Before leaving Hugh was fully instructed
what to do if he compassed the second finding of Considine.
He was to travel under another name, for fear that
his own would get about, and cause the fugitive to
make another hurried disappearance.
He took a subpoena to serve on the
old man as a last resource.
Charlie was emphatic. “Go
up and get hold of the old vagrant, and find out all
about it. Don’t make a mess of it, whatever
you do. Remember the old lady, and Miss Grant,
and the youngsters, and all of us depend on you in
this business. Don’t come back beaten.
Don’t let anything stop you. Get him drunk
or get him sober friendly or fighting but
get the truth, and get the proofs of it. Choke
it out of the old hound somehow.”
Hugh said that he would, and departed,
weighed down by responsibility, to execute his difficult
mission. He had to go into an untravelled country
to get the truth out of a man who did not want to tell
it; and the time allowed was short, as the case could
not be postponed much longer.
He travelled by sea to Port Faraway,
a tropical sweltering township by the Northern seas
of Australia, and when he reached it felt like one
of the heroes in Tennyson’s Lotus Eaters he
had come “into a land wherein it seemed always
afternoon.”
Reeves, the buffalo shooter, was a
well-known man, but to find his camp was another matter.
No one seemed to have energy enough to take much interest
in the quest.
Hugh interviewed a leading citizen
at the hotel, and got very little satisfaction.
He said, “I want to get out to Reeves’s
camp. Do you know where it is, and how one gets
there?”
“Well,” said the leading
citizen, putting his feet up on the arms of his long
chair and gasping for air, “Le’s see!
Reeves’s camp ah! Where is he
camped now?”
“I don’t know,”
said Hugh. “I wish I did. That’s
what I want to find out.”
“Hopkins’d know.
Hopkins, the storekeeper. He sends out the supplies.
Did you ask him?”
“No,” said Hugh. “I didn’t.
I’ll go and ask him now.”
“Too hot to bustle round now,”
said the leading citizen, lighting his pipe.
“What’ll you have to drink? Have some
square; it’s the best drink here.”
Hugh thought it well to fall in with
the customs of the inhabitants, so he had a stiff
gin-and-water at nine in the morning, a thing he had
never done, or even seen done, in his life before.
Then he went over in the blazing sunlight to the storekeeper,
and asked whether he knew where Reeves’ camp
was.
“That I don’t,”
said the storekeeper. “I send out what they
want by a Malay who sails a one-masted craft round
the coast, and goes up the river to their camp, and
brings the hides back. They send a blackfellow
to let me know when they want any stuff, and where
to send it.”
“Perhaps I could go out with
the next lot of stuff,” said Hugh. “When
will they want it, do you think?”
“Well, they mightn’t want
any more. They might go on now till the wet season,
and then they’ll come in.”
“When is the wet season, then?”
“Oh, a couple of months, likely.
Perhaps three months. Perhaps there won’t
be none at all to speak of. What’ll you
have?”
“Oh, I have just had a drink,
thanks. Fact is, I’m a bit anxious to get
out to this camp. It’s a bit important.
You don’t know where they are for certain?”
“Lord knows! Anywhere!
Might be on one river, might be on another. They’ll
come in in the wet season. Better have a drink,
anyhow. You must have something. What’ll
it be square? Beer? Can’t
stand beer in this climate, myself.”
“Oh, well,” said Hugh
desperately, “I’ll have another square.
Make it a light one. Do you think I can get anyone
who knows where they are camped to go out with me?”
“Tommy Prince’d know,
I expect. He was out in that country before.
But he’s gone with a bullock-team, drawing quartz
to the new battery at the Oriental. At least
I saw him start out three weeks ago. Said he was
in a hurry, too, as the battery couldn’t start
until he got the quartz hauled.”
“Perhaps he didn’t start,”
said Hugh; “perhaps he put it off till after
the wet season?”
“Well,” said the storekeeper,
meditatively, “he might, but I don’t think
he would. There’s no one else, that I know
of, can find them for you. Lord knows where they
are. They camp in one place till the buffalo are
all shot, and then they shift to new ground. Perhaps
ten miles, perhaps thirty. Have another drink?
What’ll you have?”
“No, not any more, thanks.
About this Tommy Prince, now; if I can find him he
might tell me where to go. Where can I find him?”
“Down at the Margaret is where
he camps, but I think he’s gone to the Oriental
by this time sure to be. That’s
about forty miles down past the Margaret. There
was a fellow came in from the Margaret for supplies,
and he’ll be going back to-morrow if
he can find his pack-horses.”
“And supposing he can’t?”
“Well, then, he’ll go
out next week, I expect, unless he gets on the drink.
He’s a terrible chap to drink.”
“And if he starts to drink, when will he go?”
“Lord knows. They’ll
have to send in after him. His mates’ll
be pretty near starved by now, anyhow. He’s
been in town, foolin’ round that girl at the
Royal this three weeks. He’ll give you a
lift out to the Margaret that’s forty
miles.”
