A fair
percentage of cattle or their equivalent in fair payment - openly and
fairly giving them, and seeing that no man is unjustly treated or hungry
within his borders - cattle killing, and at times even man killing by
blacks, will not be an offence against the white folk.
A black fellow kills cattle because he is hungry and must be fed with
food, having been trained in a school that for generations has
acknowledged "catch who catch can" among its commandments; and until the
long arm of the law interfered, white men killed the black fellow because
they were hungry with a hunger that must be fed with gold, having been
trained in a school that for generations has acknowledged "Thou shalt not
kill" among its commandments; and yet men speak of the "superiority" of
the white race, and, speaking, forget to ask who of us would go hungry if
the situation were reversed, but condemn the black fellow as a vile
thief, piously quoting - now it suits them - from those same commandments,
that men "must not steal," in the same breath referring to the white
man's crime (when it finds them out) as "getting into trouble over some
shooting affair with blacks." Truly we British-born have reason to brag
of our "inborn sense of justice."
The Maluka being more than willing to give his fair percentage, a
judicious hint from him was generally taken quietly and for the time
discreetly obeyed, and it was a foregone conclusion that our "nigger
hunt" would only involve the captured with general discomfiture; but the
Red Lilies being a stronghold of the tribe, and a favourite hiding-place
for "outsiders," emergencies were apt to occur "down the river," and we
rode out of camp with rifles unslung and revolvers at hand.
Dan's sleep had in no wise lessened his faith in the efficiency of
dust-throwing, and as we set out he "reckoned" the missus would "learn a
thing or two about surprise parties this trip." We all did, but the black
fellows gave the instruction.
All morning we rode in single file, following the river through miles of
deep gorges, crossing here and there stretches of grassy country that ran
in valleys between gorge and gorge, passing through deep Ti Tree forests
at times, and now and then clambering over towering limestone ridges that
blocked the way, with, all the while, the majestic Roper river flowing
deep and wide and silent on our left, between its water-lily fringed
margins. It would take a mighty drought to dry up the waters of the
Territory - permanent, we call them, sure of our rivers and our rains.
Almost fifty miles of these deep-flowing waterways fell to our share;
thirty-five miles of the Roper, twelve in the Long Reach, besides great
holes scattered here and there along the beds of creeks that are mighty
rivers in themselves "during the Wet." Too much water, if anything, was
the complaint at the Elsey, for water everywhere meant cattle everywhere.
For over two hours we rode, prying into and probing all sorts of odd
nooks and crannies before we found any sign of blacks, and then, Roper
giving the alarm, every one sat to attention. Roper had many ways of
amusing himself when travelling through bush, but one of his greatest
delights was nosing out hidden black fellows. At the first scent of
"nigger" his ears would prick forward, and if left to himself, he would
carry his rider into an unsuspected nigger camp, or stand peering into
the bushes at a discomfited black fellow, who was busy trying to think of
some excuse to explain his presence and why he had hidden.
As Roper's ears shot forward and he turned aside towards a clump of
thick-set bushes, Dan chuckled in expectation, but all Roper found was a
newly deserted gundi camp, and fresh tracks travelling eastwards - tracks
left during the night - after our arrival at the river, of course.
Dan surveyed the tracks, and his chuckles died out, and, growing
sceptical of the success of his surprise party, he followed them for a
while in silence, Sambo riding behind, outwardly stolid, but no doubt,
inwardly chuckling.
Other eastward-going tracks a mile or so farther on made Dan even more
sceptical, and further tracks again set him harking back to his theory of
"something always telling 'em somehow," and, losing interest in
nigger-hunts, he became showman of the Roper river scenery.
Down into the depths of gorges he led us, through ferny nooks, and over
the sandy stretches at the base of the mighty clefts through which the
river flows; and as we rode, he had us leaning back in our saddles, in
danger of cricking our necks, to look up at lofty heights above us, until
a rocky peninsula running right into the river, after we had clambered up
its sides like squirrels, he led the way across its spiky surfaced
summit, and soon we were leaning forward over our horses' necks in
danger of taking somersaults into space, as we peered over the sides of a
precipice at the river away down beneath us. "Nothing like variety," Dan
chuckled; and a few minutes later again we were leaning well back in our
saddles as the horses picked their way down the far side of the ridge,
old Roper letting himself down in his most approved style; dropping from
ledge to ledge as he went, stepping carefully along their length, he
would pause for a moment on their edges to judge distance, then,
gathering his feet together, he would sway out and drop a foot or more to
the next ledge. Riding Roper was never more than sitting in the saddle
and leaving all else to him.
