THE ROAD TO NO MAN’S LAND.
Now we must follow for a time the adventures of Charlie Gordon and the
new chum, whom we left just starting out for ‘far back’, Charlie to
take over a cattle-station for Old Man Grant, and Carew to search for
Patrick Henry Considine. After a short sea-journey they took train to a
dusty back-blocks township, where Gordon picked up one of the many
outfits which he had scattered over the country, and which in this case
consisted of a vehicle, a dozen or so of horses, and a black boy named
Frying Pan.
They drove four horses in a low, American-made buggy, and travelled
about fifty miles a day. Frying Pan was invaluable. He seemed to have a
natural affinity for horses. He could catch them anywhere, and track
them if they got lost. Carew tried to talk to him, but could get little
out of him, for he knew only the pidgin English, which is in use in
those parts, and said “No more” to nearly every question. He rode along
behind the loose horses, apparently quite satisfied with his own
company. Every now and then he came alongside the vehicle, and said
“Terbacker.” Charlie threw him a stick of the blackest, rankest tobacco
known to the trade, and off he went again.
Once they saw him get off his horse near a lagoon, plunge his arm into
a hole, and pull out a mud-turtle, an evil-smelling beast; this he
carried for several miles over his shoulder, holding its head, and
letting the body swing at the end of the long neck—a proceeding which
must have caused the turtle intense suffering. After a while his horse
shied, and he dropped the turtle on the ground with a dull thud.
“Aren’t you going to pick him up again?” cried Carew.
“No more,” replied Frying Pan, carelessly. Then he grinned, and
volunteered a remark. “Make that feller plenty tired walk home again,”
he said. And this was his only conversation during a two-hundred-mile
journey.
At night they usually managed to reach a station, where the man in
charge would greet them effusively, and beg them to turn their horses
out and stay a week—or a year or two, just as long as they liked. They
met all sorts at these stations, from English swells to bushmen of the
roughest. Sometimes they camped out, putting hobbles on the horses, and
spreading their blankets under the buggy on a bed of long grass
gathered by Frying Pan.
As they got further out, the road became less and less defined,
stations fewer, and everything rougher. They left the sheep-country
behind them and got out into cattle-land, where “runs” are measured by
the hundred square miles, and every man is a law unto himself. They
left their buggy after a time, and pushed on with pack-horses; and
after travelling about two hundred miles, came to the outer edge of the
settled district, where they stayed with two young Englishmen, who were
living under a dray, and building their cattle-yards themselves—the
yards being a necessity, and the house, which was to come afterwards, a
luxury. The diet was monotonous—meat “ad libitum,” damper and tea. They
had neighbours within sixty miles, and got letters once in two months
by riding that distance. “Stay here a while,” they said to the
travellers, “and take up some of the country near by.”
“We’re to take over the country Redman took up,” said Charlie. “It
joins you doesn’t it?”
“Yes. See those far blue ranges? Well, we run to them on this side, and
Redman’s block runs to them on the other.”
“Don’t your cattle make out that way?” asked Charlie.
“No fear,” replied he, laughing. “We’ve some good boundary riders out
there.”
“What do you mean?”
“The wild blacks,” answered the Englishman. “They’re bad out on those
hills. You’ll find yourselves in a nice shop when you take that block
over. There’s a pretty fair humpy to live in, that’s one thing. What do
you call the place?”
“No Man’s Land.”
“Good name, too,” said the other. “It’s not fit for any man. I wish
you’d stop with us a while, but I suppose we’ll see you coming back.”
“I suppose so,” said Charlie. “We won’t be there longer than we can
help. Who’s on the block now? Redman sold his rights in it after he’d
mortgaged it to my uncle.”
“There’s old Paddy Keogh there now—greatest old character in the North.
Lives there with his blacks and a Chinaman. Regular oldest-inhabitant
sort of chap. Would have gone with Noah in the Ark, but he swore so
badly they wouldn’t have him on board. You’ll find him great fun.”
