Transcriber’s Note
When italics were used in the original book, the corresponding text has
been surrounded by _underscores_. Bold text has been surrounded by
=equal signs=. Some corrections have been made to the printed text.
These are listed in a second transcriber’s note at the end of the text.
THE GHOST CAMP
OR
THE AVENGERS
THE WORKS OF ROLF BOLDREWOOD.
_Uniform Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3s. 6d. each._
ROBBERY UNDER ARMS.
A COLONIAL REFORMER.
THE MINER’S RIGHT.
A MODERN BUCCANEER.
NEVERMORE.
THE SQUATTER’S DREAM.
A SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON.
OLD MELBOURNE MEMORIES.
MY RUN HOME.
THE SEALSKIN CLOAK.
THE CROOKED STICK; OR, POLLIE’S PROBATION.
PLAIN LIVING.
A ROMANCE OF CANVAS TOWN.
WAR TO THE KNIFE.
BABES IN THE BUSH.
-------
THE SPHINX OF EAGLEHAWK. Fcap. 8vo. 2s.
IN BAD COMPANY, and other Stories. Crown 8vo. 6s.
London: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.
THE GHOST CAMP
OR
THE AVENGERS
BY
ROLF BOLDREWOOD
AUTHOR OF “ROBBERY UNDER ARMS,” “THE MINER’S RIGHT,” ETC.
London
MACMILLAN AND CO., LIMITED
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1902
RICHARD CLAY AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BUNGAY.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I 1
CHAPTER II 30
CHAPTER III 57
CHAPTER IV 93
CHAPTER V 122
CHAPTER VI 159
CHAPTER VII 198
CHAPTER VIII 236
CHAPTER IX 275
CHAPTER X 305
CHAPTER XI 343
CHAPTER XII 365
THE GHOST CAMP
OR, THE AVENGERS
CHAPTER I
A WILD and desolate land; dreary, even savage, to the unaccustomed eye.
Forest-clothed hills towering above the faint, narrow track leading
eastward, along which a man had been leading a tired horse; he was now
resting against a granite boulder. A dark, mist-enshrouded day, during
which the continuous driving showers had soaked through an overcoat, now
become so heavy that he carried it across his arm. A fairly heavy
valise, above a pair of blankets, was strapped in front of his saddle.
He was prepared for bush travelling—although his term of “colonial
experience,” judging from his ruddy cheek and general get-up, had been
limited. A rift in the over-hanging cloud-wrack, through which the low
sunrays broke with a sudden gleam, showed a darksome mountain range to
the south, with summit and sides, snow-clad and dazzling white.
The wayfarer stood up and stared at the apparition: “a good omen,”
thought he, “perhaps a true landmark. The fellows at the mail-change
told me to steer in a general way for the highest snow peak, which they
called ‘the Bogong,’ or some such name. Though this track seems better
marked, these mountain roads, as they call them—goat paths would be the
better name—for there is not a wheel mark to be seen—one needs the foot
of a chamois and the eye of our friend up there.” Here he looked upward,
where one of the great birds of prey, half hawk, half eagle, as the
pioneers decided, floated with moveless wing above crag and hollow. Then
rising with an effort, and taking the bridle rein, he began to lead the
weary horse up the rocky ascent. “Poor old Gilpin!” he soliloquised,
“you are more knocked up than I am—and yet you have the look of a clever
cob—such as we should have fancied in England for a roadster, or a
covert hack. But roads _are_ roads there, while in this benighted land,
people either don’t know how to make them, or seem to do their
cross-country work without them. I wonder if I shall fall in with bed
and board to-night. The last was rough, but sufficing—a good fire too,
now I think of it, and precious cold it was. Well, come along, John! I
must bustle you a bit when we get to the top of this everlasting
hill—truly biblical in that respect. What a lonesome place it is, now
that the sun has gone under again! I suppose there’s no one within fifty
miles—Hulloa!”
This exclamation was called forth by the appearance of a horseman at no
great distance—along the line of track. Man and horse were motionless,
though so near that he wondered he had not observed them before. The
rider’s face, which was towards him, bore, as far as he could judge, an
expression of keenest attention.
“Wonder if he is a bushranger?” thought the traveller; “ought to have
brought one of my revolvers; but everybody told me that there were none
‘out’ now; that I was as safe as if I was in England—safer, in fact,
than ‘south the water’ in the little village. However, I shall soon
know.”
Before he had time to decide seriously, the horseman came towards him.
He saw a slight, dark, wiry individual, something above the middle
height, sunburned, and almost blackened as to such portions of his neck
and face as could be perceived for an abundant beard and moustache. The
horse, blood-looking, and in hard condition, presented a striking
contrast to his own leg-weary, disconsolate animal. The traveller
thought him capable of fast and far performances. His sure and easy
gait, as he stepped freely along the rocky path, stamped him as
“mountain-bred,” or, if not “to the manner born,” having lived long
enough amid these tremendous glens and rocky fastnesses, to negotiate
their ladder-like declivities with ease and safety.
“Good evening!” said the stranger, civilly enough. “Going to ‘Haunted
Creek?’—a bit off the road, ar’n’t you?”
“I _was_ doubtful about the track, but I thought it might lead there. I
was told that it was only eight miles.”
