In the Musgrave Ranges Part 13

He was not a second too soon. The steer charged by, and Sax was safe.

The stranger native had put out so much of his strength that he could not recover himself, and he overbalanced, still keeping hold of the white boy, and rescuer and rescued toppled over backwards into the other yard. Sax was winded and the black-fellow was the first to get up. He scrambled to his feet and walked away, not only from the yards, but away from the station altogether, as if he did not want to be recognized. But as he was getting between two rails, he put his left hand on one of them, and Sax saw that the two middle fingers were missing. It was the same black who had brought the sprig of needle-bush.

Excitement was by no means over in the branding-yard. The infuriated bull, cheated of one victim, now turned its attention to Vaughan. It wheeled quickly, and in so doing twisted the rope, which Vaughan was still holding, round the boy's body. He could not escape. He was at the mercy of a wild steer.

The sudden and unexpected rescue of Saxon Stobart had roused the white men, so that when the bull turned on its helpless victim, they were ready. But what could they do? What could a mere man possibly do against a full-grown steer? It would take too long to set the boy free, for the hard unyielding rope was. .h.i.tched tight round him. There was only one thing to do, and Dan Collins did it.

He waited till the bull had gathered itself for a final rush, and, when it had actually started to charge, he dropped to the ground like a flash. In a fraction of a second his powerful right arm went out, and he gripped the nostrils of the bull, pressing his thumb and forefinger home as far as he could. Then he twisted, suddenly and unexpectedly.

It was not a matter of strength, but of knack. The power of the onrushing bull actually supplied all the strength which was necessary.

Dan Collins twisted. The animal's wrinkled neck turned. It could not help turning, for the pain at its nostrils was unbearable. The near-side leg gave under it. Something had to give under the strain.

The fingers still kept their grip, and the great beast crashed down with such a thud that the ground seemed to shake.[1]

Every man jumped from the rails and was on the prostrate animal at once, holding it down till the white boy, who had been in such terrible danger, was set free.

That night the manager gave his verdict about the two boys. "You'll do," he said. "I'll take you on. Mick, you'd better take them out on the run with you. I want you to go north in a couple of days. And for goodness sake teach them that there are some things which even _they_ cannot do." He did not mean this unkindly, for he had taken a fancy to the boys, but he saw that they would need to be restrained a great deal before they could become really first-cla.s.s stock-men.

[1] The author has seen quite a small man throw a full-sized bull in this way on a Central Australian cattle-station.

CHAPTER XV

A Night Alarm

It can well be imagined that both lads fell asleep quickly and soundly that night after their first day in the yards. Sidcotinga Government House had a veranda on one side of it, and they spread their swags under it just outside Mick's room, as there was no place for them inside, especially in summer.

In the middle of the night a man crept round the corner of the veranda as silently as a black shadow. He paused near the boys, and stooped down and looked into their faces. The lads were sound asleep and did not stir. After a moment's scrutiny the native put his hand on Sax's shoulder and shook it. The tired boy only gave a restless murmur, so the man shook him harder. He opened his eyes at last and realized that somebody was bending over him, but he was so sleepy that he did not call out.

As soon as he saw that Sax was awake, the native held up his left hand, so that the white boy could see it outlined against the pale night sky.

The two middle fingers were missing. It was the man who had already done him more than one good turn.

Stobart sat up, prepared for anything which this black-fellow--who knew the father, and seemed so devoted to the son--might suggest. The man pointed down across the trampled sand towards the cattle-troughs. He did it again and again, making little runs in that direction and coming back at once, like a dog who wants its master to go in a certain direction.

"All right, I'll come," whispered Sax at last, forgetting that the man probably could not understand him. Sax had intended to go alone, but when he stood up, Vaughan opened his eyes and asked sleepily: "What's all the row about?"

"No row at all," whispered his companion. "That is, unless you make it. There's something wrong somewhere and I'm going to have a look."

