There are several proverbial tests by which a man’s directness and liberality of thought may be measured. The dividing of an inheritance has been found to divide for ever near and dear friends. The co-occupation of a house frequently leads to the severing of friendship. A sea-voyage of lengthened duration mostly displays the true nature of the human units, jointly imprisoned, with such alarming clearness that they tacitly agree to avoid each other ever after. But it may be doubted whether any process exceeds in thoroughness of assay the transaction known in Australia as ‘giving delivery of a station.’

He who comes forth from that crucial test may, like the man who emerges scatheless from the ordeal of a contested election, plume himself upon wearing armour of proof. Is he inclined to parsimony, the handing over station implements, the unconsidered trifles counted, priced, or hampered up together, will convict or acquit him of the charge. Is he insincere, unscrupulous, careless, liberal, reasonably firm, ordinarily prudent, the purchaser will generally be able for evermore to speak with authority on these points. In the delivery of Rainbar there was perfect openness on either side, and the more Mr. Neuchamp came to know of the ways of the land the more fully did he understand, and more strongly affirm, that he had been treated in his first purchase with the utmost possible fairness and liberality. Every one had been moderately busy all day. Lunch had been a hurried meal. The latter part of the afternoon Mr. Parklands had devoted to looking after his waggon, packing his traps, and getting together his horses. He did not merely give orders, but thoroughly satisfied himself by actual inspection that no unforeseen obstacle or oversight could, humanly speaking, interfere with his leaving Rainbar at sunrise. While apparently immersed in these details he, however, found time to suggest to the cook that this would be a favourable opportunity for him to ‘impress himself,’ as in all probability neither he nor Mr. Brandon would dine there again for years to come, if ever. The consequence of which well-timed hint was that a dinner of unparalleled excellence, for salt-bush country, was served at 7 P.M., which Mr. Parklands, who had concluded his labours with just sufficient margin to admit of a swim with Brandon and Mr. Neuchamp in the river, definitely expressed his intention of enjoying to the utmost.

‘I must say,’ said he, as they sat down to this very creditable effort—the artist as usual might have sung with Lord Richard in the ballad of Alice Brand, ‘I am a banished man’ (too exclusive sacrifices to Bacchus having rendered metropolitan residence impolitic)—‘that I prefer the principal meal to take place at the end of the day.’

‘So do I, Sparks, my boy,’ said Brandon. ‘Industrious people like you and I require all the daylight we can get to energise in. Besides, there is something unrefined in a hearty meal and hot dishes partaken of at mid-day, to the injury of complexion and delay of business, and the serious damage of digestion, which abides not with anxiety and uncertainty of mind.’

‘I thought every one dined early in the bush,’ said Mr. Neuchamp, ‘though I do not see why it should be an unalterable law.’

‘There is no actual necessity for it,’ said Aymer. ‘It is false economy to the mid-day meal, which should be a light one, to confer upon it that improper dignity and position. I quite agree with Sparks, that the cares of the day should be over before one undertakes so serious a subject as dinner. If it occurs at mid-day how can any one foresee that he may not be dragged away from the cheerful board and subjected to exercise or anxiety of the most violent description? How can any digestion so ill treated preserve its equanimity? and if one digests not, then is happiness fled for ever.’

‘I feel a convert all over,’ said Ernest. ‘How capital this teal is; wherever did the cayenne come from?’

‘Always carry some,’ answered Brandon; ‘it is like tea and tobacco, and bills of exchange, very portable. I like work’—here he slightly expanded his vast chest and raised his sinewy fore-arm—‘but I may add, with even less risk of being contradicted by my friends, that I appreciate comfort.’

‘That’s true; in fact nothing could be truer,’ assented Mr. Parklands; ‘as to the work, you can do two men’s share either at work, love, or fighting when you’re regularly cornered. You and I used to hunt better in couples when we were youngsters. Couldn’t lick us, eh, old man? Remember when we thrashed those five fellows with the store cattle that came ravaging through the run, and took the cattle from them?’

‘We were boys then,’ answered Aymer with a grave smile, ‘now we’re men and magistrates both; such escapades don’t become us. But we had a few trifling adventures in the old days when we were taking up the Behar country.’

‘That reminds me of the blacks,’ said Mr. Parklands; ‘they were awfully bad there. I’m leaving you a capital brace of niggers, Mr. Neuchamp, first-class hands with cattle. I forgot them when Brandon was making his unprincipled reduction; they’re worth fifty pounds each to any man.’

