The Tale of Timber Town

“That’s the bloke.”

“Hi! Higgins. Here, old man. D’you want five hundred pounds?”

“I ain’t partic’lar, George – I don’t know the man’s name.”

“But you saw that bit of a scrap in The Lucky Digger, between one of these parties as is murdered and the toff from the Old Country.”

“I was in the bar.”

“Well, there was very bad blood between them – you see that? And I heard the toff tell Zahn that the next time ’e saw ’im he’d about stiffen ’im. I heard it, or words to that effect. Now, I want you to bear witness that what I say is true.”

“Yes, yes, I remember the time. You mean Mr. Scarlett, the man who discovered the field.”

“There’s wheels within wheels, my boy. They were rivals for the same girl. She jilted young Zahn when this new man took up the running. Bad blood, very bad blood, indeed.”

“But is he dead? Has there been a murder at all? Collusion, sir, collusion. Suppose the escort quietly appropriated the gold and effaced themselves, they’d be rich men for life, sir.”

“You’re right, Mr. Ferrars. Until the bodies are found, sir, there is no reason to believe there has been murder.”

At this moment the local bellman appeared on the scene, and stopped conversation with the din of his bell. Subsequently, after the manner of his kind, and in a thin nasal voice, he proclaimed as follows: – “Five hundred pound reward – Five hundred pound reward. – It being believed – that a foul murder has been committed – on the persons of – Isaac Zahn, Peter Heafy, William Johnson, James Kettle – citizens of Timber Town – a search-party will be formed – under the leadership of Mr. Charles Caxton – volunteers will be enrolled at the Town Hall – a large reward being offered – for the apprehension of the murderers – Five hundred pound – Five hundred pound!”

He then tucked his bell under his arm and walked off, just as unconcernedly as if he were advertising an auction-sale.

By this time a crowd of two or three hundred people had assembled. A chair was brought from The Lucky Digger, and upon this a stout man clambered to address the people. But what with his vehemence and gesticulations, and what with the smallness of his platform, he stepped to the ground several times in the course of his speech; therefore a lorry, a four-wheeled vehicle not unlike a tea-tray upon four wheels, was brought, and while the orator held forth effusively from his new rostrum, the patient horse stood between the shafts, with drooping head.

This pompous person was succeeded by a tall, upright man, with the bearing of a Viking and the voice of a clarion. His speech was short and to the point. If he had to go alone, he would search for the missing men; but he asked for help. “I am a surveyor,” he said. “I knew none of these men who are lost or murdered, but I appeal to those of you who are diggers to come forward and help. I appeal to the townsfolk who knew young Zahn to rally round me in searching for their friend. I appeal for funds, since the work cannot be done without expense; and at the conclusion of this meeting I shall enrol volunteers in the Town Hall.”

He stood down, and Mr. Crewe rose to address the crowd, which had now assumed such proportions that it stretched from pavement to pavement of the broad street. All the shops were closed, and people were flocking from far and wide to the centre of the town.

“Men of Timber Town,” said Mr. Crewe, “I’m not so young as I was, or I would be the first to go in search of these missing men. My days as a bushman are over, I fear; but I shall have much pleasure in giving £20 to the expenses of the search-party. All I ask is that there be no more talking, but prompt action. These men may be tied to trees in the bush; they may be starving to death while we talk here. Therefore let us unite in helping the searchers to get away without delay.”

A movement was now made towards the Town Hall, and while the volunteers of the search-party were being enrolled two committees of citizens were being formed in the Town Clerk’s office – the one to finance, and the other to equip, the expedition.

While these things were going forward, there stood apart from the crowd four men, who conversed in low voices.

“It’s about time, mates, we got a bend on.”

“Dolly, you make me tired. I ask you, was there ever such a chance. All the traps in the town will be searching for these unfortunate missin’ men. We’ll have things all our own way, an’ you ask us to ‘git.’”

“’Strewth, Garstang, you’re a glutton. S’far’s I’m concerned, I’ve got as much as I can carry. I don’t want no more.”

The four comrades in crime had completely changed their appearance. They were dressed in new, ready-made suits, and wore brand-new hats, besides which they had shaved their faces in such a manner as to make them hardly recognisable.

