“YOU will tell us about Dayrell, Sergeant?” said Mr. Blount. “Is it a
tale of mystery and fear?”
“It was God’s judgment upon the shedding of innocent blood,” said the
Sergeant solemnly; “they’re in their graves, the haill company, the
betrayer and the betrayed. The nicht’s turned dark and eerie. To say
truth, I wad as lieve lay the facts before ye, in the licht o’ day. It’s
a dark walk by the river oaks, and a man may weel fancy he hears
whisperings, and voices of the deid in the midnight blast. I’m at your
sairvice ony day before ye leave Bunjil, but I’ll be makin’ tracks the
noo, wi’ your permeession, sir, and my thanks to ye. Gude nicht!”
The veteran had made up his mind, and wrapped in a horseman’s cloak such
as the paternal Government of Victoria still serves out to the Mounted
Police Force, he marched forth into the night. The landlord parted from
him on the verandah, while Blount walked up and down for an hour,
watching a storm-cloud whelming in gathering gloom the dimly outlined
range, until the rain fell with tropical volume necessitating a retreat
to the parlour, where the logs still sent out a grateful warmth. “The
old man must have missed that downpour,” he said. “He was wise to depart
in good time.”
* * * * *
Another meeting was arranged. “Little-River-Jack” sent word by a “sure
hand,” as was the wording of a missive in pre-postal days, that he would
arrive in Bunjil on the next ensuing Saturday, ready for a daylight
start on Sunday morning, if that would suit Mr. Blount’s convenience.
Pursuant to his promise, the Sergeant arrived to lunch at the Bunjil
Hotel on the day specified. He did not make demand for the groom, but
riding into the yard, opened the stable door and put up his ancient
steed, slipping the bridle back over his ears, however, but leaving it
ready to be replaced at short notice.
“It’s an auld habit o’ mine,” he said to the landlord, who now made his
appearance with apologies for the absence of the groom, who was “out,
getting a load of wood,” he explained. “We burn a lot here in the
winter—it’s just as well we haven’t to pay for it—but it takes old
George half his time drawing it in.”
“You’ve got some fresh horses here,” said the Sergeant, his keen eye
resting on three well-conditioned nags at one end of the row of stalls;
“are ye gaun to have races—the Bunjil Town Plate and Publican’s
Purse—and are the lads that own thae flyers come to tak’ pairt? Yon
grey’s a steeplechaser, by his looks, and the two bays are good enough
for Flemington.”
The landlord fidgeted a little before answering.
“They’re some digging chaps that have a camp at Back Creek. They buy
their beef from ‘Little-River-Jack,’ and he takes their gold at a price.
They do a bit of trade in brumbie-shooting now and then, the hides sell
well and the horse-hair—I’m told. Between that and digging they knock
out a fair living.”
“Nae doot,” replied the Sergeant, slowly and oracularly. “If there’s
aught to be won by a guid horse and a bould rider, these are the men
that’ll no lose it for want of a sweater or twa. What names have they?”
And here the old man fixed his eye searchingly on the host.
“Two O’Haras and a Rorke,” answered the host, haltingly. “So they tell
me—‘Irish natives,’ from Gippsland way they call themselves.”
“I wadna doot,” quoth the Sergeant. “Eldest brother Jemmy O’Hara, a fell
chiel. But let byganes be byganes. It’s ill raking up misdeeds of fouk
that’s maybe deid or repenting, repenting in sa-ack-cloth and ashes.
It’ll be one o’clock, joost chappit. I’ll awa ben.”
* * * * *
“Ay!” said the Sergeant, lunch being cleared away, and both men sitting
before the replenished fire, which the proximity of Bunjil to the snow
line, as well as the frost of the night before, rendered grateful, “it’s
e’en a tale of vengeance long delayed, but the price of bluid was
paid—ay, and mair than paid, when the hour cam’, and the man. I was
stationed at Omeo, I mind weel, years after Larry Trevenna was hangit
for the crime, as well he desairved. If one had misdooted the words of
Holy Writ, there was the confirmation plain for a’ men to see. ‘Be sure
thy sin will find thee out.’ They were half brithers, it was weel
kenned, word came frae hame to that effect, and little thought the
author of their being that the bairn o’ shame, the offspring of the
reckless days of wild, ungoverned youth, was born to slay the heir of
his ancient house, in a far land; to die by the hangman’s cord, amid the
curses of even that strange crew amang whom his life was spent. But he
was fain to ‘dree his weird,’ as in auld Scottish fashion we say; all
men must fulfil their appointed destiny. It’s a hard law maybe, and I
canna agree with oor Presbyterian elders, that ae man is foredoomed to
sin and shame, the tither to wealth and honours, and that neither can
escape the lot prepared for him frae the foundation of the warld! But
whiles, when ye see the haill draama played oot, and a meestery made
clear, the maist careless unbeliever must acknowledge that Heaven’s
justice is done even in this warld o’ appairent contradeections. Weel,
aweel, I’m gey and loth to come to the tale deed o’ bluid, o’ the
fearsome eend. Things had settled doon at Omeo after the events ye ken
o’. There was a wheen duffing and horse-stealing to contend wi’! But
siccan lifting of kye will there be, amang these mountains and glens, I
had a’maist said till the Day of Judgment—but no to be profane, the
country was quieter than it had been for years, when word came to
heidquarters that Ned Lawless had broken gaol; had been seen makin’
across by Talbingo to the table-land, aboot Long Plain and Lobb’s Hole.
There was an ‘auld gun’ (as we ca’ confairmed creeminals) in the
lock-up, as the news came; a Monaro native, and haun and glove with a’
the moss-troopers and reivers south of the Snowy River.
“‘D’ye know where Inspector Dayrell is now, Sergeant?’ says he, quite
free and pleasant. He was only in for ‘unlawfully using’—a maitter o’
six months’ gaol at the warst.
“‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t; what call have ye to be speirin’?’
“‘He’ll never trouble me again, Sergeant, I’m full up of anything like a
big touch now; this bit of foolishness don’t count. But if you want to
do Dayrell a rale good turn, tell him to clear out to New Zealand, the
Islands, San Francisco—anywhere.’
“‘Why should I?’ says I. ‘And him to lose his chance of being made a
Superintendent.’
“‘Superintendent be hanged!’ (it was not in Court, ye ken), and he put
his heid doon low, and spak’ low and airnest.
