Facing Death
Boss Stobart could not afford to spend more than one day at the
water-hole where he had found his friend Patrick Dorrity, because the
water was practically a thin solution of mud, and the feed was soon
eaten out within a radius of a few miles. There was really no need for
delay, for the old station cook recovered quickly, and "dodging along"
behind cattle, as it is called, is not hard work for a man who has
nothing to do. The recuperative powers of the Australian bushman are
wonderful. It is only men of the toughest fibre and the stoutest heart
who can live in the central deserts, and when one of these is overtaken
by sickness or disaster, he never stops fighting, and wins through in
the shortest possible time. There comes a day, however, when it is not
possible to win through, and the brave man dies fighting, and the sand
gradually covers up the body of yet another pioneer.
Dorrity was what is called a "hatter". He had lived for long periods
in the north absolutely alone; at other times his only companions had
been blacks. Too much of this sort of life is not good for a man.
Moreover, the deadly monotony of Pat's life was broken at long
intervals by the most violent sprees, when he drank steadily for three
weeks on end, finishing the bout by several days of delirium tremens.
None but the strongest constitution could stand such treatment time
after time, and though the Irishman's tough body had not yet shown any
signs of breaking up under the strain, his mind was liable to fits of
moodiness which amounted almost to madness. Such a man is not rare in
Central Australia, and he goes by the name of "hatter".
After Boss Stobart's last visit to Tumurti Station, when Pat and he had
arranged for the trip to the Musgraves in search of gold, the old cook
had been attacked by fits of moodiness which he could not shake off.
He could not rid his mind of the thought that his friend the drover was
going to defraud him of his share in the gold-mine. He blamed himself
for telling anybody about it, and at last worked himself up into such a
state that he set out, alone except for an old horse, to go to the
Musgrave Ranges. The men on Tumurti Station were used to Pat's sudden
comings and goings, and took them as a matter of course and did not
inquire what he intended to do. He would not have told them if they
had asked, for his feeble mind was set on reaching the supposed mine
before the men whom he thought were going to rob him of it.
It was some weeks after he had started out from Tumurti with the old
horse that Boss Stobart had found him perishing in a clump of mulgas.
When he recovered, under the drover's kind and wise treatment the
hatter mood had left him for a time.
The party travelled on slowly from the Box water-hole for several days,
still keeping the high mass of the Musgrave Ranges in front of them,
till at last they came into country which Boss Stobart did not know.
The mountains sent out spurs far into the plains, and when the drover,
who was riding a mile or two ahead of the cattle, came upon a rocky
water-hole in a valley tolerably covered with low bushes, he decided to
camp there for a day or two and explore the surrounding district to
find the best route to take with the cattle.
It was early in the afternoon when the lowing mob came up to the water;
so when they had had a drink, Stobart gave directions to his black-boys
and rode off, leaving Pat Dorrity to look after the camp. He took with
him a boy named Yarloo. This boy was a Musgrave black whom Stobart had
picked up on one of his droving trips years before and had kept ever
since. The native was devoted to the white man, and Stobart had
responded to this faithfulness in such a way that Yarloo would have
willingly given his life for his hero. The boy's services at this time
were invaluable, for the party had now reached the country in which he
had been born. Before many days his services were to prove more
valuable still, and his devotion was to be put to a very great test.
The two men rode up the gully to the top, crossed over the spur, dipped
down into a larger gully, and struck out south-west for a plain
stretching towards Oodnadatta which Yarloo remembered, where there were
one or two good water-holes and plenty of cattle-feed for many days.
Darkness came on before they had completed their investigations, and as
there was no need to get back to camp that night, they hobbled their
horses on a patch of dry grass and lay down, each man pillowing his
head on his upturned saddle.
Next morning they reached the plain, found it to be all that could be
expected considering the drought-stricken state of the country, and
then turned their horses' heads towards camp.
They had not gone more than half-way when they saw that something was
wrong, for they came across one or two of the cattle which they had
been driving. The animals had evidently been badly scared, for they
galloped away as soon as they caught sight of the two horsemen. It
took some time to round them up, and by that time others were in sight
and others still. Boss Stobart always selected good black stockmen and
trusted them, and he knew that something quite out of the ordinary had
happened to scatter the cattle in this way, and that it was not due to
any carelessness on the boys' part. At last he came upon a bullock
which was tottering along, hardly able to keep on its feet. It tried
to dash away when it saw the mounted men, but the effort was too much
for it. It fell over, tried to get up but couldn't, and lay in the
sand, panting and moaning with pain.
