Nemarluk Page 6

  In midstream a strong tide caught the canoe. Deven swung her nose around and she sped downstream like a living thing.

  Around them a hissing swirl of waters, far above them the stars with distantly to left and right black shadows of trees. Far away those shadows receded as towards dawn they neared Blunder Bay, the river mouth. Before them loomed up the black mass of Timber Island. With deft strokes Deven paddled the canoe to the island. Nemarluk leaped ashore.

  “I’ll hide the canoe and walk back along the foothills,” said Deven. “They’ll find no tracks to follow now. I’ll send up a smoke when the other policeman crosses over to this side. Then you cross the river and make your getaway. When the police have left the Victoria I’ll send you word. You double back but bring your Red Band and we’ll deal with the station stockboys, some might be cheeky now that the police have got our good men. I’ll send word to Tiger to bring his mob and meet us here. Then we can all plan what we’ll do.”

  “Yu ai!” grunted Nemarluk.

  “Watch for my signals!” warned Deven, and pushed off.

  Next day Nemarluk watched the river, stared towards the distant cliffs upstream for a smoke signal, speared fish for food, idly watched the snouts of cruising crocodiles. Darkness came with the tide swirling in, a hissing and a moaning from the whirlpools in Whirlpool Pass. Feeling very lonely Nemarluk sat there by the island edge spear in hand, staring upstream. To his ears came the sounds of the night, the moaning of tortured waters, the cough of a bull alligator. The weird, rasping call of the grey night bird, the soft rustle of passing wings.

  To his nostrils came the smells of the night, spume air from violent mixture of sea and fresh water, smell of trees, whiff from some distant mud flat being disturbed by the tide. Nemarluk watched, Nemarluk chief of the wilds, Nemarluk the hunter, Nemarluk the hunted.

  Suddenly a star appeared. Far distant, up in the black sky. A red star.

  Nemarluk sprang up, trembling. That star was Deven’s signal fire.

  “Police!”

  So, they had guessed his hideout—were coming now! He gazed at the stars; his fine chest filled out. There, all alone, he snarled defiance.

  He hurried across to the opposite side of the island, where there were two dead logs of a light wood he had noted that morning. Near by grew a long jungle creeper, its stem strong as knotted cord. Swiftly he pulled the creeper, fastened the two logs together, and collected a score of heavy sticks. He launched the logs, lay flat upon them with the sticks resting before him, his spears under him, and pushed out into the night.

  The current urged the logs out and upstream. With a tough piece of bark he steered, allowing the tide to sweep the logs along. At a long slant he was bound for the opposite shore. Snappy little waves leaped from darkness and slapped the raft. White scum appeared only to whirl by into the night. The black fin of a shark swept swiftly upstream.

  Nemarluk had travelled a full half mile before the first black snout appeared, wicked little eyes peering from out deep sockets. The thing surged forward. Nemarluk grasped a stick, skilfully and sideways he threw. The thing disappeared, vanished easily with incredible swiftness before the stick touched the water. Presently another snout appeared, then another, and swam with him, waiting their chance. Not true alligators these but the estuarine crocodile; bigger, stronger, more cunning, faster and fiercer than any alligator. But our bushmen have always called these terrors the “alligator”.

  An old bull appeared. Craftily he surveyed the speeding logs; swam beside them, but a little distance away. Just the knobs of his snout, the ridges around his eyes, his long, serrated tail, were visible.

  Nemarluk, guiding the logs, watched intently. This one was the danger. He dashed a stick towards it but the thing took no notice.

  Nemarluk grasped a spear. How he hated losing one of his beloved spears! The logs sped on. The man waited. The alligator waited. All sped on into the night.

  CHAPTER VIII

  HUNTED MAN

  Suddenly the alligator surged forward. Nemarluk’s spear arm flashed out, and the blade bit deep into the alligator right across the horny ridges of the eye. With a terrific splash it disappeared. Presently the others reappeared a little away. But the old bull never came back.

  The logs sped on while the man’s fierce eyes swept to right and left. Those logs bobbed violently as they skimmed the rims of whirlpools. One opened out ahead and Nemarluk steered tensely to avoid it, his eyes seeing in the night, his ears tuned to the changing hissings in the waters, his body feeling through the logs every vibration of current, tide, and whirlpool. The black mass of the shore appeared ahead.