“I suppose he’ll give us possession all right. We don’t want any
trouble.”
“He’d fire at you just as soon as look at you, I think,” said the
other. “But I don’t fancy he wants to stay there much. It’s not the
first time he’s been broke, so I don’t expect he’ll take it very hard.
Well, if you won’t stay, good-bye and good luck! Give my best wishes to
old Paddy.”
They resumed the weary journey, and after another two days’ riding
sighted away over the plain a small iron house, gleaming in the setting
sun. “Here we are!” said Charlie. “That’s No Man’s Land.”
The arrival was not inspiriting. They rode their tired horses up to the
low-roofed galvanised-iron house, that looked like a huge kerosene-tin
laid on its side, with a hole cut for a door and two holes for windows.
There was no garden and no fenced yard. It was stuck down in the middle
of the wilderness, glaring forlornly out of its windows at a wide
expanse of dry grass and dull-green bushes. Behind it was a small
duplicate, which served as kitchen and store. A huge buffalo-head was
nailed to a tree near by. In front was a rail on which were spread
riding-saddles, pack-saddles, hobbles, surcingles, pannikins, bridles,
empty bags, and all manner of horse-gear; and roundabout were a litter
of chips, an assortment of empty tins, bits of bullock-hide, empty
cartridge-cases, and the bare skulls of three or four bullocks, with
neat bullet-holes between the eyes.
Amidst this congenial _debris_ roamed a herd of gaunt pigs,
fierce-eyed, quarrelsome pigs, that prowled restlessly about, and ever
and again returned disconsolately to the stinking carcasses of some
large birds of prey that had been thrown out in the sun. They were
flat-sided, long-legged, long-nosed, and had large bristling
manes—showed, in fact, every sign of reverting to the type of the
original pig that yachted with Noah. Living with them, in a state of
armed neutrality, were three or four savage-looking cattle dogs, who
honoured the strangers with deep growls, not condescending to bark.
Charlie pulled up in front of the house, and cooeed. A Chinaman put his
head out of the kitchen door, smiled blandly, said “’Ello!” and
retired. Gordon and Carew unsaddled the horses, put the hobbles on, and
carried all the gear into the house. By this time the Chinee had donned
a dirty calico jacket, and began in silence to put some knives, forks,
and pannikins on the table.
“Where’s the old man?” roared Charlie, as if he thought the Chinee were
deaf.
“No more,” he replied.
“Don’t understand any English, eh?”
“No more,” said he.
Just then a tramping of hoofs was heard; and looking out of the back
door they saw, about two hundred yards away, a large horse-yard, over
which hung a cloud of dust. Under the dust were signs of a struggle.
“He’s in the yard,” said Charlie. “Let’s go up.”
The cloud of dust shifted from place to place, and out of it came a
medley of weird oaths, the dull thudding of a waddy, and the heavy
breathing of men and animals in combat. Suddenly a lithe, sinewy black
boy, dressed in a short blue shirt, bounded like a squirrel to the top
of the fence and perched there; and through the mist they saw a very
tall old man, holding on like grim death to the end of a long rope, and
being hauled about the yard in great jumps by a half-grown steer.
Behind the steer another black boy dodged in and out, welting and
prodding it from time to time with a bamboo pole. Maddened by the
blows, the steer would dash forward and narrowly miss impaling the man
on his horns; then, taking advantage of his impetus, the old man would
try to haul him into a smaller yard. Every time he got to the gate the
steer yanked him out again by a series of backward springs that would
have hauled along a dromedary, and the struggle began all over again.
The black boy on the fence dropped down with the agility of a panther,
took up the rope behind the old man, and pulled for all he was worth.
“Hit him there, Billy! Whack him! Come on, you son of a cow! I’ll pull
you in if I have to pull your head off. Come on, now!” And once more
the struggle raged furiously.
