Ghost Stories and Mysteries (20 page)

When the end came, as it soon did, and he fell for the last time, he prayed with his dying breath that the man who had wrought his death might die as he did.

Late that night the survivor, with one remaining horse, reached the camp, and told the anxious occupant how his friend had died of thirst; how he had helped him on to the last, and only left his body when aid was useless and his own life in jeopardy. “I must start at daylight and bring his body in if possible,” was the answer at last. Then one lay down to sleep the sleep of exhaustion, the other to watch and mourn.

Over-tired men seldom sleep soundly. Some rambling words from the haunted sleeper roused the watcher’s attention. He listened, as the dreamer restlessly babbled out his secret. He understood it all, and for an instant his hand was on his revolver; but no. He would have proof, then—

Next morning, with the black boy, he was on his way before the stars were paling. Proof was easily forthcoming by the tracks. The body of his young friend lay by itself on the plain; no horse-tracks led to it, none from it. He had died by himself, and the story of staying with him to the last was false. What use in following the trail back further? He returned to the camp with vengeance in his heart.

It was easily done. The other suspected nothing. One morning the two rode out together for a last look to the southward before returning. Twenty miles from the camp they stopped at a scanty belt of timber; beyond was nothing but a boundless plain.

“Get up one of the trees,” said the avenger, “you may be able to see a little better from that elevation.”

The other dismounted and complied. He stood on the highest limb, no great height, and looked all around; nothing visible but the blue mirage. He looked below. His companion was a hundred yards, or more, away leading his horse. He stopped for an instant and turned in his saddle, and the words smote on the listener’s ear hotter than the blazing sun-beams: “As you served that poor murdered boy, so I serve you. If by any miracle you survive and I hear of you again amongst men I will take your life wherever I find you.” Then he turned and rode away, deaf to calls and entreaties.

Stumbling over the plain, now cursing in impotent rage, now begging and praying for mercy, the guilty man followed the silent figure leading the horse. Followed it until his sweat-blinded eyes could see no longer, and the poor, abandoned wretch felt the lonely horror of the desert encircle him, for he knew he should never see the face of his fellow man again.

He reached the camp during the night. It was deserted. The threat was carried out to the letter. Aye, more, for a ghost sat there by the dead embers, that he only could see, but it drove him forth into the night, and with desperate, hopeless purpose he made for the haunts of men. Who knows what he suffered before his dying footsteps led him to the dry hole, and he crawled under the nearest shade to pant his life out?

* * * * * * *

Next morning the recruited birds take wing for the drought-smitten plains once more, leaving the body of their comrade to keep company with that of the murderer.

IN THE NIGHT

(1892)

“Steady now, old man; do you feel better? Here! Hold hard!
I’m
not a nigger.”

The wounded man had struggled desperately as though still struggling with his foes.

One dead white man, speared through the body; one with his head cut open, whom the speaker was trying to revive, and four dead blacks, lying on their faces with outstretched arms—the posture in which niggers usually die who meet with a violent death. The sun had set, and darkness was rapidly closing in. Presently the wounded man regained his senses somewhat.

“How’s Joe?” he asked

“If Joe is your mate, I’m afraid it’s all up with him, as it would have been with you if I had not come. Not but what you had done pretty well before I came. I can only account for one,” and he motioned towards the dead.

“Yes; I remember. Joe was speared at the start. He was picking wood for the fire. How did you come here?”

“I’ve been after horses all day, and was on my way home when I heard the row. I got here just as you had this crack on the head; and the niggers cleared. I suppose you fellows were bound for the Cloncurry?”

“Yes. Poor old Joe! Are you quite sure he is dead?”

“Quite sure. Now, what’s the best thing to do about you? I suppose you can’t rise?”

The other shook his head wearily.

“It’s fifteen miles to the station. The boss has got a buggy in there, and we’ll bring it out for you if you are game to stop here alone while I go. I’ll be back by daylight. There’s no fear of the blacks turning up again, I know the run of these fellows.”

“I’m game,” said the wounded man faintly.

“Right. I’ll load your revolver up for you, and be back as soon as I can. Keep your pecker up, you’re safe enough here.”

With this rough but kindly consolation the stockman departed, and the survivor of the two men who had been suddenly attacked by the natives when camping, was left alone. Not a pleasant position, but nerves are not supposed to be known in the outside country.

There was a first-quarter moon, and the shadows soon got darker and darker beneath its feeble light. The man with the broken head had quite recovered his consciousness but he still felt dizzy and weak. It was an awful time to wait until daylight. Supposing the niggers came back again after all! Then he recalled all the stories he had heard of the blacks mutilating the dead bodies of their enemies. If they came back at all it would be for that. Supposing he was unconscious when they came and they commenced on him! He must watch all night to prevent that. Poor Joe, his mate, he wouldn’t like him to be cut up by the darkies.

Surely, he thought, one of the bodies had moved. The moon gave such a sickly half-light now it was sinking that it was impossible to make certain. Yes, it was a dark figure creeping up to Joe’s body, not one of the dead ones, for he could still count them—one, two, three, four. A live nigger crawling up to hack Joe about. He took aim and fired. That dropped him, he could see him writhing in the streak of light that broke through a rift in the trees. Go and finish him, to save another shot. On his hands and knees he crawled over, picking up a dropped club on the way. Then the silence of the night was broken by fierce and heavy blows, and he crawled back to his tree and fainted.

The moon had set when he opened his eyes again, but, by the pale light of the stars, he saw, to his horror, another black shadow approaching the dead body of his mate. Another successful shot and, full of rage, he again crept over and used the formidable club. But the savages were not to be deterred; one after another the dark forms came creeping up, to fall beneath revolver and club, until at last the man’s senses left him.