  Nemarluk leaped ashore and sped on, keeping to the salt arms of the estuary, to the many boggy places where horses could not follow. He travelled thus for twenty miles then came out on hard country and sped on, neither stopping to hunt nor eat. In less than twenty four hours he put one hundred miles between him and the river. Then he slept, hidden deep within a great saltpan. And the “swish-swash-swee-ass-oosh” of the tide on the mangrove roots was his lullaby.

  Nemarluk awoke in a daylight gloom among a tangle of roots with dense foliage overhead. He listened, peering cautiously among the roots at grey-white expanses of saltpan. A hoarse croaking drew his eyes to a maze of fallen trees, black with cormorants. By the metallic sheen on their coats he knew that “outside” the sun must be shining brightly. Cautiously he made his way inland through the mangroves and came out on to open forest country. There he climbed a dwarf scrubtree on a hillock and gazed away back. Far distant was a haze of smoke that told of hunters burning off the grass. But no sign of human life elsewhere. His eye swept the sky watching the flight of birds. They were flying naturally, unalarmed. Relieved, he hurried on, the hunger light in his eyes. He saw tiny tracks of the night before and followed them to a cosy, grass-lined tunnel; reached in his arm and grasped a sleeping bandicoot. In a forest of beautiful eucalyptus-trees his sharp eyes saw tell-tale scratches around a hollow limb, high up. He flung his hands around the tree, gripped it with his feet and “walked” up. Reaching into the hollow he roughly woke a little flying phalanger, a pretty fellow with a bluish-grey coat.

  Later Nemarluk stopped at a small lagoon around which grew squat nutmeg-trees. He hurried to a fallen tree and from its very light, very dry wood selected two sticks. Near by, two huge paper-barks grew close together, and between them was a tiny, grassy hollow. Here he rubbed a handful of dry grass into shreds, and placing his sticks amongst the shreds rubbed them swiftly together. Within a minute a wisp of smoke arose, a spark shot out, the fluffy grass caught alight. Nemarluk threw on a handful of teased bark, then tinder and had his fire. He hardly waited for coals. Throwing his game on the fire he turned it over as the fur singed; then tore it to pieces with his strong teeth and wolfed it. Feeling much better he picked up his spears, and walked on, travelling parallel with the coast. Within a few miles the forest gave way to a wide area of tufted grasses that covered the earth like a dense mat.

  Now, for the first time, Nemarluk sought to hide his tracks. He was travelling east. Suddenly, he turned directly south and no longer walked upon the grass but under it. With extreme care he would stretch out a leg and gently insert his foot under a tuft where the long grass had drooped from the root to the earth. Then he would stretch out the other leg and step similarly, carefully withdrawing a foot to step forward again. As he lifted his foot the hardly disturbed grass dropped back into place. So he walked for miles, and never once did he set his foot upon grass.

  And for a very good reason. Not only can the aboriginal follow tracks upon earth, the clever ones among them can detect the faint imprint of a foot upon grass also—whether the grass be green and moist with early morning dew, or brown and dry. He who might be on Nemarluk’s tracks would have his work cut out now. Horses could not follow him that hundred tortuous miles across saltpan and bog and mangrove. The horses would have to travel miles away out along the edge of the hard country while the trackers laboriously tra
cked him often deep within mangrove labyrinths. And now that he was in open forest he had completely altered direction and was travelling “under” grass. Even if they detected the trick the trackers would have to carefully examine thousands of tufts of grass, carefully lift up the grass, and then search for trace of the imprint upon the hard earth underneath. For mile upon mile the tracker must slowly search under tuft after countless tuft. If he completely lost the track, he would ride in a semi-circle, covering miles, seeking to cut the tracks where they came out of this tufted area of grass country.

  But Nemarluk had thought of this. Next day, still taking his time, he was leisurely wading a creek. It was dark and cool for the banks on each side were dense walls of jungle vine. Nemarluk was wading upstream and meant to keep on for the creek headed in the mountains of Tiger’s country. He meant to talk with Tiger and Chugulla; to have their tribesmen signal his Red Band come and meet him; then signal Deven and try and arrange a rescue for Mankee and Kerinbo, Kummungeegut, Pooneemillar, Kin Aerry, Marboo and all who had been captured by that patrol. Nemarluk was making no tracks at all now for the quiet water swallowed every track he made. Neither Bul-bul nor any tracker born could now follow him.

