Chapter IX (5)

I mounted the Whitechapel, saw my overcoat and valise in safely, and, not without involuntary distrust, committed myself to Charlie's tender mercies. He gave a shout, he raised his whip—the off-side horse made a wild plunge; the near-side one, blind of one eye, refused to budge. Our fate hung on the balance apparently, when a man from the crowd quietly led off the unwilling near-side, and we dashed away gloriously. The pace was exceptional, but it was evidently inexpedient to slacken speed. We flew down the main street, and turned northward, along a narrow track, perilously near to yawning shafts, across unsafe bridges, over race channels; along corduroy roads, or none at all, our headlong course was pursued. The sludge-invaded level of Meyer's Flat is passed. Bullock Creek is reached, all ignorant of reservoirs and weirs, and a relay of horses driven in from the bush is demanded.

A smart boy of fourteen had the fresh team, three in number, ready for us in the yard. He felt it necessary to warn us. They 'were not good starters, that was a fact.' The statement was strictly correct. One horse was badly collar-galled, one a rank jib. The leader certainly had a notion of bolting; his efforts in that direction were, however, neutralised by the masterly inactivity of his companions. After much pushing, persuasion, and profane language, we effected a departure.

That the pace was kept up afterwards may be believed. Sometimes the harness gave way, but as the shaft and outrigger horses were by this time well warmed, they did not object to again urge on their wild career.

We stopped at the 'Durham Ox Inn' that night, then a solitary lodge in the wilderness, a single building of brick, visible afar off on the sea-like plain, which stretched to the verge of the horizon. Woods Brothers and Kirk had at that time, if I mistake not, just concluded to purchase Pental Island from Ebden and Keene, but were debating as to price. The pasture seemed short and sparse, after the deep, rich western sward, but overtaking a 'mob' of Messrs. Booth and Argyle's cattle farther on, I felt satisfied as to its fattening qualities. Each cow, calf, steer, and yearling in the lot was positively heaped and cushioned with fat. They looked like stall-fed oxen. And this in June! I thought I saw then what the country could do. I was correct in my deduction, always supposing the important factor of _rain_ not to be absent. Of this, in my inexperience, I took no heed. In my favoured district there was always a plentiful supply; sometimes, indeed, more than was agreeable or necessary.

Kerang was passed; Tragowel skirted; Mount Hope, then in the occupation of Messrs. Griffith and Greene, reared its granite mass a few miles to the south. As Sir Thomas Mitchell stood there, gazing over the illimitable prairie, rich with giant herbage and interspersed but with belts and copses of timber, planted by Nature's hand, the veteran explorer exclaimed with a burst of enthusiasm, 'Australia Felix! This is indeed Australia Felix!'

Steady stocking and an occasional dry season had somewhat modified the standard of the nutritive grasses and salsolaceous plants, at this point advantageously mingled. But that the country was superlative in a pastoral point of view may be gathered from the fact that, upon my first visit to the homestead a few weeks afterwards, I saw five thousand weaners—the whole crop of lambs for the previous year—_shepherded in one flock_. Very fine young sheep they were, and in excellent condition. Of course it was on a plain, but, unless the pasturage had been exceptional, no shepherd could have kept such a number together.

Later in the afternoon my Teutonic conductor, who had been going for the last twenty miles like the dark horseman in Burger's ballad, pulled up at Reedy Lake Head Station. There dwelt the resident partner and autocrat of his district, Mr. Theophilus Keene.

I saw a slight, fair man with an aquiline nose, a steady grey eye, and an abundant beard, who came out of a neat two-roomed slab hut and greeted me with polished courtesy. 'He was extremely glad to see me. He had looked forward to my coming this week in terms of a letter he had received from Messrs. Ryan and Hammond, but, indeed, had hardly expected that I would trust myself to their mail.'

Mr. Keene, whom I saw then for the first time, was probably verging on middle age, though active and youthful in appearance, above the middle height, yet not tall—of a figure inclined indeed to spareness. He impressed me with the idea that he was no commonplace individual.

He carried nothing of the bushman about his appearance, at home or in town, being careful and _soigné_ as to his apparel, formal and somewhat courtly in his address. He scarcely gave one the idea of a dweller in the waste; yet the roughest experiences of overlanding squatter-life, of a leader of the rude station and road hands, had been his. He looked more like a dandy Civil Servant of the upper grades. Yet he was more than a pioneer and manager—an astute diplomatist, a clever correspondent, an accurate accountant. The books of the Reedy Lake Station were kept as neatly as those of a counting-house. The overseer's sheep-books, ration accounts, and road expenses were audited as correctly as if in an office. The great station-machine revolved easily, and, though unaided by inventions which have smoothed the path of latter-day pastoralists, was a striking illustration of successful administration.

This large and important sheep property, as it was held to be in those primeval times, had considerably over 150,000 sheep on its books. Reedy Lake stood for the whole, but Quambatook, Murrabit, Lake Boga, Liegar, Pental Island and other runs were also comprised within its boundaries. These were separate communities, and were, upon the subdivision of the property, sold as such. These were worked under the supervision of overseers and sub-managers, each of whom had to render account to Mr. Keene—a strict one, too—of every sheep counted out to the shepherds of the division in his charge.

Mr. Ebden, erstwhile Treasurer of Victoria and for some years a member of Parliament, was the senior partner. He had sagaciously secured Mr. Keene, then wasting his powers on the Lower Murray, by offering him a third share of the property, with the position of resident partner and General Manager. Mr. Ebden, residing in Melbourne, arranged the financial portion of the affairs, while Mr. Keene was the executive chief, with almost irresponsible powers, which he used unreservedly—no doubt about that.

