Camp Fire Yarns of the Lost Legion Part 5

"You can't shoot me," replied the fanatic, "the great Gabriel and all his angels protect me; you can't kill me."

"Nabocklish" (maybe not), answered the imperturbable non-com., "but by the holy poker we'll have a darned good try. Will yez call on the blessed saints or not, ye contumacious blaggard?"

"Hau Hau, Pai Marire," shouted the fanatic, raising his arms, stretching them to the full extent and turning the hands, palms outwards, towards the firing party.

"Ah, thin ye won't," growled the now somewhat enraged non-com., "thin go to h.e.l.l yer own way. Ready!"

"Hau Hau, Pai Marire," yelled the fanatic.

"Present!" ordered the Sergeant.

"Hau Hau, Pai Marire," triumphantly shrieked the Maori.

"Fire!"

"Hau Hau" bang came all together, and the misguided fanatic, smote full in the chest by four sneider bullets, collapsed and fell on his face as dead as Julius Caesar.

Now was that Hau Hau, blood-stained brute as he undoubtedly was, a martyr or only a bally fool? Remember, he had only a few hours previously escaped from out of a sharp fight in which many of his co-religionists had been killed, and after winning through to safety himself he is so strong in his faith that he voluntarily returns alone and unarmed to justify the truth of his conviction, although he well knows he is facing certain death providing he be wrong in his belief.

You may call him which or what you please, but I maintain that he is just as much to be enrolled in the army of martyrs as any of the poor devils who were stretched on red-hot gridirons, or were put to death in other unpleasant ways, for testifying to what they believed to be the truth.

CHAPTER V

A BRUSH WITH BUSHRANGERS

(_Told by the Old Ident.i.ty_)

In Australia, during the early seventies, bushrangers were still to the fore, who with cattle-thieves and hostile blacks made the squatters on the back blocks keep their eyes skinned, and the banker in the bush townships cash a cheque with one hand, while he kept the other on his revolver.

True the mounted police were very good, none better, but, like the British army, there were not enough of them, and the amount of work in covering, protecting and patrolling such enormous areas of country was far beyond what their limited number could properly do. Indeed, there are plenty of well-known cases where the bushrangers have overcome the police, handcuffed them in their own station, then stuck up the bank and, after raiding the town, started off on the best horses in the place and disappeared into the bush, not to be heard of again until they bailed up a coach, or stuck up some station, perhaps 150 miles away. Well, to get on with my yarn.

Some six and thirty years ago I was on leave in Australia, and was putting in some of it as a guest on a large cattle run and sheep station owned by two old friends of mine who had already become wealthy men, and who owned an enormous number of cattle and sheep.

The house, like most of its sort at that time in Australia, was built of split slabs of wood, with a shingle roof. It contained four good-sized rooms and a very wide hall running right through it, which was used as a dining-room and lounge.

The kitchen and offices were close to, in rear of the house, and the men's quarters, stables, store and outhouses were near by. The whole block of buildings stood in the open, and was surrounded by wire-fenced paddocks, so that no one could approach within a long distance of the house on any side without being seen. My friends' home staff at that time consisted of six white men, all good and to be relied upon, also two China boy-cooks, and a few aborigines (black fellows) who were used as trackers and stock-riders. All of these men were well armed, so that with our three selves we made a garrison quite able to beat off any attack of bushrangers or blacks.

I had come up from Brisbane with one of the partners to join in mustering semi-wild cattle, cutting them off from the bush by moonlight and driving them into a mob of tame cattle driven along for the purpose, and then forcing them into a run that led to the stockyards, where they would be drafted and disposed of. There is no more exciting work in the world for a good horseman who is well mounted, can use a stock whip, and who puts no excessive value on his neck or bones.

The cutting-out was to begin next week, and some of the best of my friends' numerous and splendid stud of horses had been brought in from the paddocks and fed up on hard food, so as to get them into good fettle and wind for the work.

At Brisbane and all the way up by Cob & Co.'s coach we had heard plenty of shaves about bushrangers, especially of one gang led by a scoundrel called Ginger, who, having been hunted over the border from New South Wales, was making things lively in Queensland; as if that colony had not sufficient blackguards of her own growth to look after.

These shaves were confirmed at the small bush township, where we left the coach, by the solitary trooper in charge there, who informed my companion that the sergeant and other troopers were away on patrol after this bounder.