Dolphin, who, besides parting with his luxuriant whiskers and moustache, had shaved off his eyebrows, remarked, with the air of a man in deep thought, “But there’s no steamer leaving port for two days – I forgot that. It seems we’ll have to stay that long, at any rate.”

“And I can’t bear bein’ idle – it distresses me,” said Sweet William.

“This’ll be the last place where they’ll look for us,” remarked Carnac. “You take it from me, they’ll search the diggings first.”

“When they’ve found the unfortunate men, they’ll be rampin’ mad to catch the perpetrators.” This from Dolphin.

A rough, bluff, good-natured digger pushed his way into the middle of the group. “Come on, mates,” he said; “put your names down for a fiver each. It’s got to be done.” And seizing Garstang and Sweet William, he pulled them towards the Town Hall.

“G’arn! Let go!” snarled Garstang.

“Whatyer givin’ us?” exclaimed William, as she shook himself free. “The bloke’s fair ratty.”

“Here! Hi!” Dolphin called to the enthusiastic stranger. “What’s all this about missing men? What’s all the fuss about? – as like as not the men are gone prospecting in the bush.”

“A gold-buyer with 5000 oz. of gold doesn’t go prospecting,” replied the digger. “Come and read the notice, man.”

The four murderers lounged towards the Post Office, and coolly read the Bank Manager’s placard.

“They’ve got lost, that’s about the size of it,” said Garstang.

“Why all this bobbery should be made over a few missin’ men, beats me,” sneered Dolphin.

“Whenever there’s a ‘rush’ in Australia, there’s dozens of men git lost,” said Sweet William, “but nobody takes any notice – it’s the ordinary thing.”

“But there’s gold to the value of £20,000 gone too,” said the enthusiastic stranger. “Wouldn’t you take notice of that?”

“It’ll turn up,” said Carnac. “They must have lost their way in the thunderstorm. But you may bet they’re well supplied with tucker. Hang it all, they might come into town any minute, and what fools we’d look then.”

“P’r’aps their pack-horse got frightened at the lightning and fell over a precipice. It might, easy.” This was William’s brilliant suggestion.

“An’ the men are humpin’ the gold into town theirselves,” said Garstang. “There ain’t any occasion to worry, that I can see. None at all, none at all. Come an’ have a drink, mate. I’ll shout for the crowd.”

The five men strolled towards The Lucky Digger, through the door of which they passed into a crowded bar, where, amid excited, loud-voiced diggers who were expressing their views concerning the gold-escort’s disappearance, the four murderers were the only quiet and collected individuals.

CHAPTER XXXIII

The Gold League Washes Up

The amalgamated “claims,” worked upon an economical and extensive scale, had promised from the outset to render enormous returns to the members of the Gold League.

Throughout the canvas town which had sprung up on the diggings, the news that the “toffs” were to divide their profits had created the widest interest, and in every calico shanty and in every six-by-eight tent the organising genius of the “field,” Mr. Jack Scarlett, was the subject of conversation.

Such topsy-turvy habitations as the stores and dwellings of Canvas Town never were seen. The main street, if the thoroughfare where all the business of the mushroom township was transacted could be dignified with such a name, was a snare to the pedestrian and an impossibility to vehicles, which, however, were as yet unknown on the “field.”

The “Cafe de Paris” possessed no windows in its canvas walls, and its solitary chimney was an erection of corrugated iron, surmounted by a tin chimney-pot. “The Golden Reef,” where spirituous liquors were to be had at exorbitant prices, was of a more palatial character, as it had a front of painted wood, in which there hung a real door furnished with a lock, though the sides of the building were formed of rough logs, taken in their natural state from the “bush.” The calico structure which bore in large stencilled letters the name of The Kangaroo Bank, was evidently closed during the absence of the Manager, for, pinned to the cotton of the front wall, was a piece of paper, on which was written in pencil the following notice: – “During the temporary absence of the Manager, customers of the Bank are requested to leave their gold with Mr. Figgiss, of the Imperial Dining Rooms, whose receipts will be duly acknowledged by the Bank. Isaac Zahn, Manager.” Upon reading the notice, would-be customers of the wealthy institution had only to turn round in order to see Mr. Figgiss himself standing in the door of his place of business. He was a tall, red-bearded, pugnacious-looking man, with an expansive, hairy chest, which was visible beneath the unbuttoned front of his Crimean shirt. The Imperial Dining Rooms, if not spacious, were yet remarkable, for upon their calico sides it was announced in letters of rainbow tints that curries and stews were always ready, that grilled steaks and chops were to be had on Tuesdays and Fridays, and roast pork and “duff” on Sundays.

