UNKNOWN

Evening Star, Issue 9582, 31 December 1894, Page 4 (Supplement)

UNKNOWN

ye»& ago I; Jpird/ on the, »W%& place as to Wwtwortlw The * matter orVthirfcy miles happen 'along my way. theirst, it wasn't a stock route, others they only travel where sore 'of picking up a station or every day. So X had very little Not tJv,t I cared much for it; after a while. An, m who Uvea out in the bush alone soon gets accustomed to Us solito.de. It throws a sort of spall over him. I've known chaps who got quite uneasy "~when any company came along. TKfey dreaded a city just as a city man dreads' a dewvt. ' .*••-'■ *'But it wasn't a nice place, to be sure.; 2u drought the river Bhrank and dwindled •away to a lot of holes, and you oould see the big old snags like a lot of bones lying about in the bed of the Darling, or sticking out of: •the rotten banks. The country on each side was as dry as a bone. In drought there was. 00 oompany at all. In an ordinary, summer it wasn't much better, for the river steamers stopped rtoning, and I've never seen a soul, at the timber yard for as much as six months at a time. The only faces of men and women thatl saw at such seasons .were those of the people of Brigalow Station—thirty miles off —when I rode in from time to time to get stores. "The timber yard was on a hill, out of reach of ordinary floods. Beyond a little straggly salt bush, andVsuoh rubbish, there wasn't any timber for ten miles. The river fums had been cut down years before, to uild the wharf at the yard, and to stook it with fuel for the steamers, so that when I ran short of wood I had to look elsewhere for it. " And there was plenty of it. Bless your 'Soul, all I had to do was to go down into the river bed and get the snags which were stuck all over it- Just think of how many years the Darling has been running, carrying down with every flood huudreds of logs, which were left in the mud at most of 'em, though some drifted away into Murray, and, I suppose, down into the sea at last. "I had two horses and two bullocks. When I picked on a snag —smd thundering big ones some of them were—l first blew it out of the mud with a dynamite cartridge, and, perhaps, split it up with another, or I sawed it into pieces. Then I hitched the bullocks and horses to it, and we lugged it up to the yard. This was my work in the dry season all through the time when the •river was dry. " When there was a fresh I used to watch for the floating timber and catch as much as 1 could. Some of the floating logs are years ■ooming down the Darling. Away up on the M'lntyre, a tree may be torn away by a flood or fresh and fall into the stream. It may be carried a hundred miles, and then the water goes down and leaves it on the bank, and there it stops, perhaps for months, maybe for a year or two. Then another fresh comes down, and the log is lifted again, and carried down for another spell till the water falls, and it's left again. And so on. *' Well, when the waters got higli enough in the river, the steamers and barges began to hurry up and down with wool and stores, and I had a busy time of it filling them with the billets of wood to feed their fires till they came to the next fuel depot. What with one thing or another—collecting the wood, cutting it, stacking it, and putting it aboard the boats—l had my hands pretty fulL " The water during the time I was there never came as high as the wharf. Of course, ■when the river was down, the wharf was sometimes thirty feet higher than the water, and stuck out high and dry, so that a new chum coming along would wonder whatTthe thing was built there on dry land, and fifty yards or so from the river, or what passed for it in time of drought.. " Well, one day, after about six months of the driest weather I ever experienced, the river came down a banker. It was not at all wet where I was. Not a drop of rain fell, but on the sources of the Darling it had been raining for weeks. It was the Queenslaud water that was coming down, through theParoo, the Narran, the Warrego, andother channels. "As soon as the river was full, the •steamers came up to bring down the wool clip from Bourkc. One steamer was called the Bunyip. I knew the captain well. He and I had chummed it on the Palmer together ten years before, when I was a youngster. He put the men to loading the wood while we had a smoke and chat about old times. "' I have got an " experiencer " with me,' he said, ' a regular new chum from England. There he is, that tall young fellow over there on the paddle-box,' and he pointed to a young chap on the steamer. " The ' experiencer' happened to turn ard catch him pointing. He came over to us immediately. The captain introduced me to him. Wilford his name was, and yon could tell he was green as grass just by looking at him. There wasn't a bit of the* dandy about him. He was a nice young fellow, and very eager to learn. I think he wanted to write a book about the Bush life in Australia, or something of that sort. Anyway, he stood there asking questions by the dozen, and making notes of all that I said. I told him what sort of life I lived, and all about the timber, and how I got it, and he seemed vastly interested. " * What a curious story of the Australian climate one of those mountain logs might tell,' he said, 'if it could speak !' pointing to the stack on the wall. 'But ain't you lonely here sometimes ?' he asked. "'Lonely!' I says; 'certainly not. What for?' He looked round with a kind of shudder. " 'lt's a dreary place,' he said, taking in with a glance the barren, flat country, the muddy, stealthy water of the river, and the old timber hut in which I had passed about half of my life for five long years. " I suppose it would seem dreary to him, poor young fellow. His hands were white and soft, and his face, shaded with a big Panama hat, was as fair as a girl's. What would such a chap do on a timber station on the Darling? In any case, what did he want coming out into the Bush for, instead of stopping at home with his mother and sisters? " A well-dressed man on a Darling river boat was sure to attract attention albng the river, and this fellow had the look of a wealthy man. He wore a gold watch and chain, and had diamond studs in his shirtfront, which was as white as if he'd just stepped out of a swell club in Collins street. On the little finger of his left hand he had the finest rote-colored diamond I ever Baw. I told him so. "'That stone's worth a lot s of stuff,' I said; ' it's the best diamond I've seen.' "' So you know it's a diamond,' he said, smiling and taking it off for me to look at, A sweet way he had of smiling, like a happy and handsome woman. " The ring was a snake, with a diamond held in its jaws. I told him that I'd been a diamond miner up on the Mudgee and Inverell fields, and had learned all about stones from a fellow working up there who had been- a jeweller: With that he asked me a lot more questions about life there and the kinds of stones we found, and he kept me at it answering questions all the rest of the time till the steamer was ready to go. " Before he left, I showed him a specimen of opalised Queensland wood, and he Was delighted with it Jt was a pretty thing, the wood had turned nearly all into opal. "' Will yon sell it ?' he said, in bis quick, <boyUhway. " • Well, I might/ I answered. ' It'B jiot much good to me.' • "' IU give you a tenner for it,' he said. "• Done,' f answered. " He whipped out a bulky chamois-leather bair, and counted out twelve sovereigns. ' "' You've given me too much,' I said. "'Oh, that's for your information,' he answered, with a laugh. "I.took it, and' said no more, but felt glad that I hadn't stuffed him with lies, as 1 felt tempted to do at first. Afterwards, I had reason to be very much gladder.' " Well, away the Buhyip went. "'Good-bye, Bill/ the captainsaDgout, as she cast off,' I might see yon in a month,; . *

