Disaster
Breakfast was being prepared in camp when Yarloo brought in the
terrible news. Mick Darby was greasing a couple of pack-girths,
Vaughan was mixing a damper, and Sax was attending to the seven
quart-pots near the fire and laying out the tucker on a clean bag.
When Yarloo came in with his bridle in his hand, he did not say
anything for a minute or two, but went over to the fire. He did not
always go after the horses in the morning, for he was very useful at
mending harness and doing odd jobs with the gear; therefore no one was
surprised to see him back before the others. Presently Mick brought
the two girths over to be warmed, so that the grease would sink right
into the leather. He looked across the fire at Yarloo and saw an
expression on the boy's face such as he had never seen there before.
The native looked terribly scared. Mick had no idea what had upset the
boy, and thought the fright was probably due to one of the many
superstitions which are always liable to crop up. But he liked Yarloo,
and asked him kindly: "What name, Yarloo? You see um Kadaitcha
(avenging spirit), eh?"
The boy shook his head and fingered the bridle nervously.
"Which way Ranui, Ted, Teedee?" asked Mick again, noticing that the
other boys had not come up and that it was getting near sunrise.
"Gone," said Yarloo.
It was not what was said so much as the tone of the boy's voice which
made Mick look with sudden earnestness into Yarloo's face, and ask
quickly: "Gone! What name you yabber gone? (What makes you say
they've gone?)"
"Me think those three fella no come back," explained the boy. "Me
track um up long way. They walk, walk. Oh my word, plenty walk." He
pointed towards the distant mountains, and continued: "Me think they
walk longa Musgraves."
Yarloo pronounced the word "Musgraves" in a tone of fear. It was a
word to strike terror to the heart; a word which at once called to mind
everything which was bad and treacherous and cruel about natives; a
word which told of the last great stronghold of the blacks which white
men had tried and tried again to take from them but without success.
Sax and Vaughan looked at one another when the dreaded word "Musgraves"
caught their ear. Yarloo saw their glance, and repeated, in a hopeless
voice: "Me think they walk longa Musgraves."
"What time they go?" asked Mick, thinking that Yarloo must have made a
mistake. "What time they start walk?"
The boy pointed to the western horizon and then shut his eyes, meaning
that the others had started out directly it was dark after sunset last
night. "Me see um track other black fella," he said. "Ranui, Ted,
Teedee, they join those other black fella. Go 'way Go right 'way. Me
think they no come back."
Suddenly the meaning of it all flashed into Mick's mind. "And the
horses?" he asked eagerly. "What name the horses?"
Yarloo did not answer.
Mick sprang across the fire and seized the startled boy by the arm and
shook him in his eagerness to hear all that had happened during that
fatal night. "You yabber quickfella! quickfella! (You tell me
quickly!)" he shouted. "What name horses?"
"Them bin speared."
"Speared!" The word came from Mick's lips with a yell of horror.
"Speared!"
"Yah. Alabout. (All of them.)"
Mick sprang towards his own saddle-horse, which had been tied up all
night. He unhitched it and was across its back before the white boys
had had time to realize the meaning of the terrible news. "Show me!"
he shouted, and he and Yarloo disappeared at once on the track of the
horses.
The boy's report was only too true. The Musgrave blacks, who had not
molested them for six nights, had done the most dastardly thing
possible under the circumstances. They had stolen forward that night
and speared every one of the hobbled horses. They evidently did not
want food, for, as Mick and Yarloo went from one dead body to another,
they saw that not a single piece of meat had been cut off. It was hate
and not hunger which had actuated the deed. The poor faithful workers,
some of whom had been the drover's companions for several years, were
cold and stiff, showing that they must have been killed early the night
before.
The tracks of bare native feet made it clear that, after completing
their acts of cold-blooded murder--for it was nothing less--the
warragul blacks had crept towards the drover's camp. They had
approached it on the black boys' side of the fire and had thus missed
seeing Mick's saddle-horse, which was tied to a tree near its master.
The rest of the story was easy to read. The wild blacks had enticed
the camp boys away, and Ranui, Ted, and Teedee had left everything
behind them and had fled with the horse-killers through the night in
the direction of the ill-famed Musgrave Ranges.
Mick's boys had actually taken no part in the killing; that was one
thing in their favour. Another satisfaction, which stood out like a
dull gleam of light in the grim dark tragedy, was that now there were
three fewer men to share their limited supply of water. But the
greatest good of all, in fact the only real ray of hope, was the fact
that one horse was still left, Mick's stanch gelding, Ajax. If the
drover had not fastened him up the evening before, and he had shared
the fate of his companions, the outlook for the four men would have
been black indeed. It was far blacker than they at first thought it to
be, for one important thing was not found out till later, and when it
was it took the bravest of brave hearts to stand up against such dire
disaster. The marauders had taken all the water-canteens except one
which had evidently escaped their notice by being near Mick's head. It
contained a little over three gallons!
