Arrkroo, the Hater
The native doctor fled, like the evil black spirit that he was, up the
valley. Although an old man, he was still in the prime of his
strength, and he knew the path to and from the Pool of Skulls so well,
that he had the advantage over Stobart, who had never been there
before. For the first few yards the marks of his naked feet were
clearly seen, and the white man ran swiftly, but the tracks soon became
confused in a mass of loose stones which had fallen from the cliffs,
and were finally lost altogether on the rocky sides of the valley, till
Stobart could not possibly tell which way his enemy had gone. He had
heard no sound and seen no sign of the running man, yet he knew that he
was close upon him when he was forced to give up the chase, and, as if
to confirm this opinion, when Stobart finally stood still and looked at
the great boulders above him, hoping to see a black human form flit
from one to another, a stone came out of the silence, hurled with
deadly force and aim. Years of danger with wild cattle had made the
drover's actions as quick as lightning. The stone was totally
unexpected, but he jerked his head aside just in time. Instead of
striking him in the face, it caught the brim of his hat and sent the
old felt spinning from his head. He jumped back, picked it up, and
crouched behind a rock.
Absolute silence reigned. The sun was very near its zenith, but in
that deep valley the air was still cool. Across the clear flawless
blue sky sailed an eagle on wide-spread motionless wings, wheeling
round and round in slow circles, wondering when another human victim
would be provided for him down there beside the water-hole.
After a time Stobart went back to the place of horror, with its charred
bones, its terrible design in skulls, and its golden-sanded pool. He
knew what fear natives have of dead bodies, and that there was only one
man in all the Musgrave tribes who would dare to play such a gruesome
trick with the remains of his enemies, and that man was the native
doctor--Arrkroo, the Hater. Even he, powerful and feared though he
was, dared not actually kill Stobart. The other natives would track
their white hero and would soon know everything that had happened, and
Arrkroo was afraid of what they might do to him. The Hater did not
mind so long as Stobart merely hunted and behaved like a native, but
when he started to wander around alone and search for signs of the
glittering yellow metal, Arrkroo became alarmed, and, though the white
man did not know it, his enemy had followed and watched him closely for
weeks.
Arrkroo understood that if once the secret of the ranges was known
beyond the desert, many white men would come with weapons which make a
noise like thunder in the hills and which kill a long way off. They
would drive out the natives who owned the mountain fastnesses, for,
thought the doctor, what does a white man care so long as he can put
that heavy yellow sand in little bags and take it away?
So, for the safety of his people, as well as because he was jealous of
Stobart's power, the Hater was determined that the white man should die.
Stobart stood by the pool and looked at the golden sand. He was more
than ever determined to escape, and now he wanted to take away with him
just enough of that precious metal to prove to others that his story
was true. He wanted so many men to believe him that there would be
such a rush to the Musgraves that they would escape, by sheer force of
numbers, from the terrible fate of the lonely prospectors.
But how could he take that golden sand away? His only garment was a
tattered pair of trousers with the pockets torn out, and a belt at
which hung his fire-sticks, and where he still kept his old black pipe,
though it had been cold and empty for many weeks. He could not
possibly tear his trousers to make a bag, for there was not a single
piece of good cloth left; his hat was no good for the purpose. But his
pipe--ah! that was the thing!
He scraped his pipe clean and then jammed the bowl full of fine gold.
To make sure that the gold was pure, he panned it off in the old rusty
dish which he had unearthed near the half-burnt bones. When he had
filled the pipe nearly to the top, he daubed it over with stiff clay so
that none of the sand could fall out. Then he picked up his weapons
and started back for the camp.
A surprise was waiting for him. The marauding band, which had gone out
against Mick Darby's party, had returned. They were in high spirits
and reported that they had killed all the horses of the plant, and that
a white man and two white boys had been left to perish. Stobart did
not hear the whole story at once, for, as soon as he walked into camp,
the excitement died down, and nobody cared to tell this white man that
three other white men had just met the most lingering of all deaths in
the desert scrub. But blacks are like children and cannot keep a
secret, and Stobart soon knew all that he wanted to know.
The light of his life went out. The drover was devoted to his son. He
was one of those splendid men who do things as well as they possibly
can in order to satisfy their own stanch sense of honour; but there can
be no doubt that one of the main springs of Boss Stobart's life was the
thought that he would one day share it with his son. And now Sax was
dead! Just when he had found the object of his search, just when the
time of his escape had almost come and he was only waiting for the
return of the faithful Yarloo, just when hope was highest, these fiends
had killed his son.