This was the day, let it be premised, of 'shepherding,' pure and simple. There were, in that district at least, no wire fences, no great enclosures, no gates, no tanks. Improvements, both great and small, were looked upon as superfluous forms of expensiveness. To keep the shepherds in order, to provide them with rations and other necessaries, to see that they neither lost the sheep nor denied them reasonable range,—these were the chief duties of those in authority. And tolerably anxious and engrossing occupation they afforded.

Thus the great Reedy Lake Head Station, always mentioned with awe, north of the Loddon, was not calculated to strike the stranger with amazement on account of its buildings and constructions, formed on the edge of the fresh-water lake from which it took its name. The station comprised Mr. Keene's two-roomed hut aforesaid; also a larger one, where the overseers, young gentlemen, and strangers abode—known as The Barracks; the kitchen, a detached building; the men's huts, on the shore of the lake, at some considerable distance; an inexpensive, old-fashioned woolshed might be discerned among the 'old-man salt-bush' nearly a mile away; a hundred acre horse-paddock, surrounded by a two-railed sapling fence; a stock-yard—_voilà tout_; there was, of course, a store. These were all the buildings thought necessary for the management of £150,000 worth of sheep in that day. How different would be the appearance of such a property now!

The special errand upon which I had journeyed thus far was to inspect and, upon approval, to accept an offer in writing, which I carried with me, of the Murrabit Station, one of the subdivisions of the Reedy Lake property, having upon it sixteen thousand sheep and _no improvements whatever_, except the shepherds' huts and a hundred hurdles. The price was £24,000—one-third equal to cash, the remainder by bills extending over three years.

The tide of investment had set in strongly in the direction of sheep properties, near or across the Murray. I had followed the fashion for the purpose, presumably, of making the usual fortune more rapidly than through the old-fashioned medium of cattle. To this end it was arranged that Mr. Keene and I, with one of the overseers whom I had known previously, should on the morrow ride over and inspect the Murrabit country and stock, lying some twenty miles distant from Reedy Lake.

It is held to be bad form in Bushland to mount an intending purchaser badly. It is unnecessary to say that it was not done in this case. No detail was omitted to produce a state of cheerful self-complacency, suited to the distinguished rôle of guest and buyer. When Mr. Keene's famous pony Billy, an animal whose fame was heralded in two colonies, and from the Loddon to the Murrumbidgee, was led forth, I felt I was indeed the favoured guest. He certainly was 'the horse you don't see now,' or, if so, very very rarely. Neat as to forehand, with a round rib and powerful quarter, fast, easy, and up to weight, he was difficult to match. The area from Kerang northwards was known as 'salt-bush' country. But little grass showed except on the edges of watercourses. Bare patches of red sandy loam between the salsolaceous plants did not lead the early explorers to consider it first-rate pasturage. Varieties, however, were plentiful, from the 'old-man salt-bush,' seven to ten feet high, to the dwarf-growing but fattening plants on the plain. The cotton-bush, too, known to indicate first-class fattening country, was plentiful. Perhaps the best testimony to the quality of the herbage, however, and which I was sufficiently experienced to appreciate, was the uniform high health and condition of every flock of sheep that we saw. Nothing could be finer than their general appearance, as indeed is always the case in reasonably-stocked salt-bush country; no foot-rot, no fluke, and, _absit omen_, no sheep-scab. This dire disease was then, unhappily, common in Western Victoria. It had been a fair season. Everything was fit to bear inspection. The wether flock looked like donkeys for size, the breeding ewes were fit for market, the weaners precociously fat and well-grown. Nothing could look better than the whole array.

Besides the salt-bush country, plains chiefly, and a large dry lake, there was an important section of the run known as 'The Reed-beds,' which I was anxious to visit. This tract lay between Lake Boga, a large fresh-water lake on one side, the Murrabit, an anabranch, and the south bank of the Murray. In order to ride over this it was arranged that we should camp at the hut of a shepherd, known as 'Towney,' on Pental Island, thence explore the reed-beds and see the remaining sheep on the morrow.

Pental Island, formed by the Murrabit, a deep wide stream, which leaves the main river channel and re-enters lower down, we found to be a long, narrow strip of land, having sound salt-bush ridges in the centre, with reed-beds on either side. Crossing by a rude but sufficient bridge, we discovered Mr. 'Towney' living an Alexander Selkirk sort of life, monarch of all he surveyed, and with full charge of some ten or twelve thousand sheep turned loose. The bridge being closed with hurdles, they could not get away. His only duty was to see that no enterprising dingo swam over from Murray Downs on the opposite side and ravaged the flock.

The night was cloudless and starlit, lovely in all aspects, as are chiefly those of the Riverina—an absolutely perfect winter climate. The strange surroundings, the calm river, the untroubled hush of the scene, the chops, damper, and tea, all freshly prepared by Towney, were enjoyable enough. After a talk by the fire, for the night air was cool, and a smoke, we lay down on rugs and blankets and slept till dawn. Our entertainer was dejected because he had not a Murray cod to offer us. 'If we had only come last week.' 'Tis ever thus.

