The American looked at him approvingly. He had learned in his
wanderings that an Irishman who grows quieter when deeply stirred is a
very dangerous specimen of the genus _homo_.
“Good lad!” he muttered; and the two went down the street together
toward the station-house, followed by half a dozen of the more resolute
of the crowd.
One word before we proceed with our story, or our chronicle rather, as
every word of it is based upon fact. The colonial trooper of fifteen or
twenty years ago was a very different man from his representative of
to-day. Not that I would imply any slur upon the courage of the latter;
but for reckless dare-devilry and knight-errantry the old constabulary
has never been equalled. The reason is a simple one. Men of gentle
blood, younger sons and wild rakes who had outrun the constable, were
sent off to Australia with some wild idea of making their fortunes. On
arriving they found Melbourne by no means the El Dorado they expected;
they were unfit for any employment, their money was soon dissipated,
and they unerringly gravitated into the mounted police. Thus a sort of
colonial “Maison Rouge” became formed, where the lowest private had as
much pride of birth and education as his officers. They were men who
might have swayed the fate of empires, yet who squandered away their
lives in many a lone wild fight with native and bushranger, where
nothing but a mouldering blue-ragged skeleton was left to tell the tale.
* * * * *
It was a glorious sunset. The whole western sky was a blaze of flame,
throwing a purple tint upon the mountains, and gilding the sombre edges
of the great forest which spreads between Trafalgar and the river
Wawirra. It stretched out, a primeval, unbroken wilderness, save at
the one point where a rough track had been formed by the miners and
their numerous camp-followers. This wound amid the great trunks in
a zigzag direction, occasionally making a long detour to avoid some
marshy hollow or especially dense clump of vegetation. Often it could
be hardly discerned from the ground around, save by the scattered
hoof-marks and an occasional rut.
About fifteen miles from Trafalgar there stands a little knoll, well
sheltered and overlooking the road. On this knoll a man was lying as
the sun went down that Friday evening. He appeared to shun observation,
for he had chosen that part in which the foliage was thickest; yet he
seemed decidedly at his ease as he lolled upon his back, with his pipe
between his teeth and a broad hat down over his face. It was a face
that it was well to cover in the presence of so peaceful a scene--a
face pitted with the scars of an immaterial small-pox. The forehead
was broad and low; one eye had apparently been gouged out, leaving
a ghastly cavity; the other was deep-set, cunning, and vindictive.
The mouth was hard and cruel; a rough beard covered the chin. It was
the cut of face which, seen in a lonely street, would instinctively
make one shift the grasp of one’s stick from the knob end to the
ferrule--the face of a bold and unscrupulous man.
Some unpleasing thought seemed to occur to him, for he rose with a
curse and knocked the ashes out of his pipe. “A darned fine thing,” he
muttered, “that I should have to lie out like this! It was Barrett’s
fault the job wasn’t a clean one, an’ now he picks me out to get the
swamp-fever. If he’d shot the horse as I did the man, we wouldn’t need
a watch on this side of the Wawirra. He always was a poor white-livered
cuss. Well,” he continued, picking up a gun which lay in the grass
behind him, “there’s no use my waiting longer; they wouldn’t start
during the night. Maybe the horse never got home, maybe they gave them
up as drowned; anyhow, it’s another man’s turn to-morrow, so I’ll just
give them five minutes and then make tracks.” He sat down on the stump
of a tree as he spoke and hummed the verse of a song. A sudden thought
seemed to strike him, for he plunged his hand into his pocket, and
after some searching extracted a pack of playing cards wrapped in a
piece of dirty brown paper. He gazed earnestly at their greasy faces
for some time. Then he took a pin from his sleeve and pricked a small
hole in the corner of each ace and knave. He chuckled as he shuffled
them up, and replaced them in his pocket. “I’ll have my share of the
swag,” he growled. “They’re sharp, but they’ll not spot that when the
liquor is in them. By the Lord, here they are!”
He had sprung to his feet and was bending to the ground, holding his
breath as he listened. To the unpractised ear all was as still as
before--the hum of a passing insect, the chirp of a bird, the rustle
of the leaves; but the bushranger rose with the air of a man who has
satisfied himself. “Good-by to Bluemansdyke,” said he; “I reckon it
will be too hot to hold us for a time. That thundering idiot! he’s
spoiled as nice a lay as ever was, an’ risked our necks into the
bargain. I’ll see their number an’ who they are, though,” he continued;
and, choosing a point where a rough thicket formed an effectual screen,
he coiled himself up, and lay like some venomous snake, occasionally
raising his head and peering between the trunks at the reddish streak
which marked the Trafalgar road.
