Australian Hauntings: A Second Anthology of Australian Colonial Supernatural Fiction (5 page)

THE TRACK OF THE DEAD, by Ernest Favenc

The Bulletin
, 23 April 1892

What’s the matter with you; why the deuce can’t you sleep?”

“I don’t know,” returned Alf; “got a touch of insomnia tonight. If I do go to sleep I have the most awful dreams all about men I used to know, men who are dead now.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake don’t start such talk at this time of night. Sit by the fire and smoke your pipe quietly,” I answered, wearily, as I turned my back to the blaze and drew my blanket around me.

“Right you are, old man,” he replied, good-naturedly, and I dropped off into unconsciousness.

I awoke with a start. The fire was out, or nearly so, and the camp was silent. Just above the horizon the spectral last quarter of the moon was hanging, throwing ghostly, dim, long shadows around. It was the hour before dawn, the uncanny hour when all the vital forces are at the lowest ebb. Some great general is reported to have said that the only courage worth a hang was three o’clock in the morning courage. Whether anyone ever did make the remark or not, there is a deal of truth in it.

I roused myself a little and looked around. Alf was sleeping on the other side of the fire, and where he had set his bed down was now in deep shadow, and I could make nothing out. I tried to go to sleep again, but it was useless. Perhaps a smoke might send me off; so, seeing a spark still smouldering, I arose, and blowing the end of a still glowing firestick into a blaze, I lit my pipe, and then, holding the lighted stick up, looked over to where my companion should have been sleeping.

His blankets were tenantless.

May I never experience again such an uncomfortable thrill as went through me when I made this discovery! I put my hand on the blankets where they had been thrown aside. They were cold and the dew had gathered on them; he must have been gone some hours. I listened long and intently, but the night was silent. For a man to wander away from camp in the middle of the night, out in the Never-Never Spinifex country, and remain away for hours, is a most uncanny thing. If he had heard the horses making off he would have called me ere leaving; if—but I exhausted all conjectures before daylight dawned. I could do nothing until then.

The light came very slowly, or so it appeared to me. We were camped at the foot of a Spinifex rise, on a narrow flat bordering a creek. When the light was strong I could see the horses feeding quietly some short distance away, and picking up my bridle I soon had one caught and saddled, and firing off my rifle two or three times without eliciting an answering shot, I started to look for my missing mate. After some trouble I picked up his track leading straight up the ridge, which, near the crest, was sandy, and the prints of his footsteps were clearly defined. The Spinifex was scantier here, and as I gazed intently down I saw something that made me pull up and hastily dismount to scan the tracks closer. Alf, was not alone, somebody was walking ahead of him.

Step by step I followed leading my horse, but I could make nothing of the foremost track, for Alf’s almost covered it every time. At last they diverged, and the two ran side by side. It was a bright morning, the sun just glinting under the stunted trees; what little live nature there was in that lonely spot was awake and joyously greeting the day; but I rose up from my examination of that awful footmark with the dew of superstitious terror on my forehead. No living man had made that track.

I had to follow on scarce knowing what to think or expect. I tried to persuade myself that the footprint was that of some attenuated old gin, lean and shrunken as a mummy, but that was against reason. The track was that of the skeleton of a man; and Alf was not following it, but following whatever was making it.

With varying fortune, now finding, now losing the trail I kept on for about two hours; then, halfway down a slight incline, I came upon the object of my search. He was sitting on the ground talking to himself, I thought at first, but when I got closer I saw he was addressing some object on his lap. He was nursing the head and shoulders of the remains of a human being. He lay at full length amidst a patch of rank green grass fertilised by the decayed body, a skeleton with fragments of rotten clothing still clinging to it. Alf had his arm under the skull as one would support a sick man, and was murmuring words of affection. He raised his head as I approached but evinced no surprise.

“This is my brother Jack,” he said. “Fancy his coming to the camp last night to show me where he was. We must take him into the nearest station and bury him, for he can’t rest here, it’s too lonely.”

I could not answer. Alf’s mind had evidently given way and I could not reason with him. He carried the body back to our camp and I commenced a ghastly ride to the nearest station over seventy miles away, with a madman and a corpse for companions. The third day after starting we arrived at Ulmalong, then the outside station, and here I learnt the story of Alf’s twin brother.

He had been a stockman on the place when it was first settled, and had ridden out on his rounds one day and never returned. There was little doubt that the skeleton we brought in was his, but what led the living twin to its resting place? I held my tongue about the ‘track’ for they would only think I was as mad as poor Alf.

After we buried the remains Alf relapsed into almost constant silence. He was quite harmless and they found him some light work to do about the place, but he died, prematurely aged, in about a year’s time. He was buried with his brother.