“‘Is a step in the service worth a man’s life? You tell him from me,
Monaro Joe, that if Ned Lawless isn’t dead or taken within a month, his
life’s not worth a bent stirrup iron.’
“‘And the Lawless crowd broken up?’ says I. ‘Man! ye’re gettin’ dotty.
Ned’s a dour body, waur after these years’ gaol. I wadna put it past
him, but he’s helpless, wantin’ mates. Coke’s a cripple with the
rheumatics. Kate’s awa, naebody kens where.’
“‘Ye’re a good offisher, Sergeant,’ says he, ‘but you don’t know
everything. You want a year’s duffing near Lobb’s Hole to sharpen you
up. But if I lay you on to something, will you get the Beak to let me
down easy about this sweating racket, a bloomin’ moke, worth about two
notes! I never offered him for sale, the police know that. A rotten
screw, or I shouldn’t have been overhauled by that new chum Irish
trooper. I was ashamed of myself, I raly was.’
“‘If ye give information of value to the depairtment as regards this
dangerous creeminal,’ says I, ‘I’ll no press the case.’
“‘Well—this is God’s truth,’ says he, quite solemn. ‘His sister Kate’s
been livin’ at Tin Pot Flat for months, under another name. They say
she’s off her head at times, never been right since she lost her child.’
“‘Lost her child!’ says I. ‘Ye don’t say so—the puir crater, and a fine
boy he was. How cam’ that?’
“‘Well, the time Kate rode to White Rock and started Dayrell after Larry
Trevenna, just as he was goin’ to clear out for the old country, passin’
hisself off for Lance (that _was_ a caper, wasn’t it?), she left her boy
with the stockrider’s young wife at Running Creek. The girl (she was a
new chum Paddy) was away for a bit, hangin’ out clothes or somethin’;
the poor kid got down to the creek and was drowned. Kate was stark
starin’ mad for forty-eight hours. Then she took the kid in front of her
on the little roan mare, and never spoke till after the Coroner come and
orders it to be buried.’
“‘And she at Tin Pot Flat, and me nane the wiser! Any mair of the
crowd?’
“‘You remember Dick?—the young brother—he that was left behind when they
cleared for Balooka—he’s a man grown, this years and years; well, she
lives with him. And they say she goes to the shaft every day that Lance
was hauled out from, to kneel down and pray. What for, God only knows.
Dick’s quiet, but dangerous; he’s the best rider and tracker from Dargo
High Plain to Bourke, and that’s a big word.’
“‘I ken that; I’ll joost ride round, and tak’ a look—he’ll need
watchin’, and if he’s joined Ned, and Kate’s makin’ a third, there’ll be
de’il’s wark ere lang.’
“That evening the tent was doon, Kate and the younger Lawless chiel
gane—and nane could say when, how, or where.
* * * * *
“For a week, and the week after that, the wires were going all day and
half the nicht. Every police station on the border of New South Wales
and Victoria from Monaro to Murray Downs was noticed to look up their
black tracker, and have their best horses ready. As for Dayrell, they
couldna warn him that the avengers o’ bluid, as nae doot they held
themselves to be, were on his trail. He was richt awa amang the ‘snaw
leases,’ (as they ca’d them—a country only habitable by man or beast
frae late spring to early autumn;) on the trail o’ a gang o’ horse and
cattle thieves that had defied the police of three colonies. They had
left a record in Queensland before they crossed the New South Wales
border.
“Noted men among them—ane tried for murder! A mate, suspect o’
treachery, was found in a creek wi’ twa bullets in’s heid—there were
ither evil deeds to accoont for.
“Ay, they were a dour gang—fightin’ to the death. So Dayrell took five
of his best men and volunteered for the capture. ‘He was getting rusty,’
he said, ‘but would break up this gang or they should have his scalp.’
These were the very words he used.
“Omeo diggings were passed on the way up. There was sure to be some one
that knew _him_, wherever he went in any of the colonies.
“A tall man put his head out of a shaft on ‘Tin Pot’ as he rode through
the Flat at the head of his troopers, and cursed him with deleeberate
maleegnity until they were out of sight. ‘Ride on, you bloody dog!’ he
said—grinding his teeth—‘you won’t reign much longer now that Ned and I
can work together again, and we have your tracks. I know every foot of
the road you’re bound to travel now—once you’re as far as Merrigal
there’s no get away between Snowy Creek and the Jibbo. It was our rotten
luck the day we first set eyes on you. We were not such a bad crowd if
we’d been let alone. Tessie had half persuaded Ned to drop the cross
work after we got shut of the Balooka horses. The day afore he told me
he’d two minds to let ’em go on the road. Then he couldn’t have been
pulled for more than illegal using, which isn’t felony. But _you_ must
come along and spoil everything. Lance was copped, as innocent as a
child: Ned gets a stretch—it was his death sentence. I know what it’s
turned _him_ into. Kate’s gone mad, what with losin’ the kid—a fine
little chap, so he was (I cried when I heard of it)! Larry’s
hanged—serve him right.
“‘Lance is dead and buried, poor chap! I don’t know what’ll become of
me. And what’s more I don’t care; but I’ll have revenge, blast you!
before the year’s out, if I swing for it!’
“He didna ken Dick Lawless again in his digger’s dress, and there were
few that he didna remember either, if it was ten years after. So he
joost gaed alang blithe and gay. The sun was abune the fog that aye
hangs o’er the flat till midday, or maybe disna lift at a’ like a
Highland mist. He touched his horse’s rein, and the gey, weel-trained
beastie gave a dance like, and shook his heid, till bit and curb chain
jingled again.
“Ah! me, these things are fearsome at the doing and but little better in
the telling. He wadna hae been sae blithe had he seen anither face that
peered o’er the shaft just as he turned at the angle of the road and
struck into a canter with his troopers ahint him. It was the face of a
haggard, clean-shaved man, with hair cut close to the head, and a wild,
desperate look like a hunted beast—only one miner on the field knew who
the strange man was, and he would never have kent him, but for hearin’ a
whisper the night before of a ‘cross cove’ having come late at night to
‘Mrs. Jones’s’ tent.
“Dead beat and half starved to boot was he, but word went round the
little goldfield that it was Ned Lawless, the famous horse and cattle
‘duffer’ who’d been arrested by Inspector Dayrell, and ‘put away’ for
five years.