There could be no question now as to the approach of a body of
horsemen. By the time our friend was fairly ensconced in his
hiding-place the sound of voices and the clatter of hoofs was
distinctly audible, and in another moment a troop of mounted men came
sweeping round the curve of the road. They were eleven all told,
armed to the teeth, and evidently well on the alert. Two rode in
front with rifles unslung, leisurely scanning every bush which might
shelter an enemy. The main body kept about fifty yards behind them,
while a solitary horseman brought up the rear. The ranger scanned them
narrowly as they passed. He seemed to recognize most of them. Some
were his natural enemies, the troopers; the majority were miners who
had volunteered to get rid of an evil which affected their interests
so closely. They were a fine bronzed set of men, with a deliberate air
about them, as if they had come for a purpose and meant to attain it.
As the last rider passed before his hiding-place the solitary watcher
started and growled a curse in his beard. “I know his darned face,” he
said; “it’s Bill Hanker, the man who got the drop on Long Nat Smeaton
in Silver City in ’53; what the thunder brought him here? I must be off
by the back track, though, an’ let the boys know.” So saying, he picked
up his gun, and with a scowl after the distant party, he crouched down
and passed rapidly and silently out of sight into the very thickest
part of the bush.
* * * * *
The expedition had started from Trafalgar on the afternoon of the same
day that Maurice Broadhurst’s horse, foam-flecked and frightened,
had galloped up to the old stable-door. Burton, the inspector of
constabulary, an energetic and able man, as all who knew him can
testify, was in command. He had detached Braxton, the young Irishman,
and Thompson, another trooper, as a vanguard. He himself rode with the
main body, gray-whiskered and lean, but as straight in the back as when
he and I built a shanty in ’39 in what is now Burke Street, Melbourne.
With him were McGillivray, Foley, and Anson, of the Trafalgar force;
Hartley, the sheep-farmer, Murdoch, and Summerville, who had made their
pile at the mines; and Dan Murphy, who was cleaned out when the clay of
the “Orient” turned to gravel, and had been yearning for a solid square
fight ever since. Chicago Bill formed the rear-guard, and the whole
party presented an appearance which, though far from military, was
decidedly warlike.
They camped out that night seventeen miles from Trafalgar, and next
day pushed on as far as where the Stirling road runs across. The
third morning brought them to the northern bank of the Wawirra, which
they forded. Here a council of war was held, for they were entering
what they regarded as enemy’s country. The bush track, though wild,
was occasionally traversed both by shepherds and sportsmen. It would
hardly be the home of a gang of desperate bushrangers. But beyond the
Wawirra the great rugged range of the Tápu Mountains towered up to the
clouds, and across a wild spur of these the mining track passed up to
Bluemansdyke. It was here, they decided at the council, that the scene
of the late drama lay. The question now was, What means were to be
taken to attack the murderers?--for that murder had been done no man
doubted.
All were of one mind as to what the main line of action should be. To
go for them straight, shoot as many as possible on sight, and hang
the balance in Trafalgar: that was plain sailing. But how to get at
them was the subject of much debate. The troopers were for pushing on
at once, and trusting to Fortune to put the rangers in their way. The
miners proposed rather to gain some neighboring peak, from which a good
view of the country could be obtained, and some idea gained of their
whereabouts. Chicago Bill took rather a gloomy view of things. “Nary
one will we see,” said he; “they’ve dusted out of the district ’fore
this. They’d know the horse would go home, and likely as not they’ve
had a watch on the road to warn them. I guess, boys, we’d best move
on an’ do our best.” There was some discussion, but Chicago’s opinion
carried the day, and the expedition pushed on in a body.
After passing the second upland station the scenery becomes more and
more grand and rugged. Great peaks two and three thousand feet high
rose sheer up at each side of the narrow track. The heavy wind and rain
of the storm had brought down much _débris_, and the road was almost
impassable in places. They were frequently compelled to dismount and
to lead the horses. “We haven’t far now, boys,” said the inspector
cheerily, as they struggled on; and he pointed to a great dark cleft
which yawned in front of them between two almost perpendicular cliffs.
