THE SECOND SEARCH FOR CONSIDINE.
Before leaving Hugh was fully instructed what to do if he compassed the
second finding of Considine. He was to travel under another name, for
fear that his own would get about, and cause the fugitive to make
another hurried disappearance.
He took a subpœna to serve on the old man as a last resource.
Charlie was emphatic. “Go up and get hold of the old vagrant, and find
out all about it. Don’t make a mess of it, whatever you do. Remember
the old lady, and Miss Grant, and the youngsters, and all of us depend
on you in this business. Don’t come back beaten. Don’t let anything
stop you. Get him drunk or get him sober—friendly or fighting—but get
the truth, and get the proofs of it. Choke it out of the old hound
somehow.”
Hugh said that he would, and departed, weighed down by responsibility,
to execute his difficult mission. He had to go into an untravelled
country to get the truth out of a man who did not want to tell it; and
the time allowed was short, as the case could not be postponed much
longer.
He travelled by sea to Port Faraway, a tropical sweltering township by
the Northern seas of Australia, and when he reached it felt like one of
the heroes in Tennyson’s Lotus Eaters—he had come “into a land wherein
it seemed always afternoon.”
Reeves, the buffalo shooter, was a well-known man, but to find his camp
was another matter. No one seemed to have energy enough to take much
interest in the quest.
Hugh interviewed a leading citizen at the hotel, and got very little
satisfaction. He said, “I want to get out to Reeves’s camp. Do you know
where it is, and how one gets there?”
“Well,” said the leading citizen, putting his feet up on the arms of
his long chair and gasping for air, “Le’s see! Reeves’s camp—ah! Where
is he camped now?”
“I don’t know,” said Hugh. “I wish I did. That’s what I want to find
out.”
“Hopkins’d know. Hopkins, the storekeeper. He sends out the supplies.
Did you ask him?”
“No,” said Hugh. “I didn’t. I’ll go and ask him now.”
“Too hot to bustle round now,” said the leading citizen, lighting his
pipe. “What’ll you have to drink? Have some square; it’s the best drink
here.”
Hugh thought it well to fall in with the customs of the inhabitants, so
he had a stiff gin-and-water at nine in the morning, a thing he had
never done, or even seen done, in his life before. Then he went over in
the blazing sunlight to the storekeeper, and asked whether he knew
where Reeves’ camp was.
“That I don’t,” said the storekeeper. “I send out what they want by a
Malay who sails a one-masted craft round the coast, and goes up the
river to their camp, and brings the hides back. They send a blackfellow
to let me know when they want any stuff, and where to send it.”
“Perhaps I could go out with the next lot of stuff,” said Hugh. “When
will they want it, do you think?”
“Well, they mightn’t want any more. They might go on now till the wet
season, and then they’ll come in.”
“When is the wet season, then?”
“Oh, a couple of months, likely. Perhaps three months. Perhaps there
won’t be none at all to speak of. What’ll you have?”
“Oh, I have just had a drink, thanks. Fact is, I’m a bit anxious to get
out to this camp. It’s a bit important. You don’t know where they are
for certain?”
“Lord knows! Anywhere! Might be on one river, might be on another.
They’ll come in in the wet season. Better have a drink, anyhow. You
must have something. What’ll it be—square? Beer? Can’t stand beer in
this climate, myself.”
“Oh, well,” said Hugh desperately, “I’ll have another square. Make it a
light one. Do you think I can get anyone who knows where they are
camped to go out with me?”
“Tommy Prince’d know, I expect. He was out in that country before. But
he’s gone with a bullock-team, drawing quartz to the new battery at the
Oriental. At least I saw him start out three weeks ago. Said he was in
a hurry, too, as the battery couldn’t start until he got the quartz
hauled.”
“Perhaps he didn’t start,” said Hugh; “perhaps he put it off till after
the wet season?”
“Well,” said the storekeeper, meditatively, “he might, but I don’t
think he would. There’s no one else, that I know of, can find them for
you. Lord knows where they are. They camp in one place till the buffalo
are all shot, and then they shift to new ground. Perhaps ten miles,
perhaps thirty. Have another drink? What’ll you have?”
“No, not any more, thanks. About this Tommy Prince, now; if I can find
him he might tell me where to go. Where can I find him?”
“Down at the Margaret is where he camps, but I think he’s gone to the
Oriental by this time—sure to be. That’s about forty miles down past
the Margaret. There was a fellow came in from the Margaret for
supplies, and he’ll be going back to-morrow—if he can find his
pack-horses.”
“And supposing he can’t?”
“Well, then, he’ll go out next week, I expect, unless he gets on the
drink. He’s a terrible chap to drink.”
“And if he starts to drink, when will he go?”
“Lord knows. They’ll have to send in after him. His mates’ll be pretty
near starved by now, anyhow. He’s been in town, foolin’ round that girl
at the Royal this three weeks. He’ll give you a lift out to the
Margaret—that’s forty miles.”
