"Chinkie's Flat"

The ladies rose, and Myra and Sheila, pleading fatigue, went to their rooms—or rather to Myra’s—leaving Mrs. and Miss Trappème and Mrs. Wooler to, as Sheila said, “Tear me to pieces. But I could not let that woman insult me without retaliating.”

“Of course you did right. She’s an odious creature.”

Grainger returned alone about eleven o’clock. He tapped at Myra’s door, and asked her if she was asleep.

“No. Miss Carolan is here; we’ve been having a lovely talk.”

“Well, go to bed, and have a lovely sleep. I want to see you both, especially Miss Carolan, very early in the morning. We can all go out on the beach before breakfast.”

“Very well, Ted. Has Mr. Mallard come in?”

“No. He will not be here for another half-hour or more. Good-night.”

Mrs. Trappème had heard his voice, and quietly opened the door of her own sitting-room, where she and Juliette (Mrs. Wooler had gone) had been discussing Sheila’s delinquencies.

“Well!” gasped the mother to her daughter, as she softly closed the door again. “What on earth is going on, I should like to know! Did you hear that—‘I want to see you both very early, especially Miss Garolan’? What is there going on? I must go and see Mrs. Wooler in the morning and tell her. And on the beach too! Why can’t they be more open?”

Master Mordaunt, who was in the corner devouring some jelly and pastry given to him by his fond mother, looked up and said, with distended cheeks—

“Ain’t the beach open enough?”

“Hold your tongue, you horrid little animal,” said the irate Juliette.

CHAPTER XI ~ A CHANGE OF PLANS

Myra and Sheila, both early risers, were dressed and awaiting Grainger on the verandah when he came out of his room at seven o’clock, and they at once descended the steep Melton Hill to the beach. The morning was delightfully fresh and cool, and the smooth waters of Cleveland Bay were rippling gently to a fresh southerly breeze. Eastward, and seven miles away, the lofty green hills and darker-hued valleys of Magnetic Island stood clearly out in the bright sunlight, and further to the north Great Palm Island loomed purple-grey against the horizon. Overhead was a sky of clear blue, flecked here and there by a few fleecy clouds, and below, on the landward side, a long, long curve of yellow beach trending from a small rocky and tree-clad point on the south to the full-bosomed and majestic sweep of Cape Halifax to the north.

“What a lovely day!” exclaimed Sheila as Grainger, as soon as they had descended the hill and stepped on the firm yellow sand, led them to a clump of black, shining rocks. “I wish I were a girl of twelve, so that I could paddle about in the water.”

“There is nothing to stop you doing that at Minerva Downs, Miss Cardan,” said Grainger with a smile. “There is a lovely fresh-water lagoon there, with a dear sandy bottom, and the Farrow children—big and little—spend a good deal of their time there bathing and fishing.” Then, as the girls seated themselves, he at once plunged into the subject uppermost in his mind.

“Myra, the news that came through last night has put me in a bit of a quandary, both as regards you and Miss Carolan. Now tell me, would you mind very much if I left you to-day and returned to Chinkie’s Flat?”

“No, indeed, Ted. Surely I would not be so selfish as to interfere with your business arrangements!”

“That’s a good little girl. I did want to stay in Townsville for a week or two after you had left, then I could have taken Miss Carolan as far as Chinkie’s Flat on her way to Minerva Downs. But I can do something better, as far as she is concerned. You will only be here for a week, and you can suffer the Trappème people for that time. Mallard”—and he smiled—“will no doubt try to make the time pass pleasantly for you.”

“Don’t be so silly, Ted. Get to the point about Miss Carolan. When is she leaving?”

“To-day—if you will, Miss Carolan—with me. The Warden and his troopers are leaving at noon for the new rush; and Charteris, when I explained things to him (I saw him last night at Mallard’s office) said he will be very pleased if we will come with him. Will it be too much of a rush for you?”

“Oh no, Mr. Grainger! But I have no horse,” and then, as she thought of leaving her newly-found girl friend so soon, she looked a little miserable, and her hand stole into Myra’s.

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Grainger cheerfully. “I’ve two for you—Myra’s, and one Charteris is lending me for you. Can you ride hard and fast? Charteris is a terror of a man for pushing along to a new rush.”

“I won’t make him feel cross, I assure you, Mr. Grainger.”

