Robertson Nuggets in the Devil's Punch Bowl and Other Austrhe Bush; Thunder-and-Lightning

1. Auflage 2017
ISBN: 978-3-7364-1967-4
Verlag: anboco
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 206 Seiten

Bill Marlock had been shearing all the morning, with long slashing cuts before which the fleece fell, fold upon fold. He was the 'ringer' of the shed, and his reputation was at stake, for Norman Campbell was running him close. To-day was Saturday, and it was known from the tally that Bill was only one sheep ahead, and that Norman was making every effort to finish the week 'one better' than the record shearer of Yantala woolshed. The two men were working side by side, and eyeing each other from time to time with furtive glances. Norman suddenly straightened himself, and, quick as a frightened snake, thrust his long body across the 'board,' with the sheep he had shorn in his sinewy hands, and shot it into the tally pen among the white, shivering sheep. Then he[Pg 4] dashed into the catching pen, and seized the smaller of two sheep that remained. At almost the same moment Bill had his hands upon the same sheep, but took them off when he saw the other man was before him, and was obliged to content himself, much to his chagrin, with the 'cobbler,' a grizzled, wiry-haired old patriarch that every one had shunned. When Bill carried out this sheep there was a loud roar from all the shearers who caught from that pen, followed by derisive laughter. 'Who shaved the cobbler?' was shouted from one end of the shed to the other. When almost every man had slashed and stabbed Bill with these cutting words, a whisper ran round the 'board' that Norman had beaten Bill in his tally, and that the beaten man was groaning over his defeat and climbing down from the position of the fastest shearer in the shed.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Robertson, Andrew