“Miners are no joost attached to thae kind o’ folk, and for this one,
believed to have stolen wash-dirt cart-horses at Ballarat, they
certainly had no love, but, as for layin’ the police on the hunted
wretch, even though the reward was tempting, not a man, working as they
were on a poor field, but would have scorned the action, and been vara
unceevil to him that suggested it. No! that was the business of the
police—they were paid for it—let them run him down or any other poor
devil that was ‘wanted,’ but as for helping them by so much as raising a
finger, it was not in their line.
“Anyhow, an hour before dawn, one man who had reasons for airly rising
thought he saw Dick with his sister, ‘Mrs. Jones,’ and the stranger,
ride down the gulley which led towards Buckley’s Crossing; the woman was
on a roan pony mare, which she brought with her when she came on ‘Tin
Pot,’ a year ago. The stranger had an old grey screw Dick had bought for
a note, which would let any one catch him, night or day. The fog was
thick, and he couldn’t say on his oath which way they went, but they
took what was called the ‘mountain track.’”
“A nice crowd, as they say in these parts,” said Mr. Blount. “Where did
they go and what did they do, Sergeant?”
“They were ready for any de’il’s wark, ye may believe,” said the old
man, impressively, “and, as I heard frae one that daurna speak me false,
they were no lang ere they were at it.
“The day after they were seen leaving ‘Tin Pot,’ they called at a small
settler’s place and took his twa best horses. He was a man that had good
anes, wad win races at sma’ townships.
“The wife and her sister were at hame, the man was awa’.
“They loaded up a packhorse with rations, more by token a rug and twa
pairs blankets. The younger man told them the horses wad maybe stray
back. He paid for the rations and the blankets, but said they must have
them. It was a lonely place. The woman sat on her horse, and wadna come
ben, though they asked her to have a cup of tea. She shook her head;
they couldna see her face for a thick veil she wore.
“This information didna come in for some days later, when the man won
hame; the women were afraid to leave the place, ye may weel believe. The
raiders rode hard, maistly at nicht, keepit aff the main road, and took
‘cuts’ when they could find them. Dick Lawless knew them a’, could
amaist smell them, his mates used to say.
“They got the Inspector’s trail and never lost it; if they were off it
for a while, they could always ‘cut’ it again. _They_ had telegraphs
plenty (bush anes) but there were nane to warn Dayrell o’ them that
thirsted for his life-bluid, and were following on through the snaw,
like the wolves on a Russian steppe, as the buiks tell us. He was joost
‘fey,’ in the high spirits that foretell death or misfortune, as we
Hielanders believe. He had the chance o’ a capture that would ring
through three colonies. It did that, but no in the way he expeckit.
“He heard tell frae a bushman, a brither o’ the man that the gang shot
before he had time to do more than threaten to ‘give them away,’ that
they were to be at the ‘Ghost Camp’ aboot the twentieth o’ the month. An
auld fastness this, at the edge o’ broken, mountainous country, where
the wild blacks cam’ to hide after killing cattle or robbing huts, when
Queensland was first ta’en up by squatters. A place no that easy to ride
to, maist deeficult to discover, amang the great mountain forests o’ the
border. Battles had there been, between the black police and the wild
native tribes that were strong and bold in the pioneer days, no kenning,
puir bodies, the strength o’ ceevilised man. It was there they halted
after the massacre of Wild Honey Bank, where they killed after nightfa’
the haill family, men and women, wives and weans, an awfu’ spectacle
they were as they lay deid in the hot sun, unshaded, uncovered. I was
tauld it by a man, was ane of the pairty that helped bury them. The
pursuers slew and spared not. Wha shall judge them after the fearsome
sights they saw? There’s but few of that tribe left alive, and sma’
wonder.
“An eerie, waesome spot, they tell me. The gunyahs hae na been leeved in
this mony a year. The few fra-agments o’ the tribe conseeder it to be
haunted, and winna gang near. It’s a’ strewed wi’ skulls, and skeletons
of whites and blacks mingled, nane having been at the pains to bury
them. The grass grows rank abune the mouldering relics o’ baith races.
The banes gleam white when the moon is at her full, lying matted
thegither amaist concealed by the growth of years.
* * * * *
“Weel, aweel! I’m just daundering on toward the eend, the sair,
sorrowfu’ eending o’ a fearsome tale. The twa pairties, that wad be the
Queensland gang, and the Sydney-side lot, were nigh hand to the ‘Ghost
Camp’ aboot the same time.
“That’s sayin’ the three Lawless bodies had ridden night and day—picking
up fresh horses for the men, as they came along. Kate rode the roan pony
mare all through, a grand little crater she was, and weel she earned her
name ‘Wallaby,’ sae ca’ed after the kangaroo beastie that wad hop frae
rock to rock, like ony goat o’ the cliffs.
“The Inspector reckoned that Bradfield’s gang wad show up in the
gloaming o’ the appointed day. No kenning that they had been betrayed,
they wad camp careless like. Dayrell’s tracker creepit oot and lay ahint
a rock while they unsaiddled and turned loose their horses. Bradfield he
knew—a tall powerfu’ chiel, with a big beard, a Sydney-side native, and
if he wasna the best bushman in Queensland, he wasna that far aff. Of
the four men with him, twa had ‘done time,’ and were worse after they
cam’ oot o’ gaol, than when they gaed in. They had grog in them; they
made a fire—not a black fellow’s one—and talked and laughed and swore,
as they didna care wha might hear them.
“So far, a’ went weel. Dayrell’s party lay close—made no fire—prepared
to deleever attack at dawn, when dootless Bradfield’s men wad be asleep
or all unsuspeecious. But were they? By no manner of means. The twa
Lawless brithers and Kate had won to Wandong Creek i’ the nicht—Ned and
Kate had lain them doon, joost dead beat and like to dee wi’ sheer
exhaustion. Dick stowed the horse away in the gulley. It’s deep, and
amaist covered in wi’ trees and fern. Then being a tireless crater and
in hard work and training, he thocht he would tak’ a wee bit look oot,
to make a’ safe. It was weel thocht on—though not for the police party.
It wasna lang ere he heard a horse whinnie. Not the nicher o’ a brumbie,
either. Then cam’ the tramp o’ anither and the jingle o’ a hobble chain.