“It’s a good fourteen, and you won’t get there to-night. Not with that
horse, anyhow. But look here! I’m going to my place, a few miles off,
with these cattle—if you like to give me a hand, I can put you up for
the night, and show you the way in the morning.”
“Thanks very much, really I feel much obliged to you. I was afraid I
should have had to camp out, and it looks like a bad night.”
“All right,” said the bushman, for such he evidently was; “these
crawlin’ cattle are brutes to straggle, and I’m lost without my dog.
I’ll bring ’em up, and if you’ll keep the tail going, we’ll get along
easy enough.”
“But where are they?” inquired the tourist, looking around, as if he
expected to see them rise out of the earth.
“Close by,” answered the stranger, laconically, at the same time riding
down the slope of the mountain with loose rein, and careless seat, as if
the jumble of rocks, tree-roots, and rolling stones, was the most level
high road in the world. Looking after the new acquaintance he descried a
small lot of cattle perched on a rocky pinnacle, partly covered by a
patch of scrub. The grass around them was high and green—but, with one
exception, that of a cow munching a tussac in an undecided way, they did
not appear to care about the green herbage, or tall kangaroo grass which
grew around them. Had he known anything about the habits of cattle, he
would have seen by their appearance that these fat beasts (for such they
were) had come far and fast; were like his horse, thoroughly exhausted,
and as such, indifferent to the attractions of wayside pasture.
However, with the aid of a hunting crop, which he flourished behind
them, with threatening action, the bushman soon managed to get them on
to the track, and with the aid of his newly-made comrade induced them to
move with a decent show of alacrity. That some were footsore, and two
painfully lame, was apparent to the new assistant, also that they were
well-bred animals, heavy weights, and in that state and condition which
is provincially alluded to as “rolling fat.”
“Nice meat, ar’n’t they?” said the bushman; “come a good way too.
Beastly rough track; I was half a mind to bring them by Wagga—but this
is the shortest way—straight over the ranges. I’m butchering just now,
with gold-mining for a change, but that’s mostly winter work.”
“Where do you buy your cattle?” asked the Englishman—not that he cared
as to that part of the occupation, but the gold-mining seemed to him a
romantic, independent way of earning a living. He was even now turning
over in his mind the idea of a few months camping among these Alpine
regions, with, of course, the off-chance of coming upon an untouched
gold mine.
“Oh! a few here and there, in all sorts of places.” Here the stranger
shot a searching glance, tinged with suspicion, towards the questioner.
“I buy the chance of stray cattle now and then, and pick ’em up as I
come across ’em. We’d as well jog along here, it’s better going.”
The track had become more marked. There were no wheel marks, the absence
of which had surprised the traveller, since the beginning of his day’s
march, but tracks of cattle and unshod horses were numerous; while the
ground being less rocky, indeed commencing to be marshy, no difficulty
was found in driving the cattle briskly along it. His horse too, having
“company,” had become less dilatory and despondent.
“We’re not far off, now,” said his companion, “and it’s just as well.
We’ll have rain to-night—may be snow. So a roof and a fire won’t be too
bad.”
To this statement the tourist cheerfully assented, his spirits rising
somewhat, when another mile being passed, they turned to the north at a
sharp angle to the road, and following a devious track, found themselves
at the slip-rails of a small but well-fenced paddock, into which the
cattle were turned, and permitted to stray at will. Fastening the slip
rails with scrupulous care, and following the line of fence for a
hundred yards, they came to a hut built of slabs, and neatly roofed with
sheets of the stringy bark tree (Eucalyptus obliqua) where his guide
unsaddled, and motioned to the guest to do likewise. As also to put the
saddle against the wall of the hut, with the stuffing outward. “That’ll
dry ’em a bit,” he said; “mine’s wet enough anyhow. Just bring your
horse after me.”
Passing through a hand gate, he released his horse, first, however,
putting on a pair of hobbles; “the feed’s good,” he said, “but this
moke’s just out of the bush, and rather flash—he might jump the fence in
the night, so it’s best to make sure. Yours won’t care about anything
but filling his belly, not to-night anyhow, so he can go loose. Now
we’ll see about a fire, and boil the billy for tea. Come along in.”
Entering the hut, which though small, was neat and clean; it was seen to
contain two rooms, the inner one apparently used as a bedroom, there
being two bed-places, on each of which was a rude mattress covered with
a blanket. A store of brushwood and dry billets had been placed in a
corner, from which a fire was soon blazing in the rude stone chimney,
while a camp kettle (provincially a “billy”) was on the way to boil
without loss of time.
A good-sized piece of corned beef, part of a round, with half a “damper”
loaf being extracted from a cupboard or locker, was placed on the rude
slab table; after which pannikins and tin plates, with knives and forks,
provided from the same receptacle, were brought forth, completing the
preparations for a meal that the guest believed he was likely to relish.
“Oh! I nearly forgot,” said the traveller, as his entertainer, dropping
a handful of tea into the “billy,” now at the boil, and stirring it with
a twig, put on the lid. “I brought a flask, it’s very fair whisky, and a
tot won’t hurt either of us, after a long day and a wet one.” Going to
his coat, he brought out a flask, and nearly filling the tin cup which
was closed over the upper part, offered it to his host. He, rather to
the surprise of the Englishman, hesitated and motioned as if to refuse,
but on second thoughts smiled in a mysterious way, and taking the tin
cup, nodded, and saying “Well, here’s fortune!” tossed it off. Blount
took one of the pannikins, and pouring out a moderate allowance, filled
it up with the clear spring water, and drank it by instalments.