"So am I," responded Vaughan quickly, for the chance of an adventure drove all sleep away from him. "So am I. You bet your life."

The silent native led the way, armed with a boomerang and a shield, creeping from the shelter of one building to that of another, till they were close to the troughs. The man held up his finger and listened.

There was a sound of running water. Sax recognized it as the ball-valves of the troughs. There were four of them. Suddenly the thought struck him: Why were they running? From where the three men were standing the dark lines of the troughs could be seen even at night, against the light-coloured sand, and it was clear that no stock were drinking there. But if the valves were running it showed that the troughs were empty, and the water must be flowing away somewhere. It must be wasting.

The importance of water in the desert had already impressed itself upon the white boys, and as soon as they realized that precious water was running away in the sand, they rushed out from behind the shelter towards the troughs. The armed native went with them.

There should have been a plug at the end of each trough. Somebody had pulled these plugs out, and the water was gushing a full stream through the four ball-valves and was running to waste over the sand. This had apparently not been going on for more than five or ten minutes, but it was absolutely necessary to stop the waste; for if once the overhead tank was drained dry, and if there was no wind to work the mill for a day or two, Sidcotinga Station would be entirely without water.

The boys did not stop to wonder who had done this dastardly deed, but went to jam the plugs back again into their holes. But the plugs could not be found. Something must be done immediately. It would waste precious time to run back to the station and hunt round for something to make plugs out of, so they started to fill the ends of the troughs with sand and clay, scooping it up with their hands and ramming it tight till one after another of the leakages was stopped.

When they were occupied with the fourth, and had nearly made a tight job of it, Sax looked around for the native who had told them that something was wrong. The man was standing a couple of yards away with his shield raised. He looked for all the world as if he was defending them from some attack. And so he was. Scarcely had Sax begun to work again, scooping more sand and clay and plastering it smooth and firm, when he heard the click of wood against wood, and a spear stuck into the ground just behind him. Another followed and another with hardly any pause between. The native still maintained his att.i.tude of tense watchfulness. He had already turned three messengers of death off with his shield, and was waiting for more. None came.

He backed slowly towards the boys, still facing in the direction from which the spears had come. Presently he turned quickly and pointed to Government House, and then took up the same position of attention. His meaning was quite clear. He wanted one of the boys to go up to Government House and give the alarm.

Vaughan instantly jumped to his feet and ran, leaving Sax to finish the work at the troughs, guarded by the faithful n.i.g.g.e.r. In an incredibly short time Dan Collins and Mick Darby came running down, armed with rifles and revolvers. When the stranger black-fellow saw them he disappeared. No one saw him go, and indeed it would have been dangerous for him if they had; for when two white men with loaded weapons are looking for a chance to shoot a n.i.g.g.e.r, they are as likely to shoot a friend as a foe. The night seemed to swallow him up, and the white men and Vaughan, who followed hard after them, found Sax alone. Even the three spears had been taken away.

Tracks of naked feet all around the troughs showed that a couple of Musgrave blacks had wilfully pulled the plugs out of the water troughs, knowing that this was one of the ways in which they could do most harm to the hated white man. If the native with the mutilated hand had not given the alarm, Sidcotinga Station would have been right out of water by the morning. No one knew who this friendly black-fellow was. Sax told the others that it was the same man who had put the sprig of needle-bush in the quart-pot, and who had also saved him from the bull a few hours before, but he did not explain how he knew this.

"Seems to have taken a fancy to you, whoever he is," remarked Dan Collins. "I wonder why."

Sax knew why, but he seemed to feel the influence of his father coming from the Musgraves, not far away, telling him to keep the matter secret.

The lads went back to bed, and the two white men kept watch at the troughs till daylight. But the blacks gave no sign of their presence.

They had evidently been scared away.

