Nemarluk Page 4

  “Let us get back to the cooking fires,” growled Marragin. “If the white police do seek us we will know in good time.”

  But they did not know that another patrol had started out—Constable Don’s patrol from Brock’s Creek south of Darwin, another country altogether. Both patrols would work together to meet in surprising fashion right away out in the Wild Lands.

  The surprise was all arranged for Widjullee.

  Inland towards the ranges, the Cahn-mah now began burning off the long dry grass, wallaby hunting. Dense clouds of black smoke shot with flame rolled to the skies. A slow wind was driving the flames to encircle what had been a shallow swamp but was now a mass of dried water-plants and grasses. Among the sun-baked mounds under the big dried tufts, wallabies were sheltering. Two dingoes crouched there, too, their eyes reflecting the glare of the flames. From those encircling, creeping flames there was but one rapidly closing outlet and there the warriors were lined up hurling spears at the smoke-blinded animals as they came racing from the flames. A scorched snake bit deep into Wack-itchi’s leg, and he screamed his fear when he saw it was red bellied. Clouds of brown hawks wheeled screeching overhead, diving down through the smoke to snatch marsupial mice and lizards and other small, terrified things.

  The huntsmen now peering through the smoke threw fast as the terrified things bounded amongst them, yelling a warning too late as the two dingoes suddenly appeared and passed them like phantoms. Through the haze a throwing stick came hurtling and caught Bar-re-jar on the back of the neck. He fell like a stone. His woman screamed and leaped into the smoke and dragged him out by the heels.

  It was a great hunt. When it was all over they panted there, laughing down at twenty slain wallabies and a host of smaller game the women had killed with throwing sticks.

  But a little apart, Wack-itchi crouched moaning. For very soon he must die. The scorched snake had pumped all its virulent poison into him in that last agonized bite.

  After that hunt, and after they had put Wack-itchi in his last sleeping place, Mangul and Lin decided to visit Widjullee. He was a totem kinsmen and they knew his hideout in the ranges. It was only half a day’s walk distant from the Valley of the Dead.

  Mangul and Lin did visit Widjullee. And they were caught.

  Dull coals were hidden by the squatting bodies of the killers. Weapons lay to hand ready for an instant dashaway. That was merely caution, because they felt quite secure. Danger was far away. Eight warriors squatted there, each with the band of the killer upon his brow. A little distance away in the darkness a few friendly tribesmen squatted, ears taking in the noises of the night. In low grunts the killers talked of raid and vendetta, of cattle spearing, and the spearing of men. Strong men and triumphant, all was well with the night. Presently, they coiled up and slept.

  There came the first cold grey of dawn. The coals had died down, the bodies of the sleepers were coiled around the ashes. The sleep of the aboriginal towards dawn is a deep, heavy sleep. A bird twittered sleepily. Presently, a comrade answered it. A little later a bird twittered again, a little closer to the sleeping figures, it seemed.

  Suddenly, a rush. Dim .figures peering down at the sleepers then the “Click!” of steel on Widjullee’s wrists. A gloating “Ha! Ha!” and Mangul woke to fierce hands upon him, the clasp of steel upon his wrists. As Lin leaped up giant arms threw him back to the ground as his wrist was jerked behind him: “Click!” His other wrist was seized: “Click!”

  “Ha! Ha! Ha!” laughed Bul-bul. He roared laughing, a deep bass roar while his eyes danced their delight.

  “Who are these two?” demanded a stern voice.

  “Mangul and Lin. Nemarluk’s men!”

  “Ah!”

  The captives glared up at the stern white police, the trackers around them. A real bird twittered this time, chirped a happy awakening to the rising sun.

  “What luck!” laughed Bul-bul in aboriginal language. “We come to visit Widjullee, and Widjullee has visitors. Too bad! I know all bout those guns at Nemarluk’s camp.”

  “When Nemarluk catches you,” snarled Lin, “he will kill you as he killed the Jap men!”

  “Ah!” Then Bul-bul roared his laughter. The secret was out.

  It was not an hour later that Marboo suddenly called out, pointing. From a peak away across in the ranges a smoke signal rose lazily.

  “Police!”