‘You would have made a splendid Southerner, Sparks,’ said Brandon, who, dinner having been concluded, had withdrawn to the fireside and lighted a capacious richly-coloured meerschaum. ‘What an eye you could have had for the points of a good field hand, not to mention those of a likely Octoroon. You’re too fond of dealing, however, to have stuck properly to your hereditary bondsmen. I can fancy your swapping Uncle Tom, Aunt Chloe, and the rest of them for a gang of half-broken plantation hands, with a trotting horse thrown in for boot.’

‘Well, I like variety, I own,’ confessed Sparks, ‘and can’t bear sticking to the same style of country and stock for ever. But human beings make some difference in the calculation, though I don’t know that you go so far, if all tales are true.’

‘What do you mean, Sparks?’ inquired Brandon, with a slightly roused intonation.

‘Well, all the country heard that you and Lorton shot them like crows when you took up Tthoondula, after they had hunted the Dawsons off it the year before.’

‘There was only one man shot the whole time I was there,’ replied Brandon, ‘and he was killed in an attempt to take him prisoner by Bothwell and his native police. He had nearly tomahawked Will Lorton, and but for accidental assistance would have had his scalp, figuratively, to a dead certainty.’

‘How far was that from here?’ asked Mr. Neuchamp.

‘Fully eight hundred miles, so that there is no chance of your falling in for a blood feud. None of the slain man’s kin could get here, if the life of the whole tribe depended upon it.’

‘And was it absolutely necessary to put the aboriginal you speak of to death?’ asked the philanthropic Ernest.

‘It was necessary to punish any black,’ replied Brandon, ‘who raised his hand with intent to slay against any white man in that district and at that time. Without such a penalty implicitly carried out, the country would have become uninhabitable.’

‘Suppose we have a glass of whisky,’ proposed Parklands; ‘this is my last evening, and we must drink prosperity to Neuchamp, and success to all his undertakings. Here are the materials; and now, Aymer, I suggest that you give us the story of the man-hunt, where you were in at the death. Neuchamp is dying to hear it, and if you don’t tell me, I shall never leave off spreading reports that you and Lorton killed a whole tribe in cold blood—men, women, and children.‘

‘There are only two courses open to me that I perceive,’ answered Brandon: ‘I must either knock you down and so trample out this slander, or tell the story my own way. I have a foolish feeling of compunction as to the former proceeding, so I may possibly gratify your curiosity. As Mickey Free says, the night is young and drink plenty.’

Mr. Neuchamp, though a foe to excess, did not disdain a moderate allowance of ‘old spirits’ from time to time. He was particularly led on this eventful night to bear himself in a sociable and sympathetic manner. There was no chance of work being done or thought of till morning light. So he drew up his chair, filled his glass, and looked fixedly at the calm features of Aymer Brandon, who, much pressed and entreated, at length commenced his tale of years long past.

‘We had taken up Tthoondula, Will Lorton and I, only the year before, and we had fixed to commence our first shearing on the 20th of August. It was the 15th, so no time could be wasted. Small parties of shearers were camped by the edge of the long black gum-shrouded lagoon which had given its name to the run. No one could have imagined that the dark deep water was in reality transparently clear. The sombre hue produced by the illusion of a mud stratum, and the swart shadows cast by the huge eucalypti which lined its banks, caused one involuntarily to recall “the dark tarn of Auber,” while as the pall of swift-speeding night fell heavily o’er the scene, it needed but little fancy to re-create the “ghoul-haunted wood and of Weir.” Slowly on that eve dropped the sun behind the rugged “divide” which separates the Paroo and Warrego, leaving the rosy-lipped hills smiling adieu till the morrow. The frown on the face of the mulga-studded lowlands deepened, and the wrinkles harshly marked by many a tributary creek bore witness to its sorrow for the dying day.

‘The weather was simply perfect. We anticipated a successful shearing. The mornings were crisp as lettuces, the succeeding portion of the day exhilarating to the degree of making conscious existence a pleasure of the highest order. Summer, with a register of 120 in the shade, would have been forgotten but for the dry harsh wool and the sand banks on the sheep’s back. We were in high spirits nevertheless. If the wool was worth little we were separated by a thousand miles from our bills. Our bankers could only get at us by letter, and we were spared the discontent patent on the faces of those officials when the balance is on the wrong side of the ledger.