  Suddenly a scrub wallaby hopped out of the vines on the right bank and stood erect, nostrils and ears twitching, listening with its back towards the man. He stood motionless, tensely alert ... The sound of men! The wallaby vanished as Nemarluk leaped for the bank. But it was only Wambun and Widgee, greatly excited. They pushed through the vines, their eyes vivid under circles of war paint, then stared in amazement.

  “Nemarluk!” they shouted.

  “Wah!” grinned Nemarluk.

  They plunged across the stream to him, greatly excited.

  “We all thought you were hurrying back towards An-de-mallee camp,” exclaimed Wambun. “We have great news.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tiger’s Mob have killed the two white men!”

  Nemarluk stared.

  “The two white men Tiger was watching up at the crossing while you were down river with Deven,” exclaimed Widgee.

  “Ah!”

  Then they told him all about it. The two lonely wanderers setting out on their last voyage, down the broad river, along the wild coast, then into the mouth of the gloomy Fitzmaurice, far from white men or aid. Tiger hurrying back through the bush, collecting Chugulla and his mob, then trailing the wanderers far up river into the Little Fitzmaurice.

  Painted figures, unseen figures, watching them all the time.

  A day came when the white men stepped ashore far up in the heart of the primitives’ land. Carrying their prospecting tools, with revolvers at their belts, they ventured a little distance inland.

  And Tiger’s Mob fell upon them.

  Tiger and Chugulla, Wadawarry and Walung, Alligator and Maru and the rest of Tiger’s Mob. They cut the two men to pieces; just a writhing, snarling, hacking fight in the loneliness of the Wild Lands.

  Nemarluk laughed in delight. So the war was on in earnest, he was not fighting alone.

  “We will wipe out the white men!” he declared fiercely.

  “Wah!” exclaimed Wambun.

  “Wah!” echoed Widgee.

  Eagerly they talked. The two messengers had seen no patrol; every smoke signal over many miles was “All Clear”. They were hurrying now to the Daly to tell the tribesmen there.

  “If only we could wipe out the settlement on the Daly!” said Nemarluk thoughtfully.

  Wambun’s eyes widened, Widgee’s eyes widened. Wipe out a settlement! The idea was too big for them to grasp just yet.

  “We will talk of it later,” said Nemarluk shortly, “when Deven and Tiger and Chugulla and I hold council.”

  The messengers explained that Tiger’s Mob had doubled back towards the Victoria. Only the black men would ever know what had happened to the white men, the police would never know for crocodiles had long since dined on the two bodies. Tiger had not left a trace.

  They parted with a “Ma-muck!” “Ma-muck!” the messengers hurrying on. Nemarluk now left the creek for Tiger would not be up on the mountains. Nemarluk decided to double back to the Victoria. He would meet Tiger and Deven there, and they would talk. He hurried out on to the open forest country and glanced towards the distant ranges. From a look out a smoke signal was rising, telling of the killing of a warrior by a vengeance band. But there was no signal that warned of a patrol, the police must be far away. Nemarluk hurried on, thinking of Tiger’s success. Throughout all the Wild Lands the news would fly on the wings of the wind. The killing of the Jap men, and now the killing of the white men. Every warrior would be eager for more victories; every timid one would become brave. “Deven and Tiger and I will get together,” whispered Nemarluk fiercely, “and kill all the white men, even the police patrol.” He gritted his teeth, clenching his spears. He was walking with long, swinging strides. Suddenly he halted, staring at the ground. A footprint, a big, plain footprint upon a soft patch of soil!

  “Police!”

  Nemarluk knew it. The footprint of a white man. Nemarluk glared wildly around. Nothing moved; there was not a sound. He stared at the track again.

  There was only the one man, the one track going towards the east. A fresh track, not an hour old. If Nemarluk had not left the creek the man who made that track and he would have just about met at the creek.

  Nemarluk panicked; turned and headed straight back for the coast—running. He must put distance between him and that track.

  He was a hunted man. At last he realized it. They were after him—were hunting Nemarluk.

  Those look out people away back on the ranges—they had not seen him. Wambun and Widgee knew nothing of them. No one had seen them. But here they were—around him—near him—somewhere.

  He expected the thud of galloping hooves, expected a loud challenge, a rifle shot, and the whistle of a bullet. He expected—anything.

