by James Doig
Mike had been as diligent in the search as myself, and we both returned to the Box Forest homestead in a somewhat gloomy frame of mind; at least, this was my state; for I esteemed poor Warfield very highly. But Mike’s troubles were not ended. Immediately on his arrival he was confronted with another disappearance—the disappearance of his wife.
There was, however, no very great amount of mystery connected with this latter event, as the lady in question had been observed to saddle up her horse on the morning of her disappearance, and had further, as the unfortunate Mike discovered, conveyed away their most valuable portable effects.
Some of the station hands connected her departure with the simultaneous disappearance of the boundary-rider, and they further suggested—by way of substantiating their theory—that her ladyship had succumbed to the blandishments of the boundary-man, by way of consoling herself for the absence of her liege lord.
But remembering the manner in which Warfield’s name had been associated with that of this woman, the probability occurred to me of her having joined Warfield somewhere, in accordance with some preconcerted plan, and that the pair of them had gone off together; and I straightway mentioned this suspicion to the manager. But he shook his head at it.
“Warfield,” said he, “would be the last man to neglect his duty in that way. He would never leave the cattle on the road, as has been done in this case. If the cattle had been safely landed, I should not doubt it in the least; but as affairs stand, I say no, decidedly no. And,” continued the manager, “there is another thing to be taken into consideration, and that is that the station is indebted to Warfield in a couple of hundred pounds.”
But, notwithstanding this opinion, a lurking suspicion of the correctness of my idea still possessed me.
I have already stated that Mike was generally disliked, and even distrusted; and more than one of the station hands—with that blunt uncouthness which characterises certain of their class—exhibited a most marked and very significant hostility towards him; and, indeed, in a general way declared as plainly as mere deportment could declare, that they suspected Mike of foul play in the matter of Warfield’s disappearance.
Mike, in a certain way, was by no means deficient in perceptive faculties, and he very naturally cowered under the unspoken but none the less terrible imputation, and somewhat abruptly announced his intention of quitting the station.
For my part I honestly pitied the man. Circumstances had placed him very awkwardly from the start, and the mingled distress and chagrin he exhibited on learning his wife’s flight would have excited commiseration in the breast of a savage, and I felt quite glad of a discovery which he made, and which went a long way to confirm my theory, that Warfield had eloped with his wife.
This discovery was simply a portion of a letter, which Mike said he had found in his hut. The letter was in the unmistakable writing of Warfield, and was clearly a proposal of elopement to Mike’s wife. The greater portion of the letter had been torn off, and what remained revealed nothing further than—as I say—the mere proposal of elopement.
As my original supposition had been already circulated amongst the station hands, the discovery of this fragment which her ladyship had incautiously left behind her, served in a great measure to convert them to my theory, and we all—with the exception of the manager—expected to hear again of John Warfield.
But Mike still adhered to his resolution of leaving the station, and he left accordingly.
My business, too, with the Box Forest station was now concluded, and I also left, after having received a promise from the manager that in the event of Warfield’s applying for his money I should be apprised of the fact.
* * * *
Many years had now elapsed since the mysterious disappearance of John Warfield, and not the slightest tidings had been heard of him. During the whole of this time I had been in a remote part of the country, and now found myself with a small mob of cattle in hand intended for a Southern destination. Before I could start it would be necessary to procure an additional hand to assist in their transport. I was assisted in this matter by the squatter from whom I had purchased.
There was a shepherd, he said, on the station who had been accustomed to droving, and with whose services he was about to dispense. I, therefore, in company with the squatter, set out to interview this man.
“I must tell you,” said the squatter, as we rode along, “that there is something peculiar about him. Whenever he sees a horse approaching he immediately falls down upon his knees and commences to tell his beads. That’s all I know about it, and there does not appear to be much harm in it. Every man, they say, is eccentric upon some particular point, but this shepherd of mine is clearly a maniac as regards this little matter.”
The singular information of the squatter was almost immediately after confirmed. No sooner did the shepherd see us approaching than he was down upon his knees praying with apparently great fervour.
He was very pale, and appeared very much agitated as we rode up, and we naturally recognised each other. He was my old acquaintance, “Mike,” of the Box Forest station.
I briefly stated my object, and offered him liberal pay for his services.
He inquired the destination of the cattle, conned over the route to be taken, and finally accepted the situation.
I loitered for a few moments in his company, hoping he would refer, in some way, to the missing Warfield, or to his own fugitive wife, but he referred to neither, and curious as I was to ascertain if my old suspicion was correct, I refrained broaching the subject, as I feared to awaken unpleasant reminiscences in the old man’s mind.
We effected a good start the following morning, and continued our journey without anything worth mentioning transpiring until three-parts of the way had been covered when, from information received relative to the state of the cattle market, I resolved to alter our destination.