Could it be the police? He would soon know. Creeping frae tree to tree,
he came on the mob. Six riding horses, and two ‘packers’ all with the
Crown brand on. Dayrell’s dark chestnut, he knew _him_ again. And a
light bay with two white hind fetlocks. Police horses all, well fed and
groomed. Now where was the camp?
“Keeping wide and crawling from log to log, like a night-wandering
crater o’ the forest, he thought he saw a glimmer o’ a fire—not a small
one either. What d—d fool had lighted that, with a hot trail so close?
So he walkit, ye ken, till what suld ail him to come ram-sham on six
sleeping men. Police in plain clothes? Never! It was Bradfield’s gang,
believing that Dayrell was no within a colony o’ them. And now to get
speech. Their revolvers were under their hands, their rifles handy ye
ken. If an alarm was given it might spoil the whole plan. With two other
rifles, not counting Kate (and she was a fair shot at short range), they
might turn the tables on Dayrell and his blasted police.
“Keen and ready witted as are the de’il’s bairns at their master’s wark,
Dick Lawless wasna lang in conseedering the pairt he was to play.
Crawling on hands and knees, he got as near Bradfield as was wise like
without awaking him. He then gave a low whistle, such as stockriders
give to tell of cattle in sight.
“‘Who the hell’s that?’ growled Bradfield, awake and alert.
“‘All right, Jim, only Dick Lawless. Cattle going to break camp. (They
had been droving in old days.) Quite like old times, isn’t it?’
“‘Wish I was back again behind a thousand Windorah bullocks,’ said the
bushranger.
“‘I wouldn’t mind either, Jim. But all that’s behind us now—worse luck!
Where do you think Dayrell is? Give it up? D’ye see that black ridge,
with three pines on it? Well, he’s there, waiting for daylight. _He’s_
not fool to make a fire you can see miles off. You’ve nearly been had,
Jim. He came up on purpose to collar you. T’other side the black ridge,
he’s planted men and horses, six of ’em and a packer.’
“‘Who’s with you?’
“‘Just Ned and Kate. They’re lying down in Wandong Creek. Kate’s goin’
dotty now, poor thing, but she would come with us. Thinks she’ll see the
last of Dayrell.’
“‘Strikes me it’s a case of “Just before the battle, mother,”’ said
Bradfield. ‘I’ll wake these chaps. We must have a snack and fix up the
Waterloo business. It’s an hour to daylight yet.’
“Thus speaking he touched the man on his left, who awoke and touched the
next. Without a spoken word the five men were aroused.
“‘Now, chaps!’ said the leader, in low but distinct tones, ‘Dick Lawless
is come to give in the office. He’s on the job too. Dayrell’s behind the
black ridge, with his five fancy troopers. He’s come to collar us. Dick
here and Ned have come to pay off old scores. With us to help he’s like
enough to do it. We’re nigh about equal members, not countin’ Kate, but
the surprise they’ll get’s as good as two men.’
“‘How’s that?’ asked one of the gang.
“‘It’s this way, we’ll have first go. He thinks we don’t know he’s here.
We’ll take cover, and as soon as he shows out to surprise us, we roll
into him. Dick here, Ned and Kate, go at him from Wandong Creek side.
That’ll put the stuns on him. Ned and Dick, both dead shots, will
account for Dayrell. If he goes down the other traps won’t stand long.
Dick, you’ll have a snack? No? Then, so long.’
“The faint line of clearer sky was slowly making itself veesible in the
east as Dayrell at the head of his troopers moved towards Bradfield’s
camp. The black tracker had showed him the position. The glimmering fire
did the rest. ‘Now for a rush, men, we’ll catch them asleep.’ Saddles
and swags were strewn around the fire, billy and frying-pan were there,
not a man to be seen. But from five rifles at short range came a volley
at the troopers, well-aimed and effective, and Dayrell’s right arm fell
to his side broken or disabled.
“Three shots immediately followed from the Wandong Creek timber, on the
left flank of the police. Confused at finding themselves between two
fires, their leader wounded—for Dayrell’s right arm still hung
useless—the troopers, after a second ineffectual volley, wavered. Just
then three figures appeared, standing on a rock which ran crossways to
the narrow outlet by which alone could the police party mak’ retreat.
“At the second volley two troopers dropped, one mortally, the other
severely, wounded. ‘Hold up your hands, if you don’t all want to be
wiped out,’ shouted Bradfield.
“‘By the Lord! that’s Kate Lawless,’ said one of the troopers, pointing
to a tall woman who waved a rifle and shouted defiance after the first
volley was fired.
“‘And that’s Ned, or his ghost,’ said another. ‘I thought he was safe in
Ballarat Gaol. How the h—l did they get here?’
“As he spoke, the two men on the rock took deliberate aim and fired, the
Inspector in return firing his revolver with the left hand.
“The clean-shaved man dropped dead, wi’ a bullet through his head;
Dayrell staggered for a few seconds and making an attempt to recover
himself, sank to the earth. The woman sprang down from the rock, and
rushing across the line of fire raised the dying man’s head from the
ground and gazed into his face, in which the signs of fast-coming death
were apparent.
“‘So this is the end of Inspector Frank Dayrell,’ she said, ‘trapped
like a dingo by the poor devils he was hunting down. I told you you’d
repent it, if you didn’t let _us_ alone. And now my words have come
true; the Lawless family gang’s broke up, but the bloodhound hasn’t much
life in him neither. I sha’n’t last the year out, the old lot’s close up
dead and done for, that was so jolly, and worked hard and straight, when
we first came on Ballarat. Pity we took to ‘cross’ work, wasn’t it?
Love—as they call it—’ here she smiled a strange, sad smile, ‘then
jealousy, revenge, false swearing, murder—Poor Lance! I _did_ him cruel
wrong, and but for you, you, Francis Dayrell, I’d never have sworn a
word to harm him. It’s driven me mad—mad! do you hear, Frank Dayrell?
Good-bye, till we meet in—in—the other place!’