He looked round at their savage black faces. He caught sight of
Arrkroo, the man who hated him. He saw the naked women and children,
he noticed the dogs and the filth on all sides, and his hand tightened
on the huge boomerang which he held. Why shouldn't he rush in amongst
these men and deal out death, right, left, in front, behind. His anger
was rising to madness. He felt that he could overcome the whole tribe
of them. And if he failed, what matter? At least he would have had
his revenge.
He dropped his spears and got ready. A fire was burning in front of
him. With a few lighted sticks he could set the camp ablaze. He
imagined the wurlies roaring up to heaven, while he, a captive white
man, mad with rage, ran shouting through the crowd, dealing out death
with every blow of his boomerang.
Not one of the natives suspected what he was going to do. He had
already chosen a suitable blazing stick, and was stooping to pick it
out of the fire, when he heard Coiloo's name mentioned. He waited for
a moment and listened. The men were saying that Coiloo had not come
back. Nobody seemed to know what had become of him, and it struck
Stobart as strange that Yarloo was not referred to as being one of the
party, till he remembered that the boy would be riding a horse and
would therefore leave no tracks which his fellow-tribesmen could
recognize.
This moment of thought saved the drover from an act of madness which
would certainly have ended in his death. Stobart trusted Yarloo
implicitly, and also felt sure that Coiloo was doing his best to carry
out the white man's wishes. Therefore he knew that it would be foolish
to vent his rage at this particular time, and perhaps spoil what the
two faithful natives were doing for him. So he picked up his weapons
again, took his share of the horse-flesh, and went up to his cave.
He was very down-hearted. He was a man of action, and here he was,
impelled to wait while others did things for him which he knew nothing
about. He was very tired, but could not sleep because of his restless
thoughts, so he went outside his cave after cooking and eating his
dinner, and started to walk about in the cool evening air. He walked
as silently as a native, and presently heard the sound of a voice
chanting quietly and earnestly in the native tongue. He crept nearer.
A man was crouching down on all four like an animal, swaying his body
and muttering. Stobart was standing up and could not see who it was,
so he stooped down till the man's body and head were silhouetted
against the sky. It was Arrkroo, the Hater.
Inch by inch Stobart worked his way nearer, till he heard the words and
saw what the native doctor was doing. There was a small pointed bone,
called an irna, about eight inches long, sticking upright in the sand.
At one end was a knob of hardened gum from spinifex grass, and a long
string made of the hair of a lubra was attached to it. The man was
stooping over the irna and muttering:
"Okinchincha quin appani ilchi ilchi-a." (May your head and throat be
split open.)
He said this three times, moved the irna to a new place, and then began
a new curse:
"Purtulinga apina-a intaapa inkirilia quin appani intarpakala-a." (May
your backbone be split open and your ribs torn asunder.)
This went on for some time and then Arrkroo got up and walked away,
leaving the irna in the ground. Next night he would return for it, and
whoever the man pointed that bone at would most certainly die. Natives
do not think that any man dies from a natural cause; it is always a
case of magic, and if a big strong healthy black-fellow happens to be
"boned" by his enemy in the proper way, he gets weaker and weaker,
either with or without some special disease, till at last he dies. He
always dies.
Arrkroo was afraid to kill Stobart openly, therefore he had prepared
powerful magic and was going to "bone" him. Stobart guessed this, and
took the chance of showing his power over the native doctor. He caught
hold of the irna by the string, pulled it out of the sand, and walked
back to the camp with it.
The men were all feasting round the fire. Arrkroo was amongst them,
eating sparingly, as is the habit with the native doctors, and no doubt
thinking what he was going to do to-morrow when he boned the hated
white man. Everybody looked up when Stobart came into the firelight.
One or two of the men saw the irna and called out, and at once the
whole tribe was on its feet in alarm. Arrkroo saw it also and shook
with fear. The white man was indeed a devil, for how else could he
have found a little bone stuck in the sand on a dark night? In an
instant the fire was deserted. The frightened natives crouched behind
wurlies and breakwinds, dreading least the white man should point that
deadly bone at them. But Stobart swung it by its hair string till it
was over the hottest part of the fire and then let it drop. The string
frizzled instantly, the knob of spinifex melted and flared up, and the
bone was soon reduced to white powder.