As Mike appeared to be well contented with his billet and as I had engaged to pay his expenses back to our starting point, I did not deem it necessary to inform him of the alteration of our destination and he did not appear to discover it himself until we were within one day’s stage of the Swamp, and then he rose up to me, and in a somewhat flurried manner, inquired if we hadn’t got out of our course.
I explained the alteration of our destination, but Mike didn’t at all appear to relish the prospect of camping on the Black Swamp. It was there where he had lost Warfield and I could readily understand the man’s objection to the spot, which was very natural. But, for all that, I had no inclination to be left upon the road, single-handed, with a mob of cattle. So, in reply to his request, I plainly announced my determination not to release him by any means from his engagement.
But he didn’t like the prospect at all. Indeed, he appeared to be quite frightened, and it was only by sheer dint of moral form that I ultimately overcame his reluctance.
It was about mid-day, when a man who had charge of a large mob in our rear rode up to us. Mike went ahead with the cattle whilst I stayed behind to converse with this man.
“I’m coming up,” he said, “a few days’ stage behind with eight hundred head; and seeing your tracks ahead of us, I just rode up to let you know. We must be careful not to box the mobs. There’s no drafting-yards within a hundred miles, and a cutting-out match on these plains will be the devil’s own job, especially as I’m short-handed.”
I explained that we only had about eighty head, but admitted the advisability of avoiding a box.
“You’ll be on the swamp tonight,” continued he, “and the mob is bound to break off, that much you know. So if you pitch your own quamby on this side, you might manage to let them break away ahead. If they come back upon us with any sort of a rumpus they’ll rise our mob as sure as fate.”
“Why is our mob bound to break?” I asked.
“Why, don’t yo
u know? The Black Swamp is one of these confounded haunted camps. You can’t have been long on this trail, or surely you would have known that.”
I explained that I was not regularly in the trade.
“But what’s the camp haunted with?”
“Well, they say a bald-faced cob and headless rider rises every mob that camps there.”
“Well, but surely you don’t mean to say that you believe in such an absurdity?”
“Well,” he answered, “you see I’ve never camped there yet, and so I shan’t say much about it. You’ll be there tonight, and I’ll be there tomorrow, so we’ll both be better able to talk about it afterwards. But I’ve a private opinion that the bald-faced cob and headless rider is nothing more than a ‘will-o’-the-wisp.’”
“If the cattle won’t stay on the camp,” said I, “why camp there at all?”
“At this time o’ year we can’t help it. There’s no water for a day’s stage on either side. I,” continued the drover, “attach far more importance to this affair than you appear to think it worth. But there never was a mob camped there, that I’ve heard of, but didn’t break. It’s scarcely a month ago since Scotch Jock’s mob—three thousand head of Queensland cattle—was scattered to all points of the compass. It took them nearly a week to re-muster, and then they were forty or fifty head short. So you see your camp is bound to rise tonight, and if you can only just manage to head them off our direction, you’ll do well.”
And so speaking, the drover returned back to his cattle.
I confess that this conversation with the drover affected me considerably more than the subject seemed to justify. But that was mostly owing to the description given of the swamp. A bald-faced cob, and headless rider! Why, it was a bald-faced cob which Warfield was riding when he disappeared! I pondered over the matter for come time, but dismissed the subject as being altogether unworthy of serious thought.
What the drover had said about the camp was sufficient to convince me that the cattle were frightened off the ground by a natural phenomenon of some sort, probably a will-o-wisp, as he had suggested, and the original sight of which had suggested to the terrified imagination of some ignorant and superstitious stockman the image of a bald-faced cob and headless rider; and having been thus unfortunately christened, the excited imagination of nervous night-watchers never failed to apply the likeness immediately on sight of the phenomenon.
But I deemed it advisable to say nothing to Mike upon the subject. He was uneasy enough upon the matter of camping there already, and the smallest hint of this ghost would be sufficient to scare away my stockman completely.
We safely landed our cattle on the camping ground, and pitched our tent. Shortly after sundown Mike turned in, as I resolved to keep the first watch myself, intending to call him at two o’clock.
It was a beautiful summer’s night. There was no moon, but the excessive brightness of the stars shed a soft radiance over the plain.
I spent several hours dreaming with my eyes open, and stargazing. I watched the southern cross swinging round and falling down in the western heavens, and I saw the Pleiades rise over the eastern horizon. The appearance of this latter constellation reminded me that it was near midnight. I drew out my watch, and, with the aid of my lighted cigar, saw that it wanted but a few minutes to twelve.
“Now,” soliloquised I, “is the time for the unquiet spirit of the swamp to put in an appearance. ‘This is the witching hour of night, when churchyards yawn and graves give up their dead.’” And then I surveyed the dark clump of cattle quietly reposing on their camp and chuckled.