There was no telegraphic communication in those days, and all the information we could get was that Ginger's gang consisted of four, or it might be eight, men. So our traps having been placed in a light cart that had been sent for them, we mounted two slashing horses and rode the forty miles to the station, my friend hearing the news from his head stock-rider, named Blake, who had brought over the horses.

This man, a splendid stamp of a Sidney-side Colonial, was convinced we should hear more of Mr Ginger, but feared we should be disappointed in our muster, as our neighbours, having to look after their own homes, would not come in for it.

Well, we reached the station, and I put in two days very contentedly indeed, picking and trying my horses, selecting a stock-whip and kit, and amusing myself generally, so much so that on the evening of the second day, after a good dinner, when we were sitting smoking under the verandah, I bothered my head not at all about Ginger. Presently one of my friends looked up and said: "Hallo, here's someone coming, and in no end of a hurry too." We looked and saw the township trooper riding as fast as he could get his horse to travel towards us. He reached us and dismounted, giving his pumped-out horse to one of the blacks who had come for it, and took and drank thankfully the proffered drink, then said: "Mr--Ginger is in the district, and I have been riding since yesterday morning giving the squatters notice to be on the qui vive. I left your station to the last, as the inspector knows you are well armed and your men are to be relied on."

"Come and have something to eat first and tell your yarn afterwards,"

quoth my host, and we adjourned to the hall, where, after the trooper had eaten with the appet.i.te of a half-starved dingo, he informed us that Ginger had reached the district, sticking up stations on his way, and that the inspector with fifteen men were on his track. He had evidently intended to stick up the township, but the arrival of the police had prevented this, so he disappeared, and the inspector thought he would make the attempt to break south again. He therefore requested my friend for the loan of as many men and horses as he could spare, so as to accompany the trooper and stop a gap called the divide, through which the scoundrels might try to break, and where he promised to meet them, during the next twenty-four hours, but at the same time warned them not to leave their station short-handed, as it was quite possible Ginger, close pressed, might try to stick them up so as to steal fresh horses and food.

Blake was sent for, a short council of war was held and his proposal that himself, two of the white men and two black trackers should accompany the trooper was decided on. "And perhaps," said he, "the Captain here would like to come with us; fighting is in his line, and, my word! if we corner Ginger we shall have some."

Now Ginger was no business of mine, unless he attacked me; but, being an Irishman, I could not let the chance of a fight pa.s.s, and although my friends tried to dissuade me, I determined to go.

We were to start at midnight, so we who were to go lay down to get what rest we could, leaving the others to get the horses ready for us.

At midnight we were roused up, and after swallowing a mug of tea and some food, a hurried glance over my horse and kit, to see that my water-bag was well filled and properly slung to the D's of my saddle, we started.

We were all superbly mounted and well armed, each man carrying two revolvers; I would sooner have carried a carbine, but I was dissuaded, and we had cause to regret it. The fight might have finished much sooner had I done as I judged best; but I was in what was to me a foreign country and, having no official status, gave in to the others.

So we started, the blacks leading; and they did lead us. No sooner were we clear of the paddock fences than we broke into a canter, and made for a dense line of bushes about five miles off, and just as we reached it the moon went down. I expected to see the blacks pull up and walk their horses, but not a bit of it. On they went at the same pace. The bush was some miles through, but no crow could have crossed it in a straighter line than they did. On reaching the open ground on the other side we halted and dismounted, for a short time, so as to give our steeds a blow. It was now pitch dark, with not even the glimmer of a star, yet no sooner had we mounted than we broke into a canter again, and rode through open park-like country and bush till the east began to lighten, when we pulled up at a small water-hole.

This was the spot our guides had aimed for, and it was at least twenty miles from our starting-point, so it will give you some idea of the marvellous abilities of these creatures. To be able to ride twenty miles at a sharp pace, through trackless country, on a dark night, and exactly strike the spot they aimed for, was to me wonderful. It may not strike you so, but try it.

We off-saddled, rubbed down, watered and fed our horses out of their nose-bags, then ate some cold mutton and damper, and dozed for a couple of hours, leaving the blacks to keep watch over us and our horses. Saddling up again we rode through clumps of bush and up gently rising ground towards a range of heavily bushed mountains, some ten miles off, through which ran the divide, or pa.s.s, we were to guard. We halted when we reached the foot of the range, and took cover in a small clump of bush, off-saddled and sent one black on foot to scout the pa.s.s and find by the spoor if anyone had crossed it during the last twenty-four hours.