‘By Jove, when I think of those early days, Sparks, how sanguine we must all have been to see anything but ruin, writ large, in such investments. The only sheep one could buy were very indifferent as to the quality, size, and constitution. They had been lambed twice a year for the purpose of stocking up new country, and it was chiefly on paper that the splendid frontages looked in any manner or shape tempting. The calculation had been based on Riverina scales of labour, outlay, and profit. Once on the ground the “dead horse” stood confessed. How often have you and I seen a healthy, high-couraged youngster start out for these fascinating territories of limitless mulga-downs, full-freighted with hope, flattery, coin, and courage—friendship, with delusive crayon, sketching golden futures, cautious capital proffering loans with both hands. At the end of five years returns a subdued, bronzed, resolved-looking man, with signs of dust from the road of Time “upon brow and beard.” His pecuniary correspondents, who, to say truth, have not come off scatheless, scowl upon him. But his “own people” and his true old friends receive the scarred and desert-worn Crusader with loving words and open arms. With these tarries he, till again the trumpet peals for another tilt with the veiled antagonist of the future.’

‘Devilish fine, old man. You’re a most sentimental buffer after the second tumbler. Can’t be licked, in fact—but how about the nigger? I wonder you had the heart to shoot him—two poetical cusses like you and Lorton. Why didn’t you give him a moral pocketankercher?‘

‘I appeal to Mr. Neuchamp for protection from your coarse attacks,’ quoth Aymer with mock dignity. ‘Perhaps, after all, this incident is of trifling interest.’

‘My dear Mr. Brandon,’ cried out Ernest, terrified at the idea of losing a tragedy, ‘I sincerely trust that you will not think of withdrawing your promise to give us this deeply interesting tale. I feel painfully curious to hear the sequel.’

Thus adjured, and with a withering look at Parklands, Mr. Brandon proceeded.

‘We devoted the next few days at Tthoondula to fixing the spade-press—that friendly adjunct to the pioneer-squatter’s humble woolshed, and topping up the brush yard at the equally primitive washpool. I decided upon taking charge of the shed, leaving the lavatory to my partner.

‘It would be difficult to choose the easier task. Will was to command a lot of half-tamed naked Myalls, as yet hardly to be trusted, reprisals being still freely indulged in on that frontier territory between the blacks and itinerant station hands. The shearers were composed of the human scum always to be found floating near the border of civilisation, like the rubbish forced before an advancing flood. It was no unusual occurrence to have the full complement of men in the morning, and in the afternoon, upon the unexpected arrival of an inspector of police, the shearing board would be deserted. All but a brace “cachÉd” in the mulga. They showed up in the inverse proportion, of course, to the fact of their being “wanted.” Not that the native police troubled themselves much about them. But a criminal hides from a policeman instinctively, as doth the young wood-duck from the sportsman. All this makes the management of this class of men the more difficult, as, if you sack them in your righteous wrath, you can by no possibility get others.‘

‘Cannot the blacks be taught to shear?’ inquired Mr. Neuchamp. ‘They are the natural labourers of the land—and ads ripti glebÆ too, as from what I learn they dare not leave their own district from fear of other tribes.‘

‘It is weary work shearing with them. They are neat but painfully slow, and constitutionally lazy. The Anglo-Saxon is made up of faults, not to say vices, but there is no worker on the earth’s surface like him.’

‘Can’t be licked,’ murmured Sparks contemplatively, removing his pipe and mixing himself another whisky. ‘Tell me when you’ve finished shearing and want help to load up.’

‘On the 19th,’ continued Brandon calmly, all unheeding Mr. Parklands’ practical arrangement of the narrative, ‘all was ready. Will Lorton was to commence washing early next morning. They did not begin with the usual flock. But in that land “the most unaccustomed thing is custom.”

‘At the dawn-bird’s cry from the aged trees, I sang out “All aboard!” and waking Will, we both rushed, robed in our blankets, to the lagoon, for a plunge into its sad-coloured waters, to emerge smoking in reactionary glow, and feeling fit to fight for a king’s ransom.

‘Then, habited in the primitive garb of the far north land, Will made for the blacks’ camp, to see his Myalls off to the wash-pool.

‘On Tthoondula dwelt a grizzled, savage-looking old warrior, called by the whites “Hutkeeper.” His duty was to tend the home flock. He was a chief in his tribe, and did not render himself conspicuous by wearing clothes. The English language had proved too difficult for his limited intelligence. He received food and tobacco for his slight services.

‘I had noticed one or two marked traits of savagery about Hutkeeper, and had warned Will not to trust the old ruffian. His mortal enemy at the home station was the cook, Nerangi Dick, whose prototype was Corney Delaney. Like him, he carried cynicism to its extreme limit. The likeness was so exact that it was currently reported that the devil, on one occasion, being short of a cook, had at sudden notice packed the original Corney back to earth from his comfortable corner near the furnace. The only billet he could retain was at the head station. He respected the master, and reserved his growls for the kitchen.