The day had broken, but the sun was not yet up, when the stockman and another man drove up in the buggy. They jumped out, and hastened to the apparent sleeper, but he was dead.

“Have the niggers been back and killed him?”

The stockman shook his head. “I can’t make it out—look at this club in his hand covered with blood and—”

The two stood up and gazed curiously about. One, two, three, four black bodies and one red heap.

“He wasn’t like that when I left him,” said the stockman, hastily; “he was speared clean.”

The head was pounded out of recognition, the body and limbs smashed by maniacal blows; the corpse of the wretched Joe was beaten out of all semblance of humanity.

“There have been no blacks here since I left.”

“What can be the meaning of that club in his hand?” was the reply.

THE GHOSTLY BULLOCK-BELL

(1893)

“Let’s go on to the next water,” said Dick impatiently.

“Why, it’s seven miles and one of our horses is quite lame. No, this place is good enough for me,” I returned.

Dick grumbled; but as there was reason on my side he had to give in, and we were soon unsaddled. Usually a very even-tempered fellow my companion seemed strangely put out about something. I did not take much notice—men often get “cranky” in the bush. He smoked long after our blankets were down, and then I dropped off to sleep and left him staring moodily into the fire.

“I was only a boy!”

I awoke with the words ringing in my ears. The moon had risen, but it was a late moon, and seemed only to make the dark shadows darker, and add to the general loneliness around us.

Dick was standing near the dead fire with his hand stretched out as though keeping something at bay. The sickly light of the dying moon did not reveal his face, but his whole attitude expressed supreme horror.

“What on earth is it?” I asked, getting up with a thumping heart.

He laughed strangely and said, “Listen! Can’t you hear them?”

I listened. Some curlews were wailing dismally, and that was all; as I told him, curlews always begin to ring out when the moon rises.

“No, no!” he said, “not that; listen again.” I did so. Now, whether it was mere fancy stimulated by my companion’s strange manner and my sudden waking, I don’t know, but it seemed that I distinctly heard a deep-toned bullock-bell toll slowly and monotonously, as when a belled bullock licks himself.

“Pah!” I said, “it’s a lost worker.”

“Is it?” he answered with a repetition of his queer laugh. “Go to sleep again, old man, it’s nothing to do with you.”

The bell, if it was a bell, had ceased, and as I still felt drowsy, I drew my blankets over my shoulders and soon dozed off. When I awoke again it was broad daylight.

Dick was very silent all that day (we were on our way back to the station after delivering some fat cattle at L—).

“Do you believe in warnings?” he asked, when we were camped again that night.

“Presentiments?”

“Yes, that’s it. Because I’ve got one, I shan’t see this trip out.”

“O, bosh,” I naturally replied.

“It was at that last camp I killed my young brother.”

I thought Dick had gone mad, for he was one of the best natured of men, but he proceeded, as if he had to tell his story:

“I was only sixteen, and he was a little chap of twelve, but quite different from the rest of us. Very willing and sweet-tempered, but shy, and read every book he could get hold of. Well, at that time dad was doing a bit of carrying, and as he was laid up with rheumatism he sent me on a trip with the team, for I was a dandy bull-puncher even then. He told me to take Ben along and try and make a man of him. You know what cruel brutes boys are. I soon found out that Ben was frightened of going away from the camp in the dark and made up my mind to cure him, and so bullied and chivvied him that the poor little begger became as nervous as a girl.

“Now, there’s a yarn hanging to that place where we camped last night—something as to murder done by the blacks in the old times. Ben knew every story there was about the country and could tell them well, too. Of course, he had heard this tale. Now the place was haunted by the ghost of a woman who was always searching for her child who had been killed by the natives.

“I made up my mind to cure Ben once and for all. In the middle of the night I woke him and told him that we wanted to start early, so he must go and bring the bullocks up close to the camp. ‘There they are,’ I said, ‘you can hear the bell.’

“The poor little cove looked at me with great big eyes and shivered, for the bullock just then began to lick himself and his bell tolled out like a clock—one, two, three, up to twelve, and stopped. He begged and prayed me to wait until daylight, but I hunted him off with the bullock-whip and followed him up for a bit to make sure he went.

“It was all quiet for a while, but just about the time he would have reached them I heard that bell again toll out solemnly. Then came such a shriek! I heard it distinctly, though he must have been some way off. I tell you I did feel sorry and ran as hard as I could shouting to him. Half-way I met the bullocks coming up to the camp like mad, but the bell was not amongst them. I had great trouble in finding Ben, for he was on the grass in a dead faint, and the moonlight was not strong. I carried him up to camp and he was an awful sight. His arm was stretched out quite stiff, as if to keep something off, and the poor boy’s face was all drawn up with fright and his eyes wide open and staring.

“It was a long time before I brought him round, and when I did he was quite silly, and he never got right again, but died soon afterwards.”

Dick was silent and so was I.

“Did you find the bullock-bell?” I asked at last.

“No, and I should like to know who rang that bell—and who rang it last night?” he asked.

“You heard it, too! The yarn about the niggers goes,” he went on after another pause, “that they sneaked up to the hut ringing a bullock-bell that they had found so that if the people heard any noise they would fancy it was some stray workers.”

* * * * * * *

Dick did not see the end of that trip. We stopped next night at a wayside pub, and he drowned his remorse in rum. Worse still, he fell in maudlin love with a girl there, and Peter, the bush-missionary, turning up—he got married.

She is a perfect devil, and when last I saw Dick he was thin as a rake. Better for him had the presentiment been fulfilled in the orthodox way.