Charlie clambered up on the fence and sat there for a moment. The old
man saw him, but evinced no surprise. He just said, “Here, Mister
Who-ever-you-are, kitch hold of that rope.” Their united forces were
too much for the steer, and he was hauled in by main strength under a
fusillade of bamboo on his stern. Once in the small yard, he abandoned
the struggle, and charged wildly at his captors. The old man slipped
nimbly to one side, Gordon darted up the nearest fence, while Carew and
the black boy got tangled up with the rope.
In the sauve qui peut which ensued, Carew pushed the black down on the
ground right in front of the steer, which immediately fell over him,
and tangled him up more than ever. Then it turned on him with a roar of
rage, butted him violently, rolled him over and over in the dirt, knelt
on him, bellowed in his ear, and slobbered on him. It looked as if the
boy must be killed. His mate dashed in with a bamboo, and welted and
whacked away without making any impression, till the animal of its own
accord withdrew gloomily to a corner of the yard, dragging the rope
after it. Carew watched the prostrate boy in agonised suspense, hardly
daring to hope that he was alive. With a gasp of satisfaction he saw
him rise to his feet, rub some of the dirt off his face, and look round
at the steer. Then he gave his shirt a shake and began to brush himself
with his hands, saying in an indignant tone, “Flamin’ bullock! Spoil my
new chirt!”
Now all hands seized the rope again; in a trice the bullock was hauled
up against the fence, thrown to the ground, and held there while the
old man sawed off the point of one horn, which was growing into the
animal’s eye. When the job was done he straightened himself up, and
through the covering grime and dust they had a good look at him.
He had a long, red nose, a pair of bright hazel eyes, and a bushy,
grizzled beard and moustache hiding all the lower part of his face. On
his head was a shapeless felt hat, from which a string passed under his
nose. His arms were hairy and baboon-like; his long thin legs seemed
intended by Nature to fit the sides of a horse. He wore tweed pants,
green with age, and strapped on the inside with a lighter-coloured and
newer material; also a very dirty coloured cotton shirt, open in front,
and showing a large expanse of hairy chest. His voice was husky from
much swearing at profligate cattle, and there was a curious nasal twang
in his tone, a sort of affectation of Americanism that was a departure
from the ordinary bush drawl.
Charlie introduced himself. “My name’s Gordon,” he said, “and this is a
friend of mine. We’ve come to take this block over.”
“You’re welcome to it, Mister,” said the old man promptly. “It’s about
broke me, and if you don’t look out it’ll break you. Any man that gits
this place will hump his swag from it in five years, mark me! Come on
down to the house,” he continued, picking up the rope and other gear
lying about the fence. “Now, you boys, let that steer out, and then go
and help the gins bring the cattle in. Look lively now, you
tallow-faced crawlers. Come on, Mister. Did you bring any square-face
with you?”
“We brought a drop o’ rum,” replied Charlie.
“Ha! That’ll do. That’s the real Mackay,” said the veteran, slouching
along at a perceptibly quicker gait.
“But, look, see here now, Mister!” he continued, anxiously, “you didn’t
let Ah Loy get hold of it, did you? He’s a real terror, that Chow of
mine. Did you see him when you came in?”
“Yes, we saw him. He couldn’t speak any English, seemingly.”
“That’s him,” said the old man. “That’s him! He don’t savvy much
English. He knows all he wants, though. He can lower the rum with any
Christian ever I see. It don’t do to let him get his hands on a bottle
of anythink in the spirit line. It’ll come back half-empty. Now then,
cook,” he roared, seating himself at the rough slab table, and drumming
on it with a knife, “let’s have some grub, quick, and you’ll get a nip
of rum. This new boss b’long you, you savvy. All about station b’long
him. I go buffalo-shooting. Me stony broke. Poor fellow me! Been
fifteen years in this God-forgotten country, too,” he said
reminiscently, placing his elbows on the table, and gazing at the wall
in front of him. “Fifteen years livin’ mostly with the blacks and the
Chineyman, and livin’ like a black or a Chineyman, too. And what have I
got to show for it? I’ve got to hump my bluey out of this, and take to
the road like any other broken-down old swagman.”