“They are there,” he said, “or nowhere.” A little higher the road
became better and their progress was more rapid. A halt was called,
guns were unslung, and their pistols loosened in their belts, for the
great gully of Bluemansdyke, the wildest part of the whole Tápu range,
was gaping before them. But not a thing was to be seen; all was as
still as the grave. The horses were picketed in a quiet little ravine,
and the whole party crept on on foot. The southern sun glared down
hot and clear on the yellow bracken and banks of fern which lined the
narrow, winding track. Still not a sign of life. Then came a clear
low whistle from the two advanced troopers, announcing that something
had been discovered, and the main body hurried up. It was a spot for
deeds of blood. On one side of the road there lowered a black gnarled
precipice; on the other was the sullen mouth of the rugged gully. The
road took a sharp turn at this spot. Just at the angle several large
bowlders were scattered, lining and overlooking the track. It was at
this angle that a little bed of mud and trampled red clay betokened
a recent struggle. There could be no question that they were at the
scene of the murder of the two young miners. The outline of a horse
could still be seen in the soft ground, and the prints of its hoofs as
it kicked out in its death-agony were plainly marked. Behind one of
the rocks were the tracks of several feet, and some pistol-wadding was
found in a tuft of ferns. The whole tragedy lay unclosed before them.
Two men, careless in the pride of their youth and their strength, had
swept round that fatal curve. Then a crash, a groan, a brutal laugh,
the galloping of a frightened horse, and all was over.
What was to be done now? The rocks around were explored, but
nothing fresh discovered. Some six days had elapsed, and the birds
were apparently flown. The party separated and hunted about among
the bowlders. Then the American, who could follow a trail like a
bloodhound, found tracks leading toward a rugged pile of rocks on the
north side of the gully. In a crevice here the remains of three horses
were found. Close to them the rim of an old straw hat projected through
the loose loam. Hartley, the sheep-farmer, sprang over to pick it up;
he started back in the act of stooping, and said in an awe-struck
whisper to his friend Murphy “There’s a head under it, Dan!” A few
strokes of a spade disclosed a face familiar to most of the group--that
of a poor travelling photographer, well known in the colony by the
_sobriquet_ of “Stooping Johnny,” who had disappeared some time before.
It was now in an advanced stage of putrefaction. Close to him another
body was discovered, and another beside that. In all, thirteen victims
of these English thugs were lying under the shadow of the great north
wall of the Bluemansdyke gully. It was there, standing in silent awe
around the remains of these poor fellows, hurried into eternity and
buried like dogs, that the search-party registered a vow to sacrifice
all interests and comforts for the space of one month to the single
consideration of revenge. The inspector uncovered his grizzled head as
he solemnly swore it, and his comrades followed his example. The bodies
were then, with a brief prayer, consigned to a deeper grave, a rough
cairn was erected over them, and the eleven men set forth upon their
mission of stern justice.
* * * * *
Three weeks had passed--three weeks and two days. The sun was sinking
over the great waste of bushland, unexplored and unknown, which
stretches away from the eastern slope of the Tápu Mountains. Save some
eccentric sportsman or bold prospector, no colonist had ever ventured
into that desolate land; yet on this autumn evening two men were
standing in a little glade in the very heart of it. They were engaged
tying up their horses, and apparently making preparations for camping
out for the night. Though haggard, unkempt, and worn, one still might
recognize two of our former acquaintances--the young Irish trooper and
the American Chicago Bill.
This was the last effort of the avenging party. They had traversed the
mountain gorges, they had explored every gully and ravine, and now they
had split into several small bands, and, having named a trysting-place,
they were scouring the country in the hope of hitting upon some trace
of the murderers. Foley and Anson had remained among the hills,
Murdoch and Dan Murphy were exploring toward Rathurst, Summerville and
the inspector had ascended along the Wawirra, while the others in three
parties were wandering through the eastern bushland.
Both the trooper and the miner seemed dejected and weary. The one had
set out with visions of glory, and hopes of a short cut to the coveted
stripes which would put him above his fellows; the other had obeyed
a rough wild sense of justice; and each was alike disappointed. The
horses were picketed, and the men threw themselves heavily upon the
ground. There was no need to light a fire; a few dampers and some rusty
bacon were their whole provisions. Braxton produced them, and handed
his share to his comrade. They ate their rough meal without a word.