But further along the street, where tree-stumps still remained and the pedestrian traversed water-worn ruts which reached to his knee, the true glory of Canvas Town stood upon a small elevation, overlooking the river. This was the office of the Timber Town Gold League. It was felt by every digger on the “field” that here was a structure which should serve as a model. Its sides were made of heavy slabs of wood, which bore marks of the adze and axe; its floor, raised some four feet from the ground, was of sawn planks – unheard-of luxury – and in the cellars below were stored the goods of the affluent company. Approaching the door by a short flight of steps, admittance was gained to a set of small offices, beyond which lay a spacious room, which, at the time when the reader is ushered into it, is filled with bearded men dressed in corduroy, or blue dungaree, copper-fastened, trousers and flannel shirts; men with mud on their boots and on their clothes, and an air of ruffianism pervading them generally. And yet this is the Timber Town Gold League, the aristocratic members of which are assembled for the purpose of dividing the proceeds of their first “wash-up.”

On an upturned whisky-case, before a big table composed of boards roughly nailed together and resting on trestles, sits the Manager of the League, Mr. Jack Scarlett, and before him lie the proceeds of the “wash-up.”

The room is full of tobacco-smoke, and the hubbub of many voices drowns the thin voice of the League’s Secretary, who sits beside the Manager and calls for silence.

But Jack is on his feet and, above the many voices, roars, “Order!”

“Quiet.”

“Sit down.”

“Stop that row.”

“Order for the boss of the League.”

Before long all is still, and the lucky owners of the gold which lies in bags upon the table, listen eagerly for the announcement of the returns.

“Gentlemen,” – Scarlett’s face wears a pleasant smile, which betokens a pleasant duty – “as some of you are aware, the result of our first wash-up is a record for the colony. It totals 18,000 oz., and this, at the current price of Bush Robin gold – which I ascertained in Timber Town during my last visit – gives us a return of £69,750.”

Here Jack is interrupted by tremendous cheering.

“Of this sum,” he continues, when he can get a hearing, “your Committee suggests the setting aside, for the payment of liabilities and current expenses, the sum of £9750, which leaves £60,000 to be divided amongst the members of the League.”

Upon this announcement being made, an uproar ensues, an uproar of unrestrained jubilation which shakes the shingle roof, and the noise of which reaches far down the street of Canvas Town and across the flats, where clay-stained diggers pause amid their dirt-heaps to remark in lurid language that the toffs are having “an almighty spree over their blanky wash-up.”

“I rise to make a propothition,” says a long, thin, young Gold Leaguer, with a yellow beard and a slight lisp. “I rise to suggest that we send down to Reiley’s for all hith bottled beer, and drink the health of our noble selves.”

The motion is seconded by every man in the room rising to his feet and cheering.

Six stalwart Leaguers immediately go to wait upon the proprietor of The Golden Reef, and whilst they are transacting their business their mates sing songs, the choruses of which float through the open windows over the adjacent country. The dirt-stained owners of the Hatters’ Folly claim hear the members of the League asking to be “wrapped up in an old stable jacket,” and those working in the Four Brothers’ claim learn the truth about “the place where the old horse died.”

At length the forage-party arrives with the liquor, and there follows the unholy sound of the drawing of corks.

By this time all Canvas Town has learnt what business is going forward in “the Toffs’ Shanty,” and from both sides of the river the diggers begin to assemble in anticipation of a “spree.” Across the scarred, disfigured valley, over the mullock-heaps, from every calico tent, from out of every shaft, from the edge of the dark forest itself, bearded men, toil-stained but smiling, bent on festivity, collect in Canvas Town’s one ramshackle street.

Between the calico shanties and along the miry, uneven ways, men stand in groups, their conversation all of the luck of “the toffs.” But around the Office of the Gold League the crowd is greatest, and the cheers of the members are echoed by the diggers outside.

Bill the Prospector and Moonlight are on guard at the door, for though they have no interest in the League’s claims, as owners of the two richest patches on the field they stand hand-in-glove with the leaders of that strong combination. Inside, Scarlett has risen to his feet, amid prolonged cheering.

