Part 1

Produced by Al Haines.

*[Frontispiece: With incredible difficulty Yellow Billy managed to pass his whip thong twice round the brute's neck--*_*See p.*_* 188. (missing from book)]*

PALS

YOUNG AUSTRALIANS IN SPORT AND ADVENTURE

BY

JOSEPH BOWES

_WITH EIGHT FULL-PAGE COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS BY JOHN MACFARLANE_

LONDON: JAMES GLASS 28 NEWGATE STREET 1910

*CONTENTS*

CHAP.

I. By Way of Introduction II. The Bushrangers III. A Desperate Encounter IV. The Great Match V. The Big Flood VI. On the Face of the Waters VII. The Death of the Forest Monarch VIII. What the Tree held IX. The Rescue X. The Return XI. The Breaking Up XII. Down the River XIII. Off for the Holidays XIV. Christmas Fun and Frolic XV. A Bush Ride and its Consequences XVI. The Dingo Raid XVII. Dingo *v.* Emu: A Fight to a Finish XVIII. The Chase and its Sequel XIX. Concerning Wild Horses XX. The Brumby Hunt XXI. The Warrigal's Strategy XXII. How Yellow Billy broke the Warrigal XXIII. A Day's Shoot XXIV. The Corrobberie XXV. In the Bushrangers' Caves XXVI. The Explorers XXVII. A Respite XXVIII. The Camp by the Sea XXIX. At the Mercy of the Sea-Tiger XXX. In and About the Camp XXXI. Off to the Gold Diggings XXXII. How they struck Gold XXXIII. Bullion and Bushranger

*LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS*

With incredible difficulty Yellow Billy managed to pass his whip thong twice round the brute's neck (missing from book) . . . _Frontispiece_

Suddenly the Forest Monarch topples, lurches, staggers and falls with a mighty crash

The neighbours saw, far out on the wild, wreckage-strewn waters, a tiny boat with four slight figures

The emu failed to elude the panther-like spring

Retreating one moment and advancing the following, uttering war-cries

The huge brute lashed the water into foam, and swam round and round in a circle

"We've struck it rich, I do believe," cried the stockman

Behind the lantern came a voice that more than the lantern, or even pistol, cowed them: "*Stop! Hands up!*" (missing from book)

The grey gums by the lonely creek The star-crowned height, The wind-swept plain, the dim blue peak, The cold white light, The solitude spread near and far Around the camp-fire's tiny star, The horse-bell's melody remote, The curlew's melancholy note, Across the night.

GEORGE ESSEX EVANS

*PALS*

*CHAPTER I*

*BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION*

"Happy season of virtuous youth, when shame is still an impassable barrier, and the sacred air cities of hope have not shrunk into the mean clay hamlets of reality; and man by his nature is yet infinite and free."--CARLYLE.

"Comin' over to-night, Tom?"

"By jings! I'd like to, Joe, but dad said this morning he was going to shell corn to-night. You know what that means. What's on?"

"Oh! Sandy's stayin' in for the night; so I thought of gettin' Jimmy Flynn an' Yellow Billy so's we could have bushrangers, an' stick up the coach by moonlight. If they can't come, Sandy an' I'll go 'possumin' in the slaughter-house paddock."

"I say! what a jolly lark the bushranging'd be. How'd you manage it, Joe?"

"We've planned that out all right. We'd get Jimmy Flynn's billy-goat cart an' the billies. He'd be mailman, an' it'd be gold-escort day. Yellow Billy'd be the trooper; he's got a pistol, you know. He'd ride the roan steer he's broken in. Then you, Sandy, an' I'd be Ben Bolt's gang. We'd do a plant in a lonely spot along the road an' surprise 'em. I'd tackle Billy, you'd look after Jimmy, Sandy 'd collar the mailbags and gold boxes, and then scoot with the loot. I think it'd be better to shoot Billy, so's to make it a bit more real; that's what Ben Bolt'd do."

"But, Joe, where'd we get the guns?"

"I'd get father's. You'd have to make believe with a nulla-nulla. We could stick a boomerang in our belts, it'd look like pistols in the dark."

"But I say, Joe, ole chap, you wouldn't really shoot Billy?" said Tom in a tone that savoured both of fear and scepticism.