  But there was only silence. He turned again towards the ranges intent on deceiving the pursuers by doubling back through a swamp. As he hurried on, his thoughts were grim.

  The Red Band scattered; his tribe scattered. Mangul gone, Lin gone, Mankee gone, Marboo gone, Widjullee gone. Deven taken to the hills and Pooneemillar gone, Kummungeegut gone, Kerinbo gone, Kin Aerry gone. And Tiger soon would be fleeing for his life!

  Nemarluk turned again towards the coast, walking swiftly, his eyes fiercely roaming from side to side and to the ground—always back towards the ground, to Mother Earth who told him so much. But he saw no more tracks, no broken bush, no trodden grass, no bruised shrub or vine. Ears listening, his nostrils sought every current of air, but he heard no sound of horses or man, smelt no sweat of horse nor acrid tang of smoke. He hurried on.

  Where had these men come from ? Where were their horses? Where were their trackers? What was that one policeman doing all alone? Where was the rest of the patrol? A day’s ride away? Or close by beside him?

  Nemarluk now realized that he must outwit something far more dangerous than a tracker. He hurried on and lengthening shadows brought a rustling that was but of the wind. A bee-eater sped overhead with a flash of green and blue. There came the trill of its pretty song. How happy the bird was, and free!

  Sunset brought a cold wind. Nemarluk shivered. By midnight he had covered fifty miles. He travelled quietly as a shadow fearful of what the night might hold. He kept to the shadows, though fearing them. He hurried across an open patch of country—to stand perfectly still, staring down. Dull starlight shone on a recently overturned stone.

  Yes, and there were tracks—horses’ tracks! He glared wildly around. But not a sound. He knew it now. The police were travelling fifty miles apart; a walking man, travelling east; a patrol, travelling east. They would cut the tracks of any man travelling north.

  Nemarluk was travelling north! He stood there, glaring around. Where was this patrol camped? Or were they travelling all night, as he was? Where were their trackers? How many were there?

&nb
sp; He remembered he had not disguised his tracks during this last fifty miles. They must find him. It did not matter what these tracks might tell him, all that mattered now was to speed far and fast. He started swiftly for the coast, his eyes wild as any hunted animal’s, his ears set for the slightest sound, nostrils set for whiff of horse, or camp, for scent of white man or black. He had travelled seventy miles by dawn; but his powerful legs were set to leap forward and run if necessary for miles. He sped noiselessly on into the dawn, his killing spear gripped ready to strike, his eyes seeking shadows that might not be shadows, his heart in a burning rage.

  Nemarluk, King of the Wilds, confused and hunted in his own Wild Lands. A great longing surged within him to hurry back to An-de-mallee camp, his own home camp, to call his tribesmen around him. Almost fearfully now he glanced around for he was travelling alone in the night and around him were the spirits of the night.

  By midday next day he was near the coast and the sea air smelt sweet in his nostrils. He sped on into a maze of mangrove swamps, deep inlets of the sea, sandhills and hollows dark-green under dense vine jungle.

  He pushed straight on another few miles and stepped out of the scrub on to the shore. He threw up his head and laughed at the sky, at the sea. He walked straight on into the sea. Only then he stood, with water to his knees. Ah! at last he could hide his tracks.

  CHAPTER IX

  THE PATROL CARRIES ON

  Nemarluk gazed along the tree-lined coast right and left. Neither man, woman, child nor dog was visible on beach, mud flat or sandbank. Only the herons, snipe, and plover and the lazy sea. The dense wall of trees behind him and the blue sky above.

  Nemarluk turned north, walking through the shadows, watching out for fish and crabs. He was very tired, very hungry. But his mind was eased from that terrible dread of leaving his tracks behind him. Several miles farther on a shallow channel led directly inland. He turned along this channel, for it was a saltwater creek leading into the mangroves. There would be fish in it. Wading the water he entered the gloomy mangroves and fish scurried from his feet. His first spear chopped one in halves. He ate that fish raw, tearing it to pieces with his teeth. He speared three big fish, then saw the first crocodile lying up on a mudbank with its tail towards him, snipe and plover unconcernedly feeding around it. Another lay motionless on the opposite bank, yet another slaty shape farther on. But he waded on into the mangroves. Presently deep, dark waterholes would loom before him that he would not dare to wade.