their quart-pots were boiling,
amused themselves by taking down the greenhide ropes kept there for
branding, and unwinding them to see if they had been damaged by weevils.

"What's come of the long catching-rope, Bill?" said one at last.
"Blessed if I know," was the reply, and they searched the hut without

"Must have been left up the yard," said Bill. "The dingoes have got it
by this time, I'll be bound. I'll have a look in the morning."
"Wonder what became of Ross, after all?" said one, as they sat before
the fire discussing the evening meal.

"Hang it! I was just thinking of him, too. Suppose it's because he was
the last man here--hope he doesn't haunt the place."

After a few more words they lit their pipes, and soon retired to the

"Blowed if I can sleep, and you don't seem much better," said Bill
about midnight, getting up from his bunk, and poking together the
smouldering sticks in the fireplace.

"No, never was so restless in my life," returned his companion.

Both men started their pipes, and, between smoking and dozing, wore
away the hours till break of day, when one went after the horses, and the
other filled the quarts and stood them by the fire.

The sun had just risen when the horses jogged past the hut on their way
to the yard, rattling their hobble chains. Bill heard his companion walk
after them, whistling as he went, then he threw the tea into the pots and
took them off the fire. Just as he did so, his mate rushed wildly in.

"Bill! Come up to the yard! Ross is there!"

The men stared at each other aghast. One with the horror he had seen;
the other at the horror in his friend's face. Then they both hastened to the

The horses were standing with their ears cocked, staring with distended
eyes at an awful object in the branding-yard.

A shrunken, eyeless corpse stood erect, in the centre of the yard, with
lolling head and drooping arms.

The two men clutched each other's hands.

"There's the rope!" said Bill, breaking the awed silence.

The commonplace words restored their courage, and they approached
the remains of the murdered man. It was Ross, the missing super.

A loop in the middle of the catching-rope had been twisted round his
neck, the ends passed through the rails on the opposite sides of the little
yard, and then hauled taut, and made fast. Suspended thus by the neck,
the body had the appearance of standing almost upright in the middle of
the yard. Subsequent investigation went to show that, in all probability,
he was senseless when tied up, as the skull bore the mark of a blow; and
one of the gins subsequently confessed that he was first knocked on the
head by Powlang.

The yard was at the back of the hut, with the patch of scrub between,
and the search-party, picking up the tracks at once, had never thought of
looking at the yard. For two months the dead man had swung there, a
gruesome caretaker of the lonely out-station.

* * * * *

Powlang and the other blacks who were known to have camped at the
hut at the time of that fatal muster, were, on different occasions during
the ensuing twelvemonths, "dispersed in the Queen's name."


This site is full of FREE ebooks - Project Gutenberg Australia