But I was reckoning without mine host; for whilst still chuckling, a white object suddenly arose from the swamp and rushed the cattle, who immediately rose their camp like a flash, and came thundering towards me in wild terror. To spring upon my horse and gallop out with intent to block them was the work of a moment.
Looking beyond the cattle I could see the white object which had started them, apparently miles away on the edge of the plain, but, before I could crack my whip it was back again upon the mob with the rapidity of a cannon-ball.
The cattle divided right and left, as the spectre shot through them and rode right down upon me.
I have no objection to admit being horrified, for the spectre presented to my terrified eyes the unmistakable image of a headless rider seated on a bald-faced cob.
My horse propped, snorted in terror, reared, and fell back upon me, and what then took place seemed more like some delirious nightmare than anything else.
I was not hurt by the fall, but the horse was lying like a log upon my leg, and prevented my moving even if I had the power to do so. But I had no such power, nor even inclination. My very faculties appeared to be under a spell. I fancied hearing the distant rumble of the footsteps of the flying herd, but that died away immediately afterwards, and I became conscious of being enveloped in a dense, opaque mist, which paralysed all my senses and shut out surrounding objects. This horrid presence pressed me down, and I was dimly aware of two luminous eyes bending over me.
I did not appear at all frightened, but felt inert, physically and mentally, as if the blood in my veins had been turned to lead.
How long this dreadful thing had possession of me I can’t say, but its presence was suddenly withdrawn, and all my senses and faculties returned to me immediately. At this moment the horse, too, recovered from the stupor into which he had been thrown, and made a desperate attempt to rise. I, however, was on the alert to prevent him. This horse was an extremely vicious and dangerous brute, and I knew well, if I allowed him to get up, he would, in all probability, dash out my brains before I could get clear of him. So I threw my arm over his head and held him down, and was just about to cooee for Mike to come to my assistance, when my voice was arrested by hearing a series of the most dreadful shrieks and shouts. They came from the direction of the tent, and, turning my head with difficulty in that direction, I saw that the tent was enveloped in a dense white mist, which towered high above it.
Remember, it was a moonless midnight, and things could be seen but indistinctly through the gloom. But I swear I saw a ghastly, shapeless horror emerge from the tent, and rush down towards the swamp with screams of triumphant laughter, and trailing behind it my shrieking stockman. They almost immediately disappeared in the gloom, and the laughter and shrieking terminated abruptly.
Could I have got free the probability is that I should have made swift tracks behind the cattle. But I was pinioned by the horse securely enough, and was compelled to endure some hours of strange terror and suspense.
And thus I lay ’til daybreak, but there was no appearance of Mike. I had just resolved to let the horse get up, and to take my chance with him, when I heard the approaching hoof-strokes of horses, and shortly after, the super, who had charge of the cattle behind, and two of his stockmen, rode up. They saw my situation in a moment, and, dismounting, held the horse, and released me at the same time. Although somewhat stiff and cramped, I was unhurt.
“If you don’t kill that brute of a horse he’ll kill you one of these days,” remarked the super, and then he proceeded to state that our mob had come back upon him and boxed with his.
“So the bald-faced cob and headless rider rose your camp, did it?” asked one of the stockmen.
“Something very much like what you describe startled them,” I reluctantly admitted.
“You recollect boss,” continued the stockman, turning to the super, “that we stipulated for no watch on the Black Swamp; so, if there’s to be a watch tonight, you’ll have to keep it on your own hook.”
We led the way down to the tent, in order to discuss the best mode of procedure with reference to the boxed cattle. As I entered, I was struck with dismay on discovering Mike lying upon the floor covered with blood. We hastily lifted him up, and discovered that he had burst a blood-vessel. Blood
was slowly coming from his mouth and nose. But this was not altogether sufficient to account for the dreadful appearance which he presented. He was wild-eyed and haggard beyond description. But in reply to our startled interrogations, he only lay back and groaned.
“By heavens! What’s the meaning of this?” suddenly exclaimed the super, who was standing at the tent-door. His tone expressed so much astonishment, that I immediately joined him, and stood looking at the broad and bloody trail he pointed out, much as would be made by a body being dragged over the ground.
We proceeded in startled silent wonder along this significant trail which led us to the edge of the swamp, and there stopped. At this termination the little clump of growing rushes was unusually luxuriant; one of the stockmen, gathering a handful, tore them up by the roots, and then curiously pottered away at the exposed mould. A bone was revealed, then another, and finally, as we all assisted in clearing away the sod, a human skeleton was exposed to view.
“By heaven!” exclaimed the super, springing to his feet, I verily believe we’ve yarded the secret of the Black Swamp.”
At this moment something glittering upon the breast of the skeleton attracted my attention. I picked it up and found it to be the gold medal of the Royal Humane Society, on which was engraven the name of John Warfield. I may also add that a feeling of something more than astonishment pervaded our party on discovering that the skeleton was headless.