Nemarluk Page 17

  At dawn they would raid a native camp. Nemarluk would listen to the startled yells, the snarl of dogs, the alarmed shouts of warriors. He would growl deep down in his throat while his eyes flashed as he gripped his spears, then laugh silently.

  He would picture the disappointed policeman, the sullen trackers, the weary preparations for breakfast after a hard night’s ride with disappointment at the end of it.

  Once, in a grassy camp encircled by dense timber, the horses and mules were left for several days in charge of two trackers, while the policeman and the other two trackers crept away in the night to surprise a wary tribe camped in a gorge fifty miles away.

  By day and by night Nemarluk watched the patrol camp from the timber, his spear arm twitching. How he wished he had his Red Band! They would have crept on these two trackers in the night and speared them at dawn then raided the camp. They would have kept the horses quiet and made an ambush for the policeman and his two trackers when they returned. Not a man would have escaped.

  Nemarluk sighed. His Red Band was far away behind the big walls of Fanny Bay Jail.

  Could he do the job himself? He drew a long breath. Before him, the horses and mules were quietly feeding within a grassy pocket through which ran a stream, green with rushes. Like a dark green circle fencing all in, was a wall of trees dense with vine and creeper. The camp was in the centre, packsaddles and saddles and swags neatly piled in place. Sitting by the fire were the two trackers, rifles handy. Very suspicious men, frightened enough to fire at the least suspicious sound. The camp and these men were nicely placed out of spear-throw from the timber.

  At dark those two would crawl away from the camp, and keep very quiet. They would take some finding. But he could find them—and spear one. But the other! Would he use that rifle swiftly and surely, or vanish and hurry to warn the policeman?

  Nemarluk wondered. But a constantly hunted man learns a lot. Where were Bul-bul and Splinter? Again, there might be another patrol working with this one a hundred miles away, and at any moment men scouting from it might ride or walk into the camp. To cap all, Nemarluk felt he had no friends, no one to flee to, no one to back him up. If he attacked this patrol and failed to wipe out every man, the hue and cry raised would put him in a worse plight than ever. His only friend was Deven. But Deven was away in the Victoria River country, on that side of the river which was not Nemarluk’s country. Besides, Deven’s men were not Nemarluk’s men. No, he would love to attack this patrol now that it had separated, but the risk was far too great.

  Nemarluk snarled, thinking deeply. The best thing to do was to keep “lost” until he and Deven could raise a band of Deven’s men, the best left from Tiger’s men, and the best left from his own. And then—they could do things.

  The weeks went by. Eventually the patrol was forced back to Timber Creek for food. Outfitted once again, the patrol crossed the river and rode down the hundred and more miles along the other side.

  Now Nemarluk had to be very careful. He was in the white man’s station country, where many strange black boys were employed as stockmen. And some of these men knew his tracks, would recognize them if they saw them.

  He made straight for the ranges and walked down beside them, parallel with the patrol. Thus there would be far less chance of wandering stockboys cutting his tracks.

  Nemarluk and Deven met gladly. On the eyrie in the night by the glow of the fire they laughed and talked, Nemarluk in delight at the company of a friend.

  “It was a cunning move,” grinned Deven, “following the tracks of the police.”

  “I hunted myself,” laughed Nemarluk, “and learned how they do it. They’ll find it all the harder now to catch me ... But not once did I see the tracks of Bul-bul.” He frowned, and Deven answered his frown.

  “I can’t find out where he is,” he growled, “but I feel he’s not far away.”

  “Collect your men!” suggested Nemarluk eagerly. “You have good ones. Cross the river with me now straight to Chugulla’s country. Chugulla’s tribe is a big tribe with some of the fiercest fighting men in the Wild Lands. Tiger’s Mob were of the very best, but they were not all the good men. I’ll collect a band of Chugulla’s men; they’ll follow me. Then, with you and your men, we’ll go straight to the coast and Ande-mallee. I’ll pick a band from my own Cahn-mah—form another Red Band. All together, we’ll be the biggest and strongest band of fighting men who ever roamed the Wild Lands. While we stick together no patrols can ever hope to catch us.”