“What is there out at the Margaret
when I get there? Is it a town, or a station,
or a mine? What is it?”
“Oh, it’s not so bad.
There’s a store there, and a few mines scattered
about. Mostly Chinese mines. The storekeeper
there’s a great soaker, nearly always on the
drink. Name’s Sampson. He’ll
tell you where to find Tommy Prince. Prince and
his mates have a claim twelve miles out from there,
and if Tommy ain’t gone to the Oriental, he might
go down with you.”
“Supposing Tommy’s at
his claim, twelve miles out,” said Hugh, “how
can I get out?”
“I dunno,” said the storekeeper,
who was getting tired of talking so long without a
drink. “I dunno how you’ll get out
there. Better have a drink what’ll
you have?”
Hugh walked out of the store in despair.
He found himself engaged in what appeared to be an
endless chase after a phantom Considine, and the difficulties
in his way semed insuperable. Yet how could he
go back and tell them all at home that he had failed?
What would they think of him? The thought made
him miserable; and he determined, if he failed, never
to go back to the old station at all.
So he returned to his hotel, packed
his valise, and set out to look for the pack-horse
man. He found him fairly sober; soon bargained
to be allowed to ride one of the horses, and in due
course was deposited at the Margaret a
city consisting of one galvanised-iron building, apparently
unoccupied. His friend dismounted and had a drink
with him out of his flask. They kicked at the
door unavailingly; then his mate went on into the
indefinite, leaving him face to face with general
desolation.
The Margaret store was the only feature
in the landscape a small building with
a heap of empty bottles in the immediate foreground,
and all round it the grim bush, a vista of weird twisted
trees and dull grey earth with scanty grass.
At the back were a well, a windlass, and a trough
for water, round which about a hundred goats were encamped.
Hugh sat and smoked, and looked at the prospect.
By-and-by out of the bush came two men, a Chinaman
and a white man. The Chinaman was like all Chinamen;
the white man was a fiery, red-faced, red-bearded,
red-nosed little fellow. The Chinee was dragging
a goat along by the horns, the goat hanging back and
protesting loudly in semi-human screams; every now
and again a black mongrel dog would make sudden fiendish
dashes at the captive, and fasten its teeth in its
neck. This made it bellow louder; but the Chinaman,
with the impassibility of his race, dragged goat, dog,
and all along, without the slightest show of interest.
The white man trudged ahead, staring
fixedly in front; when they reached the store he stared
at Hugh as if he were the Bunyip, but said no word.
Then he unlocked the door, went in, and came out with
a large knife, with which he proceeded to murder the
goat scientifically. The Chinee meanwhile bailed
up the rest of the animals, and caught and milked a
couple of “nannies,” while a patriarchal
old “billy” walked fragrantly round the
yard, uttering hoarse “buukhs” of defiance.
It was a truly pastoral scene, but
Hugh took little interest in it. He was engrossed
with the task of getting out to the buffalo camp,
finding Considine, and making him come forward and
save the family. He approached the white, or
rather red man, who cocked a suspicious eye at him,
and went on tearing the hide off the goat. Hugh
noticed that his hand trembled a good deal, and that
a sort of foam gathered on his lips as he worked.
“Good day,” said Hugh.
The man glared at him, but said nothing.
“My name is Lambton,”
said Hugh. “I want to go out to the buffalo
camp. I want to find Tommy Prince, to see if
he can go out with me. Do you know where he is?”
The man put the blade of the butcher’s
knife between his teeth, and stared again at Hugh,
apparently having some difficulty in focussing him.
Then his lips moved, and he was evidently trying to
frame speech. He said, “Boo, Boo, Boo,”
for a few seconds; then he pulled himself together,
and said,
“Wha’ you want?”
“I want to get to the buffalo
camp,” said Hugh. “You know Reeves’s
camp.”
Here a twig fell to the ground just
behind the man; he gave one blood-curdling yell, dropped
the knife, and rushed past Hugh, screaming out, “Save
me! Save me! They’re after me!
Look at ’em; look at ’em!” His hair
stood perfectly erect with fright, and, as he ran,
he glanced over his shoulder with frightened eyes.
He didn’t get far. In his panic he ran
straight towards the well, banged his head against
the windlass, and went thundering down the twenty
or thirty feet of shaft souse into the water at the
bottom, where he splashed and shrieked like a fiend,
the noise reverberating up the long shaft.
Hugh and the Chinaman ran to the well-top,
Hugh cursing under his breath. Every possible
obstacle that could arise had arisen to block his
journey; every man that could have helped him was away,
or dead, or otherwise missing; and now, to crown all,
after getting thus far, he had apparently struck a
prize lunatic, and would have to stay in that awful
desolation, perhaps for a week, with him and a Chinaman.
Perhaps he would have to give evidence on the lunatic’s
dead body, and even be accused of causing his death.