BLOOD FOR BLOOD, by Ernest Favenc

The Bulletin
, Christmas Edition, 17 December 1892

Silence everywhere, the spell of heat on everything. Kites, which had been soaring on strong pinions away back in the dry country, swooping down on the grasshoppers, have had to come in to this lonely waterhole tired out and worried, and now sit dozing on the branches of the motionless coolibah. One who had left it too long has had only sufficient strength to reach the water and flounder in, and stands with bedraggled feathers moping at the edge of the muddy pool. There is no animal nor
human life to be seen—just a round clay hole, a few withered polygonum bushes, and some gnarled and warped coolibah trees. Around lies a bare plain with a bewildering heat-mist hovering over it.

The slow, hot hours creep on. The sodden kite standing near the water suddenly topples over and falls dead; at times one of the others flops heavily down from its perch, takes a few sips and flies back again. These are the only sounds, the only living movements that break the stagnant monotony.

There is neither track of man nor beast to be seen, but for all that what was once a man is lying there beneath one of the shadeless tress. It has been lying there for over six months, so there is nothing very repulsive about the poor corpse but its shrivelled likeness to humanity. When it staggered in there alive the hole was dry, and it sank down and died. Since then a quick and angry thunderstorm has passed and partly filled the hole, too late. But no prowling dog has found the body, not even the venturesome crow has been to inspect it; the desert has protected it from white tooth and black beak, and it lies there dry and withered, but the form of a man—and a white man, still.

This is the story of that unburied, unwept, untended corpse. It is a story of thirst, of treachery, of revenge.

Years ago, when stations were valuable and all things pastoral looked bright ahead, three men pushed out beyond the bounds of settlement in search of new country. Two of them were fast friends, although there was a considerable difference in their ages. The third was simply on the footing of ordinary friendship and of about the same age as the elder of the other two. The party was completed by a black boy.

Far beyond the lonely waterhole where the weary kites sit watching the silent dead, they came on to good country—fair, rolling downs and deep permanent holes. At one of these they fixed a camp and inspected the country on all sides with a view of dividing the runs fairly. One day the younger of the two friends and the third man went out together. They took a long excursion northward and finding no water, made, the next day, for a small hole they had passed on their way out. Fatal mistake—the hole was dry, with the body of a misled dingo rotting at the bottom, and with thirsty, tired horses, and nearly empty bags, they were now fifty miles from their camp, the nearest water.

They turned out for a short spell and lay down to catch a few moments of slumber. The young man slept soundly, dreaming of long, cool swims in a river; of watching it sparkling and leaping amongst the rocks; then he awoke suddenly to find himself companionless in the desert. He raised himself on his elbow and looked around. The clear starlight showed him nothing; he was actually alone; his mate and all the horses were gone. He went to where they had hung the waterbags on a tree. They were gone, too. He comprehended it all. His treacherous friend had taken the two freshest horses and the remnant of the water, and started for the camp, trusting that one would get there where two could not. The other two horses had probably followed of their own accord, to die in their tracks.

He had no hope that his companion meant to come back with succour. A man who could do such a deed would never suffer his victim to bear witness against him. He had the choice of two deaths—a lingering one where he was, or a quicker one in a desperate attempt to gain the camp. He chose the latter. He had no expectation that his own old friend would come to his relief, for he guessed he would be deceived by some specious lie.

When the end came, as it soon did, and he fell for the last time, he prayed with his dying breath that the man who had wrought his death might die as he did.

Late that night the survivor, with on
e remaining horse, reached the camp, and told the anxious occupant how his friend had died of thirst; how he had helped him on to the last, and only left his body when aid was useless and his own life in jeopardy. “I must start at daylight and bring his body in if possible,” was the answer at last. Then one lay down to sleep the sleep of exhaustion, the other to watch and mourn.

Overtired men seldom sleep soundly. Some rambling words from the haunted sleeper roused the watcher’s attention. He listened, as the dreamer restlessly babbled out his secret. He understood it all, and for an
instant his hand was on his revolver; but no. He would have proof, then—

Next morning, with the black boy, he was on his way before the stars the paling. Proof was easily forthcoming by the tracks. The body of his young friend lay by itself on the plain; no horse-tracks led to it, none from it. He had died by himself, and the story of staying with him to the last was false. What use in following the trail back further? He returned to the camp with vengeance in his heart.

It was easily done. The other suspected nothing. One morning the two rode out together for a last look to the southward before returning. Twenty miles from the camp they stopped at a scanty belt of timber; beyond was nothing but a boundless plain.

“Get up one of the trees,” said the avenger. “You may be able to see a little better from that elevation.”

The other dismounted and complied. He stood on the highest limb, no great height, and looked all around; nothing visible but the blue mirage. He looked below. His companion was a hundred yards, or more, away leading his horse. He stopped for an instant and turned in his saddle, and the words smote on the listener’s ear hotter than the blazing sunbeams: “As you served that poor murdered boy, so I serve you. If by any miracle you survive and I hear of you again amongst men I will take your life wherever I find you.” Then he turned and rode away, deaf to calls and entreaties.