“Then it’s decided.” (Sheila well knew that whether | she had or had not decided, he had; yet though dimly resentful, she was quite content when she looked into his quiet grey eyes.) “You see, Miss Carolan, it’s quite likely I may be able to go all the way with you to Minerva Downs, and therefore we ought not to miss travelling with the Commissioner as far as he goes. Sub-Inspector Lamington, of the Native Police, is also coming with us. He’s off on a wild goose—or rather, a wild nigger—chase after Sandy and Daylight and their myall friends. If, when we get to Chinkie’s Flat, I find that I must go with Charteris to the new rush, your friend Dick Scott and my own trusty black boy Jacky will take you on to Minerva Downs. You can travel with Lamington and his troopers part of the way after you leave Chinkie’s. Take some light luggage on a pack-horse—the rest, I am sorry to say, will have to come on from here by bullock team. But it is not unlikely that I may be able to take you all the way.”

“I am very, very grateful to you, Mr. Grainger,” said Sheila. “I fear I am going to prove a great encumbrance to you.”

“Oh, Ted is a dear old brother!” said Myra, patting his brown, sun-tanned hand affectionately.

After a walk along the beach as far as the small, rocky point, they returned to breakfast, and great was Mrs. Trappème’s astonishment when Grainger informed her that he was leaving in a few hours.

“Not for long, I trust?” she said graciously, bearing in mind that he had told her he might remain for a week or two after Myra had left.

“I do not think I shall be in Townsville again for some months,” he replied, as he handed her fourteen guineas. “This is for the week for my sister and for me.”

“Thank you,” said the lady, with a dignified bow—for she felt a little resentful at his not telling her more. Then she said with a sweet smile, “We will take good care of Miss Grainger. Either my daughters or I will be delighted to see her safely on board the steamer.”

“Thank you; but Mr. Mallard will do that.”

“Oh, indeed!” said the lady, with unmistakable disappointment in her voice, and then Grainger, without saying a word about Sheila, went to his room to pack, and talk to Mallard, who had not yet risen.

“I wonder if Mr. Mallard is leaving too now that his friend is going,” anxiously said Juliette a few minutes later.

“If he does I shall insist upon having the ful six guineas,” remarked her mother angrily. “No, on second thoughts I won’t ask for it. Whether he leaves or not, I may find him very useful. I quite mean to ask him to every day publish a ‘list of guests at “Magnetic Villa."’”

“Miss Carolan wud like to see yez, mum, if ye are dishengaged,” said Mary, entering the room.

Sheila was in the drawing-room, and thither Mrs. Trappème sailed.

“I shall be leaving Townsville to-day, I find,” she said politely. “Would it be inconvenient for you to have my luggage sent to Hanran & Co., who will store it for me until I need it?”

Mrs. Trappème’s curiosity was intense, but she remembered Mrs. Wooler’s experience of the previous evening—and feared. And then she had had the girl’s money in advance.

“Oh, I am so sorry you are going,” she said, with a would-be motherly smile. “Of course I will send it anywhere you wish—but why not leave it here in my care?” And then she could not resist asking one question: “Are you going to Minerva Downs, Miss Carolan, may I ask?”

“Yes; I am going there.”

“What a dreadfully long journey for you! Does it not alarm you? And you are surely not travelling alone?”

“Oh, no; I am fortunate in having quite a large escort. Will you send the luggage down as soon as possible, Mrs. Trappème?”

“Certainly,” replied the lady—this time with a stiff bow; for she was now inwardly raging at not having learnt more. Then she went off to tell Juliette this new development.

At ten o’clock, after Mallard had breakfasted, he and Grainger (the latter bidding Mrs. and the Misses Trappème a polite goodbye) went away, and shortly after Dick Scott appeared, leading a pack-horse. He took off the empty bags, and marched up to the front door.

“Mr. Grainger has sent these to Miss Caroline, miss,” he said to Lilla Trappème, “and will you please ask her to put her things into ‘em and I’ll wait?”

Myra helped Sheila pack some clothing, rugs, &c, into the bags, and Mary took them out to the burly Dick.

“By jingo! you’re the finest woman I’ve seen here yet,” said he affably to the blushing Mary. “Now, will you tell Miss Caroline and Miss Grainger that I’ll be up with the horses in half an hour? Goodbye, bright eyes.”

He returned within the time, riding his own horse and leading two others.

“Sidesaddles,” said Juliette to her mother as they watched through the dining-room windows the big digger dismount and hang the horses’ reins over the front gate.