Eighty miles from water, in the heart of the sandy scrub-covered desert
in blazing summer weather, with only a canteen half-full of water to
serve four men!
It is under such circumstances as these that manhood is put to the
test. All four men rose to the occasion. Sax and Vaughan, though
still lads as regards their age, were in reality men. Nothing but the
unconquerable spirit of man can survive in the battle against grim
nature in the Central Australian desert, and these two, who had but a
short time before been sitting in the classroom of a city school, had
faced difficulties and had won through, by sheer pluck and resolution,
and had therefore earned the right to be called men.
Yarloo showed his faithfulness on this occasion when it would have been
so much easier for him to run away. Because he always slept some
distance away from the other boys, he had not known of their silent
departure in the night, but once he saw the terrible difficulties in
which the little party had been placed, it would have been the most
natural thing in the world for him to clear out and leave the three
whites to their fate. He could even have stolen the horse in order to
make his escape absolutely sure. He was a native, and could live and
travel through the desert scrub day after day when a white man would
certainly perish. He had been born and brought up to such a life, and
when he threw in his lot with the three stranded white men, he was, in
reality, jeopardizing his own chances of coming through the adventure
alive. He chose to be faithful to his companions rather than make sure
of his own safety.
Yarloo was a good boy and had therefore always been treated well by
white men. He had not had many masters, and one of them stood out
above all others in his primitive mind. He had been Boss Stobart's boy
for years, and though he might work for other white men now and
again--as in this case he was working for Mick--he remained at heart
faithful to one man, first and last, and that man was Boss Stobart.
Therefore it was probably not only Yarloo's naturally fine spirit which
prompted him to stick to his companions when they were in trouble, but
also the fact that one of them was the son of his real Boss. He felt
that Sax was definitely in his own personal charge, and, though his
simple mind did not know how it could possibly be brought about, he
felt that some day he would be the means of reuniting father and son.
Mick Darby also proved himself equal to the occasion. In fact the
sheer manhood of him rose supreme above every difficulty and triumphed
over one disaster after another. There are some men whose stories are
far greater than their actual achievements, and at times, when the
drover had been telling yarns to the boys after sunset, they had
wondered whether these things could possibly be true. It was not that
they doubted their friend's veracity, but the country, the men, and
therefore the happenings were so strange to the lads that they seemed
to have an existence only in books and not to be possible in real life.
But now Mick showed the stuff he was made of. When he had found out
all there was to learn, about what the blacks had done, and exactly
what position the party was left in, he stopped thinking about that
part of the question and set his mind to solve the problem of the
immediate future.
The first necessity was breakfast, and they ate heartily and drank
sparingly, but enough to quench their thirst. Then Mick beckoned to
Yarloo to sit down near him, handed his plug to the boy, and when he
had broken off a pipeful, he jammed his own black brier to the brim and
started to smoke. When he started to speak, he did so equally to all
three men, black and white alike. Yarloo had definitely and of his own
free will chosen to share whatever fate was in store for them, and had
earned the right to be included in everything which they did. The boy
did not presume on this unusual act of the white man; it is only a
weak-spirited man who presumes.
"I reckon we're eighty miles from Sidcotinga Station. You think it,
Yarloo?" asked Mick, turning to the boy.
The native faced in the direction of the station and considered,
counting on his fingers. "Yah," he said at length. "Yah. Me think it
two day ride, boss."
"Two days with a fresh horse, you mean," commented Mick. "Ajax hasn't
had a drink for a whole day, remember.... That last water-hole's dry,
and the one back of that's nearly a hundred miles from here.... So it
must be Sidcotinga.... Let's see. We've got two and a half gallons of
water, haven't we?"
The boys confirmed this estimate, and he went on:
"We needn't worry about tucker. We've got mobs of flour and sugar....
The question is: who's to ride ahead for water and horses. You lads
don't know the way, so it's either Yarloo or me.... Yarloo's lighter
on a horse than I am.... But he couldn't do as much as I could when he
got there, supposing they were all out on the run.... Still, I could
write a note to the cook, couldn't I?" He paused, considering, drawing
in great breaths of smoke and puffing it out again on the still hot air
till his head was surrounded by a cloud.
Yarloo was drawing blackfellow diagrams in the sand with a little
stick, and looked as though he had made up his mind. So he had, but he
waited for the white man to ask him for his opinion before giving it.
"What you think, Yarloo?" asked Mick, after a time. "You think it me
or you ride Ajax longa Sidcotinga, bring um back water, horses, eh?"
Yarloo did not hesitate for a moment. "You ride, boss," he said
decidedly. "You ride. Me stay here."
The tone surprised Mick, and he looked up quickly. "What name?
(Why?)" he asked.
"White man drink more water nor black fella," he explained. "S'pose me
stay, me drink little, little drop. Me think you drink big mob." He
hesitated and dug the little stick into the ground with an embarrassed
air. The boy had evidently got another reason, and his listeners
wanted to hear it. He looked at Mick as if he didn't know whether he
ought to say it or not, and then he blurted out: "You good white man
all right, boss. You know um bush more better not big mob white men.