  They stared at one another.

  “They cannot be seeking us,” said Nemarluk slowly. Squatting there around the morning cooking fires they stared at him, then across at the distant smoke. The instinct of the wild knitted them so closely together that even the dogs sensed danger threatened. The smoke faded, then a fresh column suddenly shot straight up.

  “Spears and food, quick!” ordered Nemarluk as he sprang up. “We go straight back to the coast.”

  The morning wore on. The horde made silent haste, the piccaninnies walking quietly with dogged look. By and by a runner came swiftly gaining upon them. They waited, staring back. With a speed and endurance possessed by no athlete in the world he was flying over the ground. Nor was he panting as he leaped among them.

  “The white police!” he said to Nemarluk—“and Bulbul. Seeking you!”

  Nemarluk nodded, his frowning eyes staring at the grim face of the runner.

  “At dawn they caught Widjullee. Mangul and Lin too!”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Nemarluk.

  “Bul-bul swears he will catch you!”

  Nemarluk threw his spears to the ground, stamping in uncontrollable rage. He shouted to the skies that he would kill Bul-bul; he swore it by his spirit totem The Red Band stared silently. Two of the band gone so suddenly, and not a blow struck!

  “They put a chain upon their wrists,” said the runner, “and took them away.”

  Nemarluk gazed up at the skies, there was an eagle sailing away up there, a free, happy eagle. Nemarluk gazed away over the bush towards the distant ranges. How calm they looked! he had glorified in their outline under rain and sun and wind and mist ever since his eyes could see. Close by a bird whistled shrilly, then sped happily away.

  Lah-lee wailed softly. She was to have been the wife of Lin.

  “They put steel upon their wrists,” growled Nemarluk, “and took them away.”

  He glared wildly around. “They will never take me away!” he shouted. “Never! Never! Never!” Snatching up his spears he growled, “Come!”

  The Red Band fell in behind him. Swiftly, quietly the tribe followed.

  Nemarluk wheeled, heading straight back towards the ranges.

  “Ha!” grunted Minmara.

  “Bul-bul will take the police straight to the coast,” growled Pooneemillar, “expecting we will be there.”

  “Wouldn’t it be nice,” said Mankee thoughtfully, “to feel your knife cutting out Bul-bul’s kidney fat?”

  “Wah! Wah! Wah!” they agreed.

  Nemarluk led them straight to the big swamps. They took to the water for the remainder of the day, wading for miles. Across this portion of the plains he led them by way of lagoon and swamp. In waterhole after waterhole he made them lose their tracks again and again. That night he camped them upon an island in the heart of a swamp. He allowed no fires. All slept huddled together for warmth, piccaninnies and dogs, deep in among the reeds, with an occasional splash of water, the boom of a heron, the shrill cackle of a nankin bird as their slumber song.

  In the chill of dawn they were wading again, and every slimy log underfoot felt like a crocodile. When they came to the ranges Nemarluk’s tall form strode on into the deepest, rockiest gorge. He frowned upon his followers, making them walk the rocks—men, women, and serious-faced, scared children. Two days later the tribe was walled in by cliffs far above which was a blue line of sky, and finally reached a canyon where were many caves, some the burial places of this most ancient of people. On many a ledge here were the skulls of their fathers and fathers’ fathers, and beetle-eaten old bones and little heaps of dirty greyish powder t
hat were the last of men who had lived long ago. Deep down here in this gloomy canyon, in this, their Valley of the Dead, the walls were split by deep, narrow cracks that led far into cliff and mountain. Deep into these cliffs hunted men could disappear like startled wallabies. A sighing waterfall gave water to this tribal hideout of the Cahn-mah.

  To-morrow in this heart of unnamed ranges Nemarluk’s horde would split up into sub-hordes; the day after into tribal groups. Thus they would spread out over many miles of the ranges. If the chase became hot, or if food became scarce the groups would split again into family groups. Thus, even if tracked, the police would never surprise the tribe. And thus, from many a mountain look out some members of the Cahn-mah would be watching over many miles.

  That night, the horde held council.