“I must say I feel better after that,” he observed, “and if a dram needs
an excuse, a long, cold ride, stiff legs, and a wetting ought to be
sufficient.”
“They don’t look about for excuses up here,” said his new acquaintance,
“and some takes a deal more than is good for them. I don’t hold with
that, but a nip or two’s neither here nor there, particular after a long
day. Help yourself to the meat and damper, you see your supper.”
The traveller needed no second invitation; he did not, like the clerk of
Copmanhurst, plunge his fingers into the venison pasty, there being
neither venison nor pasty, but after cutting off several slices of the
excellent round of beef which had apparently sustained previous
assaults, he made good time, with the aid of a well-baked “damper,” and
an occasional reference to a pannikin of hot tea, so that as their
appetites declined, more leisure was afforded for conversation.
“And now,” he said, after filling up a second pannikin of tea, and
lighting his pipe, “I’m sure I’m very much obliged to you, as I hear the
rain coming down, and the wind rising. May I ask whose hospitality I’m
enjoying? I’m Valentine Blount of Langley in Herefordshire. Not long
out, as I dare say you have noticed. Just travelling about to have a
look at the country.”
“My name’s John Carter,” said the bushman, with apparent frankness, as
he confronted Blount’s steady eye, “but I’m better known from here to
Omeo, as ‘Little River Jack’; there’s lots of people knows me by that
name, that don’t know me by any other.”
“And what do you do when you get gold—take it to Melbourne to sell?”
“There’s no call to do that. Melbourne’s a good way off, and it takes
time to get there. But there’s always gold buyers about townships, that
are on for a little business. They give a trifle under market price, but
they pay cash, and it suits us mountain chaps to deal that way.
Sometimes I’m a buyer myself, along with the cattle-dealing. Look here!”
As he spoke, he detached a leather pouch from his belt, looking like one
that stockriders wear for carrying pipe and tobacco, which he threw on
the table. The grog had inclined to confidences and relaxed his attitude
of caution. Blount lifted it, rather surprised at its weight. “This is
gold, isn’t it?”
“Yes! a good sample too. Worth four pound an ounce. Like to look at it?”
“Very much. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen gold in the raw state
before.”
“Well, here it is—the real thing, and no mistake. Right if a chap could
only get enough of it.” Here he opened the mouth of the pouch, which
seemed three parts full, and pouring some of it on a tin plate, awaited
Blount’s remarks.
As the precious metal, partly in dust, partly in larger fragments,
rattled on the plate, Blount looked on with deep interest, and then, on
being invited so to do, handled it with the air of a man to whom a new
and astonishing object is presented for the first time.
“So,” he said musingly, “here is one of the great lures which have moved
the world since the dawn of history. Love, war, and ambition, have been
subservient to it. Priests and philosophers, kings and queens, the court
beauty and the Prime Minister, have vainly struggled against its
influence. But—” he broke off with a laugh, as he noted his companion’s
look of wonder, “here am I, another example of its fascination,
moralising in a mountain hut and mystifying my worthy entertainer.”
“And now, my friend!” he inquired, relapsing into the manner of everyday
life, “what may be the market value of this heavy little parcel?”
“Well—I put it at fifty ounces, or thereabouts,” said Mr. “Little River
Jack,” carefully pouring back the contents of the pouch, to the last
grain; “at, say four pound an ounce, it’s worth a couple of hundred
notes, though _we_ sha’n’t get that price for it. But at Melbourne mint,
it’s worth every shilling, maybe a trifle more.” Before closing the
pouch, he took out a small nugget of, perhaps, half an ounce in weight,
and saying, “You’re welcome to this. It’ll make a decent scarf pin,”
handed it to Mr. Blount.
But that gentleman declined it, saying, “Thanks, very much, but I’d
rather not.” Then, seeing that the owner seemed hurt, even resentful,
qualified the refusal by saying, “But if you would do me a service,
which I should value far more, you might introduce me to some party of
miners, with whom I could work for a month or two, and learn, perhaps,
how to get a few ounces by my own exertions. I think I should like the
work. It must be very interesting.”
“It’s that interesting,” said the bushman, all signs of annoyance
clearing from his countenance, “that once a man takes to it he never
quits it till he makes a fortune or dies so poor that the Government has
to bury him. I’ve known many a man that used a cheque book as big as a
school slate, and could draw for a hundred thousand or more, drop it all
in a few years, and be found dead in a worse ‘humpy’ than this, where
he’d been living alone for years.”
“Strange to have been rich by his own handiwork, and not to be able to
keep something for his old age,” said Blount; “how is it to be accounted
for?”