That day's ride showed me the reed-beds in the light of sound, green, quickly-fattening pastures. At one angle of the Murrabit, on _my_ run—for my run, indeed, it was destined to be—there were two flocks of sheep, five thousand in all, of which the shepherds and hut-keeper inhabited the same hut. It was managed thus. One flock was camped on the northern side of the bridge, one on the other. The hut-keeper, long disestablished, but then considered an indispensable functionary, cooked for both shepherds. £30 a year with rations was the wage for the shepherds; £25 for the hut-keeper.

Then there was a frontage of, perhaps, a mile and a half to the southern end of Lake Boga. This noble fresh-water lake, having shelving, sandy shores, is filled by the rising of the Murray. On the bluff, to the right of the road to Swan Hill, was a curious non-Australian cottage, built by Moravian missionaries, and situated upon a reserve granted to them by the Government of Victoria. These worthy personages, becoming discouraged at the slow conversion of the heathen, or deeming the _locale_ unsuitable, sold their right and interest to Messrs. Ebden and Keene. I decided to place the head station close by, and there, I suppose, it is at the present day.

A picturesque spot enough. Northward the eye ranged over the broad, clear waters of the lake, now calm in the bright sunshine, now lashed into quite respectable waves by a gale. Eastward, over a wide expanse of reed-bed, dead level and brightly green, you traced the winding course of the great river by the huge eucalypti which lined its banks. Around was the unending plain, on which the salt-bushes grew to an unusual size, while across the main road to Melbourne, fenced off by the horse-paddock of the future, was a cape of pine-scrub, affording pleasing contrast to the wide, bare landscape.

We returned to Reedy Lake that evening, and before I slept was the contract signed, accepting price and terms; signed in high hope, and apparently with a fair prospect of doubling the capital invested, as had done many another. Had I but known that this particular indenture, freely translated, _should have run thus_:—

* * * * *

'I hereby bind myself to take the Murrabit Run and stock at the price agreed, and to lose in consequence every farthing I have ever made, within five years from this date.

'(Signed) R. BOLDREWOOD.'

* * * * *

Why can't one perceive such results and consequences now and then? Why are so many of the important contracts and irrevocable promises of life entered into during one's most sanguine, least reflective period? Will these questions ever be answered, and where? Still, were the veil lifted, what dread apparitions might we not behold! 'Tis more mercifully arranged, be sure.

Thus we entered with a light heart into this Sedan business, much undervaluing our Prussians. After visiting Melbourne, it was arranged that delivery of stock and station should be taken within a specified time.

I didn't know much about sheep then; what a grim jest it reads like _now_! I had leisure for reflection on the subject in the aftertime. I judged it well to leave the apportioning of the flocks to my host and entertainer. He did far better for me than I could have done myself. I had every reason to be satisfied with the quality of the sixteen thousand instruments of my ruin. There was a noble flock of fat wethers, three thousand strong; for the rest, 'dry' ewes, breeders, weaners, two-tooths, were all good of their sort. After engaging one of the overseers, a shrewd, practical personage, I considered the establishment of my reputation as a successful wool-grower to be merely a question of time.

The Fiend is believed to back gamblers at an early stage of their career. It looked as if His Eminence gave my dice a good shake _pour commencer_. The first sale was brilliant: the whole cast of fat sheep to one buyer (at the rate of £1 each for wethers, and 15s. for ewes)—over six thousand in all. They were drafted, paid for, and on their way to Melbourne in the afternoon of the day on which the buyer arrived. The lambing was good; the wool sold at a paying price, considering the primitive style of washing. Next year, of course, all this would be altered. Meanwhile I surveyed the imprint 'R.B.' over Murrabit on the wool-bales with great satisfaction.

'But surely,' says the practical reader, 'things were going well; season, prices, increase satisfactory. How did the fellow manage to make a mull of it?' There _were_ reasons. The cost of a run bought 'bare' is unavoidably great. Huts, yards, woolshed, homestead, paddock, brushyards, lambers, washers, shearers, all cost money—are necessary, but expensive. The cheque stream was always flowing with a steady current, it seemed to me. Fat stock, too, the great source of profit in that district, gradually declined in price. Interest and commission, which amounted to 12½ per cent or more, in one way and another, gradually told up. In 1861 an unprecedented fall took place in cattle, such as had not been felt 'since the gold.' Beeves fell to the price of stores. Buyers could not meet their engagements. The purchaser of my cattle-station in Western Victoria was among these. He was compelled to return it upon my hands after losing his cash deposit. Thus seriously hampered, the finale was that I 'came out' without either station or a shilling in the world. What was worse, having caused others to suffer through my indebtedness.

The Murrabit was then sold, well improved, though not fenced, with twenty thousand good sheep on it, at £1: 5s. per head—£25,000—nearly the same price at which I had purchased; but with four thousand more sheep, and costly improvements added, including a woolshed which had cost £500. The new purchaser paid £10,000 down, and I was sorry to hear afterwards lost everything in about the time it had taken me to perform the same feat. But he had, I believe, the expense of fencing—an economical luxury then so impossible for a squatter to deny himself. In addition to this, that terrible synonym of ruin, sheep-scab, broke out in the district, and in time among the Murrabit sheep. This, of course, necessitated endless expenditure in labour, dressing-yards, dips, and what not. No further explanation is needed by the experienced as to why my equally unlucky successor went under.

Talking of scab—now a tradition in Australia—it was then plentiful in Victoria, with the exception of certain favoured districts, among which the trans-Loddon country was numbered. Now in the days when Theophilus was king, foreseeing the ruin of the district (or chiefly, perhaps, to Ebden and Keene) which would ensue should the disease get a footing, he fought against its introduction, either by carelessness or greed, with all the vigilant energy of his nature.