Leseproben

CHAPTER IV
The tent was standing, just as he had left it on Sunday. There seemed to be a disconsolate, pathetic droop in the limp folds of the ragged canvas. Pathos and expression are not confined to living things. Some inanimate objects are invested with joy, others with a heritage of woe. A deserted digger's tent is the mournfullest thing in the world, the embodiment of misery in every fibre—desolation painted on canvas, as never limner's brush equalled. He unpinned the tent flap and looked in. He almost expected to see the dead man, prone on the bed, staring with glassy eyes at the ridge-pole. He went into the tent and sat down on a block of wood which had served as a seat. Then he took the portrait from his pocket, and pinned it in the place where he had found it. He examined the diagram once more, and tried to get at the heart of it. It had a story to tell—a riddle might be guessed from it. He was here to learn what fate would unfold. The sun was going down full of fire: long, inky shadows were creeping up the hills. Bill watched one of them going, inch by inch, nearer and nearer to the rim of the Devil's Punch Bowl, when, lo! just at the edge, hit by the last patch of red, stood a tree, with two branches touching the ground, as in the diagram, one on either side, as if two men were hanging there. "That is the tree, at any rate," he said. "Happy discovery! I'm on the track!" Darkness began to come down like a shroud; a dingo howled up the gulley; a gun cracked in the distance, and echoed among the hills; a bittern boomed its dreary call; and a mopoke drawled its woebegone cry. Everything was weird and uncanny. Bill's hearing seemed preternaturally acute to-night. The sounds thrilled every nerve; he felt them in his bones and marrow. He was unutterably wretched, up here, above civilisation, warmth, and human society. He feared to be alone in the dead man's tent. He had been pushed into his present position—mere clay in the hands of a higher Power. He felt in the presence of his Maker. He went into the tent, groped about for a candle, lit it, and fell upon his knees. When he arose there was a great peace in his soul. He was not doing his own will, but the will of Him who had sent him here for some purpose not yet apparent. It was hidden, but he had no doubt it would be made plain. It would develop as a bird develops in the shell. He was tired, so he unwrapped his blankets, spread them on the bed, undressed himself, lay down, and was soon fast asleep. When he awoke the sun was up, and shining cheerily through the thin canvas. Three magpies were chattering on the ridge-pole, telling the news of the night and all talking at once—all mouth and noise, like a cannon on the Queen's birthday, or like boys let loose from school—plenty of shouting, but no listening; pearls of wisdom dropping, and no one picking them up. He rose, and made a fire by the side of a log; then filled the kettle and put it on; then he went to the creek and had a wash. He felt fresh as a trout, and sat down to wait till the steam came out of the hole in the lid of the kettle. In the meantime chops were frizzling in the pan. His appetite was in a state of exultation. After breakfast he washed up, and was then ready to dive into the mystery wrapped up in the diagram. He stood silent for a few minutes in expectation, as nature stands hushed when waiting for a thunder shower. Spreading the diagram on his knee, he pored over it for half an hour. He was at a standstill. There was a deadlock. He had got the clue to one end of the line, for the tree was on the hillside clearly enough, corresponding exactly with the tree on the drawing; but what was the triangle at the other end of the line? He tried to imagine a three-sided figure, composed of the creek, a fallen log, and an outcrop of the rock; but he gave it up as a bad job, the lines being more like a dog's hind leg than a triangle. He spelled triangle over and over again. Nothing came of it. He was fairly cornered at every point. He cuffed and whipped his brains to no purpose. At last he looked up, and his weary eyes rested on the tent. Viewed from the front it had a triangular shape. "Fool!" he said, "not to see it before." A line projected from the tent to the tree would give the line in the diagram. "Now," he thought, "I must walk over the ground and find out whether the old man intended the figures to be 45 or 65, and whether he measured from the tree or the tent." He jumped up, placed himself in a bee-line between the tent and the tree, and walked fifteen paces, each of which he believed to be three feet. This distance would make forty-five feet. Then he looked for some indication, some mark or sign. There was nothing to indicate that man had ever disturbed this solitude. Forty-five was evidently not the distance. He would try sixty-five; so he paced to about this distance and stopped, but could see nothing unusual—nothing to guide him. He felt like a blind man groping his way in the Sahara.   CHAPTER V
He would try from the tree this time. He walked to it, then turned, and paced fifteen steps in a line with the tent. Here the ground was covered with broken pieces of quartz, but there was no mark or sign that would attract a bushman's eye. Then he walked about twenty feet more, when, suddenly, the ground seemed to give way under his feet, and he felt himself falling down a hole. He had just time to throw himself forward and clutch the solid earth. With a great effort he managed to hold on to the side of the hole and drag himself up. The excavation had been lightly covered with brushwood and earth. This was no doubt the key to the diagram, and something perhaps was to be unlocked here. Peering into the hole he saw a rough ladder, and went down it about fourteen feet. A marvellous sight filled his eyes with wonder! The cap of a reef had been broken off, and the stone blazed with gold. In half an hour he had picked out about twenty ounces. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. What was that noise? He heard a muffled rumbling, and the ground seemed to vibrate. Some animal was in the Devil's Punch Bowl, and was moving northwards. He lay motionless for a little while, then, as the footsteps grew fainter, he crept up the ladder, and raised his left eye above the top of the hole. A horse, with a man on his back, was slowly climbing the steep bank, and in a moment disappeared over the other side. Bill drew a sigh of relief. Last night he longed for company, now he did not wish to see a human creature. The rich shoot of gold he had come upon would make up for the poor surroundings and the awful solitude of the Devil's Punch Bowl. The gold would compensate for all. He drew the brushwood over the mouth of the hole, then descended the ladder and lay down to rest. The excitement of finding the gold and the fear of being discovered had unnerved him. He was as a bow unstrung. If it were known that he was working a rich claim near where the old man was found, it might be said that it was the dead man's, and that Bill had murdered him in order to get it. What a position to be placed in! This was the mess the Devil's Punch Bowl had brewed for him. "Double, double toil and trouble." He must work like a mole, silently and in the dark, and must on no account show himself in the light of the sun. He would pick out as much gold as he could, and then, when night came on, he would creep up, cover the mouth of the hole, and grope his way to the tent. Of course he could go to Mopoke to-morrow and register the claim, so as to secure it against all comers. An innocent man like himself would have nothing to fear, but tongues would wag, wiseacres shake their heads, and envious eyes wink. Would it not be asked, "Why shouldn't Bill Marlock have murdered the old man?" "Wasn't it as plain as a foot-rule that he had ridden hot-haste to the place where the old man was working, and had murdered him for the sake of the rich claim?" "Dead men tell no tales." "Out of sight out of mind." "Then, when the secret was buried six feet under ground, he had gone back to take possession of his victim's property, just as Ahab had done, long ago, when he went to take possession of Naboth's vineyard. As Ahab had suffered, so would Bill Marlock." These and such thoughts rushed over the grey matter of Bill's brain, as the wind rushes through the tree-tops. He lay on the rock, and picked out the nuggets with his jack-knife. When the last gleam of light faded overhead his trousers' pockets were full. There was plenty more in sight. He had come upon a veritable goldsmith's shop. When he could see no longer, he slowly ascended the ladder and listened. All was still. Putting the brushwood aside, he scrambled out of the hole, stood up to his full height, and drew a long breath. A cricket chirped, and made him tremble. His blood raced, and his bones seemed out of joint. No further sound smote the stillness. Then he covered up the hole, as carefully as he could, and crept away to the tent.   He dared not make a fire to-night, nor light a candle. The flickering stars eyed him, now and again, through rifts in the clouds, and enabled him to see a little. His only thought now was to bury the gold. After a while he took a spade, and cut a solid square of earth in front of the bed, then he lifted it, unbroken, and poured the gold in the vacant space, as into a mould. This done, he fitted the piece of earth to its place again, and smoothed the edges with his fingers. Well satisfied with his work, he gave a sigh of satisfaction when he thought that Mother Earth's Bank was perhaps as safe as that of the Old Lady in Threadneedle Street. "As safe as a...