In the Musgrave Ranges

by Conrad H. Sayce

"Do they really live in there?" asked Sax.

"Sure thing," said Peter. "They crawl in through that hole and curl themselves up like dogs."

As he finished speaking, a shaggy head appeared at one of the holes. The hair was stuck together in greasy plaits and hung down to the man's shoulders. He looked up at the visitors, half in and half out of the wurley, and on his hands and knees just like an animal. His face and body were black and very dirty, and his head and chest were so thickly covered with hair that the only features which stood out from the matted tangle were a pair of very bright eyes and a flat, shining nose.

Peter said something which the lads did not understand, and the man came out and stood upright. He was quite naked and very thin. His legs seemed to be the same thickness all the way up, and his knees looked like big swollen knuckles. But his whole appearance gave the impression that he could move very quickly if he wanted to, with the graceful speed of a greyhound. The woman and child whom Vaughan had seen from the distance had run away like startled rabbits as the white men came up, and the camp of six or seven wurlies seemed deserted except for this one miserable specimen of humanity. Bits of clothing, tins, pieces of decaying food, and all sorts of dirt were strewn around the camp and gave out such an unpleasant smell that the boys turned away in disgust.

"What's the matter?" asked Peter.

"How horribly dirty he is," said Vaughan. "Aren't some of them clean?"

"Oh yes," replied Peter. "Most boys who work on stations are made to use soap. That's because they work with white men, or with decent chaps like Becker Singh. His boys aren't bad. But you leave them alone for a week, and they'll be just as bad as that old buck there. Don't you ever forget—" he added earnestly, "don't you ever forget that that's the real nigger you've just seen. And don't you have too much to do with them."

"There's not much fear of that," said Sax.

"Well, don't you forget it, that's all," repeated Peter. "Many a good lad has gone to the dogs through having too much to do with niggers."

They reached the Dingo Creek on the morning of the fourth day. The bridge was a complete wreck. It was almost impossible to believe that wind could have done so much damage. The whole thing had been lifted off the stanchions, twisted as easily as if it had been a ribbon of paper, and then thrown down into the soft sand of the creek bed. The steel stanchions leaned this way and that; one of them had been torn up from its concrete foundation, and another had been screwed about till it looked like a gigantic corkscrew. The bridge must have been caught by the very centre of the tornado.