"You're a precious muff, Hawkins! I was just kidding you. No, you stupid, it's all gammon. The noise the powder 'll make 'll scare the seven senses outer Billy."

"By golly! it'll be crummie enough. Put it off till to-morrow, Joe, an' I'll come."

"Can't be done, my boy. Sandy'll not be here, for one thing. Besides, I have to pull father down to Yallaroi Bend to-morrow. It's his service night there. Sorry you can't come, Tom. We'll have to do our best without you."

"Oh Moses! to think that I can't join!" groaned Tom. "Look here, Joe, I--I'll do a sneak. I'll be here somehow, you may bet your Sunday breeks," continued the eager lad, as he stepped into the little "flat-bottom" boat which had brought him over.

"Joe!" he shouted when he had rowed some distance from the shore. "I'll give a cooee if I can get, an' two cooees if the way's blocked. So don't start till you hear."

"Right-o!"

The place where these boys lived, moved, and had their being was a district famed for its fertility, on one of the northern rivers in New South Wales.

The river itself had many of the elements of nobility and beauty as, taking its rise in the snowy heights of the New England ranges, it clove its way eastward, finally debouching into the blue waters of the Pacific. The river-flats formed magnificent stretches of arable lands; too rich, indeed, for such cereals as wheat and oats, for their rank growth rendered them liable to the fatal rust.

Here, however, was the home of the maize, the pumpkin, the sweet potato, the orange, the lemon, the plantain. Here too, the natural sequence, in a way, of the prolific corn and the multitudinous pumpkin, were reared and flourished the unromantic pig.

Fed on pumpkins, with skim milk for beverage, topped off with corn, the Australian grunter--whether as delicious, crisp bacon, or posing as aristocratic ham--produces flesh with a flavour fit to set before a king.

Away from the river-flats the land becomes undulating and ridgy, and well grassed for cattle runs. In the scrub belts, running back from the river and its affluents into the hilly country, are to be found valuable timbers, hard and soft; especially that forest noble, the red cedar.

Cattle runs of large extent exist in the back-blocks, formed in the early days by that class of men to whom Australia owes so much; the men who to-day are vilified by those not worthy to black their boots: the hardy, adventurous, courageous, indomitable pioneer, who more often than not laid down his life and his fortune in the interest of Colonial expansion and occupation.

At intervals along the river-banks are small settlements, dignified by the name of townships. Tareela, the principal village, skirted both sides of the river, and was connected by a ferry. Here were located the Government offices for the district, together with the stores, hotels, school, etc.

Joe Blain, the minister's son, was the leader of the village lads. He had two pals, who were inseparable from him: Sandy M'Intyre, the squatter's son, whose father owned Bullaroi, a cattle station situated a few miles from the town, and Tom Hawkins, a farmer's son, the youngest of the trio. These boys gave tone and direction to the fun and frolic of the settlement. Of them it is sufficient to say at present that they were not pedestal lads.

At this time a noted bushranger and his mate were raiding the settlements. All police pursuit was futile, owing to the resourcefulness of the 'rangers. They had a keen knowledge of the open country and the mountain ranges. Furthermore, they were generally mounted on blood horses, usually "borrowed" from the surrounding station studs.

These men had many sympathisers among the lawlessly inclined, and, strange to say, among law-abiding settlers. The "bush-telegraph" was an institution in those days. Certain friends of the 'rangers kept them posted up in the movements of the police, sometimes by word of mouth, at others by writings on paper or bark, which were deposited in rock crevices or in tree hollows, known only to the initiated. Sometimes a young lad, or even a girl, would ride scores of miles across country to give them warning.

The police were not wanting in bush lore or courage, and in the end invariably ran their quarry to earth. But an outlaw often had a long career in crime, owing to the aid given, ere he was trapped. Thanks to closer settlement, the advance of education, and the general use of the electric telegraph, bushranging has become a matter of history. The species is now to be found only in the stage melodrama, the itinerating waxwork show, or embalmed in literature.

*CHAPTER II*

*"THE BUSHRANGERS*

"_Poins_: Tut! our horses they shall not see. I'll tie them in the wood; our visors we will change after we leave them; and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the nonce to immask our noted outward garments.

"_Prince_: But I doubt they will be too hard for us."

SHAKESPEARE, Henry IV.