As he strode across the lawn, they heard Mary’s voice in the hall. It sounded as if she were half crying.

“Goodbye, miss, and Hivin’s blessin’ on ye; and may God sind ye a good husband.”

A moment or two later she entered, wiping her eyes. “The ladies are goin’, and wish to spake to yez,” she said.

Mrs. Trappème and her daughters rose, as Myra and Sheila, clad in their neatly-fitting habits, came into the room.

“I am going to accompany Miss Carolan and my brother for a few miles, Mrs. Trappème, so I shall not be here for lunch,” said Myra.

“Oh, indeed,” said Mrs. Trappème faintly; and then, with a pleasant smile from Myra, and a coldly polite bow from Sheila, they were gone.

Scott swung them up into their saddles, and in another minute they were descending the hill.

Mother and daughter looked at each other.

“So she’s going with Mr. Grainger,” said Juliette, with an unpleasant twitch of her thin lips; “the—the little cat! I’d like to see her fall off!”

“Never mind her—she’s gone now—and I have had six guineas from her,” remarked her amiable mamma. “Now, if you are coming into Flinders Street with me, make haste, and don’t sit grizzling.”

Poor Juliette! Poor Mrs. Lee-Trappème! When they descended the hill and emerged out into Flinders Street, they found the side-path crowded with people, who were all gazing into the great yard of the Queen’s Hotel, from which was emerging a cavalcade. First came four people—the white-bearded Charteris with Myra, and Grainger with Sheila; after them a sergeant and six white police, and ten Native Police with carbines on thighs, and then Dick Scott and dark-faced Inspector Lamington; behind followed a troop of spare horses.

As they swung through the gates, the crowd cheered as Charteris gave the word, and the whole party went off at a sharp canter down the long, winding street.

CHAPTER XII ~ SHEILA BECOMES ONE OF A VERY “UNREFINED” CIRCLE

The night wind was soughing mournfully through the dark line of she-oaks fringing the banks of a small, swiftly-running creek, when Sheila was awakened by some one calling to her from outside the little tent in which she was sleeping. She sat up and looked out.

“Did you call me, Mr. Grainger?”

“Yes. There is a storm coming down from the ranges. Sorry to awaken you, but we want to make your tent more secure.”

Aided by Scott, whose giant figure Sheila could scarcely discern—so dark was the night—Grainger soon had the tent prepared to resist the storm. As they worked, there came such an appalling thunderclap that it shook the ground beneath her, and for some minutes she was unable to hear even the droning roar of the rain-laden tornado that came tearing down from the mountains, snapping off the branches of the gum-trees, bending low the pliant boles of the moaning she-oaks, and lifting the waters of the creek up in sheets.

A hand touched her face in the Cimmerian darkness, and Dick Scott’s voice (he was shouting with all the strength of his mighty lungs) seemed to whisper—

“Lie down, miss; lie down, and don’t be afeerd. The tent will stand, as we are pretty well sheltered here, and–”

Another fearful thunderclap cut short his words, and she instinctively clutched his hand. She was used to terrific thunderstorms in New South Wales, but she had neyer heard anything so awful as this—it seemed as if the heavens had burst.

“Where is Mr. Grainger?” she asked, putting her lips to Dick’s ear and speaking loudly.

“Here, beside me, miss.”

“And poor Jacky! Where is he?”

“We’ll find out presently, miss. Most likely the horses have cleared out, and he’s gone after ‘em,” shouted Scott.

For another five minutes the howling fury of the wind and the hissing of the rain rendered any further conversation impossible. Then came a sudden lull of both. Grainger struck a match and lit a small lantern he was holding, and Sheila felt a great satisfaction as the light showed upon his face–calm and quiet as ever—as he looked at her and smiled.

“You must pardon us coming into the tent, Miss Carolan, but we wanted to light and leave the lantern with you. I’m afraid the horses have bolted for shelter into the sandalwood scrub lower down the creek, or into the gullies, and Jacky has gone after them. Will you mind staying here alone for an hour or two whilst Scott and I help him to find them?”

“Not at all,” she replied bravely, “and I really do not need the light. I am not at all afraid.”

“I know that, Miss Garolan. But it will serve to show us the way back.” (This was merely a kindly fiction.) “And if, during a lull in the rain, you should hear any of the horses’ bells, will you fire two shots from that Winchester rifle there beside you? It is possible that they may be quite near to us. Old Euchre” (one of the pack-horses) “has as much sense as a Christian, and it is quite likely that whilst Scott, Jacky, and I are looking for them in the scrub, he will lead them back here.”

