Nemarluk Read online

  And steel was upon their wrists.

  CHAPTER XV

  THE FIGHT

  It was midday, Nemarluk squatted behind a tufted bush, glaring back the way he had come. Broken country this but not high country. Around him were little rocky knolls to which clung patches of dwarf scrub. The drab yellow country in between was crisscrossed by dry ravines dotted with thorny shrubs. Coarse grasses grew in tufts between granite boulders shining under the sun. The broken ground was hot and parched. Nemarluk grinned. The patrol had dogged him for many, many miles. And now their legweary horses, nearly perishing with thirst, must battle on into country such as this. Behind the bushes upon this little rocky knoll he could see quite a distance back. He watched two cockatoos winging their way to water. They were flying steadily back over the country through which he had travelled. But the birds did not screech, did not swerve and fly lower as they would out of curiosity had they seen any unusual moving thing. The patrol must be a long way back.

  The policeman, the trackers, must be very tired and dispirited. Except Bul-bul. Nemarluk’s eyes gleamed fiendishly. It was Bul-bul he wished to ambush. To watch him coming on, on, on, along his tracks. To gaze on his bent head as he tracked right up to this very bush and then—to gaze an instant into his startled face as he buried his spear in his chest. Then to vanish among the rocks.

  Suddenly, Nemarluk stared, gazing far away. He did not seem to breathe. A flock of squatter pigeons walked almost past his feet. Their nuggety little bodies were clothed in slaty brown like the earth upon which they walked nearly in single file, solemn little birds, bright-eyed; they love the warm earth. They vanished amongst the tufted grasses.

  Far away, Nemarluk was watching a smoke signal. It told of the arrest of Walung and Chin-amon and Maru.

  Nemarluk sat with loneliness clutching his heart. His Red Band gone, Tiger’s Mob gone, he was alone again. He thought of Marboo, far away.

  At last he wondered at the cunning of the police patrol. The policeman must have guessed that Nemarluk was a decoy. He must have followed in his tracks until sundown then doubled back swiftly and raided the Fitzmaurice camp with the dawn.

  Nemarluk frowned with anxiety. No longer he scorned the endurance, the initiative, the cunning of the white police. They were always here, there, somewhere. Always coming, coming, coming. And now they would be after him alone: now he could never rest, never be safe.

  His eyes glared as suddenly he took an amazed breath, staring back along his tracks. A painted warrior appeared. Then another and another, and two more. They were coming along his tracks, killer spears in their hands. Their bodies daubed in pipe clay and ochre, feather in their headbands, the scarlet band of the killer upon each painted brow.

  Nemarluk almost sprang up, his heart thumping painfully. A vengeance party! Upon his tracks.

  Such a band he knew, dare not again return to their tribe until they had accomplished their vengeance. Ah, Nemarluk, King of the Wilds, the hunted man! Where were his feared warriors of yesterday? Gone. And now some “dingo” of the hills had set a vengeance party upon his tracks. He was a doomed man. Drawing a great breath he gripped his spears. He had fine spears. Like a snake slithering to the earth he crept sideways and down into a ravine. Bent double, he ran swiftly back towards those oncoming men. Then paused, straightening up to peer through the bushes. Ah! they were just going past.

  Fitting a spear to his wommera he drew steady breath, his face set grimly. He must not miss with one solitary spear. Noiselessly Nemarluk stood erect with spear arm balancing the long weapon. It flew from the wommera and the blade bit straight into the back of the last man. He screamed and leaped forward to crash down tearing at the grass. Nemarluk was bent double as he ran back along the ravine, his eyes tiger-ish, another spear ready in his hand. The avengers had scattered; one leaped down into the ravine. Nemarluk was upon him stabbing, stabbing, stabbing. Then he turned and doubled back again, leaped out of the ravine, dived across his own tracks, and crouched amongst the rocks. He was now behind the hunters.

  Panting, with distorted face, he glared around, silently laughing in savage delight. This was easy—so far. Two of them gone, he only had three now to deal with. Three warriors .fighting for their lives.

