Copyright Story. The Hairy Man (The "Yahoo”).

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXI, Issue X, 5 September 1903, Page 653

Copyright Story. The Hairy Man (The "Yahoo”).

By

HENRY LAWSON.

(Author of "Ln the Days When the World was Wide,” ete.)

As far back as I can remember there has been in the Blue Mountains district of New South Wales the yarn of the “Yahoo" or “Hairy Man.” It scared children coming home by the bush tracks from school, and boys out late after lost cows—or kangaroos, and even grown bushmen, going along a lonely track after sunset, would hold their backs hollow and whistle a tune when they suddenly heard a noise (say the thud, thud of a kangaroo leaping off through the scrub) and thought of the Hairy Man. Other districts had other spooks and bogies; the escaped tiger: the ghost of the convict who had been “done to death” and buried in his irons; ghosts of men who had hanged themselves; the ghost of the hawker's wife whose husband had murdered her wit I .', a tomahawk in the lonely camp by the track; the ghost of the murdered bushman, whose mate had quietly stepped liehind him. as he sat reflecting over a pipe, and broken the back of his heart with an axe —and afterwards burned the body between two logs: ghosts of murders that had been proved, and of murders that had been “done right enough”—all sorts and conditions of ghosts, none of them cheerful, most of them grimly original, and characteristic of the weirdly melancholy and aggressively lonely Australian bush. But the Hairy Man was permanent, and his country spread from the eastern sl< pes of the Great Dividing Range right out to the ends of the western spur. He had been heard of and seen and described so often, and by so many reliable liars, that most people agreed that “it must be something.” The most popular and enduring theory was that it was a gorilla, or an orang-outang, which had escaped as a youngster from a travelling menagerie long ago. It was also said to be a new kind of kangaroo, of the last of a species of Australians animals which hadn’t been discovered and classified yet : anyway, in some places, it was regarded as a danger to children coming home from school (other dangers were wild bullocks, snakes, and an occasional bushman in the D.T.'s); so, now and then, when the yarn had a revival, search parties were organised and went out with guns to find the Hairy Man, and settle him and the question one way or the other—but they never found him. Dave Regan. Jim Bentley, and Andy page, bushmates, had taken a contract to clear and fence the ground for a new cemetery about three miles out of the thriving township of Mudgee-Budgee. Mudgee-Budgee had risen to the dignity of a three-pub town, and people were beginning to die. Vp to now the occasional corpses of Mudgee-Budgee (a bushman who had been thrown from his horse or smashed against a tree while riding recklessly, as bushmen do, or a boozer who had died during a spree in hot weather), or of “Home Rule"—a small goldfield six miles to the west —had to be taken to the cemetery belonging to the farming town of Buckaroo, about nine miles east of Mudgee-Budgee. This meant a nine mile or. in the case of Home Rule, a fifteen mile drag, which was rather a long-drawn out agony in blazing hot, dusty weather, or in the rain when the roads were boggy. The Ruekaroo undertaker could only be induced to bring his hearse out two miles along the road to meet the corpse, which was carried so far in a dray, spring cart, or waggonette, and this detracted from the dignity of Mudgee-Budgee and Home Rule. So Mudgee-Budgee and Home Rule agreed to have a cemetery between them, and Dave Regan got the contract to prepare the ground for planting corpses. Dave and his mates camped in an ol I deserted slab and bark hut, which hairpened to stand on the ground; it was a lonely place, in dark stringy bark buso,