Of course, being an utter stranger in the land, I knew nothing of the lay of the country, nor even where the pa.s.s was; but a rather acrid discussion took place between the stockriders, who declared we were badly posted, and the trooper, who a.s.serted we were not. Unable to give an opinion either way, I was lying down with my head on my saddle when we were roused by some shots. I jumped to my feet just in time to see our scout burst out of a clump of bush and run like a hare towards us, closely followed by four mounted men firing at him.

They were about 500 yards off, and had I had my carbine I could easily have covered the black, and perhaps have ended the job there and then; but my carbine was like the Dutchman's anchor, left at home, so there was nothing to do but throw our saddles on and try to save him. Quick and smart as we were, we were too late to save poor Tarpot, who was ridden down and riddled. As each of us got into his saddle he charged, and the bushrangers, seeing us coming, turned and galloped back to the bush from which they had issued. I was the fourth to mount, and as I galloped out of the bush I saw the three men in front of me riding in file as hard as they could gallop, with as much as from twenty to thirty yards between them. This was rot; as, if the bushrangers made a stand on reaching their bush, as they were certain to do, they would simply shoot us down from behind cover, one after the other. I therefore shouted to the leading men to rein in and let us get into line; but their blood was up, and on they went. I pulled out to their left, and Blake and the remaining black pulled out to my left. We were therefore in extended line, some fifty yards to the left rear of the last man of the leading three who were in file. The distance was short, and as we were all riding like fiends we soon crossed the open ground between the two clumps of bush.

The trooper, who was the leading man, was within thirty yards of entering it when I saw him throw up his hands and fall headlong from his horse. In a second No. 2 had done the same, and a moment later No.

3 went down, horse and man. Myself and the other two, riding wide of the line of fire, escaped and, although several shots were fired at us, gained the bush unhurt. Then, being on equal terms with the bushrangers, we wheeled our horses to the right and rode at them.

Just at this moment I heard shouts and shots going on close to, at the other side of the bush, but had no time to inquire if it were friends or foes. I spotted a horse's head coming round a tree-trunk, and was ready for the rider. He appeared, and saw me; but I had him already covered, and had the pleasure of seeing him lurch out of his saddle and come a heavy crumpler. My mates were alongside of me, and we were just going after another bounder, whose horse's hindquarters were disappearing, when an officer and three troopers broke out on us, and called on us to bail up. In less than a minute we explained who we were, and I was just starting off after the fugitives when the officer called on me to halt, and in a rather haughty manner informed me that he was in command of the party, and that he intended to halt until he had collected his scattered men, some of whom were wounded. As he only stated the truth, I was not such a fool as to feel offended with him, so I went with Blake to see if anything could be done for our fallen mates.

The trooper and the first stockman were both dead, the third man was unwounded, but his horse had been killed, and he had been knocked stiff and silly by the heavy fall. However, after some water and a stiff nip he was soon all right, and swearing he would make the blank-blank-blankety-blank bounders who had killed his pet stock horse and his mate sit up.

We quickly caught the loose horses and were soon joined by the officer and his troopers, who were a very fine, smart-looking crowd, but, to my mind, far too big and too heavy for this sort of game. They had two of their number badly wounded, but had wounded and captured three bushrangers, so that, with the one I had put out of mess, Ginger could now have only three men with him. The officer, therefore, determined to follow their spoor with our party and four of his own men.

Messengers were despatched to other patrols and to the nearest station to obtain a conveyance for the wounded men, and we started under the guidance of Jampot, our remaining black.

"Do you think he will be able to track them?" I asked Blake.

"My word," he replied, "Jampot has now a blood feud against Ginger, and will follow him to the death. Ginger may turn and twist how he likes, but unless he can grow wings, or kill Jampot, Jampot will kill him."

I had seen plenty of tracking in my time--I even had the cheek to fancy myself a bit at it--and had seen good work done both by white men and Maoris. I had even seen a tame black fellow after stray cattle; but I was now to see a real warrior black, with a blood feud, at the game. I expected a great deal, and I was not disappointed--in fact I saw more than I had ever imagined to be possible. Well, we were ready to start.

Jampot had made use of the time in transmogrifying himself into a fiend, and he certainly looked a hideous nightmare in his war paint.

Jumping on his horse, he rode to the end of the bush, circled once or twice to take note of the different spoors, then broke into a canter and rode nearly due south.

Mile after mile he kept on, over all sorts of ground, through bush and over hard land, never pausing for an instant.

"Do you mean to tell me that that black fellow can see spoor going at this pace and over such ground as we are now on?" said I to Blake.

He only nodded his head and muttered: "My word!" This is a great Australian expression, and will signify almost anything.