‘The “boogil-colli” gins, water-carriers, had a rough time of it when Nerangi Dick reigned. He might be seen driving them to their duties, with many crisp oaths and a large stick. Of the male aboriginal he was even more intolerant. Ordered to feed the station blacks, he gave them their meat and damper as if throwing a bait to a dog. Hutkeeper rarely received his ration without being subsequently chased by Dick, armed with his broomstick. It reminded a Waverley student of Peter Peebles pursued by Nanty Ewart, or, more familiarly, of a sour-tempered Skye terrier pursuing a collie. Hutkeeper, on these occasions, keeping well out of reach, but looking back over his shoulder from time to time, with a scowl which had in it a deeper meaning than the acerbity of the other. Should these two meet on the war-path, the devil would full surely recover his own.

‘I told Lorten, after witnessing one of these periodical coursing matches, that Hutkeeper would make a bad enemy.’

‘Take another tumbler, old man, after all that running,’ suggested Parklands. ‘I have had two sleeps and gone over all my stock bargains for the next three months since you commenced the life and times of that nigger. As a fictionist—historian, I mean—you can’t be licked.’

‘Mr. a—Sparks,‘ exclaimed Ernest, who had become confused between Parklands’ real name and sobriquet, ‘pray permit Mr. Brandon to conclude his deeply interesting tale. I wouldn’t miss it for anything.’

Sparks murmured something about the Tract Society, and affected to compose himself to sleep. Brandon having compounded a restorative, then proceeded.

‘When Will Lorton arrived at the camp day was just breaking. There were a dozen “goondies” to be visited, and the inmates started to their work. Each black fellow, at the reveille, caught up a few waddies, and made tracks for the wash-pen, with his hands full of blazing mulga bark, waving about his body. Hutkeeper had been called, but to his surprise Will found, on passing his goondi a second time, that he had not gone with the others. Having a light switch in his hand, he thoughtlessly gave him an admonitory tap across his tattooed shoulders. Hutkeeper at once seized his nulla in one hand, stuck his tomahawk in his belt, his sole article of clothing, and made towards the washpool with his firebark in his left hand.

‘Now Lorton, having finished his work at the camp, turned to walk back to breakfast. He had not gone a dozen paces when a crushing blow fell on the back of his head. He staggered forward, and turning received another, which laid open his head, and dropped him in his tracks. As he fell he saw Hutkeeper leap at him with upraised tomahawk.

‘What saved his life was this. Two or three blacks still in camp, having a wholesome fear of tribal expiation at the hands of the native troopers, seized the infuriated savage, and diverted the blows of his tomahawk. In the meanwhile Will Lorton, only temporarily “kilt,” rose dizzily to his feet, and catching the foe a straight blow behind the ear, laid out that gentleman as neatly as if he had been dropped with his own weapon. He then threw himself upon the prostrate chieftain and wrested his arms from him. Before he could seize him, however, the slippery savage, eluding his grasp, was bounding through the trees, and soon after passed out of sight. Poor Will reached the home station covered with blood, and looking particularly faint.

which means that I, Aymer Brandon, was wroth exceedingly at this deed of blood (literally, indeed, the bright Norman blood of which Master Will was depleted on the occasion made a very pretty pool, artistically considered, on the earthen floor of his room). So “boot and saddle” was the order of the day.‘

‘Now we’re coming to it,’ exclaimed Mr. Parklands, in a tone of deep satisfaction. ‘This is the sort of literature I go in for—incident, old man—lots of incident—eh, Mr. Neuchamp, isn’t that your style? Now, why couldn’t you have given us that first, old man, like this: “One fine morning, on the Paroo, Will Lorton went to the blacks’ camp, didn’t look behind him, and fell against a nulla, which happened to be up at the time.”’

‘You have no sentiment, Sparks, as I have always reminded you. What little humour you possess has been prematurely wasted on barmaids. You would enjoy a story about that old blue stag that nearly deprived you of a purchaser, just as much as Browning’s last poem—more, in fact. But I have commenced this yarn, and you must and shall have it, if we sit up till daylight.‘

‘Only too happy, my dear f’ler,’ murmured Sparks somnolently. ‘Don’t shoot me instead of that nigger. You seem to have been a rum lot out there, and old “Hutbuilder,” as you call him, rather more of a gentleman than any of you. His manners rendered him unpopular, I suppose; and you trumped up this cock-and-bull story about Will just to suit the case for the Crown. Ah, Neuchamp, my boy, you have no idea how these benighted back-country squatters go on, when you and I are not there, and there is no one to check their violence.’