There are men of contemplation, of science, of culture, of action. My experience has been that these qualities are but rarely united in the same individual. This may be the reason why 'Government by Talk' often breaks down disastrously—the man who can talk best being helpless and distracted when responsible action is imminent. This by the way, however. Mr. Keene did not dissipate his intelligence in the consideration of abstract theories. He never, probably, in his life saw three courses open to him. But in war time he struck hard and promptly. In most cases there was no need to strike twice.

Touching the scab pestilence, this is how he 'saved his country.' Primarily he put pressure upon his neighbours, until they formed themselves into a league, offensive and defensive. They did not trust to the Government official, presumably at times overworked, but they paid a private Inspector £200 a year, furnishing him also with serviceable horses and free quarters.

This gentleman—Mr. Smith, let us call him—an active young Australian, kept the sharpest look-out on all sheep approaching the borders of the 'Keene country.' He summoned the persons in charge if they made the least infraction of the Act, examined the flock most carefully for appearances of disease, and generally made life so unpleasant, not to say dangerous, for the persons in charge, that they took the first chance of altering their route. If there was the faintest room for doubt, down came Keene, breathing threats and slaughter. And only after the most rigid, prolonged inspection were they allowed to pass muster. Why persons selfishly desired to carry disease into a clean district may be thus explained. Store sheep—especially if doubtful as to perfect cleanliness—were low in price in Western Victoria. Near to or across the New South Wales border they were always high. If, therefore, they could be driven to the Murray, the profits were considerable. No doubt such were made, at the risk of those proprietors through whose stations they passed. A _single sheep_ left behind from such a flock, after weeks likely to 'break out' with the dire disease, might infect a district. Mr. Keene had fully determined that 'these accursed gains' should not be made at _his_ expense.

One day he received notice from Mr. Smith that a lot of five thousand sheep of suspicious antecedents was approaching his kingdom. They were owned by a dealing squatter, who, having country both clean and doubtful, made it a pretext for travelling sheep, picked up in small numbers. 'From information received' just ere they had entered the clean country, Mr. Keene appeared with a strong force, with which he took possession of them under a warrant, obtained on oath that they were presumably scabby, had them examined by the Government official, who found the fatal acarus, obtained the necessary authority, _cut their throats, and burned the five thousand to the last sheep_.

After this holocaust, remembered to this day, it became unfashionable to travel sheep near the Reedy Lake country. He 'who bare rule over all that land' rested temporarily from his labours. They were not light either, as may be inferred from a statement of one of his overseers to me that about that time, from ceaseless work in the saddle, anxiety, and worry, he had reduced himself to an absolute skeleton, and from emaciation could hardly sit on his horse. Nothing, perhaps, but such unrelenting watch and ward could have saved the district from infection. But he won the fight, and for years after, not, indeed, until Theophilus I. was safe in another hemisphere, did marauders of the class he so harried and vexed dare to cross the Loddon northwards. As soon as the normal state of carelessness and 'nobody's business' set in (Mr. Smith having been discontinued), the event foreseen by him took place. The district became infected, and Reedy Lake itself, Murrabit, and other runs, all suffered untold loss and injury. Rabbits came in to complete the desolation. What with Pental Island being advertised to be let by tender in farms, dingoes abounding in the mallee, free selectors swarming from Lake Charm to the Murray, irrigation even being practised near Kerang, if Mr. Keene could return to the country where once he could ride for forty miles on end requiring any man he met to state what he was doing there, he would find himself a stranger in a strange land. Without doubt he would take the first steamer back to England, hastening to lose sight and memory of a land so altered and be-devilled since the reign of the shepherd kings. Of this dynasty I hold 'Theophilus the First' to have been a more puissant potentate during his illustrious reign than many of the occupants of old-world thrones.

A FORGOTTEN TRAGEDY

It is difficult for the inhabitants of settled districts in Australia, where the villages, surrounded by farms or grazing estates, are now as well ordered as in rural England, to realise the nature of outrages which, in earlier colonial days, not infrequently affrighted these sylvan shades. It is well, however, occasionally to recall the sterner conditions under which our pioneers lived. The half-explored wilds saw strange things, when _émeutes_ with murder and robbery thrown in compelled decisive action. In the year 1836 immense areas in the interior, described officially as 'Waste Lands of the Crown,' were occupied by graziers under pastoral licenses. Caution was exercised in the granting of these desirable privileges. It was required by the Government of the day that only persons of approved good character should receive them. Being merely permissive, they were liable to be withdrawn from the holders for immoral or dishonest conduct. When it is considered that the men employed in guarding the flocks and herds in these limitless solitudes were, in the great majority of cases, prisoners of the Crown, or 'ticket-of-leave' men, whose partially-expired sentences entitled them to quasi-freedom, it is not surprising that horse-and cattle-stealing, highway robbery, ill-treatment of aboriginals, and even darker crimes were rife.

The labourers of the day were composed of three classes, officially described as free, bond, and 'free by servitude.' This last designation, obscure only to the newly-arrived colonist, meant that the individual thus privileged had served his full term of imprisonment, or such proportion of it as entitled him to freedom under certain restrictions. He was permitted to come and go, to work for any master who chose to employ him (and most valuable servants many of them were), to accept the wages of the period, and generally to comport himself as a 'free man.' But he was restricted to a specified district, compelled at fixed periods to report himself to the police authorities, and he went in fear lest at any time through misconduct or evil report his 'ticket-of-leave' might be withdrawn, in which case he was sent back to penal servitude. The alternative was terrible. The man who the week before had been riding a mettled stock-horse amid the plains and forests of the interior, or peacefully following his flocks, with food, lodging, and social privileges, found himself virtually a slave in a chain-gang, dragging his heavy fetters to and fro in hard, distasteful labour. This deposition from partial comfort and social equality, though possibly caused by his own misconduct, occasionally resulted from the report of a vindictive overseer, or betrayal by a comrade. It may be imagined, therefore, what vows of vengeance were registered by the sullen convict, what bloody expiation was often exacted.