  Deven frowned. “You know why I can’t cross the river into Chugulla’s country,” he growled: “The mountains this side of the river are my country. I and my men run this country, Chugulla’s men run the Fitzmaurice; the Cahn-mah run your country towards the coast. And there are all the tribes in between. Since the white men came the gamest among all the tribes have been crossing one another’s country to barter for iron and tobacco with the station boys. But no tribe has yet left the security of its own country to join with another tribe in another country.”

  “My Red Band and I have roamed everywhere,” declared Nemarluk, proudly—“from the Daly right to the Victoria. We have crossed the Fitzmaurice when we came and went; right across the Wild Lands we have hunted and travelled and fought.”

  “Yes,” agreed Deven. “But only you and your Red Band. The Cahn-mah has always stayed in its own country. And—you have always gone back.”

  Nemarluk frowned.

  “I have spoken often to my own men,” went on Deven, “since you’ve been away. The best are nearly ready to follow me. But only if you get Chugulla’s men and your own men together. You will find that difficult, now that Chugulla has been taken by the white police. Wait here and see what the patrol does. Meanwhile we will plan, and talk to my men. Then you return to the Cahn-mah. Pick your men. Go then to Chugulla’s country; pick another band from the best of Chugulla’s men; then return all together here to my country. You will have with you a great band that will impress my men as no talk ever will. Such a band will make sure of my own home country. None dare ever betray such a strong band, and we will always be able to return here to safety when we want to. But first you must bring those warriors here. All together we will cross the river and spear all the cattle we want to. When the patrols come we will go straight out into the Wild Lands. Before the police find out how strong we are we will ambush a patrol. Then we all will be in it, every man will know all must stick together. Let us once wipe out a patrol and all the Wild Lands will join us. Then we can plan to drive the whites away altogether.”

  Nemarluk’s eyes sparkled. Squatting there by the fire he clasped his knees and gazed out over the cliffs. The sky was blue and wonderful, nothing could hem it in. Golden stars up there twinkled to him stories the Old Men of the tribe had told around many a council fire. Those stars were friends from babyhood, Nemarluk knew many by name—at least his totem stars knew him. Away below were the plains and the great dark line of trees through which the broad river gleamed. Far out beyond the river stretched the plain far away to the Cahn-mah and the Daly.

  Nemarluk breathed deeply. Everything was so big, so free, he felt it must go on for ever. Surely, surely no man could ever be made captive in these surroundings,

  They sat silent a long time, like statues carved from the primitive rock upon which they sat. Then Nemarluk grunted.

  “Since your spirit father set you free upon earth,” he said, “you have looked out many a night upon this.”

  “I love it,” answered Deven shortly.

  “I know, now, why you fear to leave here for the Wild Lands,” said Nemarluk.

  “Because I fear to lose my liberty,” snarled Deven. They were silent again. Then Nemarluk said: “But when I return with Chugulla’s men and the Cahn-mah you will leave?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I fear that the whites, and the Jap men too may come more and more. The more they come, the less our warriors grow. It is best to kill off the whites before
they become too many. Otherwise, we shall lose our liberty.”

  They gazed out silently. Far away below from the river trees a boobook owl was hooting “Wow-wow, wow-wow.”

  CHAPTER XXII

  ECLIPSE

  Several weeks passed. The patrol tried all they knew to learn news of Nemarluk but the station blacks shook sullen heads. Nemarluk was far away, they grunted. They knew nothing of him. Cared less.

  The patrol rode away down river searching the wide stretches towards Blunder Bay.

  Nemarluk laughed.

  “They daren’t tell,” growled Deven. “But you are not as safe as you used to be. Bul-bul has his totem friends here and there. Those are the ones we do not know, the secret ones. But even they dare not tell while my men are about.”

  At night Nemarluk now ventured down from the cliffs to warily approach the station native camp. He always waited for a signal from one of Deven’s men before gliding in from the night. Squatting by a .fire with the people all around him, he felt happy. The life of a camp, even a strange camp, was home compared to his months of loneliness, camping like a hunted dingo among the rocks.

  By and by the patrol came riding back up river. Nemarluk and Deven took to the cliffs. In a few days the patrol rode on bound for Timber Creek a hundred miles and more up river. They would refit at Timber Creek, then ride away out into the Wild Lands.

  Nemarluk and Deven came down to the camp. Now the main fires were taken possession of by the renegades and cattle spearers, the wild men from the hills, to the delight of the women and children but glowering looks from the station boys. Deven’s men did not care. There was much grunting and whispering from those dark groups around the fires, gleam of teeth, flash of eye, occasional rattle of spears.