“By luck, d—d hard luck!” said John Carter, whom the subject seemed to
have excited. “Every miner’s a born gambler; if he don’t do it with
cards, he puts his earnings, his time, his life blood, as one might say,
on the chance of a claim turning out well. It’s good luck, and not hard
work, that gives him a ‘golden hole,’ where he can’t help digging up
gold like potatoes, and it’s luck, bad luck, that turns him out a beggar
from every ‘show’ for years, till he hasn’t got a shirt to his back. Why
do I stick to it, you’ll say? Because I’m a fool, always have been,
always will be, I expect. But I like the game, and I can’t leave it for
the life of me. However, that says nothing. I’m no worse than others. I
can just keep myself and my horse, while there’s an old mate of mine
living in London and Paris, and swelling it about with the best! You’d
like to have a look in, you say? Well, you stop at Bunjil for a week,
till I come back from Bago; it’s a good inn, clean and comfortable, and
the girl there, if I tell her, will look after you; see you have a fire
too, these cold nights. Are you on?”
“Yes! most decidedly,” replied Blount, with great heartiness. “A
mountain hotel should be a new experience.”
“Then it’s a bargain. I’m going down the river for a few days. When I
get back, I’ll pick you up at Bunjil, and we’ll go to a place such as
you never seen before, and might never have dropped on as long as you
lived, if you hadn’t met me, accidental like. And now we’d as well turn
in. I expect some chaps that’s bought the cattle, and they won’t be here
later than daylight.” Accepting another glass of whisky as nightcap, and
subsequently removing merely his boots and breeches, both of which he
placed before the fire, but at a safe distance, Mr. “Little River Jack”
“turned in” as he expressed it, and was shortly wrapped in the embrace
of the kind deity who favours the dwellers in the Waste, though often
rejecting the advances of the luxurious inhabitants of cities. Mr.
Blount delayed his retirement, as he smoked before the still glowing
“back log” and dwelt upon the adventures of the day.
“How that fellow must enjoy his slumbers!” thought he. “In the saddle
before daylight, as he told me; up and down these rocky
fastnesses—fifteen hours of slow, monotonous work, more wearying than
any amount of fast going—and now, by his unlaboured breathing, sleeping
like a tired child; his narrow world—its few cares—its honest, if
sometimes exhausting labours, as completely shut out as if he was in
another planet. Enviable mortal! I should like to change places with
him.”
After expressing this imprudent desire, as indeed are often those of
men, who, unacquainted with the conditions surrounding untried modes of
life, believe that they could attain happiness by merely exchanging
positions, Mr. Blount undressed before the fire, and bestowed himself
upon the unoccupied couch, where he speedily fell asleep, just as he had
imagined himself extracting large lumps of gold from a vein of virgin
quartz, in a romantic fern-shaded ravine, discovered by himself.
From this pleasing state of matters, he was awakened by a sound as of
horse hoofs and the low growl of a dog. It was not quite dark. He sat up
and listened intently. There was no illusion. He went to the hut door
and looked out. Day was breaking, and through the misty dawnlight he was
enabled to distinguish his host in conversation with a man on horseback,
outside of the slip-rails. Presently the cattle, driven by another
horseman, with whom was a dog, apparently of more than ordinary
intelligence, came to the slip-rails. They made a rush as soon as they
were through, as is the manner of such, on strange ground—but the second
horseman promptly “wheeled” them towards the faint dawn line now
becoming more distinct, and disappeared through the forest arches. Mr.
Blount discerning that the day had begun, for practical purposes,
proceeded to dress.
Walking over to the chimney, he found that the smouldering logs had been
put together, and a cheerful blaze was beginning to show itself. The
billy, newly filled, was close to it, and by the time he had washed the
upper part of his body in a tin bucket placed on a log end, outside the
door, his friend of the previous night appeared with both horses, which
he fastened to the paddock fence.
“Those fellows woke you up, coming for the cattle? Thought you’d sleep
through it. I was going to rouse you when breakfast was ready.”
“I slept soundly in all conscience, but still I was quite ready to turn
out. I suppose those were the butchers that you sold the cattle to?”
“Two of their men—it’s all the same. They stopped close by last night so
as to get an early start. They’ve a good way to go, and’ll want all
their time, these short days. Your horse looks different this morning.
It’s wonderful what a good paddock and a night’s rest will do!”
“Yes, indeed, he does look different,” as he saddled him up, and,
plucking some of the tall grass which grew abundantly around, treated
him to a partial rub down. “How far is it to Bunjil, as you call it?”
“Well, not more than twenty miles, but the road’s middlin’ rough. Anyhow
we’ll get there latish, and you can take it easy till I come back. I
mightn’t be away more than three or four days.”
Misty, even threatening, at the commencement, the day became fine, even
warm, after breakfast. Wind is rarely an accompaniment of such weather,
and as the sun rode higher in the cloudless sky, Blount thought he had
rarely known a finer day. “What bracing mountain air!” he said to
himself. “Recalls the Highlands; but I see no oat fields, and the
peasantry are absent. These hills should rear a splendid race of men—and
rosy-cheeked lasses in abundance. The roads I cannot recommend.”
Mr. John Carter had admitted that the way was rough. His companion
thought he had understated the case. It was well nigh impassable. When
not climbing hills as steep as the side of a house, they were sliding
down bridle tracks like the “Ladder of Cattaro.” These Mr. Carter’s
horse hardly noticed; a down grade being negotiated with ease and
security, while he seemed, to Blount’s amazement, to step from rock to
rock like a chamois. That gentleman’s own horse had no such
accomplishments, but blundered perilously from time to time, so that his
owner was fain to lead him over the rougher passes. This rendered their
progress slower than it would otherwise have been, while he was fain to
look enviously at his companion, who, either smoking or discoursing on
local topics, rode with careless rein, trusting implicitly, as it
seemed, to his horse’s intelligence.
