Nemarluk Page 9

  CHAPTER XI

  A TRAP IS SET FOR NEMARLUK

  Nemarluk now roamed alone. He made towards the Victoria River, determined to join Tiger if he was in from the bush, Deven otherwise. The big chief was a vengeful man. His Red Band was now slowly travelling hundreds of miles away towards the white man town of Darwin. His Red Band, the pride of the wilds, every man a captive!

  Nemarluk’s fierce eyes glared up to the skies, glared out over the plain and towards the blue of the McAdam Range. A flock of cockatoos flew noisily overhead, free as the wind. But to the wild man there was a moaning in the air for a breeze was blowing among the casuarinas and their long, thin leaves were swishing, sobbing.

  Gritting his teeth Nemarluk shook his spears and sped on into a strong wind. He followed a buffalo pad until it led deep into the brown desolation of a driedup marsh now a sea of dead rushes and weeds. From a nutmeg-tree he broke two light, dry sticks. He fluffed a handful of dry grass and sharply sawed the sticks upon it. The grass smouldered, a spark shot up, the grass burst into flame. Nemarluk threw kindling upon it and the fire leaped up. From a paper-bark tree he tore a long strip of bark, dangled the end in the flame. The oily bark caught alight. Nemarluk walked along, trailing the blazing bark. The dry grass behind him caught alight.

  Within twenty minutes clouds of black smoke, crimson with flame, were rolling towards the sky. The wind blew the flames which leaped and sped over mile upon mile of country. The crackling of a huge grass fire roared behind him.

  Thus, lighting strip after strip of bark and trailing it behind him, Nemarluk set the country alight. And that fire, raging along behind him blotted out his tracks as he walked along. Now swiftly following him swarmed clouds of brown kites crying “Eek-eek-eekeek” as they planed into the smoke, wolfing grasshoppers and rats fleeing for their lives. Night came and the darkness behind Nemarluk was a raging mass of flame. Let them track him now who could. It was impossible.

  That night the scorched earth was beautiful but terrifying.

  Nemarluk walked on, edging towards the coast as the hours went by. It was almost light as day. He had plenty of company; the light, the roar of the fire, the flurried flight of startled birds, the “thud! thud! thud!” of escaping wallaby or ’roo. If the wind changed Nemarluk would be forced to escape himself. But he knew how.

  By midnight the wind began to die down. Soon, he must take to the water to lose his tracks for the wind no longer would spread new flames along.

  He took to the water sooner than he expected. Glanced behind into furious, red-rimmed little eyes within a massive skull from which two great horns were charging upon him. Nemarluk leaped ahead with the bull buffalo at his heels.

  That smoke-blinded buffalo gave Nemarluk the run of his life straight across open country, man and beast racing for life in the glare of the flames. There was not a tree to climb, Nemarluk raced straight for a salt-water bog with thunder of beast and flames at his heels. Reaching the bog with only a few yards to spare, he leaped straight out upon it where the buffalo, with a furious grunt, sank nearly to its chest.

  Nemarluk stood panting, snarling at the raging beast struggling its way back out of the bog. It plunged back out of the mud to turn and stand shaking its neck and horns. Nemarluk rattled his spears towards it but dared not hurl a spear lest he lose the precious weapon.

  Growling to himself at the fright the buffalo had given him he picked his way across the bog to where it ran into a long arm of the sea, a shallow creek deep inland in the mangroves. He took to the water walking with the receding tide. The sea was miles away but time did not matter now; his pursuers would long since have been turned back by the fire. For thirty miles to-day the fire had covered his tracks; for thirty miles to-morrow the sea would cover his tracks. Who then, could find Nemarluk?

  He strode cautiously on with spear arm held ready as his fierce eyes glared to right and left for prowling crocodiles; and found a big one. It lay straight across the shallow, rapidly emptying creek; Nemarluk saw its serrated back just above the water. Only the eyes of a tensely alert wild man could have distinguished that black log lying there almost submerged in the falling tide.

