A GULF IDYLL.

Press, Volume LV, Issue 10043, 23 May 1898, Page 2

A GULF IDYLL.

Geo. Essex Evans, in the Antipodean. Across a treeless expanse of yellow plain a horseman was riding slowly. Behind, like a dog, the-pack-horse followed, stopping every now and again for a bite out of a crown of withered Mitchell grass. They seemed like a couple of flies crawling over some gigantic ceiling. v There was not a cloud in the sky; scarcely a blade of grass on the baked earth ; everywhere the sun poured down a flood ot blinding light and neat. Away to the west, the vague summit of a mountain rose faintly above the horizon—a dim, blue isle afloat in a sea of mist. To north, a few scattered groups of cattle, nibbling at the grass roots, were distorted by the quivering haze into beings of fantastic shape and size. A dark timber-line, far on the eastern skyrim, marked the river, towards which some half-a-dozen parallel wheel-tracks, cut by teamsters' waggons, appeared to lead. Every now and again the horseman would pass a heap of bleached and shining bones, where a bullock had given up the unequal fight against famine and the forces of Nature. There was nothing else to be seen except a few hawks wheeling overhead, a black snake coiled asleep on a cattle-pad, and a red dingo slut limping curiously, a mile away, on the horseman's track; nothing to be heard save the "chink, chink," of the hobble-rings on the pack-saddle. It was nearly noon, and the earth gave back the fierce heat of the sun rays like a furnace. The rider, sitting easily in his saddle, was a rather under-sized man of about forty, with a spare figure and a skin burnt to a deep mahogany by twenty years of a Gulf sun. His features were sharp and prominent, like those of a bird of prey; a straggly black and gray beard covered the lower naif of his face; his hair was long and matted, his hands brown and nervous, and he had lost one eye from a spear wound—but it was commonly said, in the Gulf, that wihat he failed to observe with the other was not worth seeing. His weather-stained moleskins, shirt, and leggings were mended and patched with anything handy. Indeed, it had been remarked of him, with truth, that, had all other trades failed, he could easily have made a living by hiring himself out as a chessboard. On his head was a battered cabbagetree hat, almost black, with a frayed cheekstrap for a pugaree. His boots were softened with turkey-fat, 1 and tied with laces manufactured out of kangaroo skin. An old spur, with a piece of greenhide for a strap, dangled at his left heel. , His whole air was that of the rebel and man at war with his kind. The horse, a big-boned black, jogged steadily along with a sort of running shuffle, which covered the ground rapidly and evenly. He was a fine-looking animal,' showing signs of blood in his lean head, small, fine ears, bright, quick eyes, and elastic tread. The reins lay carelessly on his neck, as the rider whittle:! a small stick of naikod tobacco, with a dirty knife with a broken blade. "If she's at Muddy Springs, I'll get her termorrer night," he muttered grimly, glancing at his shadow as he rode. "Shan't strike the river till a 'our arter sundown. They said at the Ten Mile, she'd been there sum time." He puffed savagely at the pipe he had just filled and lighted—the rapid, impatient puffs of a man of action. "I've a mind to drive a hole through Tupper for this job," he went on, the fingers of his right hand moving instinctively to the revolver on the front of the saddle. "But it's too soon yet. I can wait." A grim smile crept over his face. "We'd a real good time, two years," he communed, softly, "she an' —-—real mates. An' we made money drovin', and there ain't one of 'em gin-stockmen, or stock-wimmen, as rides about in moles and sihirts like little dried-up men, as can track-an' ride like 'er—an' she nearly pure white, with only the littlest dash of nigger. A smart little cove she were—worth any two men, when a mob's breakin'!" "But there's no doubt she's changy," he continued, sternly, to himself. "Yes; changy like 'em all. Maybe it's in the blood. An' it ain't the first time she's given mc the slip. Ah' it's about time she knew she ain't got no bloomin' new chum to deal with." His meditations were interrupted as he felt the black colt freshen under him, and the pack-horse come charging behind with a whinny. The sun had set, and the horses smelt the river water. Soon they were girth deep in a waterhole, drinking as horses drink after a dry stage of forty miles. Before long, Bassett had hobbled them out, giving the colt a small mess of flour and water, for the grass was scarce. Then he made his fire, and sat down to wait for the billy to boil. He did not wash. . Gulf men never do. They might catch cold. He fetched a bottle of Worcester sauce from his swag, and, pouring a stiff nobbier into his pannikin, gulped it down. It would have made most men weep; he did not even cough. "A dash of painkiller or a bit o' cayenne would 'avfe made it bite better," was his sole remark. He ate his junk and damper and drank his tea, gazing meditatively into the fire and then out on to the plain that spread like a great grayish silver sea on three sides of him. The horses were moving slowly out Jo grass, a niile away. The clink of the hobble-rings and the tinkle of the horse-bell came floating back fitfully. These and the melancholy wail of a curlew alone broke the silence of the night. The air was almost mild, yet he cowered over the fire, spreading out his hands as he smoked his after-tea pipe. With his wrinkled skin, spare frame, and mahogany hue, he might have been some mummy that had suddenly walked out of an Egyptian tomb.