“The firing was o’er, Dick Lawless now showed himself between the rock
and the clear space where lay the dead trooper and Dayrell. The
Inspector raised himself on one arm and with the last glimmer o’licht in
his glazing e’en, looked full in the woman’s face, as he drawled out the
words, ‘Au revoir! Kate, pleasant journey, inner circle of mine with the
left, eh?’ The light faded out of his eyes with the last word, and
falling back, he was dead when his head touched the ground. The woman
gazed for one moment on the still face; then in obedience to a sign from
her brother, walkit over to him, and, mounting their horses, they rode
away into the forest thegither. The police couldna but see they were
ootnummered. Their leader and one trooper dead; anither was badly
wounded. Four men—one barely able to sit on a horse—were no match for
six.
“‘See here, men,’ said Bradfield, a tall, powerful native chiel wi’ a
black beard, a grand bushman, too; ‘this here battle’s over, you’re
euchred, your boss expected to catch us on the hop, and he’s been took
himself. He was a game chap, and we don’t owe him no grudge, nor you
either, though he went a bit out of his way in leavin’ his own district
to collar another officer’s game. He didn’t reckon on Ned and Dick
Lawless, and it’s them that knocked over his wicket. A fair fight’s
righto, but it don’t do even for a policeman to get hisself disliked.’
“‘I say, Jim, the horses are up; are yer goin’ to preach here till the
military’s called out?’
“‘All right, Jack, there’s no hurry. What’s to be done with the dead
men? There’s Inspector Dayrell, our poor cove, and Ned Lawless. We can’t
leave ’em here.’
“‘The police must pack their mates,’ said the second in command, ‘we’ll
take away ours. Where’s the nearest township, or graveyard, if it comes
to that?’
“‘We can make Warradombee in twenty mile’; here spoke one of the police
troopers. ‘It’s close to Grant’s head station.’
“‘All right, you’ve got your packers; strap on the Inspector, and that
Goulburn native, and let ’em be buried decent. We’re not black fellows.
We’ll carry our man, and bury him first chance. Ned must stay where he
is—he’s better there than under the gaol yard. Like as not Dick and
Kate’ll come back to him. They’ve not gone far. Well, you’d better load,
and clear—we’ll give you a lift, as you’re short handed. Don’t sing a
bigger song than you can help. Give us a day’s law, and then we don’t
care what you do. We haven’t acted so bad to you.’
“‘No, by George, you haven’t,’ said the senior constable, ‘except
killin’ the two of us, and you couldn’t help that, seein’ you was
fightin’ for your lives, as the sayin’ is.’
“So the enemies (as I’m tauld) helped to raise the fallen men, and
fasten them on their horses. It was a sad-looking troop, as they moved
off, with their dead legs tied underneath, and at the knees, to the
saddles, their heads bowed low on the horses’ necks, so that they
couldna fall off. But the upper bodies, with heids swaying aboot in that
dreadful guise, lookit awfu’ ghaistly. Little thocht Frank Dayrell that
he wad ride his last ride in siccan a fashion. But nane can foretell his
eend, nor the manner o’t.
“Bradfield’s lot cleared without loss o’ time, carrying with them their
dead and wounded, until a convenient burial place was reached. This duty
completed, they separated, to meet in the ‘Never Never Country,’ between
Burke Town and ‘The Gulf,’ a ‘strange, vain land’ (as one has written)
where ‘night is even as the day,’ and the decalogue is no that sariously
regairded, as in longer settled communities.
“Although the tither ootlaws wadna chairge themselves with Ned Lawless’
funeral, it is no’ to be infaired that he was buried without a prayer,
or that tears werena shed o’er his lonely unhallowed grave. As had been
surmeesed, Kate and the younger brother returned after nightfall.
“It was nearly midnight, the moonrays lighted up the weird shadows of
the ‘Ghost Camp,’ lately throbbing wi’ gunshots, oaths, cries and
exclamations. Blood had been shed; life had been taken; now all was
still and deserted looking.
“Tribe had met tribe in the old, old days, and with spear-thrust, nulla
nulla and boomerang, had fought oot their conflicts, waged for pride,
ambition or revenge. And always to the bitter end! Then came the white
invader, with his iron axes, fine clothes and magical weapons, which
slew before they touched. The sheep and cattle, such delicate morsels
but which except a price was paid, too often that o’ bluid—they dared
na’ take. Battles then were fought in which their bravest warriors fell;
or if by chance they slew stockrider or shepherd, a sair harryin’ o’ the
tribe followed.
“Those days were past; and now, how strange to the elders of the tribe,
the white strangers fought amang themselves, wounding, killing, and
carrying away captive their brithers in colour and speech. These things
were hard to understand. The rays of the lately risen moon lit up the
sombre glades of the battlefield as a man and woman rode in frae the
forest track, and tied up their horses. They came to the rock where the
dead man lay. He had fallen back when Dayrell’s bullet pierced his
brain, and was lying with upturned face and dreadful staring eyes. The
woman knelt by his side, and while she closed them, said, ‘Poor old Ned!
I never thought to lay you out in a place like this. God’s curse on them
that drove you to it; but _he’s_ gone that we have to thank for our
ruin; that debt’s paid, anyhow! You were always a soft-hearted chap, and
none of us, when we were little, had a hard time with you. Not like some
brothers, who’d knock about the poor kiddies as if they were dingo
pups.’
“‘I’ve nothing to say agen him,’ said the man, ‘he was always good to
me, I’d ’a done anything for him. It’s hard to see him here lying dead,
and with that infernal prison crop, not even a beard on his face, and
what a jolly one he used to have. Here’s where the irons hurt him; I
expect he tried to break out afore, and they made him work in these.’
“‘My God!’ cried the woman, passionately; ‘don’t talk of it any more. I
shall scream out directly, and go more off my head than I am now, and
that’s bad enough. To think of him that used to come out of a morning so
fresh and jolly, well dressed, and always with a good horse under him,
and couldn’t he ride? And now to see him lying here, starved and
miserable, like a beggar; it’s enough to break a heart of stone—’
“‘It’s too late now, Kate, too late; but we’d better have taken Tessie’s
warning and started a square trade, carrying or something, when the
digging broke out,’ said the man. ‘We were all strong and full of go. I
could do a man’s work, young as I was; the money would have run into our
pockets—yes, regular run in—if we’d made a square start and stuck to it.
Look at Benson and Warner, see where they are now! They couldn’t read
and write neither, no more than us. Then there was that infernal Larry
Trevenna. Poor Lance! I _was_ sorry for him. They did us all the harm in
the world; Larry with his gambling ways, and Lance setting you up to
think you were good enough to marry him, and putting Dayrell’s back up
agen the family. Our luck was dead out from start to finish, and now
they’re all gone except you and me. I’d better set about the grave.’