  Nemarluk halted. The crocodile waited. If Nemarluk climbed the bank and walked around the brute, it would mean that here at least he must leave tracks. To throw a spear meant that he might lose a precious weapon, for the crocodile would crush the haft to splinters. Nemarluk gazed around, then warily waded back to a heap of driftwood. He pulled out the heaviest sticks and broke them into three-foot lengths, then carried them back, measured the distance, aimed at the horny ridge around the crocodile’s eyes, and threw. The first stick broke square across the crocodile’s skull. Its ugly snout jerked up and it slewed downstream with a startled grunt. Nemarluk threw rapidly to hasten its going, putting his practised weight into every throw. Then cautiously followed on. The creek bottom was of white sand, the water clear and very shallow; there was still the glow of the fire in the sky. It was starlight too and the moon was rising. Nemarluk carefully watched the mangrove edge and dark creek banks. Again and again the crocodile waited for him; again and again he drove it on. The big saurian knew well that this was only one man, one man alone in the night.

  After a mile of this slow wading Nemarluk grew a little careless; became used to the black log waiting for him every two or three hundred yards downstream. He determined to give it something to remember him by next time. Yes, there it was again, waiting right across the stream, just where a shaft of moonlight fell clearly among the mangroves. Nemarluk edged closer gripping tight his heaviest stick. He would rattle the fangs of the thing with the next blow; it would move then and keep on moving. He crept closer, angry at this cunning thing that was delaying him so. He flung back his arm—then leaped for the bank as it charged with amazing speed, seeming to leap across the water with its great tail urging it on. With flying leaps Nemarluk reached the bank tingling to a vicious grunt and clash of jaws at his heels. He ran on through the mangroves; only the tangle of the roots saved him. He sped on to open land glorious under moonlight then hurried on towards the sea, very much shaken.

  Nemarluk hurried on over the sand and vines, peering at every dark patch of scrub. His teeth gritted furiously. Chased by the white police; chased by the trackers; chased by the animals; chased by the crocodiles—everything was against him. In a fury of anger and loneliness he strode cautiously on.

  Next day he was wading the sea edge, walking south along the beach with the water washing out his tracks. The seagulls kept him company, the snipe and plover on the mudbanks, long legged oyster-eaters ran before him in the shallows. Now and again he speared a fish, if it was small and tasty he tore it to pieces with his teeth and ate it as he walked. If it was big he hung it to his belt, the belt that Marboo had made. The sky was nearly white, the sun gleamed down on lazy waves and green of mangrove, casuarina, and scrub.

  By midday Nemarluk was very tired, very hungry, very lonely. He came ashore up along a creek mouth, crawled into a vine jungle and hid himself. There he ate, then coiled himself up and fell asleep.

  During the next ten days Nemarluk wandered along that maze of the coast right to the wide mouth of the Fitzmaurice. Eagerly here along the bays and tidal inlets he sought the sheltered camping places of Chugulla’s people; those coastal camps to which they wandered in fishing seasons when the coastal lands grew ripe fruits and seashore yams. But every camp was wind beaten and abandoned, only the bones of last season lay there, burnt sticks and turtle shell half buried in sand. There was neither people, nor charcoal, nor track of man or dog. Nemarluk was disappointed, although he knew they would be far away up towards the head of the river, ready for escape into the ranges should danger threaten. Amongst this wild expanse of timber-girt waters he felt very lonely, his mates the wild birds, the sky, and the crocodiles. He wished Marragin was with him; he longed for Minmara, for Mangul, for Lin, and Mankee—for any of his Red Band. He wished Marboo was here.

  He swam the river on a
log and pushed on through the wild tangle towards the far flung mouth of the Victoria. He stared out at the islands and miles of water pouring into Queen’s Channel. There was no smoke, no sign of life there either. He turned down along the river mouth walking inland to Blunder Bay. But the islands there showed no sign of life, nor did the river shore. He had expected fresh track of people long before this. The people must be all up river. He hurried up along beside the broad river until he came to a signal place. Here he lit a smoke, and waited. The answer came in late afternoon far away across river—from Deven’s look out.

  All was clear on both sides of the river.