‘About five minutes after Will was returned as “killed, wounded, and missing” from the wash-pen for the day, a black trooper rode in with a letter from his inspector, who was quartered about twenty miles from Tthoondula. Saddling up, and pressing trooper Mayboy into the service, we galloped into the camp. He was armed with his carbine, and I with a very effective seven-shooter. I had long vowed never to draw a bead upon a blackfellow for anything less than bloodshed. But in my wrath I swore to shoot the old warrigal at sight, and in trifles I like to keep my word.

‘In the camp reigned great excitement. His countrymen freely condemned Hutkeeper, and morally gave him up to justice.

‘“No good—Hutkeeper! Waddy-galo that fellow. Goondi-galo, goondi-galo mine. Baal waddy-galo.”

‘I wasted no time in the camp, but made a cast round, to pick up the tracks of the fugitive. Mayboy, eager as a bloodhound, was soon on the trail. On the soft soil of the Paroo it was not difficult to follow, with eyes like those of Mayboy.

‘I said, “You think man him (catch), Hutkeeper?”

‘“Baal!” answered the trooper, “that fellow too much burri. Bime-by marmy (officer) come up, and all about black trooper; then man him, Hutkeeper; mine think it shoot him!—Ki—i—i!”

‘The latter expression long drawn out, was expressive of the high degree of satisfaction which that consummation would afford him and his brothers-in-arms. Having made sure of the direction of the tracks, Mayboy and I returned to the station. A messenger had long since been sent to Mr. Bothwell, the inspector, reporting the outrage, and asking for the prompt arrest of the offender. “Arrest or slay the Frank,” was old Lambro’s order; “Catch the nigger, alive or dead,” was, in effect, the word of command when murder or wounding with intent was proved.

‘Within six hours after the commission of the offence Mr. Bothwell arrived with five highly efficient-looking troopers, making, with Mayboy, six in all.

‘Far finer specimens of the Australian aboriginal were they than their Paroo brethren. Recruited from the Wide Bay coast tribes, noted for warlike propensities, nothing delighted these human bloodhounds so much as being slipped to the blood-trail.

‘Shearing was postponed for two days to allow for the man hunt. After dinner the war party, consisting of Bothwell, myself, and the six troopers, saddled up and departed. We carried revolvers, the men carbines, throwing bullets of murderous size. Our janissaries were named respectively Mayboy, Tiger, Jerry, Bloomer, Tangerine, and Bulldog. Of these, Mayboy was Bothwell’s aide-de-camp and special favourite. The war-cry of “Hi, Mayboy!” was well known on the Paroo and Warrego. Something decisive generally followed that exclamation. Heaven help the poor wretch on whose footsteps these six bush devils were slipped. When the trail carried blood they were never known to fail or falter.

‘Put them to track cattle, horses, or sheep, and after half a day they began to grow weary or careless; but with a human quarry ahead every eye was unerring, every muscle was tireless. Clue after clue was checked off with unvarying certainty, the result of human ingenuity allied with hereditary instinct unerring as that of the sleuth-hound.

‘Mayboy took the lead, laying the pack on at the exact spot where he had quitted the scent in the morning. For miles back from the Paroo the soil is composed of soft red loam, the tracks on which are as clear of imprint as fossils upon the old red sandstone. But once reach the arid flinty range, and its secrets of wayfaring man or beast are only revealed to the microscopic gaze of the Australian Indian. The troopers rode carelessly together while the footsteps of the fugitive were printed in large type, so to speak. Two kept slightly ahead, the rest following.’

Mr. Parklands aroused himself suddenly from a posture of deep attraction or attention, and observed Ernest’s eager countenance fixed upon Brandon’s calm features, as he, recalling with a certain thrill of interest the stern episode of old pioneer life, told in his low, deep tones the tale of doom.

‘Not caught him yet, old man?’ demanded Mr. Parklands. ‘Devilish slow work. If I’d old Ber-bar we’d have shot every blackfellow in the Paroo by this time. Couldn’t lick him. You won’t take any whisky—that’s why your story hangs fire.‘

‘There is something deeply fascinating about a tale like this,’ exclaimed Ernest. ‘One does not often hear the tragedy from the mouth of one of the actors. I can imagine nothing more exciting than joining in such a chase. Of course you were able to take him alive, with your band of Mohicans. Uncas and old Hawkeye would not have been out of place in such a war-trail, had there only been a Mingo to the fore somehow.’

‘I have the greatest respect for Uncas and Chingachgook; as for Hawkeye, I have honoured him from my youth up,’ said Brandon; ‘but I firmly believe that Tiger and Mayboy would have given both of them a wrinkle in tracking and woodcraft generally.