  “It is good,” declared the old Inkata, “we have not left track of even dog upon plain or ridge or rock. By now, the white police will be seeking us towards the coast. They will seek until their cursed feet grow weary but all they will find will be our burnt-out fires.”

  “And then?” questioned Mankee.

  “We hide in safety until the big rains come. Then the police must ride away otherwise their animals will bog.”

  “Why not leave the women here,” growled Marragin, “and rescue Mangul and Lin?”

  “I’ve thought of that,” snapped Nemarluk. “We must make the tribe safe first then find out what numbers the police are. Our watchers on the hills have failed us. While they watched one patrol, another has come another way.”

  “They’ve travelled by night,” said Mankee, over country where no hunters would see their tracks. Where have they come from?”

  “Ask the eagle,” growled Pooneemillar.

  “To-morrow, the horde separate into their totem hordes,” declared Nemarluk. “Look after my people!” he ordered as he glared at the Red Band and the warriors around them. “Mankee alone will stay by me, unless I signal.” He frowned at the coals, thinking. Silently they stared towards the big chief. Marboo shivered, but not with cold, although it was cold down there in the pitch-black canyon. Their fires were glowing coals, hidden among the rocks. The green eyes of the dogs flamed again and again as they stared suspiciously around. Huge black rocks seemed to be polished red as they reflected light from the coals.

  “The police will raid our An-de-mallee camp,” frowned Nemarluk. “They will raid In-dar-roo. Only the ghosts of the Jap men will be there. They will raid all our coastal camps, our swamp camps, our hunting camps. Then, they will ride far away down to the Victoria River, where the white men’s cattle stations are. They will raid the camps along the river, thinking we will visit the people there, to trade for tobacco. But we won’t be there. They will take much time in looking for us in the places they must look, in the places they don’t know, and travel, travel, travel. And when they travel our people everywhere will signal us where they are. If ever in danger, make straight for where the police have last camped.”

  Nemarluk was right. Even while they sat planning, a patrol was hastening towards An-de-mallee camp. Bul-bul was leading the way, riding clear of all places where an ambush might be in wait.

  Well he knew how the tribesmen would love to sink a spear between his ribs. He laughed softly to himself, his big eyes glowing. This was the man hunt he loved—the hunt for Nemarluk.

  Several days later Bul-bul, away on the coast, found the body of Nagata. An unpleasant job judging by the face of the young policeman. But the hunt had given Bul-bul the keenest delight; his big face deadly earnest then breaking into smiles as step by step, yard by yard, mile by mile he unravelled the evidence of this deed committed so man y months ago.

  That patrol proved the killing. Now it remained to catch the actual killers.

  “We have made a good beginning,” wrote the policeman in his diary that night. “We’ve arrested Mangul and Lin. But Nemarluk the chief is going to prove very difficult to run to earth.”

  Meanwhile, nearly two hundred miles south another patrol was craftily encircling a Victoria River camp. But the raid brought them nothing except the quiet jeers of the natives.

  Weeks slipped into months. Then Nemarluk made a shrewd move. With Mankee, Coon-an-pore, Me-alcull and a few others of his people, he came down on to the plains and made straight for the Victoria River. The patrols were now in the bush, hopelessly seeking him. Nemarluk slipped behind them and, laughing, kept travelling away from them, along the very country over which they had just ridden. He turned at a grunt from Mankee. Far away, from a peak towards the head of the Fitzmaurice River, a thin smoke signal rose lazily. As they watched it, a puff shot up; then the column rose again. Another puff shot up forming a wee, vanishing cloud. Then the column rose again, blacker smoke this time.

  “Alligator,” grunted Mankee, “signals police travelling towards Did-ee plain.”

  Nemarluk laughed, then turned to walk on. But with a wild shriek Marboo flung herself at his feet. Nemarluk leaped as if a snake had bitten him, and whirled around with poised spear. Mankee had also turned, his spear searching for the patrol. With beating hearts both glared at Marboo. She had leaped up and was standing trembling, eyes staring from her head, finger pointing.

  Nemarluk frowned. Wriggling away from where his foot would have trod was a red-bellied snake. At that season of the year a bite from that reptile means death in three minutes.

  To Nemarluk’s glance Marboo shook her head. No, it had not bitten her. Everything happened so suddenly that the snake had been too startled to strike.