All these thoughts flashed through his mind as he
ran to the well-head. From the noise he made the
man was evidently not dead yet, and, looking down,
he saw his eyes glaring up as he splashed in the water.
“What’s up with him?” roared Hugh
to the Chinaman.
“Him, dlink, dlink all-a-time dlink,
him catchee hollows.”
They had started to lower the bucket,
when suddenly the yells ceased, a loud bubbling was
heard, and looking down they saw only a dim, round
object above the water. Without an instant’s
delay Hugh put his foot in the bucket and signed to
the Chinee to lower him. Swiftly and silently
he descended the well, jumped out of the bucket, and
grabbed the floating body of the drunkard with one
hand, holding on to the rope with the other.
The man had collapsed, and was as limp as a rag.
Hugh made the rope fast under his armpits, and gave
the old mining cry, “On top there, haul away.”
Heavily the windlass creaked.
Mightily the Chinee strained. The unconscious
figure was drawn out of the water and up the shaft,
inch by inch. The weight of a man in wet clothes
is considerably more than that of a bucket of water,
and it seemed a certainty that either the old windlass
would break or the Chinaman’s arms give out.
Slowly, slowly, the limp wet figure ascended the shaft,
while Hugh supported himself in the water, by gripping
the logs at the side of the well, praying that the
tackle would hold. The creaking of the windlass
ceased, and the ascending body stopped evidently
the Chinee was pausing to get his breath.
“Go on!” screamed Hugh.
“Keep at it, John! Don’t let it beat
you! Wind away!”
Faintly came the gasped reply, “No can!
No more can do!”
He lowered himself in the water as
far as he could, to deaden the blow in case of the
fellow falling back on him, and screamed encouragement,
threats, and promises up the well. Suddenly from
above came a new voice altogether, a white man’s
voice.
“Right oh, boss! We’ve got him.”
The windlass recommenced its creaking,
and the figure at the end of the rope continued its
slow, upward journey. Hugh saw the body hauled
slowly to the top and grabbed by a strong hand; then
it disappeared, and the sunlight once more streamed,
uninterrupted, down the shaft. The bucket came
down again, and Hugh clutched it and yelled out, “Haul
away!” He could hear the men grunting above
as they turned the handle.
When he had been hauled about fifteen
feet there was a crack; the old windlass had collapsed,
and he went souse, feet first, into the water.
He sank till he touched the bottom, then rose gasping
to the surface. A head appeared, framed in the
circle of the well, and a slow, drawling colonial
voice said:
“Gord! boss, are you hurt? The windlass
is broke.”
“No, I’m not hurt. Can’t you
fix that windlass?” roared Hugh.
“No!” came the answer sepulchrally down
the well. “She’s cooked.”
“Well, hold on,” said
Hugh. “I believe I can get up.”
He braced his feet against one side of the well, and
his shoulders against the other, and so, working them
alternately, he raised himself inch by inch. It
is a feat that requires a good man to perform, and
the strain was very great. Grimly he kept at
it, and drew nearer and nearer to the top. Then,
at last, a hand seized him; half-sick with over-exertion,
he struggled out and fell gasping to the ground.
For a minute or two the universe was turning round
with him. The Chinee and the strange white man
moved in a kind of flicker, unreal as the figures
in a cinematograph. Then all was blank for a
while.
When he came to, he was lying by the
well with a bag under his head, and the strange white
man was trying to pour some spirits down his throat.
“I’m all right thanks!”
gasped Hugh.
“By Gord, Mister, it’s
lucky I happened to come along,” said the stranger.
“You an’ Sampson’d ha’ both
been drownded. That Chow couldn’t haul
him up. Dead beat the Chow was when I came.
I jis’ come ridin’ up, thinkin’
to get a few pound of onions to take out to the camp,
and I see the Chow a-haulin’ and a-haulin’
at that windlass like as if he was tryin’ to
pull the bottom out of the well. I rides up and
sings out “What ho! Chaney, what yer got?”
And he says, “Ketch hold,” he says, and
that was all he could say; he was fair beat. And
then I heard you singing out, and I says to meself,
“Is the whole popperlation of the Northern Territory
down this here well? How many more is there, Chancy?”
I says. And then bung goes the old windlass, and
lucky it ketched in the top of the well; if it had
fell down on the top of you, it’d ha’
stiffened you all right. And how you got up that
well beats me. By Cripes, it does.”
“How’s the man
that was down with me?” said Hugh
slowly.
“What, Sampson? ’E’s
all right. Couldn’t kill’m with a
meat-axe. He must ha’ swallowed very near
all the water in that well. Me an’ the Chow
emptied very near two buckets out of him. He’s
dead to the world jes’ now. How do you
feel, boss?”
“I’ll be all right in
a minute,” said Hugh. “What’s
your name?”
“I’m Tommy Prince,”
said the stranger. “I jist kem in from my
camp to-day for them onions.”
Hugh drew a long breath. The luck had turned
at last.