Australian Hauntings: A Second Anthology of Australian Colonial Supernatural Fiction (13 page)

“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 thousa
nd 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.

One of the stockmen turned upon his employer with a hysterical laugh, “what do you think of the headless rider now, boss?”

But the super could only shake his head dubiously, as if the matter were altogether beyond his comprehension.

We returned back to the tent, and found old Mike cowering in the corner, the same as we had left him. With one of those inspirations which so often fall upon men in situations like the present, I sprang forward and seized him by the arm.

“We have found the remains of Warfield!” I almost shouted. “Confess, you villain, that you murdered him.”

He turned his stricken eyes upon us, gave a few gasps, and struggled to his knees.

“You’ve found him, have you? Well, I’m mighty glad of it. Yes, I killed him.”

Notwithstanding my question, I confess to being somewhat taken aback at this straightforward answer to it.

“Yes,” he continued, “I confess it. I killed him on this swamp: cut off his head with the axe whilst he was asleep and buried him in the swamp. And now I feel better than I have done for the last fifteen years—since the moment I done it, I’ve suffered dreadful,” he continued. “He was here last night. I thought he ’u’d have killed me; I wish he had. Perhaps he has, though, for I feel mighty weak.”

The self-confessed murderer sank back on his blankets, and shivered from head to foot; and the blood again oozed from his mouth and nostrils.

We stood at the tent entrance, regarding him in dismay.

“What did you kill him for?” I at length inquired.

“Well, he was going to run away with my wife. I stopped a letter he wrote to her. Don’t you mind seeing part of it? I tore of the other part. I told you I found the letter in my hut after I came back, but I got it before I started with the cattle. They were going off together after he should come back from Victoria, but I determined he never should come back. That’s why I killed him. But she never waited for him, but went away with the boundary-rider.”

A fresh flow of blood here interrupted him, and we drew off to consider the best course to pursue.

We decided to leave the guilty man in the tent, whilst we went back and brought up the cattle in one mob.

We notified this intention to Mike, but he protested against the arrangement with hysterical vehemence.

“For God’s sake, don’t leave me alone,” he said. “If you do, I’ll run away.”

We smiled at this, for the man was too weak even to rise himself upon his feet.

“I’ve suffered already,” he said, “more even than I deserve. But don’t leave me alone, for God’s sake.”

The super suggested that I remained on the ground whilst he and his riders would bring up the boxed mob.

This was agreed to, and they departed for the cattle.

I carried up a billy of water for Mike, who, in reply to a question of mine, stated that he had also killed the bald-faced cob.

“I couldn’t get the animal,” he said, “away from the spot where I buried Warfield so I was obliged to kill him, too, for fear of his betraying me;” and, beyond a few delirious mutterings, he spoke no more during the whole of that day.

The double mob of cattle were safely landed on the Black Swamp camp before sundown, and all hands agreed to sit up that night and keep a general watch.

Leaving the wretched Mike in sole possession of the tent, we made a fire outside of “cattle chips,” the only fuel procurable on these plains, and laid in a supply of the same material; and we filled all the billies with water, and spread our rugs around the fire, and in this way prepared to keep vigil; but it was an understood thing that, in the event of the cattle breaking away, no pursuit should be made.

I shall never forget that watch on those midnight plains. It was a most lovely night, and the soft lustre which the stars shed around seemed to hallow even that desecrated spot.

Our conversation, which was confined for the most part to the startling revelations of that day, and of many events connected with that revelation, was carried on in semi-hushed tones. Our pipes were in constant requisition, and the billies of scalding tea simmered around the smouldering fire, whose familiar presence there served to reassure us.

The super was a remarkably intelligent man, and his conversation for some time past had been directed in the endeavour to disrobe the events of the past night of their apparent supernatural garb.

He boldly maintained that when my horse reared at sight of the “will-o’-the-wisp,” and fell over on me, I must have been terribly shaken, and was probably, although unknown to myself, unconscious for a short time; as for the shrieks of the guilty Mike, on sight of the “will-o’-the-wisp,” they were, of course, true enough; but those shrieks, he further pointed out, were only heard by me when the presence of the spectre left me, or, in other words, when thorough consciousness returned.

As for the apparition dragging Mike from the tent, and the trail of blood which led us to the discovery, he accounted for that by stating his opinion that the conscience-stricken murderer, really believing that the victim had been present with him, had actually crawled down to the grave to ascertain if the sod had been disturbed.

“I really believe,” continued the super, “that this wretched man, whilst under the influence of terrified fascination, crawled after the receding
ignis fatuus
down to the swamp. Owing to the relative positions occupied by yourself and the tent, your line of sight struck the course taken by them diagonally, and not at right angles, or you would have seen they were not close together—one dragging the other apparently—but some distance apart.”

It is needless to say that this plausible reasoning was stoutly combatted by everyone there present with, perhaps, the exception of myself.

The half-dozen stockmen were by no means content to have the terrible spectre, which for so many years had reigned over the Black Swamp camp, so easily disposed of.

“The only remarkable thing I see about the affair,” continued the super, “is the manner in which the guilty man himself led us on to the discovery.”

But his audience was not appreciative, and still murmured their dissent.

The super, the better to enforce h
is argument, rose upon his feet.

“Now, look here,” said he, “I trust this thing, whatever it is, will show up tonight. I’ll investigate it anyhow.”