  Not a sound. Then—a little flock of pigeons emerged from the tufted grasses on his left and hurried away. Nemarluk immediately started crawling to the left, noiselessly but quickly worming his way among the grass and rocks and shrubs. He located his man, despite the pipe-clay and ochre making his body almost invisible as he crouched against a yellowish-brown boulder. Nemarluk’s arm let fly and his third spear shot straight into the back of the crouching warrior. As the man screamed Nemarluk was already swiftly worming his way again to the left, for keen eyes would be searching here now. Dropping into the ravine he ran along it in the direction of the bush he had been sitting behind not twenty minutes ago. And as he ran he planted his feet where his tracks must show. He climbed out of the ravine and began worming his way back along its edge to a stunted tree from which he could peer back along the way he had come. He waited—a long time.

  Then a painted man came snaking along the ravine—upon his tracks. Nemarluk’s heart thumped; he grinned as a cat might grin while watching a mouse. Like a black panther the hunter came cautiously along those tracks, his eyes glaring up amongst the rocks and bushes, his ears listening. Nemarluk grinned for there was not a breath of wind, no faint current of air. Even so the hunter smelt the grease upon Nemarluk’s body—but the spear was already in mid air and caught him full upon the chest. He screamed once and fell back, his chest split open.

  Nemarluk crawled on to higher ground and waited. The last remaining man, hearing that scream, would come.

  Two hours went by. Far up, an eagle-hawk appeared like a speck in the blue. It grew larger, then it circled and circled. It could see the two live men; knew the four dead ones were there. Presently, another eagle appeared, effortlessly circling far up there.

  Shadows began to fall. There came the flight of heavy wings and a crow settled upon the dead branch of a stunted tree. Shrewdly the black bird glanced about then stared across towards Nemarluk.

  And Nemarluk knew the other man must be lying near him.

  “Kark!” Heavy wings again and another crow settled upon the tree. Soon, there were seven of them; then a dozen. And still they came, in twos and threes. Presently one flapped below. Another followed him, the coast was clear. They began all dropping down except a sentinel who remained on the dead branch peering towards Nemarluk.

  Yes, the coast was clear. An eagle, volplaning down, settled on a rock. The fierce bird glanced around. Presently it, too, dropped by the crows around a dead man.

  The shadows lengthened. Then Nemarluk leaped up as a head rose before him. Blade clashed against blade as they snatched one another’s spear wrists, swayed their glaring hate. As the avenger jerked the blade towards Nemarluk’s wrist, Nemarluk twisted the wrist and leaping caught the spearshaft between his teeth. Instantly the avenger did the same, each spearshaft snapped. They sprang back only to leap forward striking with long bone daggers, and springing sideways as they struck. They crouched glaring, with every muscle, every sinew, tensely set. Two wonder athletes fighting to the death. Trained to endurance since babyhood these two picked men were human tigers of the wild. Each sprang at the other’s throat while the enemy’s foot shot out—to instantly dodge Nemarluk’s snatching hand. He, too, then sprang and kicked. But the enemy dropped to his knees and sprang under Nemarluk’s guard only to be met by a bunched knee. Again they leaped apart.

  The few stunted trees near by were now lined with crows brought to the tree tops by the sounds of combat. To a heavy flapping they were joined by the eagles. The fierce birds looked impassively on. The sun went slowly down. Silhouetted in the red glow the two crouching black figures fought on. Nemarluk buried his dagger in his enemy’s thigh only to feel a dagger ripping cruelly into his shoulder. Blood streamed from their chests, their backs, the
ir limbs. It was on blood that the enemy’s foot slipped—and Nemarluk’s dagger plunged straight down into his throat.

  CHAPTER XVI

  THE VALLEY OF THE DEAD

  Nemarluk was very, very thirsty. He sat a while, glaring at the dying warrior. The others had been easy, but this one had given the big chief the fight of his life. That man lying there was a warrior. But soon after daylight the hawks would be eating him.

  The stars were out. A big tree silhouetted against the sky was black with crows. From another tree came a heavy flapping now and again. The eagles were roosting, too.

  Nemarluk stretched out, gazing up at the stars. But he must not go to sleep lest he awake at sunrise with his eyes in the belly of an eagle. He wished that water was near. He had led an imaginary patrol to this desolate place. The nearest water was twenty miles away deep in a hidden rockhole. There were no fat paper-bark trees here with their little reserves of cool water in trunk or hollow. There was no kaolin in this barren place either—no pure, soft clay with which to close his torn skin; no dwarfed trees of any use for wounds; no roots from which to make white ash that stopped blood flowing, while it cleansed. How cool that water must be deep in that hidden rockhole twenty miles away! He must reach it before dawn otherwise he might perish, for his body was crying out for water to help make up for the blood he had lost. Wearily he arose and began searching for unbroken spears.

