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Chinkie's Flat, a fiction by Louis Becke |
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Chapter 12. Sheila Becomes One Of A Very "Unrefined" Circle |
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_ CHAPTER XII. SHEILA BECOMES ONE OF A VERY "UNREFINED" CIRCLE The night wind was soughing mournfully through the dark line of she-oaks fringing the banks of a small, swiftly-running creek, when Sheila was awakened by some one calling to her from outside the little tent in which she was sleeping. She sat up and looked out. "Did you call me, Mr. Grainger?" "Yes. There is a storm coming down from the ranges. Sorry to awaken you, but we want to make your tent more secure." Aided by Scott, whose giant figure Sheila could scarcely discern--so dark was the night--Grainger soon had the tent prepared to resist the storm. As they worked, there came such an appalling thunderclap that it shook the ground beneath her, and for some minutes she was unable to hear even the droning roar of the rain-laden tornado that came tearing down from the mountains, snapping off the branches of the gum-trees, bending low the pliant boles of the moaning she-oaks, and lifting the waters of the creek up in sheets. A hand touched her face in the Cimmerian darkness, and Dick Scott's voice (he was shouting with all the strength of his mighty lungs) seemed to whisper-- "Lie down, miss; lie down, and don't be afeerd. The tent will stand, as we are pretty well sheltered here, and------" Another fearful thunderclap cut short his words, and she instinctively clutched his hand. She was used to terrific thunderstorms in New South Wales, but she had neyer heard anything so awful as this--it seemed as if the heavens had burst. "Where is Mr. Grainger?" she asked, putting her lips to Dick's ear and speaking loudly. "Here, beside me, miss." "And poor Jacky! Where is he?" "We'll find out presently, miss. Most likely the horses have cleared out, and he's gone after 'em," shouted Scott. For another five minutes the howling fury of the wind and the hissing of the rain rendered any further conversation impossible. Then came a sudden lull of both. Grainger struck a match and lit a small lantern he was holding, and Sheila felt a great satisfaction as the light showed upon his face---calm and quiet as ever--as he looked at her and smiled. "You must pardon us coming into the tent, Miss Carolan, but we wanted to light and leave the lantern with you. I'm afraid the horses have bolted for shelter into the sandalwood scrub lower down the creek, or into the gullies, and Jacky has gone after them. Will you mind staying here alone for an hour or two whilst Scott and I help him to find them?" "Not at all," she replied bravely, "and I really do not need the light. I am not at all afraid." "I know that, Miss Garolan. But it will serve to show us the way back." (This was merely a kindly fiction.) "And if, during a lull in the rain, you should hear any of the horses' bells, will you fire two shots from that Winchester rifle there beside you? It is possible that they may be quite near to us. Old Euchre" (one of the pack-horses) "has as much sense as a Christian, and it is quite likely that whilst Scott, Jacky, and I are looking for them in the scrub, he will lead them back here." Then placing the lantern beside her, and partly shielding it with a saddle cloth to protect it more folly from the gusts of wind, he and Scott went out into the blackness. She heard Scott a minute or two later give a loud _Coo-ee!_ for Jacky, and fancied she heard an answering cry from the blackboy, a long distance away. Then the rain again descended in a torrential downpour, and drowned out all other sounds. ***** Two weeks had passed since Sheila had left Townsville with Grainger and the hard-riding old Warden and the swarthy-faced Lamington and his savage-eyed, half-civilised troopers. At Chinkie's Flat they had learnt that there were now three hundred white miners at the new rush on Banshee Creek, but that everything was quiet, and that no disputes of any kind had occurred, and all that Charteris would have to do would be to visit the place, and, according to the "Gold-fields Act," proclaim Banshee Creek to be a new gold-field. So, after spending a night at Grainger's new house, built on the ridge overlooking the "Ever Victorious" battery, with its clamorous stampers pounding away night and day, the Warden bid Sheila and Grainger goodbye, and rode off with his hardy white police, leaving Lamington and his black, legalised murderers to go their own way in pursuit of Sandy and Daylight, and "disperse" the myalls--if they could find them--such dispersion meaning the shooting of women and children as well as men. Now, the truth is, that Grainger should have gone on with the Warden to the new rush, where his prospecting party was anxiously awaiting his arrival; but he was deeply in love with Sheila Carolan, and she with him, although she did not know it. But she was mightily pleased when the "Ever Victorious" Grainger told her that he was going to take her all the way to Minerva Downs, as he "wanted to see Farrow about buying a hundred bullocks to send to the new rush at Banshee Creek." (This was perfectly true, but he could very easily have dispatched a letter to Farrow, who would have sent the bullocks to the meat-hungry diggers as a matter of business.) As she had stood on the verandah of Grainger's house in the early morning, watching Charteris and his troopers depart, and listening to the clang and thud of the five-and-twenty stampers of the new battery of the "Ever Victorious" pounding out the rich golden quartz, handsome, swarthy-faced Sub-Inspector Lamington ascended the steps and bade her good morning. "So you and Grainger travel with me for another ninety miles or so, Miss Carolan," he said with undisguised pleasure. "Will you be ready soon?" "In half an hour." "Ah, that's right. My boys and I are anxious to get to work," and he went on to the horse yard. Sheila could not help a slight shudder as she heard the