Then placing the lantern beside her, and partly shielding it with a saddle cloth to protect it more folly from the gusts of wind, he and Scott went out into the blackness.

She heard Scott a minute or two later give a loud Coo-ee! for Jacky, and fancied she heard an answering cry from the blackboy, a long distance away. Then the rain again descended in a torrential downpour, and drowned out all other sounds.

Two weeks had passed since Sheila had left Townsville with Grainger and the hard-riding old Warden and the swarthy-faced Lamington and his savage-eyed, half-civilised troopers. At Chinkie’s Flat they had learnt that there were now three hundred white miners at the new rush on Banshee Creek, but that everything was quiet, and that no disputes of any kind had occurred, and all that Charteris would have to do would be to visit the place, and, according to the “Gold-fields Act,” proclaim Banshee Creek to be a new gold-field. So, after spending a night at Grainger’s new house, built on the ridge overlooking the “Ever Victorious” battery, with its clamorous stampers pounding away night and day, the Warden bid Sheila and Grainger goodbye, and rode off with his hardy white police, leaving Lamington and his black, legalised murderers to go their own way in pursuit of Sandy and Daylight, and “disperse” the myalls—if they could find them—such dispersion meaning the shooting of women and children as well as men.

Now, the truth is, that Grainger should have gone on with the Warden to the new rush, where his prospecting party was anxiously awaiting his arrival; but he was deeply in love with Sheila Carolan, and she with him, although she did not know it. But she was mightily pleased when the “Ever Victorious” Grainger told her that he was going to take her all the way to Minerva Downs, as he “wanted to see Farrow about buying a hundred bullocks to send to the new rush at Banshee Creek.” (This was perfectly true, but he could very easily have dispatched a letter to Farrow, who would have sent the bullocks to the meat-hungry diggers as a matter of business.)

As she had stood on the verandah of Grainger’s house in the early morning, watching Charteris and his troopers depart, and listening to the clang and thud of the five-and-twenty stampers of the new battery of the “Ever Victorious” pounding out the rich golden quartz, handsome, swarthy-faced Sub-Inspector Lamington ascended the steps and bade her good morning.

“So you and Grainger travel with me for another ninety miles or so, Miss Carolan,” he said with undisguised pleasure. “Will you be ready soon?”

“In half an hour.”

“Ah, that’s right. My boys and I are anxious to get to work,” and he went on to the horse yard.

Sheila could not help a slight shudder as she heard the soft-voiced, debonnair Lamington speak of his “work.” She knew what it meant—a score or two of stilled, bullet-riddled figures of men, women, and children lying about in the hot desert sand, or in the dark shades of some mountain scrub.

Charteris had told her Lamington’s story. He was the only survivor of an entire family who had been massacred by the blacks of Fraser’s Island, and had grown up with but one object in life—to kill every wild black he came across. For this purpose alone he had joined the Native Police, and there were dark tales whispered of what he had done. But the authorities considered him “a good man,” and when he and his fierce troopers rode into town and reported that a mob of wild blacks had been “dispersed,” no one ventured to ask him any questions, but every one knew what had occurred.

So with Lamington and his silent, grim Danites, Sheila, Grainger, Scott, and Jacky travelled together for nearly a hundred miles, and then the two companies separated—Lamington heading towards that part of the forbidding-looking mountain range where he hoped to find his prey, and Grainger and his party keeping on to the west.

“It’s dangerous country, Grainger,” the police officer said as he bade them goodbye. “There are any amount of niggers all around, so you will need to be careful about your fire at night. Shift your camp a good half mile after you have lit your fire and had supper.”

Grainger smiled. “I’ve been through the mill, Lamington. But I don’t think we shall have any trouble unless you head them off and send Sandy and his friends down on to us.”

“I do mean to head them off, and drive them down from the range into the spinifex country about thirty miles from here, when I can round them up,” said Lamington softly, as if he were speaking of driving game. “Sorry you won’t be with me to see the fun. The £500 reward for the production of Messieurs Sandy and Daylight—alive or dead—I already consider as mine. It will give up a trip to Melbourne to see the Cup next year.”

“But you can’t claim the money—you’re an official.”

“This is an exceptional case, and no distinction is to be made between civilians and policemen—the Government does sensible things sometimes.”