  One by one he found the dead warriors, he had their spears to choose from, too. The weapons of a vengeance party are always the best that that particular tribe possesses.

  Feeling strong again from the very feel of the weapons Nemarluk set off. With slow, long strides he walked determinedly for he must not stop until he reached water. He got there just before dawn, and drank deeply. After resting he searched for long tufts of grass. This grass he rubbed to softness then daubed it on his wounds until the clotted blood stuck it. He did the job thoroughly; if he left his wounds exposed, when he woke up they would be fly-blown. He crawled away among the rocks, and slept.

  When he awoke, the sun was half way down, the afternoon was cooling. He drank. Ravenously hungry, he looked about for something he expected to find. Yes, there it was; a big carpet snake coiled up on a warm, flat rock. Killing it, he lit a fire and waited for the coals to burn down.

  No animals could drink from this narrow rockhole for over it the visiting wild men always dragged a flat rock, to prevent the thirsty sun “drinking” the water. But small birds could fly down, and other creatures of the wild knew it. That is why Nemarluk expected a carpet snake to have made his home near by. He lived on the birds, and now Nemarluk, for a while, was going to live on him.

  He roasted the snake and ate ravenously, his eyes towards the distant Fitzmaurice Mountains. This place was only a series of mounds and of huge boulders set in a sun-baked flat. The mountains would mean shelter. He would go to the Valley of the Dead, and there recover from his wounds and wait until he learned news. His fierce eyes glowed; he was bitter at heart. Now he could trust no man. He was no longer Nemarluk the hunted, he was Nemarluk the outcast. Tribes that had feared him for years might still fear him, but would plot against him; their bravest men by treachery would seek his life eager to claim the honour of killing Nemarluk.

  He snarled, his hand stretching out towards his spears. Oh no, Nemarluk was not dead yet. He felt certain it was Wadjee the witch doctor who had set the vengeance party to dogging him, Wadjee the jealous, who had plotted for an opportunity of doing away with a dangerous favourite. All men feared Wadjee; many men had admired Nemarluk; some had loved him.

  He would have liked to turn south, to the Victoria River and Deven. But the police might be there; he must first await news from Deven. He longed for An-de-mallee camp and the camp fires of his tribesmen. But the police would be there, too.

  No, he would lick his wounds in the Valley of the Dead. When strong again he would return to the plains, the swamps, and the coast. And then let any touch Nemarluk who dared.

  He rested, and slept near the rockhole that night, knowing none would be following him. Thus does Mother Earth help cure her wild children’s wounds—wounds that often would kill a white man. She demands only primitive treatment: drink, food, and rest.

  Nemarluk started off next morning walking south as if bound for the Victoria River, and making no effort to hide his tracks. He was really making for a long strip of country that now would be almost bare of grass, the surface hard and sunbaked. He was watching also for a few paper-bark trees and presently saw them several miles away. He walked then so that the reading of his tracks would infer it was not by deliberate intention that he had passed by those trees. He picked up several long strips of the soft, paper-like bark that had peeled from the trees. He did not pull the bark, for if any were following their sharp eyes would have noticed the fresh mark on the trunk where the bark had been peeled off.

  A few miles farther on the stunted bush gave way to a strip of “scalded” ground that stretched for miles. Hard, barren, red earth that appeared as if almost every vestige of vegetation had been scalded off it. From this baked earth the winds had long since blown any trace of dust and soft sand and loam, leaving almost nothing upon which an imprint could be left. Nemarluk walked straight out upon this scorched earth then threw a strip of the soft paper-bark before him. Standing on one leg he expertly wrapped a strip loosely around the foot of the other leg. Then treated the other foot in the same way. He now stood in rough moccasins of the softest bark, upon sunbaked earth on which a heavily-shod man could hardly have left an imprint. Changing direction abruptly, he walked towards the mountains, but at an angle and still on the hard-baked earth.