Braxton was the first to break the silence.
“We’re playing our last card,” he said.
“And a darned poor one at that,” replied his comrade.
“Why, mate,” he continued, “if we did knock up agin these all-fired
varmin, ye don’t suppose you and I would go for them? I guess I’d up
an’ shove for Trafalgar first.”
Braxton smiled. Chicago’s reckless courage was too well known in the
colony for any words of his to throw a doubt upon it. Miners still tell
how, during the first great rush in ’52, a blustering ruffian, relying
upon some similar remark of the pioneer’s, had tried to establish a
reputation by an unprovoked assault upon him; and the narrators then
glide imperceptibly into an account of Bill’s handsome conduct toward
the widow--how he had given her his week’s clean-up to start her in
a drinking shanty. Braxton thought of this as he smiled at Chicago’s
remarks, and glanced at the massive limbs and weather-beaten face.
“We’d best see where we are before it grows darker,” he said; and
rising, he stacked his gun against the trunk of a blue-gum tree, and
seizing some of the creepers which hung down from it, began rapidly and
silently to ascend it.
“His soul’s too big for his body,” growled the American, as he watched
the dark lithe figure standing out against the pale-blue evening sky.
“What d’ye see, Jack?” he shouted; for the trooper had reached the
topmost branch by this time, and was taking a survey of the country.
“Bush, bush; nothing but bush,” said the voice among the leaves. “Wait
a bit, though; there’s a kind of hill about three miles off away to the
nor’east. I see it above the trees right over there. Not much good to
us, though,” he continued, after a pause, “for it seems a barren, stony
sort of place.”
Chicago paced about at the bottom of the tree.
“He seems an almighty long time prospectin’ it,” he muttered, after ten
minutes had elapsed. “Ah, here he is!” and the trooper came swinging
down and landed panting just in front of him.
“Why, what’s come over him? What’s the matter, Jack?”
Something was the matter. That was very evident. There was a light in
Braxton’s blue eyes and a flush on the pale cheek.
“Bill,” he said, putting his hand on his comrade’s shoulder, “it’s
about time you made tracks for the settlements.”
“What d’ye mean?” said Chicago.
“Why, I mean that the murderers are within a league of us, and that I
intend going for them. There, don’t be huffed, old man,” he added; “of
course I knew you were only joking. But they are there, Bill; I saw
smoke on the top of that hill, and it wasn’t good, honest smoke, mind
you; it was dry-wood smoke, and meant to be hid. I thought it was mist
at first; but no, it was smoke. I’ll swear it. It could only be them:
who else would camp on the summit of a desolate hill? We’ve got them,
Bill; we have them as sure as Fate.”
“Or they’ve got us,” growled the American. “But here, lad, here’s my
glass; run up and have a look at them.”
“It’s too dark now,” said Braxton; “we’ll camp out to-night. No fear of
them stirring. They’re lying by there until the whole thing blows over,
depend upon it; so we’ll make sure of them in the morning.”
The miner looked plaintively up at the tree, and then down at his
fourteen stone of solid muscle.
“I guess I must take your word for it,” he grumbled; “but you are
bushman enough to tell smoke from mist, and a dry-wood fire from an
open one. We can’t do anything to-night till we feel our way, so I
allow we’d best water the horses an’ have a good night’s rest.”
Braxton seemed to be of the same mind; so after a few minutes’
preparation the two men wrapped themselves in their cloaks, and lay,
two little dark spots, on the great green carpet of the primeval bush.
With the first gray light of dawn Chicago sat up and roused his
comrade. A heavy mist hung over the bushland. They could hardly see
the loom of the trees across the little glade. Their clothes glistened
with the little shining beads of moisture. They brushed each other
down, and squatted in bush fashion over their rough breakfast. The haze
seemed to be lifting a little now; they could see fifty yards in every
direction. The miner paced up and down in silence, ruminating over a
plug of “Barrett’s twist.” Braxton sat on a fallen tree sponging and
oiling his revolver. Suddenly a single beam of sunshine played over
the great blue-gum. It widened and spread, and then in a moment the
mist melted away and the yellow leaves glowed like flakes of copper
in the glare of the morning sun. Braxton cheerily snapped the lock of
the pistol, loaded it, and replaced it in his belt. Chicago began to
whistle, and stopped in the middle of his walk.
