‘We’re travellin’, mate,’ said he, as I helped him to unsaddle. ‘Got
bushed atween ’ere an’ the Maranoa. A bit o’ damned bad country!’
He had not come from that direction at all; but in such a scrub all
directions were much alike. And, anyhow, it was no business of mine.
They had plenty of tucker, and I put the billy on again.
As the woman stood at the fire, holding up her riding-dress with one
hand and with the other hastily fastening some stray braids of long
hair that had come adrift, I saw that she was a fresh-faced,
pleasant-featured girl of about eighteen or nineteen. As she presently
dropped her skirt, took off her hat, and used both hands to her hair,
I noticed by the flickering light a red, angry-looking scar extending
from the bridge of the nose up to and across the left eyebrow.
Her companion was a type I knew well. A cattleman all over, from the
long, lean, curved legs of him to the sharp-eyed, tanned, resolute
face. And from the swag I saw sticking out the curiously-carved handle
of a stockwhip. They both seemed weary and thoughtful, and after
supper I offered them the shelter of the tent. The man thanked me.
‘The missus,’ said he, ‘’ll be only too glad of the chance. She ain’t
much used to campin’ out.’
So they lugged their belongings inside, whilst, making up the fire,
and throwing some green bushes on it to drive the skeeters away, I
laid on my blankets, with the pack-saddle for a pillow, and the dog at
my feet.
Awaking about midnight, as most bushmen do, I saw that big clouds were
sailing fast across the moon. The air had become rather chilly, and,
throwing more wood on the fire, I stood warming myself and filling my
pipe. The dog, also getting up, yawned sleepily, and came and gazed
into the blaze. The little bird from the ridge-pole still chirped its
eulogistic call, but drowsily, and with effort, as of one who nods and
winks. From the scrub came the faint tinkling of bells, showing that
the horses were feeding steadily.
Suddenly the silence was broken by the peculiar long, rumbling whinny
with which a straggling horse greets the presence of others. Then I
heard the hobble-chains clanking as our horses galloped up to inspect
the newcomer. Then ensued a short pause, followed by the sound of a
wild snorting stampede as they crashed away, their hobbles jingling
and bells ringing furiously through the scrub.
‘Bother!’ thought I, as the noise grew fainter and fainter, ‘that
means, most likely, a long walk in the morning. Hang all brombees!’
Preparing to lie down again, in not the best of tempers, I became
aware of at least one horse steadily making towards the camp. As the
steps approached, the dog, growling low, and with every hair
bristling, backed towards the tent. A cold feeling of disquiet and
nervousness took possession of me as I saw this.
Turning from watching the animal, my eye caught a dark mass between
scrub and fire. Just then the moon shone out from behind a bank, and,
not ten yards away, stood a horseman, his head drooping on his chest,
his body rocking slightly in the saddle.
I gave a sigh of relief. Drunken riders are common enough in the Bush.
And, with all trepidation vanished, I sang out gruffly enough,—
‘Better get off, mate, before you fall off! Come and have a drink of
tea!’
He would be a nuisance, of course, with the inevitable bottle of rum
in his swag, and in his person all the loathsome imbecility
inseparable from the sobering-up process. But, as an institution, he
had to be attended to.
And I repeated my invitation irritably to him, sitting there in the
bright moonlight, one hand grasping the reins, the other resting on
the wither, his chin on his breast, staring fixedly at me from under
the broad-leafed hat.
‘Oh,’ I muttered, ‘you drunken brute! I’ve got to lift you down, have
I! About all you’re fit for is to frighten people’s horses away.’
The dog, only his head protruding from under the tent, kept up a long,
snarling, choking growl, broken by gasps for fresh breath.
Advancing, I placed my hand upon the horseman’s. It was like ice.
Looking up, I saw a black-whiskered face, ashen-grey under the
hat-leaf, and apparently leaning forward to gaze into mine out of
wide-open, staring, glassy eyes.