(You know the bush better than most white men.) Yarloo know um bush
much more better nor you, boss. Me bin grow up little piccaninny longa
bush.... S'pose--s'pose you no come back.... S'pose you fall off
horse.... S'pose you die, p'raps me find um water." He paused again,
but it was clear that he had not finished.
"Good, Yarloo," said Mick encouragingly. "Go ahead."
"One time me work longa Boss Stobart," said the boy slowly and
hesitatingly. "Him altogether good boss. Him plenty good quite. That
one white boy," he pointed to Sax, "that one white boy, him belonga my
old boss. Him belonga Boss Stobart.... Me stay, Misser Darby? You
let Yarloo stay, eh?" The request was made in a voice of entreaty, as
if the faithful native was asking a very great favour.
Mick at once complied with hearty good will. "Of course you stay,
Yarloo. You stay all right. You look after white boy real good."
Yarloo's face lit up with satisfaction and his expression assured the
drover that the white boys would be perfectly safe in his hands.
Soon after coming to this decision, Mick Darby set out on Ajax for
Sidcotinga Station. He knew that he would strike no water before
reaching the homestead well, and that it was not at all certain whether
the already thirsty horse could travel those eighty desert miles
without a drink. He did not tell the boys of his fear, but started
away with a cheery good-bye, carrying only a quart-pot of water for
himself as well as a little damper and dried meat.
Fortune favoured the brave man. On the very first night, after he had
travelled his tired horse on past sunset as long as he dared, he found
a big patch of parakelia. This extraordinary plant sends up thick
moisture-filled leaves in the middle of the most arid desert. The
juice, which can be easily squeezed from parakelia leaves, tastes
bitter and is not at all pleasant, but it has saved the life of many a
bold adventurer in Central Australia. Stock can live on it for weeks
at a time without a drink of water, and once Ajax got a mouthful of
these cool succulent leaves, he did not move more than a few yards all
night, but satisfied his thirst and hunger and then lay down.
Mick Darby watched all night. He was taking no more chances. No doubt
he fell asleep from time to time, but at the slightest movement
anywhere near, he was instantly and fully awake. Next day he rode a
thoroughly rested horse and reached Sidcotinga Station the same night,
after having covered sixty-three miles. Such a distance would not be
at all unusual in good country, but in the desert, with the sun blazing
down out of a cloudless sky on mile after mile of soft sand, it was a
ride which none but the best of horses and the hardiest of men could
have accomplished.
The drover had advised the boys to stay just where they were till he
returned, and not exhaust themselves by walking. Yarloo therefore
built them a rough sun-shelter of mulga boughs and they rested under
this all day, doing nothing which would create thirst. In spite of
every care, however, their mouths were clammy and their throats calling
out for water long before sunset. Once a real thirst is created, it
takes more water to quench it than it does to keep the thirst away, so
they each had a drink at tea-time and felt all the better for it.
Soon after tea, Yarloo, who had gone away, came in with a bundle of
sticks. "Whatever's that for?" asked Sax. Neither of the boys had got
into the way of addressing the natives in broken English. "You're
surely not going to make a fire, are you?"
Yarloo had to think for a minute or two before he understood what the
white boy had said, and then he nodded his head. "Yah," he replied.
"Me make um fire. S'pose um bad black-fella come up."
"But how about us?" objected Vaughan. "We'll be roasted alive."
The native did not catch the meaning of this remark, but he answered
the question which Vaughan had in his mind. "By'm bye when it cool,"
Yarloo pointed to the sky, "we walk little bit."
"But Mick told us to stay here," said Vaughan again.
"Me think bad black-fella come up to-night," explained Yarloo, with
great patience. "S'pose him see um fire, him think: 'White man sleep'.
Then him creep up, spear-um, spear-um. S'pose we light fire then walk,
bad black-fella throw um spear, no good, no good at all. White man go
'way." Yarloo grinned both at the thought of the safety of the party
and of the discomfiture of the blacks.
The lads saw the force of Yarloo's argument. A big fire was lit, as if
in preparation for spending the night, and then the three men took the
precious water, a little tucker, and as few personal belongings as
possible, and set out in the direction of Sidcotinga Station, lead by
the unerring instinct of their black companion. It was well that they
did so. During the hours of moonlight, a small band of Musgrave
niggers crept round the camp and remained in hiding. But directly the
moon set, they advanced towards the dying fire, with spears poised and
boomerangs ready for instant and deadly use. What would have happened
if any hated white man had been asleep in that camp can be better
imagined than described. No one would have been left alive. But,
finding their prey had escaped, the would-be murderers vented their
rage upon the saddles and pack-bags, tore them to shreds and threw them
into the flames, and scattered into the fire as much of the provisions
as was left after they had gorged themselves. They did not attempt to
follow the three white men in the dark, and next day the little
marauding band went after their fellows and joined them on the way to
the Musgrave Ranges. All except one, and we will hear more of him
later.