“We have not decided yet, gentlemen,” he says, “whether we shall take our dividends in gold or in cheques; and this causes me to allude to a most disagreeable matter. It is well known that the agent of the Kangaroo Bank has been robbed of a considerable amount of gold and perhaps murdered, on his way between this field and Timber Town.”

Suddenly the room is filled with groans, deep and sepulchral, which are immediately repeated by the growing crowd outside.

“Evidently,” continues Jack, “it is not safe for a man to travel with gold on his person; I therefore wish to propose that payments be made by cheque, and that all members not absolutely needed on the claims form themselves into an escort to convey the gold to Timber Town. And when we adjourn, I suggest that a meeting of all diggers on the field be called for the purpose of forming a vigilance committee, for the detection and suppression of crime on the diggings.”

He sits down amid renewed cheering. This has barely subsided and the long, thin young man, who appears to be a person of importance in the League, has risen to speak, when a considerable disturbance occurs outside.

During Scarlett’s speech four mounted constables have wended their way through the groups of diggers standing in the street. They dismount in front of the League’s Office, and ascend the steps, at the top of which they come into violent altercation with Moonlight and the Prospector. These are immediately ordered in the Queen’s name to stand aside, and the four blue-coated men walk into the meeting.

The tall, thin, young man, catching sight of the intruders, pauses in his speech, and says, “What the deyvil!” but the constables walk straight to the improvised table, and their leader, laying his hand on Scarlett’s shoulder, say, “John Richard Scarlett, you are charged with the murder of Isaac Zahn. I arrest you in the Queen’s name.”

For half a minute there rests on the assembly a silence that can be felt. Then there bursts a roar of indignation from fifty throats. In a moment the constables have closed round their prisoner, and with drawn revolvers they stand ready to resist interference.

Not many of “the toffs” are armed, but such as are quickly draw their weapons, and it only needs a single shot to start a fight which must end disastrously for the Law, when Scarlett’s voice rings out, “Stand back, you fellows! For God’s sake, don’t fire! This thing is a mistake which will be more quickly cleared up before a Magistrate than by bloodshed.”

Expostulating, but obedient to his wish, his friends one by one lower their weapons.

“I know nothing of a mistake,” says the Sergeant, as he takes a piece of paper from his pocket. “But here’s the warrant, which any gentleman present is at liberty to see. We are but carrying out our duty.”

The handcuffs are now on Scarlett’s wrists, and his captors lead him slowly through the crowded room.

“Let me speak.” Filled with emotion which he can hardly suppress, Jack’s voice almost seems to choke him. “Let me speak before you take me away.”

“Not a word,” retorts the Sergeant. “You shall say all you want to the Magistrate.”

“Men,” cries Scarlett, as he is hustled through the door, “I am innocent, I swear.” But he has no time to say more. He is hurried down the steps; he is quickly placed on a spare horse; the constables spring into their saddles, and ere the great concourse of diggers can grasp what is happening, Jack is conducted at a trot through the town of canvas, along the track which leads to Timber Town, and is soon out of sight.

CHAPTER XXXIV

The Goldsmith Comes to Town the Third Time

The flash digger put his elbows on the table, and leered at Gentle Annie who sat, radiant, at the other side of the board.

“You must have made quite a pile.”

“My dear, it’s never wise to tell a woman all you know or all you’ve got. But I don’t mind telling you this much: I had luck, or I wouldn’t be able to satisfy your little whims.”

He put his hand into his breast pocket, and drew out a plush-covered case.

“You asked for the biggest diamond in Timber Town, and here it is.”

He opened the case, and took out a gold ring, in which was set a stone, fully a carat-and-a-half in weight. Gentle Annie’s eyes glittered almost as brightly as the facets of the diamond.

“Dear little jewels for our dear girls.” The flash digger held up the brilliant between his finger and thumb. “That bit of carbon cost me £30.”

He passed the ring to the girl, who eagerly tried it, first on one finger, then on another.

“Lovely!” she exclaimed: then, as the sudden suspicion struck her, she asked, “You’re sure it’s real?”

“Well, I’ll be – .” But he restrained himself. “My dear, if it’s shnein, the bargain’s off.”

Gentle Annie had risen, and was scratching with the stone the glass of a picture-frame which held a gaudy chromo-lithograph.