Suddenly, realising the meaning of the thing, I ran to one side and
shouted hurriedly—I know not what.
Then I heard someone in the tent cursing the dog, who yelped, as from
a kick, and, presently, the stranger came out and walked up to the
fire. Standing away, and in deep shadow, he did not see me. But,
catching sight of that dread rider, sitting motionless, he went over
and peered into its face.
Then with a tremendous oath he sprang back, and I could see his
sharp-cut features working with emotion as he exclaimed, ‘George! What
game’s this?’
Advancing again he stroked the horse, and, as I had done, placed one
of his hands on that other so cold one.
Apparently convinced, he ran into the tent, whence came in a minute an
excited murmur of voices.
A heavy cloud was across the moon, but I could make out the pair
fumbling for their bridles amongst a heap of saddlery at the foot of a
sapling.
Meanwhile the horse was making ineffectual tugs at the bridle to get
its head down to some dry tussocks growing near. But all its straining
could not relax by one inch the steel-like grip of those dead fingers.
Only the corpse at each jerk nodded in a ghastly cordial sort of
fashion.
Presently, moonlight filled the little plain again, and the horse,
growing impatient, turned and made off towards the sound of the
distant bells.
Taking heart of grace, I ran up and caught it. As I led it back I
noticed that the rider’s legs were bound tightly to the saddle by
straps passed from the front D’s over the thighs to the ones on the
cantle.
As I began to undo them I saw the man slinging off into the scrub with
the woman at his heels. I shouted to them. But they took no notice.
Working away at the knots and buckles, the chin-strap slipped, the jaw
fell, and the gleaming teeth showed in such an awful grin that I
involuntarily stepped back.
Now the hat tumbled off, revealing the features of a young man with
coal-black hair and moustache, and beard flecked with spots of dry
white foam.
Even at its best, I should have called it a hard, cruel face. It was
simply hideous now.
As I stood irresolutely staring, a voice behind me made me jump. It
was the woman.
‘Here,’ she said, as with trembling fingers she essayed to loosen the
dead grasp on the reins, ‘I’ll help you. He was a real bad un! But he
couldn’t scare me when he were alive, an’ I aint goin’ to let him do
it now. See’ (pointing to the cut on her forehead), ‘this is the last
thing he done. Slip your knife through them reins,’ she continued.
‘He’s had a fit, or a stroke o’ the sun, an’ he’ll never slacken his
grip, no more’n he would my throat if he could ha’ got hold on it. He
was my husband; an’ jealous of his own shadder. But I never minded
much till he took to knockin’ me about. I couldn’t stand that. So I
cleared with Jim yonder.’
By this, we had undone the saddle and breast-plate straps with which
the man, feeling himself mortally struck, and wishful to avoid falling
off and lying there to rot in that wild scrub, had, in perhaps his
last agony, tied himself to the saddle. And between us we let him
slide gently down on to the sand, whilst the horse shook itself,
sniffed unconcernedly at the body, and wandered away to the others.
For a while she stood gazing on the thing as it lay there with stiffly
curved legs and upturned glassy eyes.
Then she smiled a little out of a white face, set hard with horror and
detestation, saying,—
‘After all, perhaps, he thought a lot of me!’ And, going to the tent,
she returned with a blanket, and carefully spread it over the corpse.
Then, as the man came up with the horses and began to saddle them, she
said, holding out her hand,—
‘So long! an’ many thanks. You’ve bin a real right bower. We’re
a-goin’ into the Bridge, an’ we’ll send the traps out, all square an’
fair. So long! agen.’
‘So long, mate!’ shouted the man, with a tremor in his voice lacking
in the woman’s. And then they rode away, two dark shapes against the
moonlit scrub.
‘Died by the visitation of God,’ said the Coroner’s Jury.
‘Served him damned well right!’ said the district generally, who knew
the story.
But travellers along the Maranoa track make a point of giving ‘Dead
Man’s Camp’ a very wide berth.