My Departure For Coolgardie
Was Taken Advantage Of By Several Who Wished To Bank Their Gold, And Thus
I Became An Escort.
Coolgardie lay almost due south, 220 miles on the chart, but nearly 300
miles by the track, which deviated from water to water.
Speed being an
object, I decided to strike through the bush to George Withers' hole.
Here, by the way, poor Alec Kellis had just been murdered by the
blacks - not the pleasantest of news to hear, as I started on my solitary
journey. I followed a horse pad for fifty-five miles, mostly through thick
scrub, to Cutmore's Well, where several parties were camped, who eagerly
questioned me as to the richness of the new field.
Leaving Cutmore's, I struck through the bush, and before long the sickness
I had had on me for some time past, developed into a raging fever. Every
bone in my body ached and shot with pain. I could neither ride nor walk
for more than a few minutes at a stretch; I was unable to eat, nor cared
to drink the hot water in my canteen. I struggled on, now riding, now
walking, and now resting under a bush, travelling in this fashion as long
as daylight lasted, from five in the morning until six at night. Afraid to
let the camels go at night lest they should wander too far, or, while I
was following them in the morning, my packs should be raided by the
blacks, I tied them down, one on either side of my blankets; and thus I
had not only a protection against the wind, but the pleasure of their
companionship - no slight blessing in that solitude.
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