-TTrrrffrryr"- _ or id might be in a year. It depends on the • winfrr.' ' j\ «W4th that 'the fctWier puffed, away noisily up sl&toam, having filled her stomach wit* my wood. It might be.twelve' months before the Bunyip oould come down the river again. I had known this thing to occur. "■■•• I could-not help wondering whether I should ever again see young Wilford. The -chap had interested me—so fresh, and keen, and different to all the fellows I had mot oh my way on the river. -" Our boys are not enthusiastic about anything. You can no more astonish them than you-oan a bluegum. But ho Was astonished i and enthusiastie-about everything. A keen, ourioi}B sort Of fefloW, adrift in a new country* and eager to know the meaning of; . all ho saw. My word, I could not help thinking what stories he'd have to tell when he got back to the Old Country. Ah ! well, I knew no more than he that those who loved him in that far off little island would wait and watch for many a long year before they would hear tidings again of the Wiuiderer —and then what tidings? "He was going to follow the Darling right up to its sources, he told me—first in slew South Wales, and then to the Queensland river heads. A long journey, and, no doubt, an interesting one, for such as cared ' about geography and such things. " Well, after a few weeks the river fell, and the Bunyip had not returned. I knew; then that she was stuck somewhere up stream. However, it was the rainy season in Queensland, and by-and-bye another fresh ' cwrie, and with it the Bunyip steamed up to, , the wharf. " The young fellow Wilford had left the 1 boat at Bourke, and was off by easy stages i- to the head of the Darling, and for two I years and a-half that was the last I heard of ■ him, and he gradually dropped out of my i mind. I know it Was about two and a-half i years afterwards—hear Christmas time, it was—-when a big, thundering flood came • down the Darling. The water was so high that it swept away the wood I had stacked on • the wharf, and then I had to work like a I Steam saw-mill to get wood ready for the Steamers, which I knew would be along Soon That flood lasted a month, and more than once I thought I would have to take to my boat and skip. But that did not happen just then, though, in the end, the wood, wharf, hut, and everything were swept clean away ; but that was in Jack Darby's time, and after I'd left. When that flood went down, there were three or four fresh snags left near the station. Every'flood brought down a fresh lot. This time they were all fine, big trees, mountain bluegums, us big'' round at the base as a hut. " There was one in particular must have been 60ft long in the trunk and 7ft through. There was enough wood in that log alone to do my yard for six months, if it was solid. It had grounded only about 60ft from the yard, and I made up my mind to tackle it right off in case another fresh came along. "There was no use trying anything with the root, so I got my axe and made a notch about 15ft from where the tree had been sunk in the ground where it was growing. It rang hollow at the first stroke. That I was rather glad of, for it would be easier for me to cut up. I chopped for awhile at that plaoe until I got through to the hollow inside. Then 1 made another cut, about 9ft further along, and got my wedges in along the grain between the two cuts, and it split easily. I got a slab about b'in thick out by thia job. As I expected, the big log was a mere shell. "Now, you'll scarcely credit me when I tell you what I saw when I looked in the hollow trunk. "It was a human skeleton. The thing was lying on its back. It frightened me for a bit, I can tell you. 