  Eagerly Nemarluk planned with them, naming warrior after warrior of Chugulla’s tribe and his own who would join with them. Convincing them of security when they would cross the river;·that even if hard-pressed the Valley of the Dead was as safe as their own wild hideout; that the tribes away out there had no “tame blacks” among them; convincing them how easily they could get back again if plans went astray. “Nothing will go wrong,” growled Deven, “if we plan well first.”

  Night after night they discussed the winning of this hard fighting band to their way of thinking. Nemarluk, growing every day more confident, laughed often now. He was living again as the big chief; he could see himself leading a band of men such as no warrior had ever led before. He began to sleep nearer the camp. Deven, although his own men held this camp in terror, would seldom sleep anywhere but in the black shadows among the cliffs.

  “I’m afraid of nothing,” laughed Nemarluk to Deven’s frown, “and I must show these men I fear nothing. If I dare not sleep near them what sort of a leader will they think I am?”

  One night he arose with a smile, a very happy man. All was settled. On the morrow he was to start away to collect his own men and the best warriors from Chugulla’s tribe, lead them here, and Deven’s band would join him for good and all. He picked up his spears and his big chest swelled as he gazed down upon them. These would soon be his men.

  “Ma-muck,” he farewelled with a flash of teeth and stepped away into the night.

  And shadows arose with him.

  Quite a distance from camp Nemarluk seemed to melt into the blackness of a thicket, a tangle of scrub and cane and vines. He crawled right away in, settled himself down, and coiled up for sleep with a smile upon his lips.

  They allowed him plenty of time to fall sound asleep, then Bul-bul crawled in after him. The others waited, their ears strained for the first noise.

  Nemarluk awoke to find the great arms of Bul-bul around him. To the crashing of the canes and vines the others rushed in and threw themselves upon the struggling men.

  Again and again Nemarluk threw them off, but always the vines entangled them, dragged them down again, a mass of snarling, struggling men. Saplings bent, roosting birds fluttered away with startled squawks. But they handcuffed Nemarluk at last, and lay there panting upon him, all entangled in the very canes and vines that were to have warned him of approaching enemies.

  When Nemarluk gasped his strength back he tugged desperately at his wrists. Bul-bul laughed. Nemarluk would never break that steel.

  They forced him out of the thicket, anxious to get as far away from the camp as quickly as possible. They started away up river. One man started running to carry the news to Constable Fitzer. Presently they stopped and from a hiding place brought forth clothes. The trackers dressed. Then into the dawn the long march started.

  All day long Nemarluk lived in the wildest hope that Deven would attempt a rescue. But Deven’s men thought Nemarluk had crossed the river at dawn and set out on his long journey to collect his men. When night came the face of Nemarluk looked almost old. He plodded on, almost hopeless.

  There came a cold morning, just before the dawn. They lay asleep on the bank of the Bullo River. Cautiously, Nemarluk opened his eyes. Beside him snored the big form of Bul-bul. On the other side of Bul-bul there slept another tracker with close by him the black forms of several of Bul-bul’s totem clansmen. Inch by inch Nemarluk began working his body toward the river bank. Once deep into that friendly water and he would get away, he cared not for his manacled hands. Black night was giving way to the first cold grey of dawn. Nemarluk’s heart began thumping violently, he was very near the sloping edge of the river, he saw the cold gleam of water. He took a deep breath, a last glance at the sleeping trackers.

  Bul-bul’s eyes were open, a grin at the corner of his mouth. Nemarluk rolled down over the bank as Bul-bul leaped. As Nemarluk hit the water Bul-bul was on top of him, Nemarluk’s manacled hands snatching for Bul-bul’s throat. To the splash, the sleepers awoke, sprang for the bank. Nemarluk was dragging Bul-bul under. Bul-bul’s hand snatched for his belt and gripped a spare set of handcuffs. In the nick of time he swung the cuffs fair upon Nemarluk’s head.

  They dragged Nemarluk back to the bank; the fight had gone out of him.

  They met the white policeman. And then it was a long, long march to Darwin—and Fanny Bay Jail. He saw it again, the big fence that shut out the sweet, free bush, that shut out liberty.

  Nemarluk died, only recently. Died of a broken heart.