Nemarluk Page 16

  At sundown Nemarluk cooked his fish on a sheltered part of the beach where the incoming tide would wash all traces of the fire away. After dark he waded with the tide up a shallow inlet hedged with jungle. He climbed the roots up on to the bank and stepped on a carpet of leaves six inches deep. On these leaves he would leave no tracks. He walked deep into the jungle, lay down a while, then crawled farther away to sleep.

  And the hunters in the night could not locate him. They crawled through the jungle; smelt the still moist air; listened for any incautious cough or yawn or snore, for any faint sound of a sleeping body rolling upon spear hafts. But they found no trace of the sleeping man.

  At daylight Nemarluk was again wading the beach. Throughout the days that followed he lazed along, alone with the sea and the breeze, the forest and mangrove, and the maze of salt arms of the sea.

  One morning he lay in a jungle nest until long after daylight. Lazily he arose, picked up his spears, and noiselessly started towards the creek. Suddenly he crouched down, staring at the mast of a ship. The top of the mast was just visible in the sky space amongst the trees.

  He listened. There came the sound of voices deadened by undergrowth, the creak of rowlocks as a dinghy was rowed down the creek ... A pearling lugger had ventured into the creek seeking fresh water and wood.

  Like a black panther he crept forward until from the vines he stared down on the lugger. Four Japanese were on deck and eight aboriginal crew boys. They were all well armed, the crew boys nervously watching the banks. They must have been in desperate need of water to take such a risk. They were. The lugger could have cruised outside but the crew had refused to row ashore. So Captain Arita had been forced to take the lugger into the creek. The captain felt relieved in mind as he watched the dinghy pulling down the creek to the lugger, loaded with tins of fresh water. A few more trips and they would fill the ship’s tank. Quickly then they’d sail from this lonesome spot, notorious haunt of wild men.

  Two Japanese with rifles ready sat in the dinghy, an aboriginal seaman was at the oars, four more crouched in the dinghy gazing anxiously at the dense wall of trees on either side.

  Captain Arita stood by the mainmast. He leaped aside as a spear grazed his neck and buried itself quivering in the mast. All hands instantly crouched behind the cabin top and the Japanese began firing wildly towards the trees. The dinghy seemed to leap through the water.

  Nemarluk sneered his rage, to think he should have missed a grown man standing within nice range! But it had been a very difficult shot to aim the long spear among the trees and creepers. He crouched there glaring, hoping for another chance.

  Brown Jap men of long ago had caused him all his present trouble. These men were invaders of his land, Nemarluk’s country. He snarled as the dinghy dashed along the opposite side of the lugger, and crouching men lifted the water tins aboard. Then Captain Arita shouted an order, soon then the dinghy sped as if pulling to the opposite shore. She was towing the lugger. And how the crew bent to the oars, the dinghy out of spearshot from Nemarluk but within easy throw of the opposite bank. The lugger began to creep ahead. Captain Arita shouted an order but the crew boys point blank refused. A Japanese sprang up the mast, keeping it between him and Nemarluk’s bank. This look out man tried to peer back among the trees while keeping a look out for canoes to appear racing across the creek mouth. They expected the jungle to fill with howling savages.

  But the only noise was from the straining oars and the hoarse call of cranes disturbed by the gunshots.

  Nemarluk began creeping along the bank, hoping for a shot. Suddenly, the look out man shouted, and pointed. To Nemarluk’s surprise the man seemed to be pointing behind him. Renewed shots broke out. Then Nemarluk froze to the earth. He had not been seen, but the look out man had seen—something behind him. Nemarluk leaped up and raced like a cassowary up the creek, dodging tree trunks and vines; almost with the speed of the great bird, he sped on.

  CHAPTER XX

  A FRIEND IN NEED

  Nemarluk had instantly made up his mind. By careful walking he could leave no tracks on this soft carpet of leaves, for these were jungle leaves, very different to the sun-dried, brittle leaves of the open forest. But it was useless delaying to hide tracks for his pursuers could hasten to the open forest country, circle the jungle creek and cut his tracks where he came out of the jungle. There would be only one puzzle for them to solve. He might cross the creek then hurry down the jungle on the bank opposite and emerge on the seashore, then resume his wadings down the coast again. Or he might run the creek to its head and make his escape inland. The puzzle was for them to solve.