Next morning at daylight, Mr Dom Bassett—or Dom the Bandicoot, as he was better known to the police—started for the Springs. About noon he camped, hobbled out tha pack-horse, and planted the packsaddle and rations in the nollow- trunk of a dead tree. Then he had a snack, and lay down for a smoke, whilst he matured his plan of capture. He would not have looked so pleased if he could have seen what was taking place thirty miles down the river. At Tallaran Heaa Station—as the row of log huts on the high river bank was called—all was bustle. Two troopers and a blacktracker, on knocked-up horses, had just come in and asked for fresh mounts and a feed. Tupper, the manager, a %e-iooking man with a dissipated face, was talking to them eagerly. The tracks were fresh, the black boy said, and they ought to -get their man by the morning. But it was Dom Bassett, and he was riding a fast one—the best in the Burke, the colt E. stole from Biddleion. He was -wanted for half a dozen other jobs as well, one of the troopers explained. Tupper went inside for his rifle. "I'll come too," he said, with an evil grin, " and you can have the pick of the station nags." He/had never felt safe since the girl had taken up her residence on the run.

Meanwhile-Bassett, unencumbered by the pack-horse was cantering on. It was twenty-

five miles to the' Springs, and he did not get there until after sundown. He pulled up a mile from the out-station, and struck out for the plain. He wished to approach the hut from the opposite side. There was not a cloud in the sky. • By the starlig"ht he could see sufficiently for his purpose, as he knew the country well. Soon lie came on the river again, and dismounting, hitched his bridle to a sapling near a tall gum tree, a hundred yards from the out-station. Should he take the revolver? He hesitated. No, there was only a woman to deal with. He stole on without it, leaving the colt in the shadows. The moon was up. and he could sec the rails of the big stockyard shining like silver under its rays. To the right, on the high river bank, stood the hut; to the left, the uncouth-looking mounds and mo-l-asses of the Mud Springs. With a noiseless step Bassett crept on, hugging the river bank and gliding from one tree shadow to another. The door of the hut lay wide open, but there seemed to be nobody about. He was now close to the slab wall. The shutter stood unloosened, and he looked in. The moonlight made the interior clearly visible. A couple of pannikins and a tin plate stood on the rough table, a billy near the dying embers of the fire. A cabbage-tree hat and some clothes hung on pegs, and a few old newspapers lay about. On the greenhide couch, in the corner, some one, wrapped in blankets, was asleep. On the wall opposite a stockwhip, with a carved handle, hung from a nail. It caught Bassett's eye at once, and he recognised it as one he had himself given to the girl. "It's her," he muttered. "I'm doin' pretty well." He went round to the door and entered softly. " No dog about," he thought. He stood still for a moment to listen. There was.nothing to be heard. Presently he crept closer. "Sound asleep!" he said to himself, "but I can't hear no breathin'.' He stepped up to the bunk and laid his hand ou the sleeper's shoulder. She did not" move. He shook her. "Come, Loo," he cried impatiently, "get up!" But his touch told him that he was holding nothing save an old swag, wrapped in blankets. A peal of laughter from the windaw made him turn with a leap. A girl's face was there, smiling at him from outside. He caught the gleam of a pistol-barrel at the same time. She held it levelled at his head, and, by the irony of fate, it was his own revolver. "How smart, Dom Bassett!" she said, showing her white teeth as she smiled. " But next time you goes for to capture mc, I wouldn't leave my revolver an' a blood colt worth a hundred notes where any fool could shake 'em, if I was you." " Dom," she said, gaily, " if I gives you back the horse an' revolver what'll you do*." " Shoot you first," he answered promptly, "an' then Tupper." "Dom," she asked, " wouldn't Tupper be enough?" "Maybe!" he answered, guardedly. " Look here.'" she went on. " You're a bad lot, but you're