“‘Where’d ye get the pick and shovel?’
“‘Some fossicker left them outside his camp. I saw them when I went to
the spring for a drink.’
“‘For God’s sake take them back, no use making more enemies than we can
help. There’ll be a row if he misses ’em!’
“‘All right! I’ll drop them as we pass,’ said her brother, as he drove
the pick into the hard, stony soil.
“The woman took the short mining shovel, and with feverish energy
cleared the narrow shaft as often as required. An hour’s work showed a
cavity of the necessary width and depth, wherein the brother and sister
laid the wasted body of the eldest son of the family—once its pride as
the best horseman, shearer, reaper, cricketer, stockrider, and all-round
athlete of the highland district of New South Wales. The pity of it,
when misdirected energies hurry the men along the fiend’s highway,
leading to a felon’s doom, a dishonoured grave!
“The pity of it! The man now lowered into the rude sepulchre, amid that
ill-omened, blood-stained wild, might, under happier circumstances, and
at a later day, have been receiving the plaudits of his countrymen, the
thanks of his Sovereign, as the fearless, resourceful scout, whose
watchful eye had saved a squadron, or whose stubborn courage had helped
to block an advance until the reinforcement came up.
“It was not to be. Sadly and silently, but for the exclamation of ‘Poor
Ned! good-bye! God have mercy on your soul!’ from the woman, the brother
and sister rode away into the night.
“A rude cross had been fashioned and placed in a cairn of stones piled
upon the grave. ‘The moonbeam strook, and deepest night fell down upon
the heath’ as the hoofstrokes died away in the distance, deepening the
sombre solitude of the spot, which had long worn the appearance of a
place accursed of God and man!”
The far back, and by no means busy township of Dumbool was, if not
enlivened, aroused from its normal apathy (when a race meeting, or a
shearer’s carouse was not in full operation), by the return of a party
of mounted police. The leading inhabitants, always well informed in such
matters, had received notice of them passing through the district,
heading towards the border. The township was not so insignificant or the
two hotels so unimportant, as not to provide “Our Own Correspondent” of
the _Weekly Newsletter_. This gentleman, who was Rabbit Inspector,
Acting Clerk of the Bench, Coroner, and Honorary Magistrate, held all
the minor appointments, not incompatible with the ends of justice, and
the dignity of the Post Office, of which he was the present acting head,
the Government Official of the branch being away on leave. He performed
these various duties fairly well, delegating the Postal work to the
leading storekeeper, and the Bench work to a neighbouring squatter, who,
coached by the senior constable, was capable of getting through a
committal without blundering. But the work of Special Correspondent was
the one which he really enjoyed, and on which he chiefly prided himself.
He had often murmured at the poverty of the journalistic resources of
his surroundings, which afforded no field for literary ability. Even
when Nature seemed kindly disposed, by reason of abnormal conditions, he
was restricted in efforts to improve the occasion by the vigorously
expressed local censorship of the pastoralists. Did he draw a harrowing
picture of the stricken waste, denuded of pasture, and strewn with dead
and dying flocks, and herds, every one was “down on him,” as he
expressed it, for taking away the character of the district. Did he
dilate on the vast prairies waving with luxuriant herbage, after a
phenomenal rainfall, he was abused as “inviting every blooming
free-selector in the colony to come out and make a chess-board of their
runs, directly they had a little grass.” There was no pleasing them.
Even the editor of the _Weekly Clarion_, mindful of influential
subscribers, had admonished him to be careful in good seasons, as well
as bad.
He was at his wits’ end, between the agricultural Scylla, and the
pastoral Charybdis, so to speak. It may be imagined with what gratitude
he hailed the “Tragedy of Ghost Camp,” as his headline described it, in
which he was likely to offend nobody excepting the Police Department,
for whose feelings his public had no great consideration.
Extract from the _Weekly Newsletter and Down River Advertiser_.
“It is long since the site of this celebrated locality, once notorious
for tribal fights, and dark deeds of revenge, not always stopping at
cold-blooded murder, if old tales be true, has resounded with the echo
of rifle shots, the oaths of the victors, the groans of the dying! Yet
such has lately been the case. But a few days since a deed of blood, of
long-delayed vengeance, has been enacted, recalling the more lurid
incidents of pioneer days.
“We had received information of the passing of Inspector Francis
Dayrell, with a party of picked troopers, on a back track, running
parallel to our main stock route. They carried a light camp equipment,
not halting at stations or townships and apparently desirous to avoid
observation. We have in another place expressed our disapproval of this
practice, holding that the ends of justice are better served by
forwarding information to the local press. Had that been done in the
present case, the fatal finale might have been averted.
“Be that as it may, the _cortège_ that was descried approaching our
principal street at an early hour this morning, presented a very
different appearance from that of the well-accoutred police party that
our informant noticed but two days earlier heading for the broken
mountainous country at the head of the Wandong Creek. The troopers
detailed for this dangerous service were led by that well-known, and, we
may say, dreaded police officer, the late Inspector Francis Dayrell, the
greatest daredevil, the most determined officer of the Victorian Mounted
Police.
“It was quickly noted by a sharp-eyed bushman, in the neighbourhood of
Host Parley’s well-kept and commodious hotel, which commands the
approach to our township from the north-east, that something was wrong
with the body of police now approaching the town at a funeral pace.
“The trooper who rode in front led Inspector Dayrell’s well-known
charger, a matchless hackney, perfect in the _manège_ in which all troop
horses are trained. The inspector was badly wounded and nearly
insensible, from the manner in which he bowed himself on the horse’s
neck, while he swayed helplessly in the saddle. The second trooper also
led a horse on which was a wounded man. Behind rode two men, one
evidently so badly hurt, that he sat his horse with difficulty.
“‘They’ve been cut up bad,’ said one of the bushmen. ‘Let’s ride up and
meet ’em, Jack!’ Two men waiting for the mail mounted their horses, and
met the little party; from which, after a word or two with the Sergeant,
they came back full speed to the hotel, and thus imparted the melancholy
news.
