A Prisoner
The famous drover was a prisoner. He was free to come and go when and
where he liked, but he soon found that he was being closely watched,
and that, until he was quite certain of success, any attempt to escape
would be worse than useless. It would result in his death.
At first Stobart couldn't understand what they wanted to keep him for,
and why they didn't kill him right away, but after a time he found out
that Yarloo had told them so many wonderful things about his "white
boss", that his captors' opinion as to his supernatural powers was
confirmed. In his zeal to save his master's life, the faithful boy had
gone a little too far, for the warragul tribe decided that they must
keep such a marvellous man with them at all costs, and that his
presence would be sure to bring them plenty of the good things of
life--water, tucker, and healthy children.
As soon as possible without arousing suspicion, Stobart sent Yarloo to
Oodnadatta with a note for Sax, hoping that Sergeant Scott would be
able to send out a rescue party at once. But, as we have seen, the
trooper was away from home and nobody knew when he would be back again.
The camp where the drover was obliged to live consisted of thirty or
forty wurlies on the side of a little hill above a spring. The
dwellings were temporary and primitive, as blacks' dwellings are:
branches stuck into the ground and drawn together at the top to make a
shape like an inverted bowl. Stobart could have had one of these, but
as the former occupant had not left it as clean as a white man likes
his home to be, he chose a small cave a few yards above the camp. This
gave him the considerable advantage of being away from the dogs and
smell which are inseparable from a blacks' camp.
A bushmen always makes the best of a bad job, and Stobart did not see
why he should not have as good a time as he possibly could while
waiting for the chance to escape. He never for one moment doubted that
his adventure would end successfully, and his chief sorrow was for the
loss of the cattle. In the thirty years during which he had driven
stock from one end of Central Australia to the other, he had never had
one real disaster. Of course there had been small losses, sometimes
because of drought, once by flood, and once also because of a band of
marauding blacks which he had succeeded in driving off before they had
done much damage; but he had never failed to deliver his charges at
their destination better in condition and in greater numbers than could
be expected under the circumstances. It speaks well for the man's
stern sense of duty that, though he was a captive in a camp of the
wildest savages in Australia, and liable to death at any time, he
worried, not about his own safety, but about the lost cattle.
He became proficient with both boomerang and spear, and could soon
knock over a rock wallaby or a cockatoo as neatly as any man in the
tribe, and, because of his greater strength, he was more than a match
for the natives at any kind of sport. He had been a good tracker for
many years, but he now found that he had much to learn from these
natives, who for generation after generation had hunted for their food
by tracking it. Sometimes he was away from camp for days together with
a hunting expedition, and in this way he became perfectly familiar with
the lay of the country. By his constant association with the
warraguls, he picked up a good deal of their speech, and was soon able
to carry on conversations with them, supplying anything he did not know
by gestures, which are the same all over the world.
After several weeks had gone by in this way, and he had made no attempt
to escape, he started to go hunting with only a few natives instead of
with a big party. The man with the mutilated left hand was always one
of these, and Stobart gradually made his companions fewer and fewer,
till it became quite the recognized thing for him to go off with only
this one native. The man's name was a long one, and Stobart shortened
it to Coiloo. At first his companion, though he very much appreciated
the honour of being with his hero, was shy, and did no more than fulfil
the white man's wishes faithfully and well. But Stobart had learnt how
to win the confidence of blacks, and before long the man had ceased to
fear his master--for so he considered the man who had saved him from
death--and was devoted to him with all his heart.
Soon after this Coiloo told Stobart about the expedition which was
about to set out against Mick's party travelling to Sidcotinga Station.
With the wonderful power which the blacks possess of conveying
information over tremendous distances by means of smoke signals, the
tribes in the Musgrave Ranges knew all about Mick Darby and his
companions, and Stobart was very much concerned when he heard that two
white boys were of the number. He knew at once who they were. Not
twice in a man's lifetime do boys, fresh from a city school, travel up
into Central Australia and leave the few little centres of civilization
which are there, and strike out west into the desert; so the drover was
certain that one of those white boys was his son.
He spent a whole day describing the boy to Coiloo. He only had an old
photograph to guide him, and even this had been left behind in the
packs near the fatal water-hole; but the father had so often pictured
his son in his own mind, that the description which he gave again and
again to the warragul was so good that the man had no difficulty in
recognizing Sax when he saw him. Then Stobart told Coiloo to join the
marauding-party and to see that the boys came to no harm. The result
of the native's faithfulness is already known.
When Coiloo had gone, Stobart frequently went out alone. He was such a
successful hunter, and was so willing to add the result of his prowess
to the general food-supply of the camp, that nobody objected to his
solitary expeditions. But Stobart had a more important reason for his
wanderings than bringing home dead game. He was looking forward to the
day when everything would be ready for a successful escape from the
Musgrave Ranges, and he was determined to take away with him something
more than his bare life: he meant to take the secret of the Musgrave
gold.
At first, when he started to go out alone, he always returned at night,
but gradually he accustomed the camp to his absence for longer periods,
till he was able at last to carry out his investigations unhindered.
He found many traces of gold, but as he had no tools, and did not want
to arouse any suspicions as to the real object of his journeys, he was
not able to tell whether the traces lead to any larger deposits. There
were little gullies which ran water in times of storm, where specks of
the glittering metal could easily be seen in the sand; and quartz
boulders stained with what looked like rust, here and there on a
scrub-covered hill-side; and little cracks in the sheer face of a cliff
where veins of dirty red ran about like the marks in marble. The
Ranges were evidently a very rich "prospect", and it was no wonder that
white men had braved the desert and the men who lived there, for the
lure of gold is the strongest of all, and men die willingly in
answering its call.