Two hours passed, and Sheila, anxiously awaiting the sound of the horses’ bells, or the reappearance of Grainger and Scott, began to feel that something had gone amiss. The storm had ceased, and when she rose and stepped outside she saw that a few stars were shining. Seating herself upon a granite boulder, she listened intently, but the only sound that broke the black silence of the night was the rushing of the waters of the creek.

She placed her hands to her mouth, and was about to give a loud Coo-ee! when her pride stopped her.

“If they hear me,” she thought, “they will think I am frightened.”

She went back into the tent and again lay down, and tried by the light of the lantern to read a book which Myra Grainger had given her. Her watch had stopped, and when she put the book aride she knew that the dawn was near for the harsh cackle of a wild pheasant sounded from the branches of a Leichhardt tree near by, and was answered by the shrill, screaming notes of a flock of king-parrots which the storm had driven to settle amidst the thick, dense scrub on the bank of the creek.

Quite suddenly she became aware that something was moving about in the grass outside the tent, and a thrill of alarm made her instinctively clutch the Winchester rifle beside her. Surely there was some one there, whispering! Very quietly she sat up and waited. Yes, there certainly were people outside, and a cold chill of terror possessed her when the whisperings changed to a rapid and louder muttering in an unknown tongue, and she knew that her visitors were blacks!

Unable to even speak, she heard the soft rustle of footsteps drawing nearer and nearer, and then the closed flap of the tent was pulled slowly aside by a long black hand, and the wicked eyes of the bearded face of a huge aboriginal, naked to the waist, gazed into hers. For a second or two he looked at her, watching her terrified expression as a snake watches the fascinated bird; then he drew back his lips and showed two rows of gleaming teeth in a fierce smile of exultation. By a mighty effort she tried to raise the Winchester, and in another moment the blackfellow sprang at her, covered her head with a filthy kangaroo skin and silently bore her outside.

For quite ten minâtes she felt herself being carried swiftly along, till her captor came to the creek, which he crossed. Then he uncovered her face and spoke to her in English.

“If you make a noise I will kill you, and throw your body in the creek. I am Sandy the Trooper.”

She gazed at him mechanically, too horrified at her surroundings to utter a sound. For dawn had just broken and she saw that she was standing in a small open space in the midst of a sandalwood scrub, and encircled by twenty or thirty ferocious-looking myall blacks all armed with spears and waddies. The strong ant-like odour which emanated from their jet-black skins filled her nostrils and, putting her hands to her eyes, she shuddered and fell upon her knees with a choking sob.

“Come, none of that, missie,” said another voice in English, and her hands were rudely pulled aside; “you must get up and walk. Perhaps we won’t hurt you. But if you make a noise I’ll give you a tap on the head with this waddy,” and the speaker flourished a short club over her head. “Come! get up!”

She obeyed him, rose slowly to her feet, and in another instant darted aside, and, breaking through the circle of myalls, plunged into the scrub towards the creek. But before she had gone twenty yards one of them had seized her by her loosened hair, and a long pent-up scream burst from her lips.

Again the filthy skin was thrown over her head, then her hands were quickly tied behind her with a strip of bark.

Sandy lifted her up in his arms, and he, Daylight, and their followers plunged into the forest and set off towards the mountains.

CHAPTER XIII ~ ON THE SCENT

Through the blackness of the night and the pouring rain Grainger and Scott made their way down the right bank of the creek to where, a mile or a mile and a half away, was a thick scrub of sandalwood trees, in which they imagined the terrified horses had taken refuge. The rushing, foaming waters guided them on their way, though every now and then they had to make a detour round the heads of some gullies, which were bank high with backwater from the swollen creek. As soon as there was a lull in the storm they again Coo-eed, but received no answer from Jacky. Grainger, who had the most implicit faith in the judgment of his blackboy, now began to fear that the horses, instead of making for the scrub, had gone towards the mountains, where it would perhaps be most difficult to get them. However, there was nothing to be done but to first examine the scrub, and then to see what had become of Jacky. Both he and Scott had brought their bridles with them, and the blackboy, they knew, had his as well, and they were hoping that at any moment they might meet him driving the horses back to the camp.

By the time the scrub was reached the storm had begun to break somewhat, for although rain still fell heavily, the wind was losing its violence; and presently, to their satisfaction, they heard Jacky’s voice shouting somewhere near them.