Far away across a vertigo of green depths Mt. Victoria, a tall landmark in New Guinea, was in a misty shroud. On this silent trail the sudden flutter of a bird’s wing sounded like a shot.
“The mountain’s like a ghost,” I said to Archie McAlpin.
The trail had widened, we could ride closer together. “Along here I like it best in daylight,” he said. I asked him if he was afraid of Koiaris—for they were the killers with long spears. No, he wasn’t afraid of Koiaris. Their country was farther on.
Sefton stared into the pale mountain light. “There’s a trail that leads down from Jawavere where the Koiaris wait for anything that comes along. You don’t linger on the Jawavere trail.
“I have a station on the trail,” he said, “and always look for anybody passing to have a drink with me. It’s a bit lonesome. About four one afternoon, a native runs in and says he saw a taubada (white man) who had been riding along there, taking his time, just staring ahead. His horse didn’t make any noise, the bush didn’t flutter. I thought that was a lot of native humbug, and was annoyed that the man didn’t drop in for a drink. I asked around among the other plantations. Yes, they’d all seen the rider, and at about four o’clock the same afternoon—in places miles apart. Finally we searched the bush and found the bones of a man and a horse, around some smoky stones. The Koiaris had done him in, weeks before we saw him riding.”
Archie said thoughtfully, “Yes, and there was the woman dressed in white. I couldn’t sleep one night, and there she was in the garden, bending over picking flowers. I spoke to her, but she didn’t look up. She was the Englishwoman who married that chap from Cairns. She made a little English garden, but it never suited her. Always wanted to go home; you know how the English are. Her man thought Papua was good enough for her, until she died. Then he shot himself.”
“Do you ever see his ghost?” I asked.
“No. He’s too deep in hell, I fancy, to get out.”
They believed earnestly in the horseman who rode over the bluff. They believed that lights appeared in the deserted house from which another woman had run away with her baby.
We were riding along silently when our horses stopped, snorted and sat on their tails. At first I thought it was a fallen vine, then I saw it wiggle. I slid off and threw a handy stone at eight black feet of snake; which was a diplomatic blunder, for the thing made straight at me. Sefton broke its back with a whip. “Venomous?” I asked. I hate snakes. “Rather,” Sefton said, and poked the poison sacks.