“It’s a bit rough,” said Charlie. “How did you come to grief?”
“Oh, I came out here with a big mob of cattle,” said the old man,
filling his pipe, as Ah Loy placed some tin plates, a tin dish, and a
bottle of Worcester sauce on the table, and withdrew to the kitchen for
the provender. “I lived here, and I spent nothing, and I let ’em breed.
I just looked on, and let ’em breed. Oh, there was no waste about my
management. I hadn’t an overseer at two pounds ten a week, to boss a
lot of flash stockmen at two pounds. I jest got my own two gins and
three good black boys, and I watched them cattle like a blessed father.
I never saw a stranger’s face from year’s end to year’s end. I rode all
over the face of the earth, keepin’ track of ’em. I kep’ the wild
blacks from scarin’ ’em to death, and spearin’ of ’em, as is their
nature to, and I got speared myself in one or two little shootin’
excursions I had.”
“Shooting the blacks?” interpolated Gordon.
“Somethin’ like that, Mister. I did let off a rifle a few times, and I
dessay one or two poor, ignorant black feller-countrymen that had been
fun’ my cattle as full of spears as so many hedgehogs—I dessay they got
in the road of a bullet or two. They’re always gettin’ in the road of
things. But we don’t talk of shootin’ blacks nowadays These parts is
too civilised—it’s risky. Anyhow, I made them blacks let my cattle
alone. And I slaved like a driven nigger, day in and day out, brandin’
calves all day long in the dust, with the sun that hot, the brandin’
iron ’ud mark without puttin’ it in the fire at all. And then down
comes the tick, and kills my cattle by the hundred, dyin’ and perishin’
all over the place. And what lived through it I couldn’t sell anywhere,
because they won’t let tick-infested cattle go south, and the Dutch
won’t let us ship ’em north to Java, the wretches! And then Mr. Grant’s
debt was over everything; and at last I had to chuck it up. That’s how
I got broke, Mister. I hope you’ll have better luck.”
While he was delivering this harangue, Carew had been taking notes of
the establishment. There was just a rough table, three boxes to sit on,
a meat safe, a few buckets, and a rough set of shelves, supporting a
dipper and a few tin plates, and tins of jam, while in the corner stood
some rifles and a double-barrelled gun. Saddlery of all sorts was
scattered about the floor promiscuously.
Certainly the owner of No Man’s Land had not lived luxuriously. A low
galvanised-iron partition divided the house into two rooms, and through
the doorway could be seen a rough bunk made of bags stretched on
saplings.
As the old man finished speaking, Ah Loy brought in the evening
meal—about a dozen beautifully tender roast ducks in a large tin dish,
a tin plate full of light, delicately-browned cakes of the sort known
as “puftalooners,” and a huge billy of tea. There were no vegetables;
pepper and salt were in plenty, and Worcester sauce. They ate silently,
as hungry men do, while the pigs and cattle-dogs marched in at the
open-door, and hustled each other for the scraps that were thrown to
them.
“How is it the pigs have no tails?” asked Carew.
“Bit off, Mister. The dogs bit them off. They’ve got the ears pretty
well chawed off ’em too.”
Just then a pig and a dog made a simultaneous rush for a bone, and the
pig secured it. The dog, by way of revenge, fastened on to the pig, and
made him squeal like a locomotive engine whistling. The old man kicked
at large under the table, and restored order.
“You ain’t eatin’, Mister,” he said, forking a duck on to Carew’s plate
with his own fork. “These ducks is all right. They’re thick on the
lagoon. The Chow only had two cartridges, but he got about a dozen. He
lays down and fires along the water, and they’re floatin’ very near
solid on it. But here’s the cattle comin’ up.”