the nearest house being the hut of a timber-getter and his family, about two miles along the track on the Home-Rule side. It was the day after Anniversary Day (the anniversary of the founding of the Colony). and Dave and Jim were patriots. Dave and Jim were feeling very repentant and shaky. They had spent the day at the Buekaroo races, half the night in Ruekaroo, and the other half in Home-Rule—where the early closing law, as regarded publie houses, was not so stringent. They had had a good time, they had betted and shouted (treated) away all their eash in hand, as well as an advance cheque drawn on the contract, had run up scores, the Lord knew how much! at all the pubs, and had had several rows, and at least three tights: they weren’t sure with whom—that was the trouble—but had a drink-lurid recollection of having got off their horses several times on the way home to fight each other. They were too siek to eat or to smoke yet; they sat on a stool outside their hut. and their nerves being all unstrung their imagination was particularly active, and they magnified the awful importance of the unknown an! the nightmare portions of last night until they felt very dismal and hopeless indeed. Dave had a haunting idea, which grew at last to be a sickening conviction, that he had insulted, and wanted to fight, the squatter of the district, from whom he had the promise of a big fencing contract. Jim had a soul-smother-ing recollection of a row with the leading Mudgee-Budgee storekeeper, who gave them credit. They had sworn off drink, they were going to church it “for good,” each was privately but firmly resolved this time. Never again! But they said nothing about it to each other; they had sworn off mutually so often that t ie thing had become boresome. But the worst of it was that they had broken the bobtie which 'they were bringing home last night for a morning reviver, and had nothing to •’straighten up on." Their nerves were not in a fit state to allow of their going to Mudgec-Budgec. at the risk of hearing some new and awful truths of last night’s doings, and they hadn't the courage to ask Andy to go. They were very contrite and gentle towards him with their “Yes. Andy,” and “No. Andy,’’ and “No thank you. Andy," when he fried chops and made coffee for them. The day before they had both sworn to him—solemnly, affectionately, and. at last, impatiently and even angrily—and on the grave of all the faith they had broken with him. that they wouldn't get drunk, that they wouldn't het. that they wouldn't draw a penny on the contract, that they’d buy a week’s provisions first thing. that they’d bring the things home with them on their horses, and they’d come home, early. And now! they'd spent his money as well as their own. Andy made no remarks, and asked no questions when they woke at midday; and they took his silence in a ehastened spirit. Andy Page was a patriot and a democrat, too, the most earnest of the three; but he was as obstinately teetotal as he was honest and truthful. Dave was the head of the party, but Andy the father. Andy had. on several occasions, gone into town with Dave and Jim on pay-nights: to look,after them, to fight for them if necessaray. and to get them home, if possible, when they’d had enough. It was a thankless job, bti’ Andy was loved by his mates, who wanted to fight him when he stood out against “one more drink"—which they did only when they were drunk, for h* was as strong, physically as well as morally, as the two put together; an 1 Andy was re-pected even by the publi can. whom he abused for serving his mates when they’d had enough. But the last spree but one had disgusted And .’. He score he’d never go into town with them again; and like most simple-mind-ed, honest, good-natured fellows, whosa ideas come slowly, who are slow at ar-

riving at decisions (and whose decimons are invariably righ), when he’d on. e made up his mind, nothing short of a severe shock of earthquake could move him. He’d stayed at home on Anniversary Day and washed and mended his clothes, and had read —and tried to un-derstand-Henry George’s “Progress and Poverty.*’ # Dave and Jim were still moping wretchedly about the hut, when, towards the middle of the afternoon, an angel came along on horseback. It was Jack Jones from Mudgee-Budgee, a drinking mate of theirs, “bush-telegraph’' joker and ne’er-do-well of the district. He hung up his shy, spidery filly under a shed at the back of the hut. “I thought you chaps would he feeling shaky,” he said, “and I’ve been feeling as lorn ly and dismal as an orphan bandicoot on a burnt ridge, so 1 thought I’d come out. I’ve brought a flask of whisky.” Never were two souls more grateful. Bu«h mateshiv> is a grand thing, drunk or sober. Andy promptly took charge of the whisky, and proceeded to dole it out in judicious doses at decent intervals. Jack, who was a sandy ccmplexionod young fellow, with the expression of a born humorist, had some news. “You know old Corney George? ' They had heard of him. He was an old Corni diman, who split shingles and pailings in the Black Range and “hatted” —that is, lived alone—in a hut in a dark gully under the shadow of Dead Man’s Gap. “He went into Buckarm) to the police station yesterday,” said Jack Junes, “in a very bad state. He swore he’d seen the Hairy Man.” “The Whatter?” “Yes, the Hairy Man. He swore that the Hairy Man came down to his hut the night before last, just about dark, and tried to break in. He said the Hairy Man stayed about the hut all night, trying to pull the slabs off the walls, and get the bark off the roof, and didn’t go away till daylight. Old Corney says he fired at him two or three times, through the cracks, with his shotgun, but the Hairy Man didn’t take any notice. The old chap was pretty shaky on it.” “Drink. I s’pose,’ grunted Dave contemptuously. “No, it wasn’t the drink. They reckoned he’d been ‘hatting’ it too long. They've got him at the police station now.” “What did he say the Hairy Man ww like?” asked Jim Bently. “Oh, the usual thing.” said Jack. “ ’Bout as tall as a man and twice as broad, arms nearly as long as himself big wide mouth with grinning teeth an 1 covered all ov r with red hair.” “Why! That’s just what my uncle said he was like,” exclaimed ?. m’y Page suddenly taking great inte.e-t in the conversation. lie was passing in with so ne firewood to stick under a pot in which he was boiling a p. - e of --lit beef; now he stood st<ck still and staved at Jim Bently with the blank, breathless expression of a man who has just heard astounding news. “Did your uncle see tic Hairy Man, Andy?” impaired Jack Jonet. feebly. He felt too sick to take much interest. “Yes,” said Andy, star in/ at with great earnestness. “Did . t i tell you 9 He was drivin’ home up . m p:.-- to Dea l Man’s Gap. whore he live! then, and bo seen the llairx man buntilin’ off amongst the rocks.” Andy paused impressively, and stared at Jack. “And what did your unde do. Andy?” asked Jack. v. ith a jerky little cough. “Be stood up in the ca * r.nl hammered into the horse, ami gall zip?*; it ill ike way home, full bat up to ti e door; then ho jumped down, leaving tie <-art and horse standing there, went in and lay down on the bed. and wouldn’t ‘-peak to anybody for two horns.” “How long?*" i>kt.d Jack, still feebly. “Two hour-,” said Andy earn, stly; and he went in with the firewood. Join s proposed “a bit of a stroll”; he -aid it would do them good. He felt an irresistible inclination to giggle, and wished to get out of the hearing of Andy, whom he respected. Along the track a bit there was an incident which proved the state of their nerves. A big brown snake whipped across the track, and into a heap of dead boughs. They stared at each other for a full minute—then Jack summoned courage to ask: “Did you chaps see that snaket”