  Nemarluk snatched his spears with an eager smile and hurried along the river bank. That night at his favourite spot he launched a log and swam across. Noiselessly he hurried on through the bush to the native camp. Cautiously he approached though eager to meet friends, to talk and to eat and to smell the camp fires of people. He listened for a snatch of corroboree song, for the clicking of kylies, the bark of a dog. Warily he drew closer and soon was circling the camp, listening to the voices, the snatches of corroboree song, the shrill laughter following some woman’s joke.

  He recognized many of those voices; smiled at the sound of some, frowned at others. He crept closer until, by the fires, he could see the black shapes of men’s bodies squatting there yarning, crooning, making spears, or lazily gossiping. A piccaninny here and there was chewing a bone, watched by an expectant dog. Nemarluk lifted up his head and the howl of a dingo floated to the skies.

  Presently there came the “Wow-wow! Wow-wow!” of a boobook owl. Nemarluk leaped forward and strode into the camp, smiling in boyish delight. They stared towards him, the kylie sticks ceased clicking, touslehaired women looked up with brightening eyes, old warriors grinned, welcoming cries broke out. With a wave of the hand Nemarluk smiled at them all and strode straight to Deven’s fire.

  “Wah!” he smiled.

  “Wah!” grinned Deven, and “Wah! Wah! Wah!” echoed the fierce men around him.

  Nemarluk dropped his spears and squatted down, they gave him the warmest place on the sand right over the fire. He gorged on the food they brought him; a hunk of roast wallaby with a length of snake and a handful of yams. How good this food tasted, roasted on the cooking fires of the people! Washed down by strong tea—white man’s tea. How Nemarluk gulped that tea! The people crowded around him, pressed him to eat and smoke. That was his crowning delight, to smoke. It was Deven’s pipe. A bashful station boy offered a stick of tobacco. Nemarluk broke it with his thumbs, stuffed the pipe, leaned to the fire and picked up a live coal with his fingers. He puffed and puffed.

  “Wah!” he smiled. “It’s good!”

  “Tobacco,” grinned Deven, “tobacco and iron. If the white men had not these two things our people would never work for them. These two things chain our people to the whites. Curse them.”

  All grouped around Deven’s fire, warriors and renegades and station boys; bush blacks and tame blacks, women and children wide-eyed listening far into the night to Nemarluk’s stories of his outwitting of the white police. Deven listened carefully, his gleaming eyes watching the rapt expression on the faces of those around. A strong warrior, this Deven; strong of character too, his cruel, defiant mouth tight shut as he listened and gauged the feeling of those around.

  It was near daylight when Nemarluk and Deven picked up their spears and vanished.

  “We’ve got them tamed,” muttered Deven. “But he sleeps soundly who does not sleep in a camp.”

  “Yu ai!” agreed Nemarluk grimly. “The dingo hiding in a hollow log is safer than the hunted one who sleeps amongst his people. But your warriors? What men have you got around you now?”

  “Good men. I picked them, they were eager to take the place of Kerinbo and Kin Aerry, Kummungeegut and Pooneemillar and the others. These are nearly as good, though I wish I had my own men back.”

  “They are far away now,” said Nemarluk sadly, “in that white man’s jail with my Red Band. I wish they could escape. Do you think they will kill them?”

  “The ways of the white men are strange,” frowned Deven. “throughout many moons our men again and again have been taken to that Darwin jail. Some have never returned; their spirits alone have come back to whisper by the river. Others whom we made sure the white men would kill they allowed to come back to us.”

  Nemarluk frowned. “If ever they catch me, I don’t think I’ll come·back.”

  “You won’t. They want you for the killing of the Jap men. That is against their law. And they kill a man who kills against their law.”

  “So do we,” agreed Nemarluk cheerfully, “—when we catch him!”

  “They haven’t caught you yet,” laughed Deven.

  “They never will!” declared Nemarluk fiercely.

  Deven frowned in the darkness, striding rapidly on. He remembered that long ago he had used those words in that very tone of voice. And—they had got him!

  Next day, high up on Deven’s eyrie they discussed their plans.

  “There is only one white policeman now in my country,” said Deven. “He is away up river at Timber Creek. Bul-bul and Splinter the trackers are with him, the other trackers do not matter much. He is shoeing his horses, mending harness, packing food in cases, making all ready for a big patrol. He will come seeking you again; his black spies sit quietly in every camp; he has one, too, on every station, riding with the stockboys. But—we know what he does, we know his every move. We will know when he comes seeking you and we’ll know whether he comes down this side of the river, or strikes away out towards the Fitzmaurice and Chugulla’s country?