“‘Police had a brush with Bradfield’s gang from Queensland, as they
thought they were going to take. Some other chaps had joined them along
with Dick Lawless, and double-banked ’em. Dayrell’s killed, and a
trooper—they’re the two first; Doolan’s wounded bad. The Sergeant wants
a room to put the dead men in till the Coroner’s inquest’s held; he’ll
have ’em buried as soon as it’s over.’
“Great excitement was naturally evoked by this statement.
“In a few minutes the police arrived at the Hotel, where they were met
by Mr. Clarkson, J.P., who obligingly undertook all necessary
arrangements. The Inspector and the dead trooper were laid side by side
in the best bedroom, the landlord resenting a suggestion to place the
corpses in an outhouse—‘He’d have had the best room in the house if he
was alive. He always paid like a prince, and I’m not going to treat him
disrespectful now he’s been killed in the discharge of his duty. Them as
don’t care about sleeping there after him and poor Mick Donnelly, may go
somewheres else. They’ll be buried decent from _my_ house, anyway.’
“The Coroner impanelled a jury without unnecessary delay; and after the
Sergeant and his men had necessary rest and refreshment, that official
elicited evidence which enabled him to record a verdict of ‘Wilful
murder against Edward James Bradfield and Richard Lawless in the cases
of Inspector Francis Dayrell of the Victorian Mounted Police Force, and
trooper Michael Joseph Donnelly, then and there lying dead.’ This
formality concluded, preparations were made for the funeral to take
place next morning in the graveyard appertaining to the township, which
already held a number of occupants, large in proportion to the
population.
“Word had been sent to the neighbouring stations, so that by noon—the
hour appointed—nearly as large a concourse as at the annual race meeting
had assembled. There being no resident clergyman, the service was read
over both men by the Coroner, who, by the way in which he performed the
duty, showed that he was not new to this sad ceremony. We have
repeatedly urged upon the Government the necessity of providing
increased police protection for this important and scantily defended
district. May we trust now that local wants will be more promptly
attended to.
“The last offices being paid to the dead the surviving troopers rode
slowly away leading the spare horses, and bearing the arms and effects
of their comrades with them.
“Kate Lawless and her brother had disappeared. Whether they had made for
the farthest out settled districts of Queensland, or had found a hiding
place nearer home, was not known, though rumours to either effect gained
circulation.”
“And noo ye hae the haill history o’ Frank Dayrell, late Inspector o’
the Mounted Police Force o’ Victoria, no forgetting the death of Ned
Lawless, who died by his hand.
“And, as the sun’s low, and we’ve, I winna say wasted the
afternoon—maybe expended wad be a mair wise-like expression—I’ll just
say good e’en to you, gentlemen, and gae me ways hame. The nicht’s for
frost, I’m thinkin’,” and so saying, the worthy Sergeant declining
further refreshment marched off along the meadow.
* * * * *
An early breakfast next morning, in fact, before the frost was off the
ground, awaited Mr. Blount. In some inns it would have been a
comfortless repast; a half-lighted fire struggling against a pile of
damp wood, and producing more smoke than heat; a grumbling man cook, not
too clean of aspect, who required to know “why the blank people wanted
their grub cooked by candlelight,” and so on—“he’d see ’em blanked
first, if there was any more of this bloomin’ rot.” Such reflections the
guest has been favoured with, in the “good old days,” before the gold
had settled down to a reasonable basis of supply and demand, and the
labour question—as it did subsequently—had regulated itself. Waiting,
too, for half an hour longer than was necessary for your hackney to eat
his oats.
Far otherwise was the bounteous, well-served repast which sent forth
Blount in fit order and condition to do his journey creditably, or to
perform any feats of endurance which the day’s work might exact.
Sheila had been up and about long before daylight. She had consulted the
favoured guest through his chamber door, as to which of the appetising
list of viands he would prefer, and when the adventurous knight sallied
forth in full war paint, he found a good fire and a tempting meal
awaiting him.
“I tell you what, Sheila,” he said, regarding that praiseworthy maiden
with an approving smile, “this is all very fine and you ought to get a
prize at the next Agricultural Show, for turning out such a breakfast,
but how am I to face burnt steak and sodden damper at the diggers’ camp
to-morrow morning?”
The girl looked at him earnestly for a moment or two without speaking,
and then with an air of half warning, half disapproval, said, “Well—if
you ask me, sir, the cooking’s not the worst of it in those sort of
places, and I can’t see for my part why a gentleman like you wants going
there at all. They’re very queer people at the head of the river, and
they do say that the less you have to do with them the better.”
“But I suppose there _are_ all sorts of queer characters in this new
country of yours. I didn’t come from England to lead a feather-bed life.
I’ve made up my mind to see the bush, the goldfields, and all the wild
life I could come across, and I suppose Mr. Little-River-Jack is about
the cleverest guide I could have.”
“Well—ye—es! he’s _clever_ enough, but there _are_ yarns about him. I
don’t like to tell all I’ve heard, because, of course, it mightn’t be
true. Still, if I were you, sir, I’d keep a sharp look out, and if you
spotted anything that didn’t look square, make some excuse and clear.”
“But, my dear girl, what _is_ there to watch? Do he and his friends
steal cattle or rob miners of their gold? Any highway business? Why
can’t you speak out? I see you’re anxious lest I should get into a
scrape; on account of my innocence, isn’t that it? And very kind of you
it is. I won’t forget it, I promise you.”
“I can’t say any more,” said the girl, evidently confused. “But be a bit
careful, for God’s sake, and don’t take all you’re told for gospel;”
after which deliverance she left the room abruptly and did not appear
when Mr. Blount and his guide, both mounted, were moving off. They were
in high spirits, and the cob dancing with eagerness to get away. As they
left the main road at an angle, Blount looked back to the hotel towards
a window from which the girl was looking out. Her features wore a grave
and anxious expression, and she shook her head with an air, as it seemed
to him, of disapproval.
This byplay was unobserved by his companion, who was apparently
scrutinising with concentrated attention the track on which he had
turned.
Throwing off all misgivings, and exhilarated by the loveliness of the
weather, which in that locality always succeeds a night of frost, he
gave himself up to an unaffected admiration of the woodland scene. The
sun now nearly an hour high had dispelled the mists, which lay upon the
river meadows, and brought down in glittering drops the frost jewels
sparkling on every bush and branch.