“What is there out at the Margaret when I get there? Is it a town, or a
station, or a mine? What is it?”
“Oh, it’s not so bad. There’s a store there, and a few mines scattered
about. Mostly Chinese mines. The storekeeper there’s a great soaker,
nearly always on the drink. Name’s Sampson. He’ll tell you where to
find Tommy Prince. Prince and his mates have a claim twelve miles out
from there, and if Tommy ain’t gone to the Oriental, he might go down
with you.”
“Supposing Tommy’s at his claim, twelve miles out,” said Hugh, “how can
I get out?”
“I dunno,” said the storekeeper, who was getting tired of talking so
long without a drink. “I dunno how you’ll get out there. Better have a
drink—what’ll you have?”
Hugh walked out of the store in despair. He found himself engaged in
what appeared to be an endless chase after a phantom Considine, and the
difficulties in his way semed insuperable. Yet how could he go back and
tell them all at home that he had failed? What would they think of him?
The thought made him miserable; and he determined, if he failed, never
to go back to the old station at all.
So he returned to his hotel, packed his valise, and set out to look for
the pack-horse man. He found him fairly sober; soon bargained to be
allowed to ride one of the horses, and in due course was deposited at
the Margaret—a city consisting of one galvanised-iron building,
apparently unoccupied. His friend dismounted and had a drink with him
out of his flask. They kicked at the door unavailingly; then his mate
went on into the indefinite, leaving him face to face with general
desolation.
The Margaret store was the only feature in the landscape—a small
building with a heap of empty bottles in the immediate foreground, and
all round it the grim bush, a vista of weird twisted trees and dull
grey earth with scanty grass. At the back were a well, a windlass, and
a trough for water, round which about a hundred goats were encamped.
Hugh sat and smoked, and looked at the prospect. By-and-by out of the
bush came two men, a Chinaman and a white man. The Chinaman was like
all Chinamen; the white man was a fiery, red-faced, red-bearded,
red-nosed little fellow. The Chinee was dragging a goat along by the
horns, the goat hanging back and protesting loudly in semi-human
screams; every now and again a black mongrel dog would make sudden
fiendish dashes at the captive, and fasten its teeth in its neck. This
made it bellow louder; but the Chinaman, with the impassibility of his
race, dragged goat, dog, and all along, without the slightest show of
interest.
The white man trudged ahead, staring fixedly in front; when they
reached the store he stared at Hugh as if he were the Bunyip, but said
no word. Then he unlocked the door, went in, and came out with a large
knife, with which he proceeded to murder the goat scientifically. The
Chinee meanwhile bailed up the rest of the animals, and caught and
milked a couple of “nannies,” while a patriarchal old “billy” walked
fragrantly round the yard, uttering hoarse “buukhs” of defiance.
It was a truly pastoral scene, but Hugh took little interest in it. He
was engrossed with the task of getting out to the buffalo camp, finding
Considine, and making him come forward and save the family. He
approached the white, or rather red man, who cocked a suspicious eye at
him, and went on tearing the hide off the goat. Hugh noticed that his
hand trembled a good deal, and that a sort of foam gathered on his lips
as he worked.
“Good day,” said Hugh.
The man glared at him, but said nothing.
“My name is Lambton,” said Hugh. “I want to go out to the buffalo camp.
I want to find Tommy Prince, to see if he can go out with me. Do you
know where he is?”
The man put the blade of the butcher’s knife between his teeth, and
stared again at Hugh, apparently having some difficulty in focussing
him. Then his lips moved, and he was evidently trying to frame speech.
He said, “Boo, Boo, Boo,” for a few seconds; then he pulled himself
together, and said,
“Wha’ you want?”
“I want to get to the buffalo camp,” said Hugh. “You know Reeves’s
camp.”
Here a twig fell to the ground just behind the man; he gave one
blood-curdling yell, dropped the knife, and rushed past Hugh, screaming
out, “Save me! Save me! They’re after me! Look at ’em; look at ’em!”
His hair stood perfectly erect with fright, and, as he ran, he glanced
over his shoulder with frightened eyes. He didn’t get far. In his panic
he ran straight towards the well, banged his head against the windlass,
and went thundering down the twenty or thirty feet of shaft souse into
the water at the bottom, where he splashed and shrieked like a fiend,
the noise reverberating up the long shaft.
Hugh and the Chinaman ran to the well-top, Hugh cursing under his
breath. Every possible obstacle that could arise had arisen to block
his journey; every man that could have helped him was away, or dead, or
otherwise missing; and now, to crown all, after getting thus far, he
had apparently struck a prize lunatic, and would have to stay in that
awful desolation, perhaps for a week, with him and a Chinaman. Perhaps
he would have to give evidence on the lunatic’s dead body, and even be
accused of causing his death. All these thoughts flashed through his
mind as he ran to the well-head. From the noise he made the man was
evidently not dead yet, and, looking down, he saw his eyes glaring up
as he splashed in the water.