“Here’s the Divide!” he said at length, pointing to a ridge which rose
almost at right angles from the accepted track. “We leave the road here,
and head straight for Bunjil mountain. There he stands with his cap on!
The snow’s fell early this season.”
As he spoke he pointed towards a mountain peak of unusual height,
snow-capped, and even as to its spreading flanks, streaked with patches
and lines of the same colour. The white clouds which hung round the
lofty summit—six thousand feet from earth, were soft-hued and fleecy;
but their pallor was blurred and dingy compared with the silver coronet
which glorified the dark-hued Titan.
“Road!” echoed Mr. Blount, “I don’t see any; what passes for it, I shall
be pleased to leave. If we are to go along this ‘Divide,’ as you call
it, I hope it will be pleasanter riding.”
“Well, it is a queerish track for a bit, but after Razor Back’s passed,
it’s leveller like. We can raise a trot for a mile or two afore we make
Bunjil township. Razor Back’s a narrer cut with a big drop both sides,
as we shall have to go stiddy over.”
“The Divide,” as John Carter called it, was an improvement upon the
track they quitted. It was less rocky, and passably level. There was a
gradual ascent however, which Mr. Blount did not notice until he
observed that the timber was becoming more sparse, while the view around
them was disclosing features of a grand, even awful character. On either
side the forest commenced to slope downwards, at an increasingly sharp
gradient. Instead of the ordinary precipice, above which the travellers
rode, on one or other side of the bridle track, having the hill on the
other, there appeared to be a precipice of unknown depth on _either
hand_. As the ascent became more marked, Blount perceived that the
winding path led towards a pinnacle from which the view was extensive,
and in a sense, dreadful, from its dizzy altitude—its abysmal
depths,—and, as he began to realise, its far from improbable danger.
“This here’s what we call the leadin’ range; it follers the divide from
the head waters of the Tambo; that’s where we stopped last night. It’s
the only road between that side of the country and the river. If you
don’t strike this ‘cut,’ and there’s not more than a score or so of us
mountain chaps as knows it, it would take a man days to cross over, and
then he mightn’t do it.”
“What would happen to him?” asked Blount, feeling a natural curiosity to
learn more of this weird region, differing so widely from any idea that
he had ever gathered from descriptions of Australia.
“Well, he’d most likely get bushed, and have to turn back, though he
mightn’t find it too easy to do that, or make where he come from. In
winter time, if it come on to snow, he’d never get home at all. I’ve
known things happen like that. There was one poor cove last winter, as
we chaps were days out searchin’ for, and then found him stiff, and
dead—he’d got sleepy, and never woke up!”
While this enlivening conversation was proceeding, the man from a far
country discovered that the pathway, level enough for ordinary purposes,
though he and his guide were no longer riding side by side, was rapidly
narrowing. What breadth it would be, when they ascended to the pinnacle
above them, he began to consider with a shade of apprehension. His
hackney, which Mr. Jack Carter had regarded with slightly-veiled
contempt as a “flat country horse, as had never seen a rise bigger than
a haystack,” evidently shared his uneasiness, inasmuch as he had
stopped, stared and trembled from time to time, at awkward places on the
road, before they came to the celebrated “leading range.”
In another mile they reached the pinnacle, where Blount realised the
true nature and surroundings of this Alpine Pass. Such indeed it proved
to be. A narrow pathway, looking down on either side, upon fathomless
glens, with so abrupt a drop that it seemed as if the wind, now rising,
might blow them off their exposed perch.
The trees which grew at the depths below, though in reality tall and
massive eucalypts, appeared scarce larger than berry bushes.
The wedge-tailed eagles soared above and around. One pair indeed came
near and gazed on them with unblenching eye, as though speculating on
the duration of their sojourn. They seemed to be the natural denizens of
this dizzy and perilous height, from which the vision ranged, in
wondering amaze over a vast lone region, which stretched to the horizon;
appearing indeed to include no inconsiderable portion of the continent.
Below, around, even to the far, misty sky-line, was a grey, green ocean,
the billows of which, through the branches of mighty forest trees, were
reduced by distance to a level and uniform contour. Tremendous glens,
under which ran clear cold mountain streams, tinkling and rippling ever,
mimic waterfalls and flashing rivulets, the long dry summer through
diversified the landscape.
Silver streams crossed these plains and downs of solemn leafage,
distinguishable only when the sun flashed on their hurrying waters.
These were rivers—not inconsiderable either—while companies of
snow-crowned Alps stood ranged between, tier upon tier above them and
the outlined rim, where earth and sky met, vast, regal, awful, as Kings
of the Over-world! On guard since the birth of time, rank upon rank they
stood—silent, immovable, scornful—defying the puny trespassers on their
immemorial demesne. “What a land! what a vast expanse!” thought the
Englishman, “rugged, untamed, but not more so than ‘Caledonia stern and
wild,’ more fertile and productive, and as to extent—boundless. I see
before me,” he mused, “a country larger than Sweden, capable in time of
carrying a dense population; and what a breed of men it should give
birth to, athletic, hardy, brave! Horsemen too, in the words of
Australia’s forest poet, whom I read but of late. ‘For the horse was
never saddled that the Jebungs couldn’t ride.’ Good rifle shots! What
sons of the Empire should these Australian highlands rear, to do battle
for Old England in the wars of the giants yet to come!”