soft-voiced, _debonnair_ Lamington speak of his "work." She knew what it meant--a score or two of stilled, bullet-riddled figures of men, women, and children lying about in the hot desert sand, or in the dark shades of some mountain scrub. Charteris had told her Lamington's story. He was the only survivor of an entire family who had been massacred by the blacks of Fraser's Island, and had grown up with but one object in life--to kill every wild black he came across. For this purpose alone he had joined the Native Police, and there were dark tales whispered of what he had done. But the authorities considered him "a good man," and when he and his fierce troopers rode into town and reported that a mob of wild blacks had been "dispersed," no one ventured to ask him any questions, but every one knew what had occurred. So with Lamington and his silent, grim Danites, Sheila, Grainger, Scott, and Jacky travelled together for nearly a hundred miles, and then the two companies separated--Lamington heading towards that part of the forbidding-looking mountain range where he hoped to find his prey, and Grainger and his party keeping on to the west. "It's dangerous country, Grainger," the police officer said as he bade them goodbye. "There are any amount of niggers all around, so you will need to be careful about your fire at night. Shift your camp a good half mile after you have lit your fire and had supper." Grainger smiled. "I've been through the mill, Lamington. But I don't think we shall have any trouble unless you head them off and send Sandy and his friends down on to us." "I do mean to head them off, and drive them down from the range into the spinifex country about thirty miles from here, when I can round them up," said Lamington softly, as if he were speaking of driving game. "Sorry you won't be with me to see the fun. The L500 reward for the production of Messieurs Sandy and Daylight--alive or dead--I already consider as mine. It will give up a trip to Melbourne to see the Cup next year." "But you can't claim the money--you're an official." "This is an exceptional case, and no distinction is to be made between civilians and policemen--the Government does sensible things _sometimes_." * * * * * Two hours passed, and Sheila, anxiously awaiting the sound of the horses' bells, or the reappearance of Grainger and Scott, began to feel that something had gone amiss. The storm had ceased, and when she rose and stepped outside she saw that a few stars were shining. Seating herself upon a granite boulder, she listened intently, but the only sound that broke the black silence of the night was the rushing of the waters of the creek. She placed her hands to her mouth, and was about to give a loud _Coo-ee!_ when her pride stopped her. "If they hear me," she thought, "they will think I am frightened." She went back into the tent and again lay down, and tried by the light of the lantern to read a book which Myra Grainger had given her. Her watch had stopped, and when she put the book aride she knew that the dawn was near for the harsh cackle of a wild pheasant sounded from the branches of a Leichhardt tree near by, and was answered by the shrill, screaming notes of a flock of king-parrots which the storm had driven to settle amidst the thick, dense scrub on the bank of the creek. Quite suddenly she became aware that something was moving about in the grass outside the tent, and a thrill of alarm made her instinctively clutch the Winchester rifle beside her. Surely there was some one there, whispering! Very quietly she sat up and waited. Yes, there certainly were people outside, and a cold chill of terror possessed her when the whisperings changed to a rapid and louder muttering in an unknown tongue, and she knew that her visitors were blacks! Unable to even speak, she heard the soft rustle of footsteps drawing nearer and nearer, and then the closed flap of the tent was pulled slowly aside by a long black hand, and the wicked eyes of the bearded face of a huge aboriginal, naked to the waist, gazed into hers. For a second or two he looked at her, watching her terrified expression as a snake watches the fascinated bird; then he drew back his lips and showed two rows of gleaming teeth in a fierce smile of exultation. By a mighty effort she tried to raise the Winchester, and in another moment the blackfellow sprang at her, covered her head with a filthy kangaroo skin and silently bore her outside. For quite ten minates she felt herself being carried swiftly along, till her captor came to the creek, which he crossed. Then he uncovered her face and spoke to her in English. "If you make a noise I will kill you, and throw your body in the creek. I am Sandy the Trooper." She gazed at him mechanically, too horrified at her surroundings to utter a sound. For dawn had just broken and she saw that she was standing in a small open space in the midst of a sandalwood scrub, and encircled by twenty or thirty ferocious-looking myall blacks all armed with spears and waddies. The strong ant-like odour which emanated from their jet-black skins filled her nostrils and, putting her hands to her eyes, she shuddered and fell upon her knees with a choking sob. "Come, none of that, missie," said another voice in English, and her hands were rudely pulled aside; "you must get up and walk. Perhaps we won't hurt you. But if you make a noise I'll give you a tap on the head with this waddy," and the speaker flourished a short club over her head. "Come! get up!" She obeyed him, rose slowly to her feet, and in another instant darted aside, and, breaking through the circle of myalls, plunged into the scrub towards the creek. But before she had gone twenty yards one of them had seized her by her loosened hair, and a long pent-up scream burst from her lips. Again the filthy skin was thrown over her head, then her hands were quickly tied behind her with a strip of bark. Sandy lifted her up in his arms, and he, Daylight, and their followers plunged into the forest and set off towards the mountains. _ |
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