Nemarluk Page 5

  In among the black river trees where the boobook owl had called was blackness. And a man black as the night, awaited the shadow’s coming. They met. Their eyes gleamed.

  “So! Nemarluk comes.”

  “And Deven greets him!”

  Their voices were but the murmuring of the night.

  “Where land and waters meet, where the mountains reach towards the skies there shall our people ever be.”

  “By the river of our fathers we pledge our word,” answered Nemarluk.

  They stared into one another’s eyes, spears upright in each left hand. Then each reached his right hand to the other’s shoulder, their foreheads gently touched. Then Deven stepped into a canoe. Nemarluk stepped in beside him but stood, a spear ready gripped, his fierce eyes glancing to right and left searching the water. The canoe shot out from the blackness of the trees.

  At that spot the river is a mile wide, fierce currents rush up from the sea. In Whirlpool Pass the waters rage and whine threatening to engulf anything within reach of their whirling arms. The tide was rushing out now with an angry murmuring that possessed the night. Away across the tortured water loomed a black wall of mountains.

  The canoe shot ahead as Deven paddled. Starlight shone on his muscled body and seemed to kiss this child of her own. Powerful, fiercely cunning, relentless in his loves and hates and feuds was and is—Deven. Scourge of the whites, he had been hunted by blacks and whites alike. He at last had cowed the blacks. In his triumph and ignorance he thought he would be for ever free. But—the whites once had caught him.

  Far away into the white man’s jail at Darwin they threw this untamed child of the wilds. He escaped. Fought his way back to his own country; took quick revenge on those who had betrayed him; swore he would never be caught again. He never has been!

  A hoarse grunt, a low bellow as of a bull struggling upon the water, then a mighty splash. Coughings, gaspings, hoarse roars as two bull alligators fought. The canoe sped on.

  Presently, a dull black snout rose beside the canoe, effortlessly followed it. Nemarluk snarled noiselessly. The snout appeared astern. Yet another snout rose beside it, and another appeared ahead. Merciless eyes glared at the primitives in the tiny canoe. Terrible things, these estuarine crocodiles of the north. Nemarluk threatened his spear towards each in turn.

  He hated but loved these fierce things, things as wild and free as himself. They fought to live. He fought to live. And all the world—their world—was theirs.

  They crossed in safety. Deven hid the canoe.

  “Tiger has sent word,” murmured Deven fiercely, “two white men are away up at the crossing. They are fitting out; going to travel through Tiger’s country, through the Fitzmaurice. They seek the yellow stone they call gold. Tiger watches them. His men await him away back on the Fitzmaurice. When the men reach that country then Tiger is going to fall upon them. He will kill them.”

  “He carries on the war,” answered Nemarluk grimly.

  “We all do—all but the station mongrels. They fear for their lives. Any one of them who breathes a word to white man or police will die-and they know it.”

  “And the camps away up, and away down the river ?” questioned Nemarluk.

  “Are all afraid of Deven’s men. My totem brothers are everywhere, and yet they never know who they may be. But let a man whisper against us and very soon I will know.”

  “And then?” grinned Nemarluk. Silence was Deven’s reply. Nemarluk chuckled. “One day,” he said reminiscently, “I met two hunted men far back in Talakinyin Gorge. They answered as you do.”

  Still Deven was silent.

  “Their tongues had been cut out,” murmured Nemarluk.

  “Come!” said Deven.

  They walked on, shadows across a plain with the black wall before them. They were in Legune station country now. A mile farther on they halted.

  Deven drew back his head, and in perfect imitation went out “Wow-wow! Wow-wow!” the call of the boobook owl.

  Presently, the whistle of a whistling duck came in answer. The two shadows moved on and stepped into the bush blacks’ camp.

  Glaring eyes by dull coals. Warriors’ eyes, womens’ eyes, childrens’ eyes, dogs’ eyes. And the sullen eyes of the station blacks.

  All stared at Nemarluk. Then the bush blacks laughed eagerly and greeted him as the hero.