As she did so, the digger rose, and encircled her waist with his arm.

“Well, are you satisfied?”

“Quite,” she replied, with a laugh. “It bites like a glazier’s diamond.”

“Then give me a kiss.”

The girl made a pretence of trying to get away, but quickly gave in, and turned her lips to the digger’s hawk-like face, and kissed his cheek.

“That’s right,” he said; “that’s as it should be. Mind you: I’m boss here while I stay; I’m the proprietor of the bloomin’ show. All other blokes must stop outside.”

His arm still encircled her waist, and she, regarding him through half-closed, indulgent eyes, leaned her weight against him, when a low cough startled both of them.

The door slowly opened, and upon the threshold stood a dark figure which, advancing towards the light, turned into a man, big, broad, and stern.

“No, no,” said the flash digger, calm, cool, and collected, while the girl tried to assume a posture of aloofness. “You must get out, mister. I’m boss of this show. No one’s allowed here without an invite from me. So, out you go.”

But, to his astonishment, the intruder, without saying a word, quietly took a seat, and began to cut himself a pipeful of tobacco from a black plug which he drew nonchalantly from his pocket.

“Make no mistake,” said the flash digger, striking a dramatic attitude. “I’m not the man to give an order a second time. Out you get, or I’ll drill a hole clean through you.”

“One minute.” The stranger shut the blade of his knife, which he placed deliberately in his pocket. “One minute. Do me the kindness to lower that pistol, and stand where I can see your face more plainly. I’ve no intention of resisting – unfortunately I left my shooting-iron behind.”

As the digger did not move, the stranger jerked his head now forward, now back, now to this side, now to that, peering at the man who held his life in his hand.

“Yes, it’s as I thought,” he said. “I’ve had the pleasure of seeing you before, on two or three occasions. There’s no need for you an’ me to quarrel. If we’re not exactly pals, we’re something even closer.”

“You’re wasting valuable time, and risking your life for no reason whatever,” said the digger. “You’d better be quick.”

“Oh, I’m going,” said the intruder. “Set your mind at rest about that. I was only trying to think where I had met you – it was in a cave. You and your mates knew enough to come in out of the rain. You had made a nice little haul, a very nice little haul.”

A look of the utmost perplexity came over the face of the flash digger, and this was followed by a look of consternation. His arm had fallen to his side, and he was saying slowly, “Who the deuce are you? How the deuce d’you know where I’ve been?” when the man who sat before him suddenly pulled his hand from under the table and covered his aggressor with a revolver.

“One move,” said Tresco – the reader will have recognised that the goldsmith had come to town – “one move, Mr. Carnac, and you’re as dead as the murdered men on the hill.”

The tension on Gentle Annie’s nerves, which during this scene had been strung to the highest pitch, had now become too great to be borne silently.

“Don’t, don’t!” she cried. “For God’s sake, for my sake, stop! stop!”

“Don’t be frightened, my dear,” said the goldsmith, without taking his eye off his rival and antagonist. “If there’s to be trouble between this man and me, you can’t make or mar it. Now, mister, kindly drop your revolver on the floor.”

The man did as he was bid, and the heavy falling of iron sounded loud through the otherwise silent room.

“Right turn. Quick march.” Tresco rose slowly, still covering his man. “Open the door for him, my dear!”

“It’s a trap! I’m trapped by the woman,” cried Carnac, glaring awfully at Gentle Annie. “You slut, give me back my ring.”

“Walk straight out, mister,” said the goldsmith, quietly, “and don’t call the lady names, or you’ll repent it. She happens to be my particular friend. And let me tell you before you go, that the one thing that will save you from the hangman’s noose is that you don’t set foot inside this door again. D’you hear?”

“Yes,” said the robber.

“You understand my meaning?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then let him out, Annie.”

The door swung open, Carnac walked slowly into the night, and Tresco and Gentle Annie were alone.

The goldsmith heaved a sigh of relief. “Haaaah! Close thing, very close; but Benjamin was just one too many for him. You see, brains will come out on top. Kindly bolt the door, my dear.”

He picked up Carnac’s revolver, placed it on the table, sat down, wiped his brow, and again gave vent to another sigh of relief.

“My dear, it’s brought on my usual complaint – desperate thirst. Phaugh! a low-lived man, and in this house, too! In the house of my little woman, curse him!”