game." Bassett grinned. " Well. Tupper's a bad 'un, an' he ain't game," she announced with scorn. There was a pause and neither seemed to know what to say next. It was the girl who spoke first. "Ain't you tired of change? " she said, softly. " That may be," he replied. "I was thinkin' that I was," she murmured. " Shall we start afresh, as it were? he suggested persuasively. "very well, Dom," she cried. " Take the revolver. I'm comin' inside." . . . She put the revolver into his hand. " Well, you're a rum 'un!" he remarked, in a slow, peculiar tone. " What's to stop mc pay-in' you out for what you threatened awhile ago?" "I ain't frightened of that, Dom," she answered. " You're a funny little cove. You wos so from the jump," lie went on queerly. " An' yer thiuks you'll take up with mc, fer the rest of the time?" "I think so," she said, shyly, resting her cheek against his. He gathered her in his arms. "You're a funny little cove," he said, kissing her; "an* you gets round mc every time." She lay there quietly, her face very white, her eyes looking dreamily up—not into bjis,: but into some vague dream of her own, perj chance a dream of what a true-lived life" might mean. She gave a little sigh of content, and brought her eyes back to his. "There's a chap on Barclay Tableland, over in Northern Territory, an* -I've done him a good turn occashional," Dom said gently; "an' he, said to mc one day, 'Look 'ere, Bassett, you're the best hand with cattle I know. Turn up the game an' live straight an. I'll give you a job any day you like.' 'Permanent job,' he said. S'pose we go. Loo!" She smiled. "Termorrer," she answered. /'l've two good horses of my own, an' we can clear out termorrer." f> "Then I'll go an' hobble out the colt,' said Dom, loosening his arm. "Not yet!" she whispered, putting her arm round his neck. Suddenly she sprang to her feet. "What's that?" she cried, holding up her hand warningly. He followed her to the door. They stood there together, listening intently. "It's the troopers!" she whispered, convulsively clutching his arm. "I can see their horses tied up by the bend." She strained her eyes to right and left. "There's two movin' along the river over there," she said, hurriedly, "an' one creepin' in by the stockyard, an' another sneakin' over to the colt. ' "Run, Dom!" she cried, thrusting the revolver into his hand. "Run for the colt! Quick, man! There's only one on that side, an' you'll get there before him yet." Dom started forward like a bare, keeping to the shadows, and she followed him. The man nearest the colt—it was Tupper himself—saw them, and started off with a -shout. The others were too far away, the morass of the springs cut them off. One man ran back for the horses. The others fired, but Bassett and the girl ran on unharmed. The troopers swore. Another minute or two would have rendered capture inevitable. Tupper from the one side, and Dom from the other, both at equal distances from the big tree, rushed on, each straining every nerve to reach the horse first. A rifle bullet from the trooper, by the stockyard shattered a

branch close to Bassett's head. Still they ran on unhurt. The manager dared not file lest he should hit the woman. "Shoot, Dom, shoot!" shouted the girl. "It's your only chance. Shoot the nearest —it's Tupper 1" Dom fired, and the man dropped with a yell of agony, shot through the knee. In another moment they had reached the colt-. He was trembling with excitement, snorting, and tugging at his bridle. A secorid later he would have been off with a broken reiu. "Quick, Dom!" she cried, as two bullets whizzed past, and the colt leapt 'with terror. "And now Dona's foot was in the stirrup, and she turned triumphantly. As she did so she saw something that made her heart turn cold. Tupper, prone on the ground, despite his shattered knee, was taking a careful sight at the horseman. He was scarcely thirty yards away. The next moment there came tne crack of a rifle—a puff of smoke— and Bassett, unhurt, was racing round the bend out of the line of fire as fast as the colt, rendered unmanageable by terror, could take him. But the girl lay quiet under the shadow of the tree, and the strange, wayward life was at an end.