‘It was surmised that the trail would follow the river for about twenty-five miles, to a favourite camping-ground by the side of a deep lagoon, known as Tthulajerra. Mayboy, dropping alongside of Mr. Bothwell, said, “Marmy! mine think it, old man Hutkeeper, first time weja longa Tthulajerra, plenty blackfellow sit down there. That fellow messmate, then all-about pull-away-long a scrub.” This calculation was proved to be accurately correct, as the tracks ran straight to the lagoon, where a deserted but recently occupied camp was found. Smouldering fires, heaps of mussel-shells, and fish-bones lay scattered around, while the stones in the native ovens were not yet cold.

‘When Tthulajerra was reached it was nearly sunset; so a camp was organised for the night. Mr. Bothwell fully expected to run his quarry to earth before the next sunset. Unless Hutkeeper separated from the tribe they were sure of him. It was unlikely that the deer would leave the herd. Blacks prefer to fly and to fight in company; they dread solitary journeyings. Two camps were formed—one for Bothwell and myself; the other, at about fifty yards distant, for the troopers.

‘That camp scene, before the moon rose, was one only to be found in a new land. The Paroo, unlike the Warrego, is not famed for heavy timber; still immense eucalypti border lagoons like the Tthulajerra. After our spare and simple meal I felt indisposed to sleep. I lighted my pipe, and, stretched on my rug, lay long in thought and reverie. The blazing camp fires illumined the silent giants of the wilderness from root to topmost branch. In the firelight the smooth white bark of the limbs and stem had a deathlike appearance, in keeping with the gruesome feelings naturally engendered by a “man-hunt.” I could scarcely restrain myself from peopling the ghastly outspread limbs with hundreds of victims. I thought I saw before me the African “death-tree,” while the black figures of the naked troopers, flitting from fire to fire, favoured the illusion. They seemed to be awaiting the fall of the hideous fruit, and the furnishing forth of the feast. Mr. Bothwell, not being anything beyond a very practical and efficient Government officer, had gone to sleep. He was a good doer, and sleeping was no trouble to him. When the moon rose the morbid fancies were dispersed, and as the last dark form sank down seemingly into the earth I slept.

‘After catching and destroying Hutkeeper about five hundred times, and being murdered by that relentless savage in every conceivable manner, I awoke, about 4 A.M., to find that a thick impenetrable fog lay nearly o’er “wood and wold.” I replenished the dying fire, and not feeling inclined to sleep more, sat silent and brooding till the fog lifted, and one by one the shrouded forms came forth from the shadowy veil, like lost years through the mists of memory.‘

‘And yet people say there is no romance in a new country!’ exclaimed Mr. Neuchamp, who, the best of created listeners, from his largely developed gift of sympathy, had eagerly drunk in every word, so manifestly enjoying the narration that Brandon, an imaginative and poetical though generally reserved man, had been unconsciously stimulated into a fuller development of the surroundings of his weird tale than under ordinary circumstances he would have thought possible. ‘No poetry? No dramatic position? What a picture for an artist: a solitary figure in that gray silent dawn, by a dim smouldering fire; the careless savage troopers; the tranquil officer, calm but remorseless as a Roman centurion!’

Brandon continued, musingly—

‘Tree after tree stands forth, slowly, as if painted by an invisible artist upon a canvas of mist. The foreground is quickly filled in. Small tumuli appear. The troopers swathed, all deathlike, in their blankets. Then a horse is traced on the murky easel; then another. Clink, clink, go the chains which fetter their feet.

‘“All aboard!” I shouted, at length casting away the phantasmal creation. “The busy babbling and remorseless day” is again born, for us and for all mankind, in this south land. Up spring the troopers. Bothwell arose, but kept his position until scorched out of it by the heaped-up fire. Breakfast was concluded, and the horses stood saddled and ready, as the sun rose.

‘A different disposition of the forces was made for this day’s work. The troopers separated into three pairs—Bulldog and Jerry followed the trail through all its deviations; Bloomer and Tangerine skirted on either flank, keeping about a hundred yards from the presumed line and the same distance ahead of Bulldog and Jerry; Mayboy and Tiger rode a quarter of a mile in advance of the party.

‘The system was this: The couple on the trail ensured its being neither lost nor overlooked; the skirters, by riding straight on either side, picked up the tracks when any deviation was made. Whoever “cut” the trail whistled, when the other three quickly closed on him, and resumed their places from that point. The two in advance sought to cut the tracks some distance ahead; when they did so a whistle, low but clear, brought those in the rear forward in a canter to start afresh from the new point. By this method of economising eyesight, as the signals followed each other in quick succession, the ground was covered much more quickly than if the trail had been traced through all its sinuosities.

