The Dance of Death
Arrkroo, the Hater, had failed again. Stobart had openly triumphed
over him by burning his deadly irna. The native feared this white man,
but hated him more than he feared him, and was more than ever resolved
to bring about his death.
Several days later, an old man of the tribe, named Wuntoo, became ill.
Blacks have a great respect for age, and the sickness of Wuntoo caused
great sorrow. A solemn gathering of all the men was called. Arrkroo
was there and so was Stobart, for the white captive did not want to
arouse suspicion or unfriendly feelings by staying away. The sickness
of Wuntoo was, of course, attributed to magic; some enemy of the old
man had boned him. It was, therefore, the duty of the gathering to
find out and to punish the man who had done this, whether he was a
member of their own tribe or whether he lived several hundred miles
away.
Arrkroo was the only man present who really knew what ailed Wuntoo, for
he himself had put poison in the old man's food--the juice of a
narrow-leafed vine which grew only in the Valley of the Skulls. He had
used this same poison to kill every prospector who had found the
golden-sanded pool. After a lot of talk, which got more and more
excited and incoherent as the meeting went on, Stobart volunteered to
go and see the sick man. He knew that the natives would only sing over
the invalid, or give him sand to eat, or practise a repulsive and
harmful magic upon him, and he thought that perhaps some simple
treatment might make him right again. Stobart had gained influence
over the minds of the tribesmen, and was allowed to go. This was just
what Arrkroo had hoped for.
Next day Wuntoo was worse, due to another dose of the poison which the
crafty Arrkroo had administered. A second meeting was called. The old
man was dying. Arrkroo arrived with freshly painted body and new
feathers in his hair, and addressed the men with all the powers at his
command. He felt that, if he failed to defeat the white man this time,
his authority in the tribe would be gone for ever. He danced before
his listeners, lifting his striped legs high, and swaying his body this
way and that till the designs in white and red hypnotized the natives
and held them spell-bound.
Even Stobart felt the evil power of the man. When he had got their
minds under his control, he chanted to them of the great days of the
Alcheringa when they were a powerful fair-skinned race of giants, and
had everything that their hearts could desire. He went on to tell of
one misfortune after another which had befallen them: their bodies had
grown small, their skins black, and droughts had changed the earth from
a garden into a desert. The warraguls listened, swaying their bodies
as Arrkroo swayed his, and breaking out at times in wild shouts of
agreement. Arrkroo was an orator in his primitive way, and he now had
his audience completely at his command. He could do what he liked with
it.
He began to talk of white men: of the way in which they had invaded the
country and driven the natives back and back till now a mere handful of
them survived in such places as the Musgrave Ranges. But the hated
white men were never satisfied. They wanted the Musgraves too. They
wanted the gold which was there. Everybody present knew the fate of
the white prospectors, and that if once the secret was known, such a
rush would set in that the warraguls would be driven out of this, their
last great stronghold.
Arrkroo turned towards Stobart. Every man in the gathering looked at
him also. "See," shouted the Hater in the native tongue. "See. White
man. He find gold. His tracks all around Pool of Skulls. He want run
away. He come back soon. Nintha (one), thama (two), urapitcha
(three), therankathera (four)--many, many more. Kill black-fellow.
Kill black-fellow. Kill black-fellow."
He stopped speaking and stretched out his painted arm towards the
drover. The warraguls leapt to their feet, their eyes blazing, and
their bodies ready to spring upon the white man. Stobart got up from
the ground very slowly and faced his enemies, staring steadily at them.
His hour had come. He would face death without flinching.
The blacks paused. Arrkroo feared that even now the white man would
escape by the tremendous power of his dauntless eye. So he started to
speak again, very excitedly.
"He bone Wuntoo. He burn bone, make death sure. You all see him burn
bone. He go in last night, make him worse. You see him go in last
night. Wuntoo die. You all die. You all die. You all die."
He had succeeded. A roar of fear and hatred went up from the assembly.
Every man goaded his neighbour to be the first to spring upon the
defenceless captive. Arrkroo's heart was glad. He started to dance
again, but this time it was the Dance of Death. Stobart knew that he
was a doomed man, but not a muscle of his face altered. The crowd of
frenzied warraguls, eager to pull him limb from limb, leaned forward,
but he still held them with his fearless eye. How long would it last?
Arrkroo danced nearer and nearer. When one of those whirling arms of
his touched the victim, the spell would be broken, and Boss Stobart,
the bravest drover of Central Australia, would go down before the
onslaught of a hundred yelling fiends.
Arrkroo's spinning and swaying body came nearer and nearer. There was
tense stillness. Men held their breath. Stobart faced the future as
he had always faced every difficulty--with clear open-eyed courage.
Arrkroo's hand passed his face so closely that he felt the wind of it.
The next time it would touch him.
Stobart did not move, but every muscle of his powerful body gathered
itself for the supremest effort of his life. The head of the Hater
swayed towards him, back, and then forward again. Then Stobart acted!
Like a flash his fist shot out. His body was like a spring suddenly
released. The weight of every ounce of him, the force of every nerve
and sinew, and all the gathered knowledge of years went into that
terrific blow. It caught Arrkroo on the point of the chin. There was
a sickening click. The man's head went back like the lid of a box. He
fell to the ground, quivered for a moment, and then lay still.
It all happened in the time taken to blink twice.
The crowd surged back. A gasp of astonishment went up. In a couple of
seconds Stobart was alone with his fallen enemy. The man was gasping.
If Stobart had not been weakened by the life and food of the blacks'
camp, that blow would have killed Arrkroo, although the neck of a
native is as strong as the neck of a bull. The drover stood looking
down at the grotesquely painted figure huddled up on the ground at his
feet. It began to twitch. The eyes rolled round and then fixed their
gaze on Stobart. Strength returned quickly to the native and he
staggered to his feet. For a moment he faced the white man, swaying
unsteadily, then he turned and went away to his wurley, leaving the
drover victor on the field where he had so nearly met his death.