  Pooneemillar glared up from his .fire, his woman beside him. His fierce face rarely smiled; now it seemed to shine. He adored Nemarluk. Near by was the giant Kerinbo, with massive chest and shoulders, and the voice of a bull. His hairy face spread into one great smile of welcome. These were two of the most cunning cattle spearers in the Territory, the whites on many a station would have given a lot to lay them by the heels.

  Kummungeegut stood up; his big eyes deep set in a handsome fierce face smiled greeting. A giant athlete this. One who had attacked the lugger Pat. As elusive as a night bird this raider, lithe as a panther, as graceful as any man could be, but ferocious as the tiger. With a cunning matched only by his fearlessness he never yet had been caught for any misdeed. He welcomed Nemarluk to this band of free, wild men. Others glared, then grunted a greeting. All savage men these, quick with spear and knife.

  And around them, glaring silently, squatted the Legune station boys. Many of them secretly admired Nemarluk but feared Deven and his wild band; feared and envied them because they were game to defy the whites while they had taken to the softer life of tame station blacks.

  “Should police appear away on the other side of the river,” sneered Deven, “your people there and the others of the river tribes will let us know. Should police appear on this side away up at the crossing then word will speed down to us fast. Every man who works for a station will send us word or signal. They know that our warriors will kill any who do not. Now we eat.”

  For weeks Nemarluk with Deven’s band raided the station cattle, those vast, unfenced stations with their lonely people, their tiny homesteads so many miles apart. And, very uneasily, the station stockboys wisely held their tongues.

  One morning Deven took Nemarluk far up to his favourite look out. Standing there like eagles they gazed out across the Victoria River, far away toward Nemarluk’s beloved country. To their right and left for mile upon mile swept ramparts of cliffs, changing from brown to red and purple as clouds drifted across the sun. In behind them, was Deven’s country, a maze of ranges. Within those canyons, those labyrinths of gorge and hideout he could disappear and would never be taken.

  There rose up the grim ramparts of Bradshaw’s Lookout. High up there, overlooking the station he pioneered, sleeps Bradshaw, speared by the natives years ago. Bradshaw loved this country. But so did Nemarluk, staring out over his own, his very own, country. Far below them like a vast stream of silver swept the twisting river to the sea, hedged in by its squat boab trees, its snow white paper-barks, its clumps of scrub and jungle; by its fertile plains and purple tinted mountains. Far over the river spread the haze of other plains and mountains, Nemarluk’s plains and mountains. His eyes grew misty as he stared.

  “Come,” said Deven. Down a crag upon which a goat could hardly walk he took Nemarluk back into his own ranges, Deven’s ranges. From among the tangled vines of a ravine a skeleton stared up at them.

  “That is why the station stockboys are afraid to put us away to the police,” said Deven grimly. “I found that though a man has no tongue he can still talk with his fingers. Come!”

  Among fallen boulders they worked their way up a gloomy ravine. Here, like a stricken dingo had crawled another into a cave, to die.

  “He too,” said Deven grimly, “wagged his tongue to the white police trackers.”

  “If we could only get Bul-bul here!” hissed Nemarluk.

  “He knows too much,” answered Deven. “But we will get him some night—on the plains.”

  A week later, away across the river, a smoke signal shot up.

  “Police!”

  Nemarluk stared at Deven.

/>   “So the white dogs come,” sneered Deven.

  “It is the black dogs we must watch!” snarled Nemarluk.

  CHAPTER VII

  POLICE!

  Next day the people on the opposite side canoed lazily across the river. And great were the laughs at the expense of the white police at night when the lookout men came down from the mountains. For they told of what they saw, and of the weary, unavailing search of those on the opposite bank.

  At the camp fire, council was held among the wild men. Spears to hand, suspicious glances out towards the night where Marboo and her friends lay watching, all eyes, all ears, hidden to the earth in the darkness of night. Sudden death now to any station stockboy listening-in to the council of the wild men.

  “We will kill them!” hissed Nemarluk. And he meant the white police.

  “Not here,” cautioned Deven, “where the white men on the stations are their friends. Lure them far into your own country, into Tiger’s country where there are no white men, no tame natives, no black spies. We will call together your Red Band, Tiger’s Mob, and my men. Let them chase you first. Lure them deep into the ranges in Tiger’s country where Chugulla’s men are strong. Then, all together, we will fall upon them.”