‘The inspector and I followed at easy distance our sable sleuth-hounds—a pack without huntsman or whipper-in. They had this advantage over their canine comrades: their casts were made in advance. Was an unusually difficult tract of country encountered, where “scenting” was slow, the advance-guard could ride beyond it, pick up the trail on more favourable ground and signal their comrades. Miles of rocky ridges were crossed, when the only guide to the silent avengers of blood was a stone turned over, the print of toe or heel on the scanty sand or gravel collected between the boulders. At times, merely a tiny white flake dropped from the fire-barks, carried in the coolimans to prevent the tell-tale fall of ashes, betrayed the pursued.

‘Still eager, tireless, almost joyous, rode forward the death-band on the faint footsteps of the hunted savage. Hutkeeper, thus fleeing, would surely know that he had staked his life, and lost it, when he permitted his wild nature to overcome him. He would know that many hours would not elapse before men of his own race would be on his trail—better trackers and more tireless than his tribe. But onward he fled, still ascending the range, knowing that the two ends of the trail were coming together only too surely. No white man can ever know what thoughts passed through the brain of the doomed old heathen during that long, hopeless flight.

‘If each individual man were not merely one of the units composing a vast system of usurpation, called from time immemorial by the specious name of Progress, one could afford to sympathise with the savage for smiting his oppressor. But the world will surely be very old when that most ancient of laws “the strongest shall possess,” ceases to have force. We preach the law of Right, but the older natural doctrine of Might has always prevailed and will find adherents to the end, so long as one man or one animal, brute or human, is born stronger than his fellow.

‘Thus, through the livelong sweet spring day, the sleuth-hounds swerved and faltered not. As the day wore on, the writing on Nature’s book, the ink whereof was the lifeblood of him that fled, became easier to read. The sable coil seemed to work more unerringly than ever. It glided like a huge serpent among the trees, the head shooting forward to be swiftly and smoothly followed by the sinuous body.

‘“What do you think of the tracking?” asked Bothwell with pardonable pride, his eyes resting upon Mayboy, who was at that moment beating the covert of a close scrub, lifting his head from time to time like “questing hound.”

‘“It is superb,” I answered; “but, on my soul, Bothwell, I hope the old fellow will escape. According to his light, he but hit out like a man, and we are now treating him like a beast of prey. They must kill some one very near and dear to me, before I undertake a job of this kind again.”

‘“We must either shoot them,” said Bothwell, “or give up the land. Clear off the old and teach the young, is my motto at present.”

‘“Yes,” said I sadly, “another illustration of the ‘fitness of things.’ It would seem as if the present were perpetually to be damned for the benefit of the future. I should be sorry to have to explain to Hutkeeper’s tribe, after we have killed him, the meaning of the words, ‘If thine enemy smite thee on the right cheek, turn to him the left also.’”

‘All the troopers were now seen to be clustered together. They were off their horses, smoking—a sure sign that they felt secure of their prey. When Bothwell and I joined them, Mayboy came forward dangling a small dilly-bag, dropped by one of the gins.

‘“Marmy! mine think it weja now; you make alight that one mountain, nerangi good way like it, ugh” (the guttural accompanied by the usual black’s point, the protrusion of the under lip)—“that one Boolooloo water sit down. Blackfellow big one tired weja long a Boolooloo. To-night yan longa camp; boomalli (shoot, slay) Hutkeeper.”

‘Boolooloo was a turreted hill, rising abruptly from the crown of the range, and towering far above it.

‘At its foot was a native well—a natural tank—scooped out of solid rock, gourd-shaped, with a small man-hole at the top. Its depth was, perhaps, twelve feet, with a diameter of double the extent. Its shaded position, under a ledge of overhanging rock, enabled it to contain water through any ordinary summer.

‘The rugged plateau of the summit of Boolooloo had been hollowed into caves from immemorial time, favoured retreats of the wild tribes in its vicinity. It wanted now an hour to sundown; the hill was then three miles distant.

‘Bothwell’s order was to wait until nightfall, then to surprise the camp and to arrest Hutkeeper, with the usual alternative if he evaded or resisted the capture. He promised me that, if possible, he should be taken alive. Sudden vengeance having been denied me, I was far from keen for the old pagan’s blood. Bothwell could have told me that Hutkeeper’s last sun was setting.

