The Call of the Pack.

King Country Chronicle, Volume XXXIII, Issue 4808, 10 July 1939, Page 3

The Call of the Pack.

(Copyright.)

A true story of wild aboriginal life in Cape York Peninsula, Northern Queensland, Australia. The author, then on a prospecting expedition, came on the tribe in early morning, as they were tracking the missing man. From the tracks left around the gnawed body, the story was easily reconstructed.

"jVTAN and beast glared threatening-

ly into one another's eyes. Yet hardly a man. Midway between the two. For his tribe, who carry on the riddle of existence in the Bad Lands which fringe the western coast of Cape York Peninsula, are still in the Stone Age. Their greatest contribution to science is the jagged piece of quartz which they operate on the young buck when initiating him into warriorhood, and the , sharp splinters of quartzite, which form the wicked barbs of their war spears. Their simple cooking utensils are of bark, their weapons of wood made hard by slow roasting in the fire. Now Murooroo, initiated warrior of the tribe, with a broken leg and one arm crushed beneath a boulder, lay pinned in the dry gully-bed and glared back at cold, yellow eyes which stared into his.

Three dainty birds, with fanshaped blue feathers, twittered busily in a honeysuckle bush, a black snake slithered gracefully over a grass tuft, insects hummed in the flower-scented air, and all the warm life of the great bush went serenely

Murooroo did not waste time in reviling his unskilfulness in stepping on the finely-poised boulder which had overbalanced and crashed with him to the gully bottom. His brain was not developed for such detailed thoughts. But it could reason the chances between life and death.

Could the dingo kill him? Could he kill the dingo? His hunting spears had fallen beyond his reach. He could use one leg and one arm. Was the dingo too cunning to come within reach so that he could suddenly sling arm or leg around it and sink his sharp teeth into its hairy' throat. For a. long, long hour the dingo glared at the black man. Through its baleful eyes its brain slowly calculated all the strength, all the weakness of the savage black pinned beneath the stone. Then, lifting its prick-eared head, it sniffed the air's message long and carefully. Satisfied, it edged a little closer to the black man, dropped on its belly, laid sharp head upon outstretched forepaws, and—waited. The hours slipped by. Over all was the afternoon silence of the bush, with a drongo calling far away. But intense listening could distinguish many things. The scratch on bark as a goanna clawed' up a tree, the "thump! thump! thump!" of a passing wallaby among the bushes on the bank above, the hum of insects, the murmuring of countless leaves. Presently, soft black shadows enveloped the gully, a cooling breath came into the air.

The black man had boastfully left the hunting party to kill big game by himself. They had laughed derisively as they went their way among the coolabah trees. Now they would miss him at the campfires tonight, and anxious would be the talk of what could possibly have happened to him. There would be a clutching of spears and glaring out into the dark lest enemies had got him, enemies perhaps even now prowling around the gunyahs. But fear of the spirits of the dead would keep them from looking for him, for the dead folk walk by night. At the first blush of the Sun-god, though, they would be on his tracks. Quickly they would find him—but only his gnawed bones would be left if the pack came!

Murooroo's gleaming eyes stared hard at the dingo's gaunt flanks. The gully shadowed into darkness and silence.

A light shone suddenly from the wild man's eyes. A pleasant, unfamiliar thrill ran through his body as from the birth of thought came slow understanding; and from understanding, hope. The dingo's flanks were lean and hollow. The ribs stood out hard and taut, almost like those of a dead thing. It was famishing! But now it had made certain of its meal, it only had to wait. It would not call the pack now as the night wore on, for that would mean that it must fight for a small share of the meal. If the crippled man could only

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keep it off until dawn—until his friends came!

The dingo dragged on its belly a little closer. The black man bared gleaming white teeth while a low, half-fearful, halftriumphant rumble came from deep down in his throat.

Far back in the gloom of the stunted timber a mongrel was loping over the earth, its nose to the ground, following tracks. Now and again it stopped short, the bristles from its mangy- sear-striped back rising stiffly erect, fangs gleaming in a noiseless snarl, its red-rimmed, burning eyes piercing the darkness ahead, to right and left, and behind. Then on again on noiseless pads, only to halt fearfully again at the scent of that something crossing the tracks. But it went on again, this mongrel, the survivor of cruel thrashings, this .wild man's dog with the heart of gold, terrified now at the scent of its dingo enemy, it carried on, following its master's tracks. To the gully-bank from where the rock had fallen the mongrel crawled upon its belly, head pressed to the ground, flaming eyes searching the blackness, below. As it saw the back of the crouching dingo a shiver of fear raised the bristles on its neck and along the knobby backbone. The dingo had crawled in a narrowing semi-circle around the black man. ' Its instinct told it that the almost helpless savage would live. long. But now the night was here, the man-thing's friends had not come, hunger gnawed fiercely at the dingo's lean flanks. The provoking odour of the meal so near, stirred its vitals. Murooroo, twisting his neck as the beast crawled past him, knew it was getting on the boulder side behind his head, where he could not use his good leg, where his good arm would be of the least possible use, and where he could not keep his eyes fixed upon its instant movement. One quick spring, one clash of teeth across his throat, and he was done. Reaching behind him he clawed a hole in the earth and lowered his head into it. This stretched back his neck. But he laid his claw-like hand across his throat and snarled defiance into the eyes of the dingo. Again he tingled with that strange, exultant feeling. Inch by inch the dingo crawled nearer and nearer. While down the creek-bank fifty feet behind it now crawled the mongrel, manoeuvring every inch as the dingo moved its body, quivering with the fear it dared not whimper. For two hours the blazing eyes looked into the twisted eyes of the black man. For two hours the dingo had not moved. The mongrel, crouching close behind, drew in ' noiseless breath for the spring, as it sensed the stiffening of the dingo's tail, the tautening tendons of the hind legs drawn in well under the bunching body. The mongrel sprang a quarterbreath before the dingo, its fangs snapped at the dingo's back as both animals crashed on Murooroo's head. The surprised dingo leapt aside and vanished as if on wings of lightning.

The black man threw his arm around his hunting dog and mouthed it and cried its name again and again. It licked his face and whimpered. From the high bank the dingo looked back over its shoulder, then stopped, sharp nose in the air. To its twitching nostrils came no other scent of man or beast; only the crooning black man below with the mongrel shivering across his chest. For long the dingo watched, motionless. Then it sat slowly on its haunches, lifted its head to the starlit skies and howled. A long-drawn, mournful howl that . swept many miles over the silent land to echo in distant rock-walled gorges, a melancholy howl that floated far over the low hills and down the scrubby creeks out on to the great open plains. Murooroo, closing his eyes, lay back against the cold earth and shuddered. It was the call of the pack!