Then it was all right; they put ft match to the boughs, and stood round with long sticks till the snake came out,

They went back to the hut and managed a cup of coffee. Presently they get on to ghost and Hairy Man yarns again. “That was God’s truth!” said Jack, “that yarn I told you about w'aat happened to me going up Dead Man’s Gap. It was just as I told you. I was driving slowly up in the little old spring eart of mine, when something—l don't know what it was—made me look behind, and there was a woman walking along behind the eart with her hands on the tailboard. It was just above the spot where the hawker’s wife was murdered. She was dressed in black, and had blaek hair, and her face was dead white. At first 1 thought it was some woman who wanted a lift, or a chap in woman’s clothes, playing the ghost, so I pulled up. And, when I look ’d round again she was gone. I thought she’d crouched under the eart; I whipped up the horse, and looked round again, but there was nothing there. Then I reckon I drove home as fast as Andy’s uncle did. You needn’t believe me unless you like.” “Thunderstorm coming.” said Dave, sniffing, and looking round the corner to the east. “I thought this weather would bring something.” “My oath.” said Jim, “a regular oldman storm, tco.” The might blue blaek bank of storm cloud rose bodily from the east, and was overhead and sweeping down on the sunset in a very few minutes. The lightning blazed out and swallowed daylight as well as darkness. But it was not a rain storm; it was the biggest hailstorm ever experienced in that district. Orchards and vineyards were stripped, and many were ruined round there. Some said there were stones as big as hen’s eg*s; some said the storm lasted over an hour, some said more—it was probably half or three-quarters of an hour- Hail lay feet deep in the old diggers’ holes for a fortnight after. Inside the hut, the mates half expected the hail to come through the roof. Just as the storm began to hold up a little they heard louder pattering outside, and a bang at the door. The door was of hard wood boards with wide cracks; Andy rose to open it, but squinted through a craek first. He snatched the big crowbar from the corner, dug the foot of it into the earth floor and jambed the pointed head under a cross piece of the door; he did the same with a smaller crowbar, anti looked wildly round for more materia! for a barricade. “What are you doing? Who is it, Andy ?” cried the others, on their feet. “It’s the Hairy Man!” gasped Andy. They got to the door, an.l squinted through a crack in turn. One squint was enough. They didn't hive to push and crowd and say. “Let’s have a look.” It was the Hairy Man right enough, ft was about as fall as an ordinary man, but seemed twice as broad across the shoulders; it. had long arms, and was covered with hair, face and all; it had a big, ugly mouth and wild blood-shot eyes. They helped Andy to barricade the door. There was anotner bang at the door. A cart rattled .past, a woman screamed, and the cart event on at a groat rate. There was amnzzle-loaded shot-gun hanging on the wall, loaded—Andy had left it loaded the last time he’d been out kangaroo shooting. to save ammunitionAndy. lit. • most slow-thinking men, often did desperate thing- suddenly in a crisis. He snatched down the gun. stopped back a pace or two aimed at the door low down, and fired. He doesn’t know why he aimed low d”wn—except that it “was too much lik shooting at a man.” They heard a howl, and the thing, whatever it was. running off. They barricaded the door more. They scanned the door planking, and found that about half the charge had gone through. “The powder must have got damp,” said Andy. “Til put in a double charge to make sure,” and he reloaded the gun with trembling hands. The other three bumped their heads over the whisky. They can’t say for certain how they got through that night, or what they said or did. The first idea was to got out of there, and run to Mudgee-Budgee, but they were reluctant to leave their fort. Who’d go out and reconnoitre? “Besides,” said Jack Jones, “we’re safer here, and the thing’s gone, whatever it is. What would they think of us if we went into the town with a yarn about a Hairy Man?” He had heard his horse breaking away, and didn’t care, to take the risk of being chased on foot by the Yahoo.

