“Only just in time, boss!” exclaims Billy, his white eyeballs glowing like coals from their dark setting of swarthy skin, as he watches the rapid movements of the enemy, who are moving along the summit of the cliff towards them. “Those devils got you safe enough, ’spose they’d kept you up there till dark,” pointing to the open part of the gorge.
“But where will you camp? I’m tired. In fact, just ’bout done. I have walked many miles to-day, and have eaten little since three days.”
“This is my camp,” answers the “hatter,” climbing up to one of the aforementioned caves with an agility that a far younger man might have envied. “We can keep out of the niggers’ way here.” And the old man coolly began to collect some sticks and leaves that lay about the entrance to the cavern, in order to start a fire, just as if two or three score of howling savages, all thirsting for his destruction, within a couple of hundred yards of him, was a matter of every-day occurrence to him, and therefore one of no importance.
Night falls quickly, and outside the cave the darkening forest begins its night chorus of many voices, day-choristers retiring one by one. The mountain teal whistle and “burr” in answer to each other; owls and night-jars scream and gurgle in the trees; boon-garies (tree-kangeroos) squeak and bark to their mates, as they leave the branches for a night stroll in the scrub; and every crevice of the caves gives forth its dark legions of flitting bats, some of enormous size, who vociferate shrilly, with ear-piercing notes, as if thousands of ghostly slate pencils were squeaking in mid-air on an equal number of spectre slates.
Inside the cave, which is much larger than its small, porthole-like entrance might lead one to imagine, the two men speedily make themselves as comfortable as they can under the circumstances. There is ample room for the fire that soon lights up the concave roof, of the cavern with a cheerful, ruddy glow, and the smoke rolling out of the doorway keeps the place clear of mosquitoes, who are getting pretty lively outside already.
The old “hatter” has used this retreat as his camping ground for the last few days, whilst prospecting this part of the upper waters of the unnamed creek, that can be heard in the darkness flowing past his temporary abode, and a small but sufficient supply of flour, tea, and sugar is to be seen carefully suspended from the stalactite-like projections from the ceiling of the cave. This provender, with the remains of a couple of pigeons, half a dozen wild turkeys’ eggs and some coohooy nuts give promise of a good “square meal,” at last, to the exhausted and half-famished Billy.
“Yer’ve done me a good turn, and though yer are a nigger, yer welcome ter what I’ve got here,” remarks the grey-headed old gold-seeker after a long silence, during which he has disinterred some of the aforementioned viands from an anti-wild dog pyramid of stones in one corner of the cave.
“Them blarmed devils outside hain’t seen a white face up here afore I’m thinking, and I guess they’ll not bother us till morning. What do you think, Charlie, or Jackie, or whatever yer name is?”
“My name’s Billy, boss,” replies our dark friend, who is endeavouring to keep himself awake by frantically chewing some of the sodden tobacco he has discovered in his pocket. “I think these fellows throw spear into cave by-an-by, p’r’aps. I think best keep up here,” pointing to a buttress of rock that, projecting from the walls of the cavern, provides a substantial shield against any missiles flung in at the cave entrance. “But I know little of these fellow-blacks. I come from the flat country, this time, out by the Einsleigh River way.”
“Ugh,” grunts the old man in reply, and telling Billy to “have a ‘doss’ (sleep),” whilst his namesake, the billy, is boiling, the “hatter” proceeds to cut up a pipe-full of very foul-smelling tobacco, looking thoughtfully at the fire meanwhile.