CHAPTER XVI

Mustering

If the boys expected that the night alarm would be the chief subject of conversation next day they were quite mistaken, for the matter was hardly referred to at all. Sidcotinga was as far away from civilization as could possibly be, and its position under the dreaded and mysterious Musgrave Ranges made it the object of repeated attacks by little bands of warragul blacks. Consequently the manager was quite used to turning out in the middle of the night to guard one portion or another of the station property, and the mere pulling out of the plugs from the watering-troughs was forgotten almost as soon as the affair was over.

Important business was afoot--the chief business of a cattle-station--mustering. Station blacks were sent out early in the morning after working-horses; packs, saddles, canteens, hobbles, and horse-gear generally were carefully overhauled by Mick, and tucker-bags were filled with flour, sugar, tea, dried salt meat, and a tin or two of jam. Before sunset everything was ready for an early start next day, for about fifty working-horses had been brought in, out of which number Mick and the manager chose thirty for the mustering plant.

Dan Collins had sent four station boys to round up the horses: Calcoo, whose real name went into about ten syllables and was quite impossible for a white man to p.r.o.nounce; Uncle, a thoroughly reliable black-fellow, who was somewhat older than the others; Fiddle-Head, so called because of his long thin face; and Jack Johnson, a native of splendid physique from one of the great rivers which flow into the Gulf of Carpentaria. Another black stockman had stayed behind to help Mick Darby and the white boys with the packs. His name was Poona, and he understood station ways better than the others, because Dan Collins had taken him in hand when he was a piccaninny, and taught him to be very useful.

Just before dinner, when Mick was busy mending a pack-bag and Sax and Vaughan were having their first lesson in making waxed thread for sewing leather, Poona came up to the drover with another black-fellow.

His companion was naked except for a rope of hair tied round his waist from which a small ap.r.o.n hung down. Sax looked up and recognized him immediately; it was the native with the mutilated hand who had been such a good friend to the white boy. Stobart was about to call out, when the man put his finger on his thick black lips and pointed to the Musgraves. He did this three times, and shook his head so earnestly that Sax knew that, for some reason or another, the black did not want to be recognized.

Mick Darby finished a row of st.i.tching and then paid attention to the two men who were standing so silently in front of him, waiting the pleasure of the white man. He knew Poona, but the presence of the other native needed explaining. "What name, Poona?" he asked.

"You want um 'nother boy go mustering?" asked Poona, pointing to his companion.

Mick looked at the naked man for a moment, and then asked: "Is he any good?"

"Yah. Him bin good fella," replied Poona eagerly. "Him bin ride like blazes. Him work one time longa Eridunda," mentioning a famous station farther north. This was not true. The warragul black had never worked on a station in his life and knew very little of the ways of white men.

He was a Musgrave n.i.g.g.e.r who had recently come down from the Ranges.

Mick wanted as many helpers as he could get, for the muster was to be a big one, and he engaged the newcomer without further inquiries.

"All right," he said. "What's his name?"

Poona grinned and p.r.o.nounced a name which he knew was quite impossible for a white man's tongue to manage. Everybody laughed, including the newcomer, who put up his mutilated hand to cover his grinning mouth.

Mick noticed the deformity at once. The man's hand, with its three fingers set wide apart, from which long hard nails stuck out, resembled the claw of some bird, so the drover turned to the white boys and said: "What d'you think of that for a name? They've nearly all got names like that. We'll shorten this one down a bit and call him 'Eagle'.

Look at his hand." He turned to Poona. "We call that one black-fella Eagle. See? His hand aller same eagle's hand. Take um round Boss Collins. P'raps him give it trouser, shirt, tobac."

In a few minutes the warragul black, duly enrolled as a stockman of Sidcotinga Station, was strutting about in front of a group of native women, dressed in a pair of khaki trousers and a striped store shirt, and was puffing at a new clay pipe. The novelty of his occupation and attire made up for their discomfort, and he would probably have been willing to force his broad feet into boots if they had been given to him, although he had never worn clothes in his life before, and must have found that they hindered his movements at every stride.