Looking out of the door, they saw about two hundred cattle coming in a
long, stringing mob up the plain, driven by four black figures on
horse-back. As they drew near the yards, several cattle seemed inclined
to bolt away; but the sharp fusillade of terrific whips kept them up to
the mark, and, after a sudden halt for a few minutes, the mob streamed
in through the gates. A number of rails were put in the posts, and made
fast with pegs. The riders then remounted, and came cantering and
laughing down to the homestead. All four were aboriginals, two were the
boys that had been seen at the yard. The two new boys were dressed in
moleskins, cotton shirts, and soft felt hats, and each had a gaudy
handkerchief tied round his throat.
One was light, wiry, and graceful as a gazelle—a very handsome boy, the
embodiment of lightness and activity. The other was short and squat,
with a broad face. Both grinned light-heartedly as they rode up, let
their horses go, and carried their saddles on to the verandah, without
bothering about the strangers.
“Those are nice-looking boys,” said Carew. “I mean the two new boys
just coming in.”
“New boys!” said the old man. “Them! They’re my two gins. And see here,
Mister, you’ll have to keep off hangin’ round them while you’re camped
here. I can’t stand anyone interferin’ with them. If you kick my dorg,
or go after my gin, then you rouse all the monkey in me. Those two do
all my cattle work. Come here, Maggie,” he called, and the slight “boy”
walked over with a graceful, easy swing.
“This is new feller?” he said, introducing Carew, who bowed gracefully.
“He b’long Sydney. You think him plenty nice feller, eh?”
“Yowi,” said the girl laughing. “He nice feller. You got ’em matches?”
she said, beaming on Carew, and pulling a black pipe out of her
trousers’ pocket. “Big fool that Lucy, drop ’em matches.”
Carew handed over his match-box in speechless amazement.
“They’ve been out all day with the cattle,” said the old man. “I’ve got
a lot of wild cattle in that there mob. I go out with a few quiet ones
in the moonlight, and when the wild cattle come out of the scrubs to
look at ’em we rush the whole lot out into the plain. Great hands these
gins are—just as good as the boys.”
“Good Lord!” said Carew, looking at the two little figures, who had now
a couple of ducks each, a puftalooner or two, and a big pannikin of
tea, and were sitting on the edge of the verandah eating away with
great enjoyment; “what have they been doing with the cattle to-day?”
“Minding them lest the wild ones should clear out. They dropped their
matches somehow; that’s what fetched ’em home early. They’ll have to
sleep on the verandah to-night. We’ll make that their boodore, as they
say in France.”
The dark was now falling; the sunlight had left long, faint, crimson
streaks in the sky. The air was perceptibly cooler, and flights of
waterfowl hurried overhead, making their way to the river. The Chinaman
lighted a slush-lamp, by whose flickering light Charlie produced from
his swag a small bundle of papers, and threw them on the table.
“We might as well get our business over, Keogh,” he said. “I’ve got the
paper here for you to sign, making over your interest in the block and
the cattle, and all that.”
He pored over the document, muttering as he read it. “Your name’ll have
to be filled in, and there’s a blank for the name of the person it’s
transferred to.”
“That’ll be Mr. Grant’s name,” suggested Carew.
“I don’t know so much about that,” said Charlie. “I don’t think, if a
man has a mortgage over a place, that he can take it in his own name.
That fool Pinnock didn’t tell me. He was too anxious to know how we got
on with the larrikins to give me any useful information. Anyhow, I’ll
fill in my own name—for all the block is worth I ain’t likely to steal
it. I can transfer it to Mr. Grant afterwards.”
“I don’t care,” said the old man indifferently, “I’ll transfer my
interest to anyone you like. I’m done with it. I’m signing away fifteen
of the best years of my life. But my name ain’t Keogh, you know, though
I always went by that. My father died when I was a kiddy, and my mother
married again, so I got called by my stepfather’s name all my life.
This is my right name, and it’s a poor man’s name to-day.” And as the
two men bent over him in the light of the flickering slush-lamp, he
wrote, with stiff, uncertain fingers, “Patrick Henry Considine.”