Taking into consideration the ludicrous disproportion of the police furnished by the Government of the day to the area 'protected'—say a couple of troopers for a thinly-populated district about the size of Scotland—it seems truly astonishing that malefactors should have been brought to justice at all. Even more so that armed and desperate felons should have been followed up and arrested within comparatively short distances of the scene of their misdeeds.

It says much for the alertness and discipline of the mounted police force of the day that in by far the greater number of these outrages the criminals were tracked and secured; more, indeed, for the active co-operation and public spirit of the country gentlemen of the land, who were invariably ready to render aid in carrying out the law at the risk of their lives, and, occasionally, to the manifest injury of their property.

Circumstances have placed in my hands the record of a murder which, in careful premeditation, as well as in the satanic malignity with which the details were carried out, seems pre-eminent amid the dark chronicles of guilt.

More than sixty years ago Mr. Thursby, a well-known magistrate and proprietor, residing upon his station, which was distant two hundred and fifty miles from Sydney, was awakened before daylight, when a note to this effect from the constable in charge at the nearest police-station was delivered to him:—

'Last night the lock-up was entered by armed men, and two prisoners removed. One man knocked at the door, stating that he was a constable with a prisoner in charge. I opened it; when two men rushed in, one of whom, presenting a pistol at me, ordered me into a corner, and covered my head with a blanket. I heard the door unlocked. When I freed myself the cell was empty.'

Upon receipt of this information, Mr. Thursby despatched a report to the Officer in charge of Police at Murphy's Plains, distant eighty-five miles. Taking with him the manager of a neighbouring station, and the special constable quartered there (a custom of the day), Mr. Thursby started in pursuit of the outlaws. Their tracks were not hard to follow in the dew of early morn, but near Major Hewitt's station, seven miles distant, they became indistinct. After losing much time the station was reached, and here a black boy was fortunately procured. With his aid the trail was regained, and followed over rough, mountainous country. Mr. Jones, the manager who had accompanied the party, informed Mr. Thursby that five of the convict servants assigned to the owner had run away previously—'taken to the bush.' They had committed depredations, and had been unsuccessfully followed by the mounted police, whose horses, after coming more than eighty miles, were fagged. However, two of them surrendered themselves next day. One man (Driscoll) was suspected of having spoken incautiously of the leader's doings (a man named Gore), who had vowed vengeance accordingly. Driscoll had been placed in the lock-up, along with Woods, a suspicious character, who said he was a native of Windsor, New South Wales. Gore and the other men were still at large.

After leading the party for some distance through the ranges, the black boy halted, and pointing to a thin thread of smoke, barely perceptible, said, 'There 'moke!' When they came to the fire from which it proceeded, what a spectacle presented itself! On the smouldering embers was a human body, bound and _partially roasted_. It lay on its back, with legs and arms drawn up. The middle portion of the body was burned to a cinder, leaving the upper and lower extremities perfect. Mr. Thursby recognised the features of the man called Woods, who had been imprisoned the day before. The black boy was so horrified that he became useless as a tracker, and as the day was far advanced, Mr. Thursby had the body removed to Engleroi, a station not more than a mile distant.

Here fresh information was furnished. The tragedy deepened. Before daylight on the previous morning, Driscoll had knocked at the door of the shepherd's hut, breathless and half insane with terror, imploring them for the love of God to admit him as 'he was a murdered man.' Nothing more could be elicited from the shepherds, though it since appeared that they could have named one of the murderers. Fear of the 'Vehmgericht' of the day doubtless restrained them—fear of that terrible secret tribunal, administered by the convicts as a body, which in defiance of the law's severest penalties tried, sentenced, and in many cases _executed_, the objects of their resentment. The party decided later on to proceed to Mr. FitzGorman's head station, and on the way arrested and took with them the hut-keeper of the out-station. They did not know at the time (as was since proved) that he was one of the murderers.

On leaving the lock-up, the men had stolen the constable's blue cloth suit, and being informed at Tongah that a man in blue clothes had been met with, a few miles down the Taramba River, Mr. Thursby rode forward with the black boy, leaving the hut-keeper secured, to await his return. Some time was lost, as the tracks were not picked up at once, but on reaching Mr. FitzGorman's station, forty miles distant, at midnight, the man in blue clothes was discovered, housed for the night. He was at once secured. On being questioned, he said his name was Burns, and that he was looking for work. He produced a certificate, which did not impose upon his captor, who knew it to belong to the constable, who, being a ticket-of-leave man, required to hold such a document. In his bundle, when searched, several articles taken from the lock-up were found. Gore the bushranger and murderer stood confessed.

Mr. Thursby was at that time ignorant that the second murderer was already in his hands, but determined to follow up the pursuit, caused Gore to be mounted on one of the station horses, and rode back with as much speed as might be to Tongah. Suspecting the hut-keeper (whose name was Walker) of being in some way an accomplice of Gore, Mr. Thursby had both men lodged in the lock-up. Still unrelaxing in pursuit, and believing that the second murderer might be one of the three runaways from Major Hewitt's station, Mr. Thursby raised the country-side, and took such energetic measures that on the following day they were apprehended.