After leaving Tom Hawkins, or, to put it more correctly, after Tom had paddled away in his punt, Joe Blain proceeded to look up Jimmy Flynn, the blacksmith's apprentice, and Yellow Billy, a half-caste youth, whose father followed the occupation of a timber-getter in the ranges. Yellow Billy was generally employed as yard boy at the Travellers' Best Inn, and a rough time he often had, especially when the timber-getters were dissolving their hard-earned gold in alcohol.

One of Billy's duties was to milk the cows and tend the calves. Among the latter was a yearling steer, which he broke in and rode on the quiet. Many an hour's frolic the boys had in the moonlight in riding the steer. This animal had a good slice of the rogue in its composition, with a propensity for buck-jumping. When in a certain mood it would be as stubborn as a donkey and as savage as a mule.

After standing, say for some minutes, never budging, in spite of thwackings and tail-twistings, it would suddenly take to buck-jumping. Oh, my, couldn't it buck! Woe betide the unlucky rider when it was in this mood. Torn from his hold--a rope round its brisket--one moment behold him sprawling over its back, the next whirling through space, finally deposited with more force than elegance on the turf. All this, however, was great fun for the boys, who encouraged the brute in its bucking moods, each mounting in turns, to lie prone sooner or later on mother earth, amid the uproarious laughter of his fellows.

Billy was the exception. He was a born rider. Unable to shift him from its back, the brute became quite docile in his hands, and kept its tricks for the others.

Jimmy and Billy were ready and willing to fill their parts in the bill. The former, at "knock off," went out to the town common to round his goats, and Billy promised to be ready, "steered," so to speak, by the time appointed.

The road fixed upon was the track that led out from the township to a large sawmill, distant about six miles. It was a solitary road, passing through a scrub-belt, crossing several minor creeks, threading its way over a rocky ridge, winding through a rather wild defile, and ending at the mill; the sort of place, indeed, to present numerous opportunities for the criminal enterprise on hand. A spot where one could get "nice and creepy," as Joe said to Yellow Billy, much to that young man's disquiet.

The plan of campaign was simple enough. Joe, Tom, and Sandy were to set out as soon as possible after sundown and choose their spot for attack; while Jimmy was to drive the Royal Billy-goat Mailcart, with Trooper Yellow Billy a little in advance, as per custom.

The embryo bushrangers, unfortunately, had only one horse between them; the one Sandy rode to school. Mr. Blain's horse, on which the boys counted, was being used by the minister to take him to a moonlight service some distance out from the river. It was settled, therefore, that the three boys should bestride Sandy's stout cob, which was well able to carry these juvenile desperadoes.

"Mother!" shouted Joe, as he strode into the house in the late afternoon, from the wood-pile, where he had been chopping the next day's supply, "we're going to have grand fun to-night."

"What sort of fun, my son?"

"Bushranging along the sawmill road. Can I go mother? We've got such a grand plot."

"Well, I don't mind; but don't be out late."

"S'pose I can have the gun?"

"The g-u-n!"

"Yes, mother. No need to fear. It's all play."

"Well, don't load it."

"Only with powder to make a bang."

"I don't like the idea, my boy. Gun accidents often happen in play. You remember Jim Andrews----"

"Oh yes, mother, but that's different! It was loaded."

In the end, owing to the boy's importunity, Mrs. Blain reluctantly consented.

Early tea being duly dispatched, the boys made the necessary preparations for their dark deed. Joe produced a pair of knee-boots, the some time property of his father. He made them fit by sticking rags into the toes. He thrust his trousers' legs into the boot-tops, and wound a red scarf round his waist, through which he stuck a boomerang and nulla-nulla. A 'possum-skin cap adorned his head. His final act was to fasten on a corn-tassel moustache, and to strap his gun across his back. The broad effect of the costume was to make this youthful outlaw a cross, as it were, between Robinson Crusoe and a Greek brigand.

Indeed he quite terrified his two sisters, as he suddenly entered the sitting-room to the accompaniment of a blood-curdling yell. This the girls match with a shriek that wakes up the sleeping baby, bringing the mother in with a rush.

For a moment Mrs. Blain, seeing Joe in the half-light, thought some ruffian had entered.

"It's very thoughtless and wrong of you, Joe, to frighten your sisters. I--I--I'm quite angry with you----"

"Very sorry, mater," said Joe, with a serio-comic air. "I only meant to give them a start."