  Although no eye could now detect where he had put his foot Nemarluk walked very carefully, eyeing the ground ahead. Just here and there would be a loose, wind-blown twig. If Nemarluk snapped that twig it could betray him, for a tracker would pick it up and see that the twig had been freshly snapped. Even though he did not break it such a chip could still betray him; a tracker might .carefully pick it up and see the faint impression made by the stick, so proving that the weight of a man had pressed it ever so faintly upon the earth. Nemarluk was also careful to avoid an occasional drooping tuft of dead grass. If his foot should press that down it could certainly betray him to any one following. Just here and there was a little patch of gravel to which he gave a wide berth; even one solitary little pebble he would note yards away and step carefully away from it. For the foot of a man, even though softly cushioned with paper-bark, may press a pebble, or dislodge it. And when a pebble lies freshly upturned it glints its bright side to the sun.

  Upon this hard-baked floor, too, would be, just every here and there, the tiniest depression perhaps the size of a dinner plate, where a soft spot of earth had been blown out of the harder ground by the winds. Into the depression left by this soft spot a few grains of wind-blown sand would have been collected and imprisoned. Should Nemarluk step here those few sand grains would be pressed down. There might not be enough grains to make an impression such as a white man would notice, but the eagle eye of a tracker would see it. And that would be enough.

  Very carefully Nemarluk had swathed those moccasins around his feet for not one shred of bark must be lost. A shred of bark the size of an inch of string would betray him, for there was no paper-bark tree here.

  Just one cracked twig, just one upturned pebble, just one grass blade pressed down, just a dozen grains of sand pressed together, just a commotion on an ant run—the ants removing dead bodies crushed by a human foot, just an accidental jab of his spear point into the hard earth. Just any one of these little things and a pursuing tracker would know all.

  He would hurry then, miles ahead if need be, to where the scorched earth must meet the usual country. And there on the softer country he would search for the tracks to “come out”; he would cut those tracks and thus follow on after his man.

  But a thin “finger” of this country petered off into a creek. Nemarluk knew this
. Within four miles the scorched earth had narrowed to a lane on each side of which grew luxuriant grass. And that lane of scorched earth carried on until it ended right under the branches of trees, fifty yards from a creek. Nemarluk leaped up, seized a branch, swung himself up, and took off the paper-bark. Carefully he wound it in his belt, not losing one betraying shred. Then walked along the branch to the tree trunk, then out along a farther branch to the branch of an adjoining tree. Thus from branch to branch, tree to tree until he was out over the shallow water. There he dropped down, scooped a hole in the sand under the water and buried the strips of paper-bark. Then he quietly regarded the wall of trees to either side of him, listening.

  He had completely lost his tracks. For miles now he would walk up this creek until it branched in the ranges. He would not have left one solitary track for many miles. And while he travelled he would live well on fish, and tortoise, and water-rat.

  There was no sound of man, no call of a hunting party, no distant chopping that told of someone cutting out a sugar bag or possum. And the trumpeting of brolgas away out on the plains, told that all was well there. He began to wade. Here at least he had the creek and the bush to himself. He would wade a little farther to where the water was deeper, then sit down and soak his wounds. They were throbbing. Sooner or later along this creek he must surely find the kaolin clay that heals wounds.

  Three days later Nemarluk was toiling along the dark ways in the Valley of the Dead. He felt safe here. Among these boulders, these miles upon miles of rocky bars, of crevice and gorge and precipitous ravine no horses could possibly travel. The gamest tracker, even Bul-bul would hardly dare track him here, it would mean death. Walled in by great red cliffs he glanced up at the ribbon of sky. Trees were leaning over the cliff’s edge away up there, some of them almost toppling over. One night a heavy wind would come and some would come crashing down. On each side of him, at the bases of the cliffs, the dark mouths of caves showed gloomily. Here and there where the canyon walls were smooth and protected from rain by an overhanging ledge, giant figures, queerly painted, stared at him. These were the art galleries of his people. Python and crocodile, emu and wild dog; man, spearmen and women; war scenes and hunting scenes. Queer signs also that have been symbols handed down to primitive man from ages past. And queer, spidery .figures that might be half-man, half-snake, or half-man and half-bird, were totem signs telling of the ancestors who had first peopled the earth. Many were the stories these queer symbols held for Nemarluk. He shivered slightly, frowning at the grotesque shadows thrown by crag and cliff. The spirits of those gone before walked here at night. But then, a hunted man sore with wounds ... where else in perfect safety could he lie? No, he must shelter here until he was strong enough to fight again.