By this time the shepherds, gaining confidence from the capture of the outlaws, of whose vengeance they went in fear, commenced to make disclosures. The constable identified the hut-keeper (Walker) as the man who, at the point of the pistol, ordered him to stand in the lock-up. Driscoll knew him and Gore as the two men who removed him and Woods from the lock-up. He then went on to state that, after being hurried along for several miles after leaving the lock-up, they halted in a lonely place, where Gore ordered them to make a fire. When it was kindled to a blaze, Gore tied them back to back and blindfolded them. At this time Walker held the pistol. Driscoll heard a shot, when Woods dropped on the fire, dragging him with him. The bandage falling from his eyes, Walker struck him twice on the head with his pistol. In his agony, getting his hands free he ran for his life. He was followed for a considerable distance, but eventually escaped to Engleroi. Half an hour afterwards, Gore came up in search of him. What must have been the feelings of the hunted wretch, so lately a bound victim on his self-made funeral pile, when the armed desperado, who made so little of human life, reappeared? However, he contented himself with compelling Driscoll and the shepherds, among whom he was, to swear under tremendous penalties not to disclose the fact of his presence there.

Gore and Walker were brought before the nearest Bench of Magistrates and committed for trial at the next ensuing Assize Court.

There was not sufficient evidence, though a strong presumption, that the other runaways were implicated in the cold-blooded murder. It appeared to have been chiefly arranged by Gore and Walker—the former in order to be revenged on Driscoll, and the latter to get rid of Woods, who had threatened to give evidence against him for robbery and other misdeeds. No doubt their intention was to murder both men, destroying all evidence by burning their bodies. Driscoll had the good fortune to escape, and was thus enabled to give the necessary evidence at their trial. But though not directly implicated in the graver crime, the remaining three bushrangers—for such they were—lay under the charge of being associated with Gore in committing depredations which had alarmed the neighbourhood for the last six or seven weeks. They had not wandered far from the scene of their freebooting, and after eluding the police on several occasions, remained to be delivered up to justice by a party of civilians—headed, it is true, by an experienced and determined personage, exceptionally well mounted from one of the most famous studs in New South Wales. In that day the bushranger, desperate and ruthless though he may have been, was at a disadvantage compared to his modern imitator. He was mostly on foot. Horses were scarce and valuable. There were few stopping-places, except the stations of the squatters, where an armed, suspicious-looking stranger was either questioned or arrested. 'Shanties' had hardly commenced to plant centres of contagion in the 'lone Chorasmian waste.' The 'Shadow of Death Hotel' was in the future—fortunately for all sorts and conditions of men.

It is a curious coincidence, showing at once the just view taken of the circumstances of the locality and the means proper to lead to the extinction of 'gang robbery' (as the East India Company's servants termed the industry), that Mr. Thursby had just forwarded to the Legislative Council an estimate of the cost of a proposed Court of Petty Sessions at Wassalis. He also 'most respectfully begged to submit for the consideration of His Excellency the Governor a suggestion that a mounted police force would be advantageously stationed there, as well for the protection of the district as for the purpose of connecting the detachments of police at Murphy's Plains and Curban.'

'Many a year is in its grave' since the incidents here recorded affrighted the dwellers in the lonely bush.

It is satisfactory to note that Wassalis was promoted to be a place where a Court of Petty Sessions is holden.

Walker and Gore, being found guilty, were sentenced to death, doubtless by Sir Francis Forbes, the Chief Justice of the day—indeed the first Chief Justice of Australia. They confessed their guilt in gaol, and were duly hanged—let us hope repenting of their crimes. The brother of the magistrate whose courage and energy led to their arrest, frequently visited them in gaol, where they confessed everything. The constable, on recommendation, was promoted. The police station at Wassalis is now organised and equipped with good horses, smart men, revolver at belt and carbine on thigh. Telegraphs in every direction are available for giving or receiving information; but it is doubtful whether armed and desperate felons, red-handed with the blood of their fellow-men, were ever more closely followed up, more quickly brought to justice, than the murderers of Woods.

THE HORSE YOU DON'T SEE NOW

Many years ago I was summoned to attend the couch of a dear relative believed to be _in extremis_. The messenger arrived at my club with a buggy, drawn by a dark bay horse. The distance to be driven to Toorak was under four miles—the road good. I have a dislike to being driven. Those who have handled the reins much in their time will understand the feeling. Taking them mechanically from the man, I drew the whip across the bay horse. The light touch sent him down Collins Street East, over Prince's Bridge, and through the toll-bar gate at an exceptionally rapid pace. This I did not remark at the time, being absorbed in sorrowful anticipation.

During the anxious week which followed I drove about the turn-out—a hired one—daily; now for this or that doctor, anon for nurse or attendant. Then the beloved sufferer commenced to amend, to recover; so that, without impropriety, my thoughts became imperceptibly disengaged from her, to concentrate themselves upon the dark bay horse. For that he was no ordinary livery-stable hack was evident to a judge. _Imprimis_, very fast. Had I not passed everything on the road, except a professional trotter, that had not, indeed, so much the best of it? Quiet, too. He would stand unwatched, though naturally impatient. He never tripped, never seemed to 'give' on the hard, blue metal; was staunch up-hill and steady down. Needed no whip, yet took it kindly, neither switching his tail angrily nor making as if ready to smash all and sundry, like ill-mannered horses. Utterly faultless did he seem. But experience in matters equine leads to distrust. Hired out per day from a livery-stable keeper, I could hardly believe _that_ to be the case.