  Nemarluk had instantly decided to strike straight inland to the mountains. Again and again he had outwitted the police patrols by doubling back and making for the country they had just left. He could outwit these native enemies similarly, by making straight for the witch doctor’s country.

  He was positive it was Wadjee’s men who were dogging him.

  Within a few miles he came to the edge of the scrub country; sunlight was bright beyond. He peered across at the open country. Spread out there directly in front were flocks of native companions, their long necks and heads high above the grass. To the watcher there came trumpet call after trumpet call as the graceful birds played and danced. With big wings outspread running swiftly forward to jump in great hops then leap around and dance, bird after bird was dancing and playing and trumpeting.

  There could be no danger near, no unusual thing prowling about, nothing that the birds knew of, anyway. Nemarluk stepped out from cover and strode on. On this open country he made all speed, his eyes roving to right and left and ahead, and to the ground. He cut no tracks, saw no agitated or curious move of bird or animal. That meant the men had doubled back to the coast anticipating that he would wade the beach. Or it could mean that he had been speedier than they. Thinking quickly as he hurried on he pictured his enemies dashing back to the beach. It would take them hours to make sure he had not come out there. Then they must follow up the salt-water creek to the forest and circle to find where he had come out of the jungle. He grinned. If they had hurried to the beach then it would mean they could not cut his tracks by nightfall. He would have gained a start which they could never overtake.

  In anger and disdain Nemarluk hurried on, keeping clear of clumps of trees, of scrub patches and grassy hollows, of sand mounds and gullies where men ahead might lie in ambush. He had grown very cautious these last two years. No longer was he King of the Wilds who put his foot wherever he willed. He had learned that only by ceaselessly using his wits could he hope to outwit his enemies.

  A black-soil plain tufted with buffalo grass appeared ahead. Nemarluk kept straight on; a plan was forming in his mind. Chugulla’s and Tiger’s country lay up along the higher Fitzmaurice near the witch doctor’s country. He would seek Tiger’s tribesmen; collect the best he could among them, then double back on his tracks and exterminate these mysterious killers. He must exterminate them. He frowned, glancing around. The white police sought him; a vengeance band had sought him; these mysterious ones now sought him. He must wipe them out and their fate would terrorize the others. Otherwise he was done. He might hold his freedom against the police patrols, but if every dingo in the land now felt free to hunt him, he must go down sooner or later. Grinding his teeth in rage, he rattled his spears and hurried on.

  He crossed the plains and pushed on into the country of the swamps. Now and then he cut the tracks of a hunting party; sometimes he saw a smoke that was signal or hunting fire but he avoided all. He was suspicious of every living thing now.

  In a few days Nemarluk was in among the foothills, travelling cautiously. He did not know where the police patrols might be. Bitterly he realized that, now the Red Band and Tiger’s Mob were gone, Nemarluk roamed alone and the watchers on the isolated look outs hardly cared whether they signalled a patrol or not. He was friendless. Cautiously he pressed on. He must go through the witch doctor’s country to reach Chugulla’s tri
be. If he happened to run into a hunting band of Wadjee’s men they would mob him on the instant.

  A few miles behind him, two quaint people were hunting. A great warrior, although so tiny he was only an ugly little dwarf. Hobbling along behind him carrying his spare spears was surely the ugliest old gin in all the Wild Lands. Her bent, crippled old legs stepped softly in the footsteps of the dwarf warrior before her. He crept forward, his fierce little eyes roaming the grassy thickets for sight or sound of a wallaby. Suddenly he halted, staring down. The gin stopped instantly. They might have been statues these two, grotesque black statues amongst gnarled trees. But both were .fierce with life.

  The dwarf drew a deep breath, hissed, glared around with blazing eyes. The gin was beside him instantly. They stared at the tracks.

  “Nemarluk!” hissed the dwarf. “Bul-bul!”

  They stared down at this story of the wild that told them all. The tracks of their hero Nemarluk and dogging those tracks were Bul-bul the hated tracker, and another. Both sets of tracks were very fresh, the hunters were close behind the hunted man.