The girls, however, began to laugh, Joe looked such an oddity. They turned the tables on him by quizzing him most unmercifully. At last our young hero was very glad to beat a retreat to the backyard, where he found Sandy busy in saddling the horse.

Joe's confederate had roughened himself as much as circumstances permitted. In lieu of a skin cap he tied a big handkerchief round his hat, and stuck a couple of turkey-tail feathers through it. He had manufactured a brace of pistols out of short lengths of bamboo, with corn-cobs, stuck in bored holes at an angle, to form the stocks. These, with a boomerang and nulla-nulla slung at either side, and a short spear fixed in his belt at the back and standing over his head, made him in appearance more like a red Indian than a Colonial free-booter.

"All ready, Hawkeye?"

"Yes, ole pal. The mustang is waiting, and the brave will vault into the saddle at Thundercloud's word of command," answered Hawkeye in bastard Cooperese. Fenimore of that ilk was Sandy's favourite author.

"Hast thou heard the signal of Red Murphy?" said Joe, falling into the strain of speech.

"No, Thundercloud. No sound from our brither of the hither shore hath been borne on the wings of the wind across the----"

"Oh, stow that rot, Sand--Hawkeye! I wonder?----"

"Yon's the cry of the chiel," broke in the would-be brave, as at that moment the cooee of Tom Hawkins, alias Red Murphy, rose in the still air, faint from the distance, but distinct.

"A single cooee! Rippin! he's comin'. Let's mount and wait at the landing."

Hardly had the boys reached the river-bank ere Red Murphy appeared, attired much as the others, with the addition of an old blunderbuss belonging to his father.

"It's all right, boys! Hurroar! Dad broke the handle of the corn-sheller this evening, and sent me over with it to the blacksmith's. I'm to wait till it's mended. Wait a jiff an' I'll be with you," cried he, as he ran to the smithy, returning as fast as his legs could bring him, with the news that the broken handle could not be repaired under three hours owing to other urgent work.

Joe rapidly detailed the plan, informing Tom, at the same time, that his name and character were to be that of Red Murphy, one of the blood-thirstiest and most rapacious cut-throats in the Colonies.

*CHAPTER III*

*A DESPERATE ENCOUNTER*

"_Falstaff_: I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together. I have 'scaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet; four through the hose; my buckler cut through; my sword hacked like a handsaw _ecce signum_. I never dealt better since I was a man; all would not do."--SHAKESPEARE, _Henry IV_.

Joe had barely made his explanations before the rumbling of the approaching cart was heard. It was the Royal Mail starting on its adventurous trip.

"Time to be off, pals!" cried the leader. "Now then, Hawkeye, whip 'em up."

Off started the trio, Thundercloud, Hawkeye, and Red Murphy; each delivering a blood-curdling yell which rang up and down the street, as they passed through it at a smart canter. It had never fallen to the lot of horse, before, to bear upon its back at the same time three such ferocious outlaws, bent on so diabolical an errand. Behind them, and at a slower pace, came the Royal Mail goatcart, drawn by four strong billies, skilfully driven by coachman Jimmy, and attended by Trooper Billy astride his cud-chewing steed.

After leaving the township the road skirted the river for a mile or so, then, crossing a plank bridge, bore away to the hills. The silver moon shone from the clear sky through the pure air, making the tree shadows as they lay across the road to resemble fallen timber. The nocturnal 'possum, having ventured to the ground to feed upon the tender grass, scudded up the trees, frightened by the rumbling vehicle and the baaing steeds. The thud of paddy-melon[#] and wallaby could be distinctly heard, as they smote the earth in their jumping movements; while from the heights of some lofty tree the mopoke[#] tolled his mournful cry.

[#] "Paddy-melon," a small marsupial or pouch-bearing mammal.

[#] "Mopoke," the Australian crested goat-sucker.

The coach had now passed the three-mile creek, and still there was no sound of disturbing element. The coachman and trooper, having intelligence to the effect that the 'rangers were "out," and had threatened to "stick" up the gold-escort, were on the _qui vive_. They surmised that the attack would come in the scrub-belt, and about the spot where the creek intersected. Here the tall, overhanging trees, interlaced as they were with a thick vinous growth, effectually barred the moon's rays.