All the same I felt strongly moved to buy him on the chance of his belonging to the select tribe of exceptional performers, not to be passed over by so dear a lover of horseflesh as myself. Moreover, I possessed, curious to relate, a 'dead match' for him—another bay horse of equally lavish action, high courage, and recent accidental introduction. The temptation was great.

'I will buy him,' said I to myself, 'if he is for sale, and also if——' here I pulled up, got down in the road, and carefully looked him over from head to tail. He stepped quietly. I can see him now, moving his impatient head gently back and forward like a horse 'weaving'—a trick he had under all circumstances. Years afterwards he performed similarly to the astonishment of a bushranger in Riverina, whose revolver was pointed at the writer's head the while, less anxious indeed for his personal safety than that old Steamer—such was his appropriate name—should march on, and, having a nervous running mate, smash the buggy.

To return, however. This was the result of my inspection. Item, one broken knee; item, seven years old—within mark decidedly; legs sound and clean, but just beginning to 'knuckle' above the pasterns.

There was a conflict of opinions. Says Prudence, 'What! buy a screw? Brilliant, of course, but sure to crack soon. Been had that way before. I'm ashamed of you.'

Said Hope, 'I don't know so much about that. Knee probably an accident: dark night—heap of stones—anything. Goes like a bird. Grand shoulder. _Can't_ fall. Legs come right with rest. Barely seven—quite a babe. Cheap at anything under fifty. Chance him.'

'I'll buy him—d—dashed if I don't.' I got in again, and drove thoughtfully to the stables of Mr. Washington, a large-sized gentleman of colour, hailing from the States.

'He's de favouritest animile in my stable, boss,' he made answer to me as I guardedly introduced the subject of purchase. 'All de young women's dead sot on him—donow's I cud do athout him, noways.'

Every word of this was true, as it turned out; but how was I to know? The world of currycombs and dandy-brushes is full of insincerities. _Caveat emptor!_ I continued airily, 'You won't charge extra for this broken knee? What's the figure?' Here I touched the too yielding ankle-joint with my boot.

That may have decided him—much hung in the balance. Many a year of splendid service—a child's life saved—a grand night-exploit in a flooded river, with distressed damsels nearly overborne by a raging torrent,—all these lay in the future.

'You gimme thirty pound, boss,' he gulped out. 'You'll never be sorry for it.'

'Lend me a saddle,' quoth I. 'I'll write the cheque now. Take him out; I can ride him away.'

I did so. Never did I—never did another man—make a better bargain.

I had partly purchased and wholly christened him to match another bay celebrity named Railway, of whom I had become possessed after this fashion. Wanting a harness horse at short notice a few months before, I betook myself to the coach depôt of Cobb and Co. situated in Lonsdale Street. Mr. Beck was then the manager, and to him I addressed myself. He ordered out several likely animals—from his point of view—for my inspection. But I was not satisfied with any of them. At length, 'Bring out the Railway horse,' said the man in authority. And out came, as I thought, rather a 'peacocky' bay, with head and tail up. A great shoulder certainly, but rather light-waisted—hem—possessed of four capital legs. Very fine in the skin—yes; still I mistrusted him as a 'Sunday horse.' Never was there a greater mistake.

'Like to see him go?' I nodded assent. In a minute and a half we were spinning up Lonsdale Street in an Abbot buggy, across William and down Collins Street, then pretty crowded, at the rate of fourteen miles an hour; Mr. Beck holding a broad red rein in either hand, and threading the ranks of vehicles with graceful ease.

'He can go,' I observed.

'He's a tarnation fine traveller, I tell you,' was the answer—a statement which I found, by after-experience, to be strictly in accordance with fact.

The price required was forty pounds. The which promptly paying (this was in 1860), I drove my new purchase out to Heidelberg that night. One of those horses that required of one nothing but to sit still and hold him; fast, game, wiry and enduring.

When I became possessed of Steamer, I had such a pair as few people were privileged to sit behind. For four years I enjoyed as much happiness as can be absorbed by mortal horse-owner in connection with an unsurpassable pair of harness horses. They were simply perfect as to style, speed, and action. I never was passed, never even challenged, on the road by any other pair. Railway, the slower horse of the two, had done, by measurement, eight miles in half an hour. So at their best, both horses at speed, it may be guessed how they made a buggy spin behind them. Then they were a true match; one a little darker than the other, but so much alike in form, colour, and courage, that strangers never knew them apart. They became attached readily, and would leave other horses and feed about together, when turned into a paddock or the bush.

A check, however, was given to exultation during the first days of my proprietorship. Both horses when bought were low in flesh—in hard condition, certainly, but showing a good deal of bone. A month's stabling and gentle exercise caused them to look very different. The new buggy came home—the new harness. They were put together for the first time. Full of joyful anticipation I mounted the driving seat, and told the groom to let go their heads. Horror of horrors! 'The divil a stir,' as he remarked, could be got out of them. Collar-proud from ease and good living, they declined to tighten the traces. An indiscreet touch or two with the whip caused one horse to plunge, the other to hold back. In half-and-half condition I had seen both draw like working bullocks. Now 'they wouldn't pull the hat off your head,' my Australian Mickey Free affirmed.