  The dwarf’s eyes were blazing as he handed all his spears except two to the gin. Then he was speeding along the tracks.

  For all his tiny legs it is doubtful if any man for a short distance could run as fast, as softly as the dwarf. It is doubtful whether any man has eyes as keen, hearing as acute.

  Soon the old gin was left far behind. She feared to guess what her hero would do. He, the tiny man, fast on the tracks of the giant Bul-bul, that tracker so feared throughout all the Wild Lands. With terror in her heart at the fate of the little man, she hobbled on.

  Presently the dwarf passed Bul-bul and Splinter, sped around them through the bush and was running with the tracks of Nemarluk. That warrior wheeled around to a hiss, spear quivering in his hand. Wide-eyed, he stared at the panting dwarf.

  “Bul-bul!” hissed the dwarf, and pointed back.

  Nemarluk glanced back once and then was away like the wind. Bul-bul and the patrol right at his heels! With the speed of a deer he was racing through the bush.

  The dwarf glanced after him, hesitating. Slowly, his crinkled forehead grew a hundred creases in a mighty frown, his ugly little mouth grew tight set. His spear hand clenched upon his spear, his teeth made gritting noises, his eyes shone with the vicious glare of a snake. Then crouching, he turned and ran swiftly back along his tracks.

  To gain time for his friend he was going to spear Bul-bul!

  He just did not have time. He got almost back to where his tracks had joined Nemarluk’s. Around a clump of pandanus palms he saw Bul-bul and Splinter coming; saw Bul-bul stop and point to the dwarf’s track. As Splinter came forward to stare, the dwarf’s brave little spear arm swept back. He poised a second then threw just as Bul-bul glanced up. The spear hissed by Bul-bul’s ear and both trackers vanished.

  The dwarf fled.

  Nemarluk sped straight on, past the foothills, deep into the mountains and at last in the Valley of the Dead. Horses could not come here. In this rocky fastness he turned at bay. He would await the policeman and trackers to come on foot.

  But they did not come. Days passed, and still they did not come.

  Nemarluk’s mind was in a maze. When the dwarf hissed “Bul-bul!” he had thought a whole patrol was at his heels. Not so. It was only the two silent hunters who had hunted him day and night week after week. They were not the witch doctor’s men at all, the bones of those men had long since been cleaned up by the eagle-hawks, the crows and the dingoes.

  Nemarluk, hiding in the furthermost gorges did not know what to think. He felt he was cut off from every friend, from any who would give him news. Anxiously he wondered where the police patrols were. Were they waiting for him to come out of the mountains? Were they still at the Victoria? Were they at the Daly? At An-de-mallee camp? At Meewa swamp? Or away out on the plains? Or down by the coast? … Where were they?

  To find that Bul-bul was actually on his track when he believed him hundreds of miles away had been a terrible shock.

  One morning he climbed to the plateau and walked across the wind-swept summit to the edge. On a jutting ledge of rock he stood gazing out over the country below.

  Below him swept the valley of the Fitzmaurice, many miles wide and hedged by red walls of cliffs as it meandered towards the plains and the sea. From the great crevices in the cliffs waterfalls sprayed down from the uplands. Far across the great valley dark green patches were scrub lands surrounded by the sunlit forest. Around all was the blue-green of the Australian bush divided by the silver streaks of waterways. Far over the valley in heavy flight black cockatoos went hoarsely screeching. Nemarluk’s heart swelled proudly as he gazed over this, his native land. Far away, like a line of little dogs there emerged the horses and mules of a patrol. Nemarluk gasped. Here! Even here. He watched them as they slowly rode across the valley, visible only occasionally as they appeared from out of a clump of timber on to some clear, grassy pocket, then vanished down a creek or on to the other side of a rise, or into timber again. Finally, they disappeared.

  With his back to a boulder upon which eagles had perched, Nemarluk sat for a long time, thinking. Trying to put his mind into the white man’s mind, to realize just what the patrols were doing. He had lived his life and escaped for many, many moons now since the killing of the Jap men. Escaped by losing his tracks again and again, by disappearing to the sea or far back in the ranges, or by dodging back to the country from which the patrols had just ridden away. But now, things had changed. How Bul-bul came to be so close upon his tracks he could not imagine. He had shaken him off for the time being. And now, far away below him was a white patrol riding towards the Victoria River.