It was the ideal spot for ambush, and the hearts of the boys beat faster, and a nervous apprehension amounting to fear seized them, as they passed among the shadows. Everything had a distorted appearance, and again and again they trembled, as it were, on the verge of attack. They had chatted freely until the darkness of the scrub closed in upon them. Under its oppression, and by reason of the dread uncertainty, what had before seemed to be only a prime lark now presented itself as a grim reality.

They drove on slowly now, conversing only in whispers, for the night silences, the deepening shadows, and the unseen before them, all contributed to the mental mood which affected the boys. The creek banks and bed, save for a solitary moon-ray which silvered the rippling water, were enwrapped in thick darkness. Pulling up at the brink, the boys held a short conversation.

"Goin' ter cross, Jimmy?"

"I--I--s'pose so, Billy. Measly black ahead, ain't it?"

"You're not frightened, are you?"

"Wot! me? No fear! Y'are yourself!"

"I like that! Wot's to be frightened of?"

Yet the boys, if truth be told, were a good deal alarmed by the unwonted darkness and stillness.

"Well, s'pose we'd better be gettin' on. Don't care how soon we git outer this hole. You cross ahead, Billy, an' do a bit o' scoutin'. I'll wait here till you git up the bank on the other side."

Yellow Billy didn't like the prospect, and would have proposed turning back, but was afraid of being called a coward. Therefore, despite an apprehension of the darkness, accentuated by his aboriginal strain, and very much against his will, the half-caste plunged down the creek bed, and mounted the other side without let or hindrance, greatly to his surprise and relief.

But where are the 'rangers?

Of them the darkness gave no token and the silence is unbroken. Jimmy had some difficulty in getting his leaders to tackle the creek. It was only after he left the cart, seized their heads, and half-dragged them into the water that he effected his purpose. The scrub thinned out shortly after passing the creek, and the spirits of the boys rose with the increasing moonlight.

"They missed a grand charnce at the crick, Billy!"

"By dad, they did that! I wonder where they are. P'raps they've given us the slip."

The road took a sudden turn just here, leading over a rocky ridge. At a farther sharp turn, under the lee of a bank, a big log lay across the road.

"Hello, here's a go, Jimmy! You'll have to drive round. No! you can't do that. Wait a moment an' I'll----"

"Bail up!"

The cry, crisp and startling, rang out, as three figures darted from the shadow of a huge tree which stood near. Thundercloud, the leader of the band of bushrangers, pointed his gun at the driver. Hawkeye made a dash at the trooper, while Red Murphy seized hold of the leading billies.

"Hands up!" cried Thundercloud in the highest style of bushranging. "Your money or your life!"

Trooper Billy was not disposed to yield without a struggle, and at the first cry he whipped out his pistol, firing at his aggressor point blank, missing the leader but hitting his confederate, Hawkeye, who tumbled down with a loud squeal, as unlike an Indian war-whoop as it is possible to imagine. Simultaneously, Thundercloud discharged his gun at Jimmy the coachman, who, instead of putting his hands up at the challenge, began to lash the billies, and had just turned them off the log, when--pop, crash! went the two weapons.

And now the unforeseen occurred. The steer and the billies bolted! Down the ridge and along the road they dashed at breakneck speed; the steer roaring and kicking, the four strong billies baaing, and neither driver nor rider could control the brutes. Away they scurried along the rough bush-track, the cart bumping and rocking over the ruts; every jump of the trap bringing a fresh bleat from the fear-stricken goats.

After racing along for nearly a mile and finding his steed unmanageable, getting frightened too, Yellow Billy slipped over the stern, and by good luck dropped upon his feet. It was different with Jimmy, who gallantly hung on to the billies. The creek was what he most feared, and it was very close now. He had, however, got a pull on the beasts, and they were slackening a little, but, as ill-luck would have it, on going down a gully one of the wheels caught a tree root, and in a jiffy capsized the cart, sending the driver head over heels into a clump of bracken.

The incident gave fresh impetus to the runaways, who rushed on baaing; dashing at length down the steep incline of the creek, the cart righted itself as it tumbled adown the gradient. They tore over the stream and up the bank, finally leaving the track, and getting boxed up in the scrub.

After lying in a stunned condition for a few minutes, Jimmy scrambled up. But the moment he put his weight on his right foot he let out a yell, caused by the terrific pain that shot through his ankle. It was unbearable, and he tumbled down in an almost fainting condition.