This soliloquy, and its utterance in thought came simultaneously to a
halt of a decisive nature, by reason of the conduct of Mr. Blount’s
horse. This animal had been gradually acquiring a fixed distrust of the
highway—all too literally—on which he was required to travel. Looking
first on one side, then on the other, and apparently realising the
dreadful alternative of a slip or stumble, he became unnerved and
demoralised. Mr. Blount had ridden a mule over many a _mauvais pas_ in
Switzerland, when the sagacious animal, for reasons known to himself,
had insisted on walking on the outer edge of the roadway, over-hanging
the gulf, where a crumbling ledge might cause the fall into
immeasurable, glacial depths. In that situation his nerve had not
faltered. “Trust to old ‘Pilatus,’” said the guide; “do not interfere
with him, I beseech you; he is under the immediate protection of the
saints, and the holy St. Bernard.” He had in such a position been cool
and composed. The old mule’s wise, experienced air, his sure and
cautious mode of progression, had been calculated to reassure a nervous
novice. But here, the case was different. His cob was evidently _not_
under the protection of the saints. St. Bernard was absent, or
indifferent. With the recklessness of fear, he was likely to back—to
lose his balance—to hurl himself and rider over the perpendicular drop,
where he would not have touched ground at a thousand feet. At this
moment Jack Carter looked round. “Keep him quiet, for God’s sake! till I
get to you—don’t stir!” As he spoke he slid from his horse, though so
small was the vacant space on the ledge, that as he leaned against the
shoulder of his well-trained mount, there seemed barely room for his
feet. Buckling a strap to the snaffle rein, which held it in front of
the saddle, and throwing the stirrup iron over, he passed to the head of
the other horse, whose rein he took in a firm grasp. “Steady,” he said
in a voice of command, which, strangely, the shaking creature seemed to
obey. “Now, Boss! you get off, and slip behind him—there’s just room.”
Blount did as directed, and with care and steadiness, effected a
movement to the rear, while Jack Carter fastened rein and stirrup as
before.
Then giving the cob a sounding slap on the quarter, he uttered a
peculiar cry, and the leading horse stepped along the track at a fast
amble, followed by the cob at a slow trot, in which he seemed to have
recovered confidence.
“That’s a quick way out of the difficulty,” said Blount, with an air of
relief. “I really didn’t know what was going to happen. But won’t they
bolt when they get to the other side of this natural bridge over the
bottomless pit?”
“When they get to the end of this ‘race,’ as you may call it, there’s a
trap yard that we put up years back for wild horses—many a hundred’s
been there before my time. Some of us mountain chaps keep it mended up.
It comes in useful now and again.”
“I should think it did,” assented his companion, with decision. “But how
will they get in? Will your clever horse take down the slip-rails, and
put them up again?”
“Not quite that!” said the bushman smiling—“but near enough; we’ll find
’em both there, I’ll go bail!”
“How far is it?” asked Blount, with a natural desire to get clear of
this picturesque, but too exciting part of the country, and to exchange
it for more commonplace scenery, with better foothold.
“Only a couple of mile—so we might as well step out, as I’ve filled my
pipe. Won’t you have a draw for company?”
“Not just yet, I’ll wait till we’re mounted again.” For though the
invariable, inexhaustible tobacco pipe is the steadfast friend of the
Australian under all and every condition of life, Blount did not feel in
the humour for it just after he had escaped, as he now began to believe,
from a sudden and violent death.
“A well-trained horse! I should think he was,” he told himself; “and
yet, before I left England, I was always being warned against the
half-broken horses of Australia. What a hackney to be sure!—fast, easy,
sure-footed, intelligent—and what sort of breaking in has he had? Mostly
ridden by people whom no living horse can throw; but that is a
disadvantage—as he instinctively recognises the rider he _can_ throw.
Well! every country has its own way of doing things; and though we
Englishmen are unchangeably fixed in our own methods, we may have
something to learn yet from our kinsmen in this new land.”
“I suppose there have been accidents on this peculiar track of yours?”
he said, after they had walked in silence for a hundred yards or more.
“Accidents!” he replied, “I should jolly well think there have. You see,
horses are like men and women, though people don’t hardly believe it.
Some’s born one way, and some another; teaching don’t make much
difference to ’em, nor beltin’ either. Some of ’em, like some men, are
born cowards, and when they get into a narrer track with a big drop both
sides of ’em, they’re that queer in the head—though it’s the _heart_
that’s wrong with ’em—that they feel like pitching theirselves over,
just to get shut of the tremblin’ on the brink feelin’. Your horse was
in a blue funk; he’d have slipped or backed over in another minute or
two. That was the matter with _him_. When he seen old Keewah skip along
by himself, it put confidence like, into him.”
“You’ve known of accidents, then?”