  A sudden though struck Nemarluk. He leaped up. Instead of waiting for the patrol to leave the river he would follow in its tracks. When they entered the big area of the river lands he would be there with them, instead of far away.

  Laughing as he had not laughed for weeks past he climbed down into the valley. A few hours later he was walking easily along in the very tracks of the patrol. And laughter was in his heart.

  What Nemarluk did not know, but had very, very nearly guessed, was the mentality of the white men.

  Constable Fitzer in charge of the little Timber Creek Police Station well knew the almost impossibility of capturing Nemarluk. This wild man was a real King of the Wilds, hunted in his own Wild Lands. He could laugh at any patrol encumbered with horses and, in some cases, frightened trackers.

  But there was one man who was not frightened—Bul-bul. And Bul-bul was a power in this land, he had friends scattered far and wide.

  For a long time Constable Fitzer had been working to drive Nemarluk sooner or later into some trap set by the famous tracker. Bul-bul and Splinter went back to the wilds as warriors, travelling far from the patrol. As Fitzer travelled, his main object was to keep Nemarluk ever on the move and finally drive him into the arm of Bul-bul. Long ago he had explained to Bul-bul all the moves he would make under any foreseen circumstances. Bul-bul with Splinter was to react to those moves, although working, at times far distant from the patrol, on their own.

  And so, long ago, Bul-bul and Splinter had disappeared into the bush. Brave men. Bul-bul always had it in mind that, if he could not capture Nemarluk in his own lands, sooner or later he would capture him in the Victoria River country. For Nemarluk would be driven to seek companionship there with Deven and Deven’s men, with his own sense of security there, and to satisfy his craving for white man’s tobacco. Sooner or later, Bul-bul argued to Splinter, Nemarluk would return to the Victoria. And on the Victoria were friends of Bul-bul who would quietly let him know.

  Splinter nodded, saying little. Splinter was always a silent man.

  CHAPTER XXI

  SWEET LIBERTY

  Day by day Nemarluk followed on the tracks of the patrol, a few miles behind. He became intensely interested; grinned now and then at the thought that he was really hunting himself. The thought gave him
considerable pleasure. Those men riding ahead were seeking Nemarluk far and wide. Where was Nemarluk? Nemarluk grinned. He knew every move of those men ahead, the plans of the policeman, the hopes of the trackers in trying to run Nemarluk to earth. He read all this in the tracks. Within twenty-four hours he knew the tracks of every horse and mule; knew the two that were lagging behind, because the men had been forced to stop and lighten the loads of the lame animals. In future he would always recognize the dismounted tracks of the policeman and the trackers. There were one policeman and four trackers—providing no others had temporarily left the patrol before he joined the tracks.

  But Bul-bul’s and Splinter’s tracks were not among them. Nemarluk gazed anxiously around. What if they were coming behind, tracking him? To make sure he waited a whole day up on a rocky knoll, gazing back along his tracks. But no one came. Next day by midday he had caught up with the patrol.

  Sometimes the tracks of two horses would branch away from the patrol. Nemarluk would follow their tracks until he felt certain of where they were heading: to a lagoon where tribesmen might be expected to be hunting turtle or women gathering lily bulbs; perhaps to a shady creek where a deep waterhole would be a favourite fishing ground; or to climb some rocky look out. Nemarluk would know from the direction. He would then return to the tracks of the patrol, knowing that even if the two scouts caught any hunting party they would gain no information for Nemarluk had completely lost himself. He was suspicious now of all men. Certainly only he knew that Nemarluk was travelling with the patrol.

  Occasionally the patrol would hide and rest by day in the heart of densely wooded country. Nemarluk would rest too, like a dozing kangaroo deep in the shade of a thicket. Just after sundown he would creep nearer the patrol. Yes, the horses were being quietly saddled up, the bell tongues tied, the pack animals carefully packed so that there could be no jingle of chain or quart pot. Then the patrol would start off out into the open country to move swiftly and keep moving throughout the night.