  “It is a good plan,” hissed Kummungeegut. “We will kill them all. Every policeman, every tracker, every horse.”

  “Look out you don’t miss again!” hissed Pooneemillar. The hairy giant Kerinbo bellowed with laughter. They stopped him instantly, glaring out into the night as Deven sprang at Kummungeegut who was struggling for Pooneemillar’s throat.

  “Fools!” snarled Deven. “Do you want to bring the trackers upon us?”

  “No man sneers at me!” hissed Kummungeegut.

  “It is good advice, not a sneer!” snarled Deven.

  “That fool Wa-gar was so anxious, he bumped my arm as I swung the tomahawk!” hissed Kummungeegut, “otherwise I would have split the policeman’s skull instead of his fingers!”

  “We know,” said Deven. “But don’t miss again. You won’t be attacking a lugger next time with the crew asleep. We’ll attack a wide-awake patrol armed with many guns. Keep quiet. Listen!”

  But there came no sound, other than the sounds of the night.

  “They will search the other side of the river for days,” declared Deven at last. “Their horses are all there, so they could not have crossed. Only Bul-bul might have crossed alone.”

  “If only he would come!” hissed Nemarluk.

  “He would never walk into the little traps we have here,” declared Deven. “It will take a clever trap to catch Bul-bul.”

  “I’m not clever,” said Kerinbo in a hoarse whisper, “but if only I could catch him in these.” And he held out mighty arms.

  “You’d wake up with his dagger in your belly,” said Deven contemptuously. “Now let us plan so that we can kill them all while they can kill none of us.”

  Their tense faces leaned over the camp fire coals, their eyes gleamed, their faces changed as the tigress’s changes as she plays with, then snarls over, her cubs. This was their country; they would fight against the white man’s law.

  But it was only Deven who fully realized they must fight with cunning. He had once been like these, wild and free in his own country, laughing at the very thought that the white police could ever catch him. But he had been outmatched; had felt the weight of the law; had been caged in a jail; had seen a white man town. He knew far more of the power of the whites than his wild tribesmen. He knew that to lure away, then ambush and kill, every member of a .fighting patrol was going to need far more than premature cunning and daring.

  He ordered his henchmen to spread word up and down the river that he had redoubled his threat to cut to pieces any native who gave hint or whisper to white police, trackers, or white man.

  Deven and Nemarluk now retired to the cliffs. The others remained in camp, Deven’s men maliciously watching the stockboys, joining with Nemarluk’s handful of warriors in spearing the white men’s cattle and in generally making a nuisance of themselves. Plenty of time for Nemarluk’s people to move, after the white police across the river proved their search unavailing and started out on the weary ride up river to the crossing. Only when they had to ride all the way down this side would Nemarluk’s people cross the river and dawdle back to their own country.

  One dark night among the rocks, two black shadows squatted by the glowing embers of a fire. A terrible shriek rang up the gorge. Wild things in caves, in trees, in crannies of the rock, trembled. But Deven threw back his head and “Wow-wow! Wow-wow!” hooted the boobook owl.

  Presently, a shadow stepped from among the rocks, and Kummungeegut squatted smiling beside them.

  “The white police search and search and search. They have ridden away but we have no real news where yet. Nemarluk’s people have crossed the river now. We watch the stockboys, but they daren’t speak.”

  “Good reason or why,” sneered Deven. “There has been no canoe left across the river?”

  “Not one.”

  “And no word yet from up river?”

  “No word. The people there will signal immediately the police cross.”

  “And I will wait until they are but a few hours away,” said Nemarluk grimly. “I’ll leave my tracks plain across the river. I’ll lure them far away back into the mountains, to where my Red Band wait.”

  “Tiger’s Mob will be waiting too,” snarled Deven, “and—we will follow up behind.”

  Only a few nights later, as Nemarluk sat staring into the coals, a shadow stepped beside him. He glanced up at Deven’s furious face.

  “Police!” snarled Deven.