The point of a spear was sticking in its side just behind the
shoulder-blade.
Yarloo pulled it out and looked at it. The shaft, which had broken off
about a foot from the end was made of lance-wood. The head of the
spear was broad and flat, and was made of red mulga, a hard, tough,
poisonous wood. It was bound to the shaft with kangaroo sinews and
spinifex gum in such a way that the black-boy had no hesitation in
pointing to the mountain range to the left of them. "Musgrave
black-fella," he said. "Me know um this one."
Stobart left the cattle which they had collected in charge of Yarloo
and galloped ahead. He met other cattle, dead or dying, but was not
prepared for what he saw when he topped the rise just above the
water-hole where the camp had been.
A crowd of about fifty blacks squatted round a fire. Their naked
bodies were smeared with red ochre and clay in fantastic designs, and
many of them had feathers or grass or the claws of large birds in their
bunched-up hair. Great bleeding chunks of meat and entrails were
smoking and sizzling in the fire, and all around them were the
carcasses of dead cattle. It seemed incredible that fifty men armed
only with boomerangs and wooden spears should have been able to commit
such a slaughter. The white man took all this in at a glance, and then
his face hardened and he knew that he was nearer death than he had ever
been before, for a little distance away were the bodies of six clothed
black-boys and a white man, laid out in a row. The sun beat down
pitilessly on that terrible scene, but not one of the seven put his
hand up to drive away the flies or to protect his head from the glare.
They were dead!
The feasting natives saw him at once and rose to their feet with a
yell. Stobart did not ride away. Such an act of fear would have made
his death sure, and probably more hideous than it would be if he faced
those shouting, dancing, gesticulating fiends.
He took a fresh grip of the reins and urged his unwilling horse to go
down the hill to meet the blacks. This act of courageous audacity
checked them for a moment. They collected in a bunch and yabbered
excitedly. Stobart understood several aboriginal languages, but this
one was wild and harsh and quiet strange to him.
Sitting firmly but easily in the saddle, the white man rode quietly up
to the savages. When he was only a horse's length away, he drew rein
and looked at them. Several of the men stepped back, flung their
spear-arms behind their heads, fastened the woomeras, and prepared to
throw. But the long quivering shafts never left their hands. One or
two jumped out from the crowd and swayed back their supple black bodies
to give additional force to a boomerang. But the heavy curved weapon
never started on its death-dealing course. Here and there a man sprang
up in the air and waved his spears wildly over his head, and shouted
words of hatred towards the white man and of encouragement to his
companions. But the result of it all was nothing worse than
threatening and noise.
Stobart sat and looked at them. He was a famous horse-breaker and a
noted man with cattle, and had found, in dealing both with animals and
with men, the power which his eye possessed. It was the focusing-point
of all the force and personality of a remarkable man.
But who can quell and keep on quelling the passions of fifty savages
who have tasted blood? One man broke the spell of the drover's steady
glance. He jumped to one side and hurled a boomerang. Stobart dodged.
It passed him and whizzed on, turning and turning for nearly two
hundred yards, so great had been the force behind it. The man had put
so much energy into the throw that his body was jerked forward till he
was standing beside the horseman.
A great shout went up when the weapon left the hand of the
black-fellow, but it was cut off suddenly to amazed silence when the
boomerang passed on and left the white unharmed. This man must be a
devil. At once every spear was raised, poised in the woomera, and
directed, not at the white man, but at the native who had dared to pit
his strength against a supernatural power. Stobart understood the
situation immediately, and so did the unfortunate black, who hunched
his shoulders ready for death.
Suddenly one of those reckless impulses came to the drover which come
only to great men, and which are often the turning-points of their
lives. He jabbed spurs into his horse's flanks and wheeled it like a
flash between the cringing native and his would-be murderers. At the
same time he raised his hand and shouted:
"Stop!"
Not one of them had ever heard the word before, but they understood
what it meant by the white man's tone and gesture of command. They
instantly obeyed. Before the sound of Stobart's voice had come back in
echo from the mountains, every spear was lowered.
The white man backed his horse and looked down at the native whose life
he had saved. The man was grovelling in the sand in abject fear and
gratitude. Stobart motioned to him to get up and return to the others.
He did so, and as he slunk away, the drover noticed that the middle two
fingers of his left hand were missing.