  Nemarluk killed the snake and strode on.

  CHAPTER VI

  DEVEN’S COUNTRY

  The little band came now into cattle country, luxuriantly grassed plains hedged by rugged ranges in the distance. Nemarluk vanished down a dry creek, the others following. In a little while Nemarluk glanced back, with a grimace of caution. Mankee was instantly beside him.

  They peered up over the bank and there, not two hundred yards away, was grazing a little mob of cattle. With a silent laugh and a glitter in their eyes the two powerful bodies crawled up into the grass and wormed their way towards the cattle. It was a windless day, they got right in amongst them before an old bull lifted his head and sniffed uneasily. Instantly the spearmen arose and two shovel-bladed spears shot towards a fat young steer. It plunged and wheeled completely around to bellow and gallop madly away. But only for two hundred yards. The bladed spearheads had ripped deep into and right up his body, he bled to death as he galloped. Terrible cutting things, are those shovel-bladed spears.

  Nemarluk’s people enjoyed a hurried feast, eating only the titbits.

  “There are plenty more cattle,” laughed Coon-anpore; “and now we are at war with the whites it doesn’t matter how many we kill.”

  “Kill as many as we can,” growled Me-al-cull.

  “My spear is going to kill and kill and kill,” boasted Mankee.

  “No,” frowned Nemarluk. “Don’t kill when the police are close on your tracks. Kill as many as you like otherwise.”

  They walked on cheerily, eyes keenly roving ahead and around, and watching the ground for tracks as they walked. No hunters had been over this country for some time nor was there any sign of station blacks. They walked cautiously, now, speculating on what friends might be present in the native camp at the station, and what tribal enemies might be there also. Eagerly they debated their chances of cajoling or demanding tobacco from the station boys. The ranges before them now appeared as great brown walls, the frowning ramparts of Bradshaw’s Lookout standing up plainly. Those ranges were on the other side of the river, as were the most of the half-dozen widely scattered homesteads.

  And now Nemarluk made cunning plans. For the time being at least he alone would cross the river. First to quietly meet a band of wild renegades there; then to terrorize, if need be, the station boys. The police were far away behind them searching in the opposite direction. If they doubled back, Nemarluk’s people would warn him. To catch him, the police must cross t
he river. Nemarluk would wait for them to cross; then he would cross back again and be away, travelling straight back into his own country.

  The strategy was sound. For to cross that broad, very dangerous river, with horses, meant that a patrol must travel up from the river mouth nearly a hundred miles to the crossing. Then down the other side of the river.

  “And when they do come,” grinned Nemarluk, “I’ll cross the river and they’ll have to go all the way back again.”

  “And if the police don’t come, or if they come too soon ?” inquired Coon-an-pore.

  “Then you and the others except two can cross and join me. I’ll send word as soon as I’m sure we can boss the station boys. But two must always stay on this side of the river.”

  “If only I could see Bul-bul,” grunted Mankee—and felt the edge of his spear.

  “Be certain that you see him first,” laughed Nemarluk, “or we’ll have to bury you.”

  Into the afternoon Nemarluk strode on alone. The others turned towards a group of hills. Presently, from a peak there rose a smoke signal. Miles away across the river a watcher on Bradshaw’s Lookout saw the signal; read the sign. Lazily he picked up his spears and vanished amongst the rocks.

  Night, with a little moon. Stars, in a sky of velvet. Trees, and the smell of water. And then—the sound of water, the murmuring, hissing, lapping of angry waters. Otherwise silence. Then the murmuring of the waters growing louder while a keen ear could hear distantly a vagrant breeze rustle over dry grass. Now the hoarse, rasping cry of the night heron. Silence again, with the slight “feeling” of noise whispering over great distances across vast spaces.

  Then there rose to the skies the long-drawn, shuddering howl of a dingo, the howl of an old-man dog calling his pack to the chase. After that howl had moaned away it still seemed to ring over plain, and gorge, and river. And then—silence.

  “Wow-wow!” “Wow-wow!” came the hoot of a boobook owl.

  From where the dingo had howled rose a shadow, which strode forward noiselessly.