About an hour later they heard a horse galloping past, and, looking through the cracks, saw a boy riding to <v aids Mudgee-Budgee. “It’s young Foley,” said Jack. “The son of that old timber getter that's just taken up a selection along the road near Home Rule." "I wonder what's up?” said Andy. “Perhaps the Hairy Man’s been there! We ought to go along and help.” “They can take eare of themselves,” said Jaek, hurriedly. “They're close to Home Rule, and can get plenty of help. The boy wouldn’t ride to Mudgee-Budgee it there was anything wrong." The moon had risen full. Some two or three hours later they saw Mahoney, the mounted constable, and the young doctor from Buckaroo, ride past towards Home Rule. “There’s something up, right enough,” said Jim Bently. Later on they began to stare at each other less intently, and left off jumping when anybody spoke. About daybreak Andy was sitting obstinately on guard, with the gun across his knees, and the others dozing on the bunks (and waking now and then with jerks), when Constable Mahoney rode up to the door and knocked his business knock. It brought them all to their feet. Andy asked him, very unnecessarily, to come in, and placed a stool for him, but. he didn’t see it. He looked round the hat. “Whose fov Im’ piece is that ?” he asked. “It's—it’s mine,” said Andy. Mahoney took the gun up and examined it. “Is this fowlin’ piece loaded?” he asked. “Yes,” said Andy, “it is.” “Now listen to me, boys,” said the constable. “Was this fowlin’ piece discharged last night?” “What's up?—What have we done?” asked Jim Bently, desperately. “Bone?” shouted Mahoney. “Done? Why, you’ve filled both old Foley, the timber-getter’s, legs with kangaroo shot. That’s what you’ve done! Do you know what that is?” “No,” said Jack Jones. He was thinking hard. “It’s manslaughter!” roared Mahoney. “What’s the meanin’ of it?” They explained the meaning as far as they were able. It seemed that Mahoney had further evidence; he had a weakness for the boys, and a keen sense of humour, outside himself. “Best come along with me,” he said. Andy had a stiff Sunday sac suit, of chocolate colour, and a starched white shirt and collar, which he kept in a gin case. He always put ’em on when anything happened. On this Occasion he fastened his braces over his waistcoat and didn’t notice until they had got some distance along the road. There was great excitement at Foley’s shanty—women and children crying and neighbours hanging round. Foley was lying on his face, on a stretcher, and the young doctor examining and taking shot from the hairiest leg that Regan and Co. had ever seen on

man or beast. The doctor said, afterwards, that some of the shots had oiilv flattened inside the outer skin, others had a covering of hair twisted round them. When Foley was turned round to give his "dispositions,” as Mahoney called them, they saw that he had enough hair on his chest to stuff a set of buggy cushions. He had red whiskers all over his face, rusty red; spikey hair all over his head, and a big mouth, and bloodshot eyes. He was the hairiest and ugliest man in the district. His language was mostly unprintable, partly because of the excitement he was still labouring under, and partly because of his peculiar shade of brogue. When Mahoney said “shtone” Foley would say “stawn” —a brogue with a drawl which sounded ridiculous in an angry man. He drawled most over his oath.-. It seems that he was splitting his hit of fencing timber down "beyant the new cimitry,” when the storm came on. He thought it would be the usual warm thunderstorm. It was too far to run home. He didn’t want to get wet so he took his clothes off, and put them in a hollow log till the storm should be past; then the lightning played round his tools—the crosscut saw, axe, wedges, etc., and he had to get away from there. He didn’t bargain for ‘‘them blanky hail sta—w—ns.” “It’s a wonder I wasn’t scalped and drilled full of hawls.” He thought of the hut, and made for it. and they wouldn’t let him in. He suddenly saw’ some woman cornin’ round a bend in the road in a tilted cart, and saw no chance of getting away—there was a clearing round the hut; so he banged at the door again. “I thawt the winnnin would stop.” “Whoy did ye think that?” asked Mahoney, “what would they shtop for?” “How’ th’ hell was I to knaw? —curiosity, I suppose. They weltered into their old hawse, an’ I turned to look after them, whin the murderin’ villains inside shot a gun at me. Me legs are full of hawls. I got back to me clothes an’ dressed somehow. Someone will have to pay for it. I’ll be laid upon me back for six weeks.” The young doctor excused himself and went out for a few minutes. Mahoney wanked at Regan and party—a wink you could hear—and it comforted them mightily. When they went out they saw the doctor hanging to a sapling, some distance from the hut. He swmng w’ith his back to the sapling, and slid to the ground, his legs stretched out in front of him. He said he W’ould be all right presently. The thing was fixed up, but the young doctor wanted badly to have the case brought into Court. He said it would cheer up the district for ages, and add ten years to the life of the oldest inhabitant. He offered to pay expenses, but Regan and party couldn’t see it.