“What’s up with him?” roared Hugh to the Chinaman.
“Him, dlink, dlink—all-a-time dlink, him catchee hollows.”
They had started to lower the bucket, when suddenly the yells ceased, a
loud bubbling was heard, and looking down they saw only a dim, round
object above the water. Without an instant’s delay Hugh put his foot in
the bucket and signed to the Chinee to lower him. Swiftly and silently
he descended the well, jumped out of the bucket, and grabbed the
floating body of the drunkard with one hand, holding on to the rope
with the other. The man had collapsed, and was as limp as a rag. Hugh
made the rope fast under his armpits, and gave the old mining cry, “On
top there, haul away.”
Heavily the windlass creaked. Mightily the Chinee strained. The
unconscious figure was drawn out of the water and up the shaft, inch by
inch. The weight of a man in wet clothes is considerably more than that
of a bucket of water, and it seemed a certainty that either the old
windlass would break or the Chinaman’s arms give out. Slowly, slowly,
the limp wet figure ascended the shaft, while Hugh supported himself in
the water, by gripping the logs at the side of the well, praying that
the tackle would hold. The creaking of the windlass ceased, and the
ascending body stopped—evidently the Chinee was pausing to get his
breath.
“Go on!” screamed Hugh. “Keep at it, John! Don’t let it beat you! Wind
away!”
Faintly came the gasped reply, “No can! No more can do!”
He lowered himself in the water as far as he could, to deaden the blow
in case of the fellow falling back on him, and screamed encouragement,
threats, and promises up the well. Suddenly from above came a new voice
altogether, a white man’s voice.
“Right oh, boss! We’ve got him.”
The windlass recommenced its creaking, and the figure at the end of the
rope continued its slow, upward journey. Hugh saw the body hauled
slowly to the top and grabbed by a strong hand; then it disappeared,
and the sunlight once more streamed, uninterrupted, down the shaft. The
bucket came down again, and Hugh clutched it and yelled out, “Haul
away!” He could hear the men grunting above as they turned the handle.
When he had been hauled about fifteen feet there was a crack; the old
windlass had collapsed, and he went souse, feet first, into the water.
He sank till he touched the bottom, then rose gasping to the surface. A
head appeared, framed in the circle of the well, and a slow, drawling
colonial voice said:
“Gord! boss, are you hurt? The windlass is broke.”
“No, I’m not hurt. Can’t you fix that windlass?” roared Hugh.
“No!” came the answer sepulchrally down the well. “She’s cooked.”
“Well, hold on,” said Hugh. “I believe I can get up.” He braced his
feet against one side of the well, and his shoulders against the other,
and so, working them alternately, he raised himself inch by inch. It is
a feat that requires a good man to perform, and the strain was very
great. Grimly he kept at it, and drew nearer and nearer to the top.
Then, at last, a hand seized him; half-sick with over-exertion, he
struggled out and fell gasping to the ground. For a minute or two the
universe was turning round with him. The Chinee and the strange white
man moved in a kind of flicker, unreal as the figures in a
cinematograph. Then all was blank for a while.
When he came to, he was lying by the well with a bag under his head,
and the strange white man was trying to pour some spirits down his
throat.
“I’m—all right—thanks!” gasped Hugh.
“By Gord, Mister, it’s lucky I happened to come along,” said the
stranger. “You an’ Sampson’d ha’ both been drownded. That Chow couldn’t
haul him up. Dead beat the Chow was when I came. I jis’ come ridin’ up,
thinkin’ to get a few pound of onions to take out to the camp, and I
see the Chow a-haulin’ and a-haulin’ at that windlass like as if he was
tryin’ to pull the bottom out of the well. I rides up and sings out
“What ho! Chaney, what yer got?” And he says, “Ketch hold,” he says,
and that was all he could say; he was fair beat. And then I heard you
singing out, and I says to meself, “Is the whole popperlation of the
Northern Territory down this here well? How many more is there,
Chancy?” I says. And then bung goes the old windlass, and lucky it
ketched in the top of the well; if it had fell down on the top of you,
it’d ha’ stiffened you all right. And how you got up that well beats
me. By Cripes, it does.”
“How’s the—man that—was down with me?” said Hugh slowly.
“What, Sampson? ’E’s all right. Couldn’t kill’m with a meat-axe. He
must ha’ swallowed very near all the water in that well. Me an’ the
Chow emptied very near two buckets out of him. He’s dead to the world
jes’ now. How do you feel, boss?”
“I’ll be all right in a minute,” said Hugh. “What’s your name?”
“I’m Tommy Prince,” said the stranger. “I jist kem in from my camp
to-day for them onions.”
Hugh drew a long breath. The luck had turned at last.