'How did it get there ?' was my first question. "To that 1 soon found an answer. In the skull, looking up at me with its hollow grin, was embedded a hatchet head, which had been driven right through the bone. It was murder. That's what 1 saw at once. "But who was the man, and who killed him ? How long had he lain in that huge natural coffin, and how far had it travelled before chance had thrown it in my way? " These were problems which I could not solve, but upon which, perhaps, the police might be able to throw some light. To the police I resolved accordingly to telegraph. There was a telegraph office at Brigalow Station, and thither I resolved to ride. I allowed the bones to remain undisturbed, preferring to run the risk of another fresh rather than to handle the ghastly object. , It wa3 a thirty miles ride, and would take i me all that day. There was no time to wait, and I accordingly set off at once. No fear of anbody chancing along my way and doing anything to the skeleton. "So it proved, for when, three days afterwards, Sergeant Meagher and I rode up to the wood yard things were just as I left them. Together we took the skeleton out. The sergeant pointed out that there was a huge hole in the tree trunk, about forty feet from the root. "'lt was through that he was dropped in,' he said. 'I wonder where that tree came from ?' he went on. " ' Not far this side of the hills,' I said. " ' You're right; it's a mountain gum tree. There are none on the plains as big,' and he looked at it thoughtfully for a while. "'There are no clothes,' he went on ; 'he was stripped before being thrown in, or they've rotted clean away. I" can't see a clue to the murderer or the victim either.' " Then he began to search in the mess of rotten wood and mud, of which the cavity was full, and presently drew out the handle of a hatchet. It fitted the blade in the skull. '"Ah! this is something,' he said, with a satisfied air, as he put it carefully by. We must empty tl U stuff out.' "We started to work with pannikins, carefully Bifting every bit of stuff we took out. It was an awful sort of business in that lonely spot, with the skeleton lying on the ground beside us, and I felt shaky all over. But the sergeant took it all as cool as you like. Presently he gave a sharp cry. " 'There is a clue !' he said, hoLing up a ring. " I looked at it. "'A clue!' I said, when I recovered sufficiently. ' It's more than that—l know that ring.' " The sergeant looked at mo in astonishment. "' You know it!" he said, with the first excitement which I had seen in his manner so far.- 'Whose is it?' "'lt belonged to Mr Wilford,' I said; and I told him all I knew. The stone was so peculiar that I oould, and did, swear to it. It was, indeed, the identical stone I had seen on the poor gentleman's finger when he had been on the Bunyip. "' Captain M'Bride can swear to it too,' I said. - "'All in good time,' Sergeant Meagher returned. 'We know whom the skeleton belongs to, but we don't know who killed him yet.' " Well, we took the bone 3 of the unfortunate traveller into the police station at Brigalow, and Sergeant Meagher began to sift the mystery. In looking at the handle of the hatchet we found one word, "Schneider," carved on it. Armed with the evidence of the ring and the hatchet j handle, the sergeant set out to track Mr Wilford. It looked a stiff bit of detective work, but it came out as easy as possible. ' "From the time Mr Wilford left Bourke he was tracked from place to place. Everybody remembered him from his appearance, and" from his habit of taking notes and asking questions. He had called at the house of a selector on the M'lntyre, and there the track ended. He had left to spend a week in the mountains. When the selector was asked whether he knew a man named Schneider in the district, he replied that two years before a svwyer of that name had been in the dis- j trict, but had been gone some time. This was enough for the sergeant. In a fortnight the police had their man. Before he was tried he revealed everything. He had murdered the young Englishman for his money —a task rendered easy by his extreme trustfulness—and had put him in the old tree. While hiding his crime in this way j the diamond ring had fallen from his finger | Into the hollow with the corpse. This accident led to. his detection. I always hold that it was the hand, of Providence whioh revealed that crime. Unless I had spoken to .the poor fellow I would never have identified his ring, and if the big trunk had not been cast away opposite my wood yard. *

when I wanted wood 1 , why, the murder might never have, been .discovered, for the) old tree would have drifted out to sea or; rotted for ever in the river mud."