“My word! I mind when poor Paddy Farrell went down. He and his horse
both. He was leadin’ a packer, as it might be one of us now. Well, his
moke was a nervous sort of brute, and just as he got to the Needle Rock,
it’s a bit farther on before the road widens out, but it’s terrible
narrer there, and poor Paddy was walking ahead leadin’ the brute with a
green hide halter, when a hawk flies out from behind a rock and
frightened the packer. He draws back with a jerk, and his hind leg goes
over the edge. Paddy had the end of the halter round his wrist, and it
got jammed somehow, and down goes the lot, horse and pack, and him atop
of ’em. Three or four of us were out all day looking for him at the foot
of the range. We knew where we’d likely find him, and sure enough there
they were, he and his horse, stone dead and smashed to pieces. We took
him back to Bunjil, and buried him decent in the little graveyard. We
managed to fish up a prayer-book, and got ‘Gentleman Jack’ to read the
service over him. My word! he _could_ read no end. They said he was
college taught. He could drink too, more’s the pity.”
“Does _every one_ drink that lives in these parts?”
“Well, a good few. Us young ones not so bad, but if a man stays here,
after a few years he always drinks, partickler if he’s seen better
days.”
“Now why is that? It’s a free healthy life, with riding, shooting, and a
chance of a golden hole, as you call it. There are worse places to live
in.”
“Nobody knows why, but they all do; they’ll work hard and keep sober for
months. Then they get tired of having no one to talk to—nobody like
theirselves, I mean. They go away, and come back stone-broke, or knock
it all down in Bunjil, if they’ve made a few pounds.”
“That sounds bad after working hard and risking their lives on these
Devil’s Bridges. How old was this Patrick Farrell?”
“Twenty-four, his name wasn’t Patrick. It was Aloysius William, named
after a saint, I’m told. The boys called him ‘Paddy’ for short. At home,
I believe they called him ‘Ally.’ But Paddy he always was in these
parts. It don’t matter much now. See that tall rock sticking up by the
side of the road at the turn? Well, that’s where he fell; they call it
‘Paddy’s Downfall,’ among the country people to this day. We’ve only a
mile to go from there.”
When Mr. Blount and his companion reached the Needle Rock, a sharp-edged
monolith, the edge of which unnecessarily infringed on the perilously
scanty foothold, he did not wonder at the downfall of poor Aloysius
William or any other wayfarer encumbered with a horse. He recalled the
“vision of sudden death” which had so nearly been realised in his own
case, and shuddered as he looked over the sheer drop on to a tangled
mass of “rocks and trees confusedly hurled.”
“We’ve got Bunjil Inn to make yet,” said the bushman, stepping forward
briskly; “we mustn’t forget that, if we leave my old moke too long in
the yard, he’ll be opening the gate or some other dodge.”
In a hundred yards from the Needle Rock the track became wider, much to
Mr. Blount’s relief, for he was beginning to feel an uncanny fascination
for the awful abyss, and to doubt whether if a storm came on, he should
be able to stand erect, or be reduced to the ignoble alternative of
lying on his face.
“They’ve passed along here all right,” said the guide, casting a casual
look at the path; “trust old Keewah for that, he’s leadin’ and your moke
following close up.”
Mr. Blount did not see any clear indication, and would have been quite
unable to declare which animal was foremost. But he accepted in all
confidence Little-River-Jack’s assurance. The track, without gaining
much breadth or similarity to any civilised high road, was yet superior
in all respects to the chamois path they had left behind, and when his
companion exclaimed, “There’s the yard, and our nags in it, as safe as
houses,” he was relieved and grateful. The loss of a horse with a new
saddle and bridle, besides his whole stock of travelling apparel, spare
shoes, and other indispensable matters, would have been serious, not to
say irreparable.
However there were the two horses with their accoutrements complete, in
the trap yard aforesaid. The yard was fully eight feet high, and though
the saplings of which it was composed were rudely put together, they
were solid and unyielding. The heavy gate of the same material showed a
rude carpentry in the head and tail pieces, the former of which was “let
into the cap” or horizontal spar placed across the gate posts, and also
morticed into a round upright below, sunk into the ground and projecting
securely above it.
“They must have come in and shut the gate after them,” remarked Blount;
“how in the world did they manage that?”
“Well, you see, this gate’s made pretty well on the balance to swing
back to the post, where there’s a sort of groove for it. It’s always
left half, or a quarter open. A prop’s put loose agen it, which any
stock coming in from that side’s middlin’ sure to rub, and the gate
swings to. See? It may graze ’em, as they’re going in, but they’re
likely to jump forward, into the yard. The gate swings back to the post,
and they’re nabbed. They can’t very well open it _towards_ themselves,
they haven’t savey for that. So they have to wait till some one comes.”
This explanation was given as they were riding along a decently plain
road to Bunjil township, the first appearance of which one traveller
descried with much contentment.
The “Divide,” before this agreeable change, had begun to alter its
austere character. The ridge had spread out, the forest trees were
stately and umbrageous, the track was fairly negotiable by horse and
man. A fertile valley through which dashed an impetuous stream revealed
itself. On the further bank stood dwellings, “real cottages,” as Mr.
Blount remarked, “not huts.” These were in all cases surrounded by
gardens, in some instances by orchards, of which the size and girth of
the fruit trees bore witness to the richness of the soil as well as of
the age of the township.