Stumbling over the plain, nor cursing in impotent rage, now begging and praying for mercy, the guilty man followed the silent figure leading the horse. Followed it until his sweat-blinded eyes could see no longer, and the poor, abandoned wretch felt the lonely horror of the desert encircle him, for he knew he should never see the face of his fellow man again.

He reached the camp during the night. It was deserted. The threat was carried out to the letter. Aye, more, for a ghost sat there by the dead embers, that he only could see, but it drove him forth into the night, and with desperate, hopeless purpose he made for the haunts of men. Who knows what he suffered before his dying footsteps led him to the dry hole, and he crawled under the nearest shade to pant his life out?

* * * *

Next morning the recruited birds take wing for the drought-smitten plains once more, leaving the body of their comrade to keep company with that of the murderer.

IN THE NIGHT, by Ernest Favenc

The Bulletin
, Christmas Edition, 17 December 1892

“Steady now, old man; do you feel better? Here! Hold hard!
I’m
not a nigger.”

The wounded man had struggled desperately as though still struggling with his foes.

One dead white man, speared through the body; one with his head cut open, whom the speaker was trying to revive, and four
dead blacks, lying on their faces with outstretched arms—the posture in which niggers usually die who meet with a violent death. The sun had set, and darkness was rapidly closing in. Presently the wounded man regained his senses somewhat.

“How’s Joe?” he asked

“If Joe is your mate, I’m afraid it’s all up with him, as it would have been with you if I had not come. Not but what you had done pretty well before I came. I can only account for one,” and he motioned towards the dead.

“Yes; I remember. Joe was speared at the start. He was picking wood for the fire. How did you come here?”

“I’ve been after horses all day, and was on my way home when I heard the row. I got here just as you had this crack on the head; and the niggers cleared. I suppose you fellows were bound for the Cloncurry?”

“Yes. Poor old Joe! Are you quite sure he is dead?”

“Quite sure. Now, what’s the best thing to do about you? I suppose you can’t rise?”

The other shook his head wearily.

“It’s fifteen miles to the station. The boss has got a buggy in there, and we’ll bring it out for you if you are game to stop here alone while I go. I’ll be back by daylight. There’s no fear of the blacks turning up again, I know the run of these fellows.”

“I’m game,” said the wounded man faintly.

“Right. I’ll load your revolver up for you, and be back as soon as I can. Keep your pecker up, you’re safe enough here.”

With this rough but kindly consolation the stockman departed, and the survivor of the two men who had been suddenly attacked by the natives when camping, was left alone. Not a pleasant position, but nerves are not supposed to be known in the outside country.

There was a first-quarter moon, and the shadows soon got darker and darker beneath its feeble light. The man with the broken head had quite recovered his consciousness but he still felt dizzy and weak. It was an awful time to wait until daylight. Supposing the niggers came back again after all! Then he recalled all the stories he had heard of the blacks mutilating the dead bodies of their enemies. If they came back at all it would be for that. Supposing he was unconscious when they came and they commenced on him! He must watch all night to prevent that. Poor Joe, his mate, he wouldn’t like him to be cut up by the darkies.

Surely, he thought, one of the bodies had moved. The moon gave such a sickly half-light now it was sinking that it was impossible to make certain. Yes, it was a dark figure creeping up to Joe’s body, not one of the dead ones, for he could still count them—one, two, three, four. A live nigger crawling up to hack Joe about. He took aim and fired. That dropped him; he could see him writhing in the streak of light that broke through a rift in the trees. Go and finish him, to save another shot. On his hands and knees he crawled over, picking up a dropped club on the way. Then the silence of the night was broken by fierce and heavy blows, and he crawled back to his tree and fainted.

The moon had set when he opened his eyes again, but, by the pale light of the stars, he saw, to his horror, another black shadow approaching the dead body of his mate. Another successful shot and, full of rage, he again crept over and used the formidable club. But the savages were not to be deterred; one after another the dark forms came creeping up, to fall beneath revolver and club, until at last the man’s senses left him.

The day had broken, but the sun was not yet up, when the stockman and another man drove up in the buggy. They jumped out, and hastened to the apparent sleeper, but he was dead.

“Have the niggers been back and killed him?”

The stockman shook his head. “I can’t make it out—look at this club in his hand covered with blood and—”

The two stood up and gazed curiously about. One, two, three, four black bodies and one red heap.

“He wasn’t like that when I left him,” said the stockman, hastily; “he was speared clean.”

The head was pounded out of recognition, the body and limbs smashed by maniacal blows; the corpse of the wretched Joe was beaten out of all semblance of humanity.

“There have been no blacks here since I left.”

“What can be the meaning of that club in his hand?” was the reply.