‘The troopers, deciding to stalk the bush on foot, took off their superfluous clothing, also their boots, slinging their ammunition pouches over their shoulders. The horses, unsaddled and close hobbled, were turned loose. Then all awaited the close of day. Supper was postponed till after the invasion of the camp, as a fire would have betrayed our vicinity. The troopers, light-hearted and free from anxiety, a complaint chiefly confined to the white man, passed away the time card-playing. Their officer and I sat silently on the short turf, watching the shadows of the gydya trees lengthen, ah! so slowly. The sun was fading over the northern turrets of Boolooloo, lighting them into elfin splendour, as might gleam the battlements of a ruined castle. A fast-glooming shadow crept around the mountain, until at length its huge mass was hidden from the watchers.

‘The light of day had departed. The hour was come. The last act of the tragedy was about to commence.

‘The troopers put up their cards, lifted their carbines, and passed shadow-like and silently through the trees. We followed. In an hour we reached the base of Boolooloo.

‘Mayboy halted and whispered to his chief, “Marmy! close up to camp now, drekaly see fire longa nother one side.” The wind sighed from the hill top towards us. There was therefore no danger of the sharp-eared blacks’ dogs giving tongue in time to warn them. Then all crawled noiselessly up the steep sides of Boolooloo, pausing when about a hundred yards from the camp. Fires were smouldering in front of the caves, but not a creature was visible. We moved cautiously forward. Then a dog raised a dismal howl, and was joined in full chorus by his comrades.

‘In the middle of this mournful music the troopers bounded into the camp, scattering the dogs into the crevices of the rocks. The next moment a yell of terror and despair burst from the wretched blacks, who came rolling out of the caves, and, huddled together in groups, they wailed out, “Goondi galo (tame blacks), goondi galo,” incessantly.

‘Then from the centre cave leaped forth a hideous demoniac figure, ghastly with white and red pigment. “Hutkeeper! Hutkeeper!” shouted the troopers. “Look out, Marmy! that one big one coola (angry, fierce).” By the dim starlight I was enabled to recognise my late shepherd transformed into a warrior, prepared to meet his enemies fairly and to the death. The old savage held before him his file-shaped shield. In his belt hung the nulla and tomahawk; while his right hand held aloft a battle-spear, poised and quivering.

‘For one moment—his last—he stood with blazing eye and wolfish gaze upon the foe, a true warrior of the waste, then hurled his spear into the centre of the party. The quivering rifled weapon, speeding through the air like a cloth-yard shaft, grazed the cheek of Mayboy, and by a hairbreadth only missed the somewhat solid proportions of Bothwell. Six carbines rang out in answering volley, and, leaping into the air, Hutkeeper fell forward on his face, a dead man.

‘Our work was finished. Civilisation had been vindicated. The whole party silently retreated, leaving the sad tribe alone with their dead. Will the caverns be haunted, in days to come, by a spirit that cannot be laid by the white man’s bullet? When I returned to Tthoondula, I thus addressed my partner, “Well, old boy, I can see that man-hunting is not much in my line. You’ll oblige me greatly by killing your own nigger next time.”’

‘“The forest laws are sharp and stern,”’ quoted Ernest, as the tale and the life of the sullen son of the soil came to an end simultaneously. ‘I suppose there is a necessity for prompt punishment of violence in a frontier settlement; but it seems rather hard on the poor old fellow. How does the law of England stand?’

‘Well, of course,’ said Brandon, ‘it was strictly legal to endeavour to arrest either an aboriginal or a white man upon the charge of “cutting and wounding with intent to kill,” or even “to do grievous bodily harm.” If such a prisoner resisted the police, they were authorised to fire upon him. In this case, it was impossible to take him alive. However that may be, he paid in full of all demands for his crime. I fancy we may as well turn in.‘

‘So the nigger is dead at last!’ exclaimed the awakening Parklands. ‘Good-bye, Neuchamp; you may not be up when I start. Aymer, your story is really grand. Too short, if anything. You don’t know a little more, just to top up with? The worst of these interesting yarns, they keep you awake so. If I am late at starting to-morrow, it might be a loss of five hundred pounds to me—you wouldn’t like me to send in a bill for half. Why don’t I go to bed now? I feel too much excited. Besides, I am afraid I missed some. You wouldn’t mind beginning again? Well, sir, I’m off now. Never mind throwing a boot at me—one of your boots is no joke, remember. But look here—if it takes three hours to kill one blackfellow, how long——’

Here Mr. Parklands disappeared suddenly, simultaneously with the evolution of a missile of some sort discharged wrathfully by the narrator.

Mr. Neuchamp also departed, and being rather tired slept until past sunrise. When he came forth only Brandon was visible, who told him that Parklands had left at dawn, and was now many a mile on his way.