The sky of brightest blue was absolutely cloudless, the air keen and
bracing; wonderfully dry and stimulating. The grass waved amid their
horses’ feet. The forest, entirely composed of evergreens, from the
tallest eucalypt, a hundred feet to the first branch, to the low-growing
banksia, though partly sombre, was yet relieved by an occasional
cypress, or sterentia. The view was grand, and apparently illimitable,
from the high tableland which they soon reached. Range after range of
snow-clad mountains reared their vast forms to the eastward, while
beyond them again came into view a new and complete mountain world, in
which companies of snow peaks and the shoulders of yet loftier tiers of
mountains were distinctly, if faintly, visible. What passes, what
fastnesses, what well-nigh undiscoverable hiding-places, Blount thought,
might not be available amid these highlands for refugees from
justice—for the transaction of secret or illegal practices!
He was aroused from such a reverie by the cheery voice of his companion,
who evidently was not minded to enjoy the beauty of the morning, or the
mysterious expanse of the landscape in silence. “Great country this, Mr.
Blount!” he exclaimed, with patronising appreciation. “Pity we haven’t a
few more men and women to the square mile. There’s work and payin’
occupation within sight”—here he waved his hand—“for a hundred years to
come, if it was stocked the right way. Good soil, regular rainfall,
timber, water no end, a bit coldish in winter; but look at Scotland, and
see the men and women it turns out! I’d like to be Governor for ten
years. What a place I’d make of it!”
“And what’s the reason you people of Australia, natives of the soil, and
so on, can’t do it for yourselves, without nobles, King or Kaiser—you’ve
none of _them_ to blame?”
“Haven’t we? We’ve too many by a dashed sight, and that’s the reason we
can’t get on. They call them Members of Parliament here, and they do
nothing but talk, talk, talk.”
“Oh! I see; but they’re elected by the people, for the people, and so
on. The people—you and your friends, that is—must have been fools to
elect them. Isn’t that so?”
“Of course it is. And this is how it comes; there’s always a lot of
fellers that like talking better than work. They palaver the real
workers, who do all the graft, and carry the load, and once they’re in
Parliament and get their six pound a week it’s good-bye to honest work
for the rest of their lives. It’s a deal easier to reel out any kind of
rot by the yard than it is to make boots and shoes, or do carpentering,
or blacksmith’s work.”
“H—m! should say it was. Never tried either myself; but when they get
into Parliament don’t they do anything?”
“Well, in a sort of way, but they’re dashed slow about it. Half the
time, every law has to be altered and patched and undone again. They’re
in no hurry, bless you!—they’re not paid by the job; so the longer they
are about it the more pay and ‘exes’ they rake in.”
“What’s wrong with the law about this particular neighbourhood?”
“Well, they’re allowed to take up too much land for one thing. I
wouldn’t give more than a hundred acres, if I had my way, to any
selector,” said this vigorous reformer. “The soil’s rich, the rainfall’s
certain, and the water-supply’s everlastin’. What’s wanted is labour—men
and women, that means. It’ll grow anything, and if they’d keep to fruit,
root crops, and artificial grasses, they could smother theirselves with
produce in a year or two. Irrigate besides. See that race? You can lead
water anywhere you like in this district.”
“Well, why don’t they? One would think they could see the profit in it.
Here it is, under their feet.”
“It’s this way; a man with a couple of thousand acres can keep a flock
of sheep. They don’t do extra well, but they grow a fleece once a year,
and when wool’s a decent price the family can live on it—with the help
of poultry, eggs and bacon, and chops now and then. It’s a poor life,
and only just keeps them—hand to mouth, as it were.”
“Still, they’re independent.”
“Oh! independent enough—the ragged girls won’t go out to service. The
boys loaf about on horseback and smoke half the time. If they had only a
hundred acres or so, they couldn’t pretend to be squatters. The men
would dig more and plough more, the greater part of the area would be
cultivated, they could feed their cows in winter (which _is_ long and
cold in these parts), fatten pigs, have an orchard (look at the
apple-trees at the last place we passed), do themselves real well, and
have money in the bank as well.”
“We must have a republic, and make you first Dictator, I see that. Now,
where does this tremendous ravine lead to?”
“It leads through Wild Horse Gully, down to the Dark River—we’d better
get off and walk the next mile or two—there’s a big climb further on.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” said the traveller. “How wild horses or any other
travel about here, astonishes me. Where do they come from? There were
none in Australia when the first people came, I suppose?”
“Not a hoof. They’ve all been bred up from the stray horses that got
away from the stations, long ago. They’re in thousands among these
mountains. It takes the squatters at the heads of the rivers all their
time to keep them under.”
“Do they do much harm?”
“Well, yes, a lot. They eat too much grass for one thing, and spoil more
than they eat, galloping about. Then they run off the station horses,
especially the mares. Once they join the wild mob, they’re never seen
again. Get shot by mistake, too, now and again.”
“Why! do they shoot horses here?”
“Shoot ’em, of course! The hides and hair fetch a fairish price. Some
men live by it. They make trap yards, and get as many as a hundred at a
time. The squatters shoot them now and again, and pay men to do it.”
“It seems a pity. A horse is a fine animal, wild or tame, but I suppose
they can’t be allowed to over-run the country.”
The Wild Horse Gully, down which they were proceeding at a slow and
cautious pace, was a tortuous and narrow pathway, hemmed in by rugged
precipitous mountain sides. From its nature it was impracticable for
wheeled vehicles, but the tracks of horses and cattle were recent and
deeply indented. These his companion scrutinised with more than ordinary
care. The horse tracks were in nearly all instances those of unshod
animals, but as he pointed out, there were two sets of recent imprints
on the damp red loam, of which the sharp edges and nail heads told of
the blacksmith’s shop as plainly as if a printed notice had been nailed
to one of the adjacent tree trunks; also that a dozen heavy cattle had
gone along in front of them at rather a fast pace. These last had come
in on a side track, their sliding trail down the face of the mountain
showing plainly how they had arrived, and, as nearly as possible, to the
experienced eye of one horseman, at what hour.
The day had been tedious, even monotonous, the pace necessarily slow;
the chill air of evening was beginning to be felt, when the bushman,
with a sigh of relief, pointed to a thin wreath of smoke. On an open,
half-cleared spot, a hut built of horizontal logs was dimly visible; a
narrow eager streamlet ran close to the rude dwelling, while at their
approach a pair of cattle dogs began to bark as they walked in a
menacing manner towards the intruders.