  Nemarluk sprang up and his spears threatened the night.

  “Not here,” hissed Deven. “Down in the Legune camp. They have got Pooneemillar and Kerinbo, Kummungeegut and Mankee.”

  “Mankee!” exclaimed Nemarluk, “Kummungeegut! Pooneemillar! Kerinbo!” He stared as if at a ghost.

  “Yes,” snarled Deven. “Caught one by one as they strolled into camp from the hunt. They were hidden in the camp. They made the people go about their ordinary work, even made them play the didjeridoo and sing when sundown came. One policeman was hidden there, and all the trackers. One by one our men came into the cooking fires. The police snatched at their very feet—they almost caught mine!” Deven’s eyes rolled, his strong teeth gritted. Nemarluk stared at him.

  “Kummungeegut was walking ahead,” snarled Deven, “fifty steps ahead. It was dark; the camp fires were burning. We could see the people squatting around them; the women were roasting kangaroo and snakes. There was one snake there I’ll roast myself!” he snarled. “We saw Sandy pick up his didjeridoo; some people started to corroboree. Then Kummungeegut screamed his signal call. A snake of a hag screamed reply and Kummungeegut walked into the trap. Straight to the fire, threw down his spears, and the policeman was upon him. Kummungeegut snatched at his spears but the policeman stunned him with his gun. I flung myself flat in the dark.

  “Presently I rose up. I could partly see then one big policeman, big as you, crouching beside our men. And each man had steel upon his wrists. The barrel of a gun poked from a bush a little distance away. I saw the eyes of Splinter the tracker. I did not know which others might be close around me; to spear the policeman I would have had to jump up—I had no chance. Presently, Kummungeegut sat up, staring around as if an alligator had swallowed him. Kerinbo laughed like a bull, squatting there with steel upon his wrists. When they had tripped him up he had been too silly to fight; he just lay there gazing while they snapped the steel on. Then he knew what had happened. He looked at the steel—and laughed. He thinks it funny. But when he is walking day after day to jail, he will not think it so humorous.”

  Deven paused, frowning. “Then the policeman asked Kummungeegut where you were,” he went on. "Kummungeegut showed his teeth and spat, then sneered at him. The policeman grew angry but Kummungeegut laughed again, ‘Ask the winds!’ he mocked, ‘ask the winds and
the night bird and the owl in the mountains.’ And he laughed again.”

  “That woman who decoyed Kummungeegut into the trap?” said Nemarluk softly.

  “I saw Marboo’s eyes when the woman screeched,” answered Deven grimly.

  “Marboo!” exclaimed the startled Nemarluk.

  “Yes, they caught her too.”

  The boyishness vanished from Nemarluk’s face.

  “I thought the police were still on the other side of the river,” he said harshly.

  “So they are—or one is, the one our men have been watching. But the other crossed the river—somehow. He did not cross away up at the crossing, he crossed here without horses—somehow. He must have been hiding on this side all the time we have been watching the other.”

  “Come,” hissed Nemarluk, “we will spear him.”

  Deven laughed softly. “That is the talk I like,” he whispered. Grasping their spears they crept down on to the plain and felt the cool breath from the river.

  Black night and silence except for the hoarse blast of a distant didjeridoo. They stepped as softly as shadows of the night, but their eyes watchful as wild animals’ eyes; their nostrils breathing in the scents of the night, their ears catching sounds that white men never would notice. Suddenly, they halted. Not a sound—but there was a sound, and they had heard it. Like the soft breathing of an animal some distance away. The bare feet of softly running men. They stared into the night, heads slowly turning as the ear traced the sound. Barefooted men running out to the side of them to circle around, facing them.

  They stared at one another knowing now that a line of men was spread out ahead of them, lying down now, awaiting them.

  Deven turned and with swift, noiseless strides headed down river. Nemarluk followed. When a few hundred yards away, they broke into a swift run that ended at the river. Leaping into a canoe they swiftly paddled outstream.

  “They’ll follow our tracks at daylight,” hissed Deven. “They’ll think you’ve crossed the river—perhaps.”

  “Perhaps,” growled Nemarluk. “They are clever.”