“Now, young un,” he said, “here’s the glass.”
Braxton slung it round his neck, and ascended the tree as he had done
the night before. It was child’s play to the trooper--a splendid
climber, as I can testify; for I saw him two years later swarming up
the topmost backstay of the Hector frigate in a gale of wind for a bet
of a bottle of wine. He soon reached the summit, and shuffling along a
naked branch two hundred feet from the ground, he gained a point where
no leaves could obstruct his view. Here he sat straddle-legged; and,
unslinging the glass, he proceeded to examine the hill, bush by bush
and stone by stone.
An hour passed without his moving. Another had almost elapsed before he
descended. His face was grave and thoughtful.
“Are they there?” was the eager query.
“Yes; they are there.”
“How many?”
“I’ve only seen five; but there may be more. Wait till I think it out,
Bill.”
The miner gazed at him with all the reverence matter has toward mind.
Thinking things out was not his strong point.
“Blamed if I can help you,” he said, apologetically. “It kinder don’t
come nat’ral to me to be plottin’ and plannin’. Want o’ eddication,
likely. My father was allowed to be the hardest-headed man in the
States. Judge Jeffers let on as how the old man wanted to hand in his
checks; so he down an’ put his head on the line when the first engine
as ran from Vermont was comin’ up. They fined him a hundred dollars
for upsettin’ that ’ere locomotive; an’ the old man got the cussedest
headache as ever was.”
Braxton hardly seemed to hear this family anecdote; he was deep in
thought.
“Look here, old man,” said he; “sit down by me on the trunk and listen
to what I say. Remember that you are here as a volunteer, Bill--you’ve
no call to come; now, I am here in the course of duty. Your name is
known through the settlement; you were a marked man when I was in the
nursery. Now, Bill, it’s a big thing I am going to ask you. If you and
I go in and take these men, it will be another feather in your cap, and
in yours only. What do men know of Jack Braxton, the private of police?
He’d hardly be mentioned in the matter. Now, I want to make my name
this day. We’ll have to secure these men by a surprise after dusk, and
it will be as easy for one resolute man to do it as for two; perhaps
easier, for there is less chance of detection. Bill, I want you to stay
with the horses, and let me go alone.”
Chicago sprang to his feet with a snarl of indignation, and paced
up and down in front of the fallen trees. Then he seemed to master
himself, for he sat down again.
“They’d chaw you up, lad,” he said, putting his hand on Braxton’s
shoulder. “It wouldn’t wash.”
“Not they,” said the trooper. “I’d take your pistol as well as my own,
and I’d need a deal of chawing.”
“My character would be ruined,” said Bill.
“It’s beyond the reach of calumny. You can afford to give me one fair
chance.”
Bill buried his face in his hands, and thought a little.
“Well, lad,” he said, looking up, “I’ll look after the horses.”
Braxton wrung him by the hand. “There are few men would have done it,
Bill; you are a friend worth having. Now, we’ll spend our day as best
we can, old man, and lie close till evening; for I won’t start till an
hour after dusk; so we have plenty of time on our hands.”
The day passed slowly. The trooper lay among the mosses below the
great blue-gum in earnest thought. Once or twice he imagined he
heard the subterranean chuckle and slap of the thigh which usually
denoted amusement on the part of the miner; but on glancing up at
that individual, the expression of his face was so solemn, not to say
funereal, that it was evidently an illusion. They partook of their
scanty dinner and supper cheerfully and with hearty appetites. The
former listlessness had given place to briskness and activity, now
that their object was in view. Chicago blossomed out into many strange
experiences and racy reminiscences of Western life. The hours passed
rapidly and cheerily. The trooper produced a venerable pack of cards
from his holster and proposed euchre; but their gregariousness, and
the general difficulty of distinguishing the king of clubs from the
ace of hearts, exercised a depressing influence upon the players.
Gradually the sun went down on the great wilderness. The shadow fell on
the little glade, while the distant hill was still tipped with gold;
then that too became purplish, a star twinkled over the Tápu range, and
night crept over the scene.