By patience and persuasion I prevailed upon them at length to move off. Then it _was_ a luxury of a very high order to sit behind them. How they caused the strong but light-running trap to whirl and spin!—an express train with the steam omitted. Mile after mile might one sit when roads were good, careful only to keep the pace at twelve miles an hour; by no means to alter the pull on the reins lest they should translate it into an order for full speed. With heads held high at the same angle, with legs rising from the ground at the same second of time, alike their extravagant action, their eager courage. As mile after mile was cast behind, the exclamation of 'Perfection, absolute perfection!' rose involuntarily to one's lips.

In this 'Wale,' where deceitful dealers and plausible horses abound, how rare to experience so full-flavoured a satisfaction! None of us, however, are perfect all round. Flawless might be their action, but both Steamer and his friend Railway had 'a little temper,' the differing expressions of which took me years to circumvent. Curiously, neither exhibited the least forwardness in _single_ harness.

Railway was by temperament dignified, undemonstrative, proud. If touched sharply with the whip he turned his head and gazed at you. He did not offer to kick or stop; such vulgar tricks were beneath him. But he calmly gave you to understand that he would not accelerate his movements, or start when unwilling, if you flogged him to death. No whip did he need, I trow. The most constant horse in the world, he kept going through the longest day with the tireless regularity of an engine.

They never became quite free from certain peculiarities at starting, after a spell or when in high condition. Years passed in experiments before I wrote myself conqueror. I tried the whip more than once—I record it contritely—with signal ill-success. It was truly wonderful why they declined to start on the first day of a journey. Once off they would pull staunchly wherever horses could stand. Never was the day too long, the pace too fast, the road too deep. What, then, was the hidden cause, the _premier pas_, which cost so much trouble to achieve?

Nervous excitability seemed to be the drawback. The fact of being attached to a trap in _double_ harness appeared to overexcite their sensitive, highly-strung organisations. Was it not worth while, then, to take thought and care for a pair which could travel fifty or sixty miles a day—in front of a family vehicle filled with children and luggage—for a week together, that didn't cost a shilling a year for whip-cord, and that had _never_ been passed by a pair on the road since I had possessed them? Were they not worth a little extra trouble?

Many trials and experiments demonstrated that there was but one solution. Success meant patience, with a dash of forethought. A little saddle-exercise for a day or two before the start. Then to begin early on the morning of the eventful day; to have everything packed—passengers and all—in the buggy—coach fashion—before any hint of putting to. Both horses to be fed and watered at least an hour before. Then at the last moment to bring them out of the stable, heedfully and respectfully, avoiding 'rude speech or jesting rough.' Railway especially resented being 'lugged' awkwardly by the rein. If all things were done decently and in order, this would be the usual programme.

Steamer, more excitable but more amiable, would be entrusted to a groom. Silently and quickly they would be poled up, the reins buckled, and Railway's traces attached. All concerned had been drilled, down to the youngest child, to be discreetly silent. It was forbidden, on pain of death, to offer suggestion, much less to 't-c-h-i-c-k.' The reins were taken in one hand by paterfamilias, who with the other drew back Steamer's traces, oppressed with an awful sense of responsibility, as of one igniting a fuse or connecting a torpedo wire, and as the outer trace was attached, stepped lightly on to the front seat. The groom and helper stole backward like shadows. Steamer made a plunging snatch at his collar; Railway followed up with a steady rush; and we were off—off for good and all—for one hundred, two hundred, five hundred miles. Distance made no difference to _them_. The last stage was even as the first. They only wanted holding. Not that they pulled disagreeably, or unreasonably either. I lost my whip once, and drove without one for six months. It was only on the first day of a journey that the theatrical performance was produced.

But this chronicle would be incomplete without reference to the sad alternative when the start did _not_ come off at first intention. On these inauspicious occasions, possibly from an east wind or oats below sample, everything went wrong. Steamer sidled and pulled prematurely before the traces were 'hitched,' while Railway's reserved expression deepened—a sure sign that he wasn't going to pull at all. The other varied his vexatious plungings by backing on to the whippletree, or bending outwards, by way of testing the elasticity of the pole.

Nothing could now be done. Persuasion, intimidation, deception, had all been tried previously in vain. The recipe of paterfamilias, as to horse management, was to sit perfectly still with the reins firmly held but moveless, buttoning his gloves with an elaborate pretence of never minding. All known expedients have come to nought long ago. Pushing the wheels, even down hill, is regarded with contempt; leading (except by a lady) scornfully refused. The whip is out of the question. 'Patience is a virtue'—indeed _the_ virtue, the only one which will serve our turn. Meanwhile, when people are fairly on the warpath, this dead refusal to budge an inch is a little, just a little, exasperating. Paterfamilias computes, however, that ten minutes' delay can be made up with such steppers. He smiles benignantly as he pulls out a newspaper and asks his wife if she has brought her book. Two minutes, four, five, or is it half an hour? The time seems long. 'Trois cent milles diables!' the natural man feels inclined to ejaculate. He knows that he is sinking fast in the estimation of newly-arrived station hands and chance spectators. Eight minutes—Railway makes no sign; years might roll on before _he_ would start with an unwilling mate. Nine minutes—Steamer, whose impatient soul abhors inaction, begins to paw. The student is absorbed in his leading article. Ten minutes!—Steamer opens his mouth and carries the whole equipage off with one rush. Railway is up and away; half a second later the proprietor folds up his journal and takes them firmly in hand. The children begin to laugh and chatter; the lady to converse; and the journey, long or short, wet or dry, may be considered, as far as horseflesh is concerned, to be _un fait accompli_.