Blacks and Bushrangers: Adventures in Queensland

by E. B. Kennedy

“So soon!” angrily exclaimed Mat, as he jumped up. “Lucky it’s a still night; but I’ve almost ‘drove it off’ too long. However, here’s my health, and good luck,” as he applied the flask to his lips. “Now for the stream, and the scheme, which I’ve been planning!”

In two minutes he was down to the river, and, knowing every inch of the ground, quickly found the object of his search. This was a rude bridge, formed of a couple of saplings, which spanned the swollen stream. This he crossed, and, from the opposite side, threw the logs in, when they were quickly carried away by the current. He then cut down a very thin, whippy, seedling oak, and twisted it round and round until he had a supple rope strong enough to hold an unbroken colt; then, ensconcing himself behind a bush, he awaited events.

For the first time Mat felt a bit nervous—nervous as to the approaching contest, which he knew now to be inevitable; and nervous in that his body had been for hours in wet clothes. He could hardly bear the tremendous strain of waiting. The tension was almost overpowering, for he was aware that he had to deal with one of the fiercest of the fierce breed of bloodhounds lately imported into the forest.

Nearer and nearer came the bell-like notes of the hound, now apparently dying away, then again breaking out into a deep roar, as the intervening timber shut out the sounds or let them be heard again. At last a most appalling roar, which seemed to Mat to thunder into his very ear, told where the animal had come on to his resting-place on the ridge, and then all was silent.

Mat took another little refresher from the flask, and had hardly replaced it on the ground beside him when the great hound burst into sight in the moonlight. “That’s a bit of luck,” thought Mat, as the clouds cleared away, and allowed him to see the animal’s movements.

Coming to the water’s edge, the beast quested up and down, and then, throwing his head up with another roar—of satisfaction, as it sounded to Mat—prepared to spring into the river exactly opposite to where his would-be prey was watching.

At this moment the hound was completely at Mat’s mercy; our forester could have blown his head to atoms with the gun which was lying loaded by his side, but no such thought crossed his mind. On the contrary, his one idea for a brief second was, “What a noble beast!”

The next moment the animal plunged into the stream; but, before it could rise to the surface, Mat, holding his rope in his teeth, with a lightning-like bound was on to him, and, seizing the dog’s huge throat, at first endeavoured to keep him under water, but the animal, though taken at a disadvantage and half-choked, fought so with its muscular paws that it knocked Mat off his legs, and, as he lay for a second underneath, made a grab at his throat. Had he secured his grip, then and there would our gipsy’s life have ended; but Mat was too quick for him, by plunging his head under water. The beast thus lost sight of this most vulnerable part of his foe, but gripped him instead through his buskins and deep into his thigh. Mat felt during this terrible struggle that his only chance of life was getting into deeper water. The pain of the bloodhound’s teeth was excruciating; but, securing a grasp of the loose skin of the dog’s throat, he never let go, only struggled with his free leg to get into deeper water. Thus locked in a deadly embrace, man and hound rolled down stream. At length, by a lucky touch of his foot on the bottom, Mat got uppermost, and by keeping his full weight on the dog, caused it at last to open its jaws for a gasp. Had not the water rushed into that gaping chasm of teeth, Mat’s chance would still have been small; but, excited now to frenzy, and watching eagerly for the chance, he, by a quick movement, bitted the animal with the rope, which he had held on to with his teeth as if it had been the rope of a life-buoy, and as quickly took a half-turn round the lower jaw, over the upper, and had time to make all fast before the hound had sufficiently recovered to prevent him. Then Mat crawled exhausted out of the water and lay motionless, hardly caring whether the animal followed him or not, so faint did he feel from loss of blood. But the beast came after him, and, striking savagely with its heavy fore-feet, caused him to get up once more. However, finding it could not use its teeth, it acknowledged Mat as master for the time being, and made no further attempt at fighting; but giving a shake, and with a last ferocious glare out of its bloodshot eyes, turned and trotted sullenly off into the moonlit glades.

Mat felt it an immense relief to hear his own voice, as he said in a low tone, “Well, thank God, I’m out of that business! He’s tied up like a ferret, and every knot is good. He’d have killed me if we’d fought on the shore, that’s certain. The Bratley stream served me a dirty trick a few hours ago, but the Blackwater saved my life this night.” Pulling off his cotton handkerchief, he bound up the wound in his thigh tightly, emptied his flask, and limped off at once before his leg should get stiffer than it was, and to make good his way to Lyndhurst ere the hound should have returned to the keeper, whom he surmised had only been prevented from coming up to help his hound by being too “boosy” to make his way quickly over the rough ground.