  “Tiger?” inquired Nemarluk eagerly.

  “At Bradshaw station,” grinned Deven, “working in white man’s clothes. Tiger is a good worker, works hard and does what they tell him—when he wants to. Tiger does not skulk away back in the ranges boasting of what he has done and what he will do when they come after him. Tiger is the most daring of our men and very clever. Right under their noses he watches what they do. He knows their every move. His mob are back on the Fitzmaurice.”

  “Then they don’t know yet that Tiger’s Mob killed the white men?”

  “No. And every one along the river has kept a quiet tongue. Tiger will know as soon as the police know; Tiger trusts no one. Tiger will make his plans as soon as he knows that the police know. He will act far ahead of them, before they even guess he knows they are after him.”

  “How long will it be before some snake in the grass gives tongue?”

  “No man can tell that!” frowned Deven. “No whisperer has yet been game to chance losing his tongue—and his kidney fat. But Tiger has enemies ... They will find a way sooner or later.”

  “And Tiger works there right under the policeman’s nose,” smiled Nemarluk. “No wonder I could not find him.”

  “Of course not,” laughed Deven. “Neither will the policeman find him—when he wants him! But it is a great joke. The policeman has told Bul-bul to find out what has happened to those two white men who canoed away seeking the yellow stone. They have been gone many moons now; they canoed away down river—and vanished. Bul-bul is to find out why they are so long away. And why no one has heard of them.”

  “I’d like to cut Bul-bul’s tongue out,” said Nemarluk pleasantly, “but I’d rather take his kidney fat.”

  “You’ll get it some day,” promised Deven, “if Tiger doesn’t do the job for you.”

  Nemarluk threw out clenched fists. “I want my men!” he said fiercely. “I want men around me. All my Red Band have gone. I want Tiger and Tiger’s Mob; I want you and your men. I want to fight the police, to drive the white men out of our country.”

  “I have a plan!” grinned Deven.

  Nemarluk stared eagerly.

  “The white police will come down this side of the river to make sure you are not here. They must do so. If you are here they must catch you or drive you back to your own country. When they come, you cross. Leave your tr
acks plain on the other side and make back towards your own country, taking your time. The white police must ride back up the river to cross their horses; they must travel a hundred miles up, and more when they turn to ride down along the opposite side, for they must ride away out bush to cut the Baines and Buller rivers. When they arrive back opposite they will cut your tracks. And when they are in full chase we will signal you. Then we will dog their tracks; Tiger’s Mob, and all the good men I know down river, and any of your own men you can signal to cut across country and meet us. Together we will dog the tracks of the police while you turn inland and gradually decoy them into the Fitzmaurice country, then on up the river head, and on into the ranges. We will be on their tracks, half a day’s march behind them. When we get them all in a narrow place, some deep gorge of Tiger’s choosing, we will fall upon them. One night, just as they are creeping out to fall upon you.”

  Nemarluk laughed loud and long. Some of the boyishness had come back to his face.

  “It is a good plan,” he agreed eagerly. “I hope the police come soon; my spear itches to bury itself in Bul-bul.”

  “We’ll get him sometime,” said Deven confidently, and stood up. Nemarluk stood beside him, they gazed away out and down over plain and river.

  Near, hidden by trees, was the roof of a pioneer homestead, the nearest neighbour was forty miles away; none for nearly three hundred miles across river. Cattle, like toy goats, were browsing away down there; a little brown patch was a mob of horses. Down there at the native camp a wisp of smoke slowly rose as some woman started a fire. From a patch of scrub a horse and rider sauntered, then another and another. All the rest was the ramparts of the rand, the plain, the winding river, the sunlight and the sky.

  “How about a wallaby hunt?” suggested Deven.

  “Yu ai,” agreed Nemarluk.

  They turned and with lithe, effortless steps picked their way down the crag, leaping from rock to rock down into a deep gorge and on into the ranges. Two perfect specimens of alert primitive men at home in this wild setting.