The short winter day had been nearly consumed by reason of their erratic
progress; so that the evening shadows had commenced to darken the
valley, while the clear, crisp atmosphere betrayed to the experienced
senses of Mr. Carter, every indication of what he described as “a real
crackin’ frost.”
“We’re in luck’s way,” he said, in continuation, “not to be struck for a
camp out to-night. It’s cold enough in an old man frost hereabouts, to
freeze the leg off an iron pot. But this is the right shop as we’re
going to, for a good bed, a broiled steak for tea, and if you make
friends with Sheila (she’s the girl that waits at table) you won’t die
of cold, whatever else happens to you. Above all, the house is clean,
and that’s more than you can say for smarter lookin’ shops. We’d as well
have a spurt to finish up with.” Drawing his rein, and touching his hack
with careless heel, the bushman went off at a smart canter along the
main street, apparently the only one in the little town, Mr. Blount’s
cob following suit with comparative eagerness, until they pulled up at a
roomy building with a broad verandah, before which stood a sign-board,
setting forth its title to consideration, as the “Prospector’s Arms” by
William Middleton.
Several persons stood or lounged about the verandah, who looked at them
keenly as they rode up. A broad-shouldered man with a frank, open
countenance, came out of a door, somewhat apart from the group. He was
plainly, by appearance and bearing, the landlord.
“So you’re back again, Jack,” said he, addressing the bushman with an
air of familiar acquaintance; “didn’t know what had come o’yer. What lay
are ye on now?”
“Same’s usual, moochin’ round these infernal hills and gullies ov yours.
There’s a bit of a rush Black Rock way. I’m goin’ to have a look in
to-morrow. This gentleman’s just from England, seein’ the country in a
gineral way; he’ll stay here till I get back, and then we’ll be going
down river.”
“All right, Jack!” replied the host. “_You_ can show him the country, if
any one can—the missus’ll see he’s took care of,” and as he spoke he
searched the speaker with a swift glance as of one comprehending all
that had been said, and more that was left unspoken. “Here, take these
horses round, George, and make ’em right for the night.”
An elderly individual in shirt sleeves and moleskins of faded hue here
came forward, and took the stranger’s horse, unbuckling valise and pack,
which the landlord carried respectfully into an inner chamber, out of
which a door led into a comfortable appearing bedroom; where, from the
look of the accessories, he augured favourably for the night’s rest. Mr.
Carter had departed with the old groom, preferring, as he said, to see
his horse fed and watered before he tackled his own refreshment; “grub”
was the word he used, which appeared to be fully understanded of the
people, if but vaguely explanatory to Mr. Blount.
That gentleman, pensively examining his wardrobe, reflected meanwhile by
how narrow a chance the articles spread out before him had been saved
from wreck, so to speak, and total loss, when a knock came to the door,
and a feminine voice requested to know whether he would like supper at
six o’clock or later. Taking counsel of his inward monitor, he adopted
the hour named.
The voice murmured, “Your hot water, sir,” and ceased speaking.
He opened the door, and was just in time to see a female form disappear
from the room.
“We are beginning to get civilised,” he thought, as he possessed himself
of the hot water jug, and refreshed accordingly. After which he
discarded his riding gear in favour of shoes and suitable continuations.
While awaiting the hour of reflection, he took out of his valise a
pocket edition of Browning, and was about to glance at it when the clock
struck six.
Entering the parlour, for such it evidently was, he was agreeably
surprised with the appearance of affairs. A clean cloth covered the
solid cedar table, on which was a hot dish—flanked by another which held
potatoes. A fire of glowing logs was cheerful to behold, nor was the
“neat-handed Phyllis” wanting to complete the tableau. A very
good-looking young woman, with a complexion of English, rather than
Australian colouring, removed the dish covers, and stood at attention.
Here the wayfarer was destined to receive fresh information relative to
the social observances of Australian society. “You have only laid covers
for one,” said he to the maid. “My friend, Mr. Carter, is not going to
do without his dinner surely?”
“Oh! Jack!” said the damsel, indifferently; “he won’t come in here, he’s
at the second table with the coachman and the drovers. This is the
gentlemen’s room.”
“How very curious!” he exclaimed. “I thought every one was alike in this
part of the world; all free and equal, that sort of thing. I shouldn’t
the least mind spending the evening with er—John Carter—or any other
respectable miner.”
The girl looked him over before she spoke. “Well, Mr. Blount (Jack said
that was your name), _you_ mightn’t, though you’re just from England,
but other people might. When the police magistrate, the Goldfields
Warden, and the District Surveyor come round, they always stay here, and
the down river squatters. They wouldn’t like it, you may be sure, nor
you either, perhaps, if the room was pretty full.”
He smiled, as he answered, “So this is an aristocratic country, I
perceive, in spite of the newspaper froth about a democratic government.
Well, I must take time, and learn the country’s ways. I shall pick them
up by degrees, I suppose.”
“No fear!” said the damsel. “It’ll all come in time, not but there’s
places at the back where all sorts sit down together and smoke and drink
no end. But not at Bunjil. Would you like some apple-pie to follow,
there’s plenty of cream?”
Mr. Blount would. “Apple-pie reminds one of Devonshire, and our
boyhood—especially the cream,” thought he. “What fun I should have
thought this adventure a few years ago. Not that it’s altogether without
interest now. It’s a novelty, at any rate.”