Prospector

By Jack O'neill

RAYNOR swore feelingly; anger, rather than fear, the overpowering emotion.

No, he wasn’t afraid to die —no more than the next man, anyway—but to die now!

That was what hurt. Everything he’d ever wanted w'as within his grasp, except life to enjoy it.

He crouched in the head of a little gully in the shade of a stunted bush.

By his side, a native lay on his belly, snatching breaths with difficulty; blood was oozing from a wound in his back.

Raynor glanced at the “boy”. “He’ll die, anyway”, he thought.

Why shouldn’t he leave, and save him self? There was a good chance of his getting away, alone. Self-preservation was the first law, wasn’t it?

As if he felt the suggestion, the native moved, twisting his head with difficulty.

Unable to bear the scrutiny of those ap pealing eyes, Raynor resumed his anxious vigil on the ridge bounding the little valley. Any time, now, their hunters should top the rise. They’d see the tracks —those fellows didn’t miss anything.

But no dreaded silhouette broke the clean skyline, and gradually the watcher relaxed. Like a leech, the thought of self-preservation fastened again on to his mind. A voice in his brain whispered in

sidiously: “Go while you can. Put the poor bloody boy out of his misery—he’ll linger on for days if you don’t—and get out. You can come back with your mates and get the gold.”

But this boy, Yadu, had battled through with him, had stood by his side and fought the carriers off when, frightened to go on, thev had decided to kill him and go back.

No, he couldn’t leave Yadu. Any other boy in the line, perhaps; but not this one.

HIS thoughts slipped away over the events of the past few months—the most momentous months of his life—and probably the last. His return to New Guinea, and the renewal of old acquaint anceships on the boat—he could feel the sticky heat of the old tub, even now; investing his few remaining pounds in boys and gear, only to find that a multi tude of new regulations and restrictions made it impossible for him to “go bush”; his determination to slip away without a permit, despite the warnings of his old prospecting friends.

“They’ll make a proper job of you, Hardy; you’ll be the first to do a break, and if you have any trouble with the kanakas they’ll give you clink, whether the kanakas went you first or not. ’

That trip through the mountains to the Tauri watershed had been the worst he’d ever had. All the things the bushman dreads had happened with vindictive regularity. He’d tried to cheer himself up by ticking off the things that hadn’t happened, at the end of each day. Rain, night and day, left him with saturated blankets for days at a time, and spoiled the small reserve of rice they carried; incessant malaria sapped his energy and all but undermined his courage; on top of that, and most serious, was the trouble with his boys.

Yadu and he had to do allnight watches as they toiled through the hostile Kuku kuku country. Those devils almost made him turn back, too; that last treacherous attack had almost succeeded and left him with two wounded boys on his hands.

If they died, it would have meant a man slaughter charge when he got back to the beach. God, he’d have to answer for ten lives now, if he got out of this lot. Blast the black swine! He hadn’t wanted trouble; now he’d get it in the neck whichever way things went.

AH! But it had been worth it all—or, at least, he thought so that day when, haggard and wet, he and his scare crow line had burst out of the dank, dripping jungle and stood amazed at the glory of far-reaching, grass-covered valley and plateau, dotted here and there with native hamlets, the smoke of many fires forming blue streamers in the chill morn ing air. As far as the eye could see, tree bordered streams cut the rolling plateau, flowing south. He was over the divide at last!

Followed days of contentment; of food and shelter, sun and wind; hordes of natives who sometimes blackened the hill tops as they fought out their tribal quarrels—and what fighters they were!

Then more trouble with his “boys”, as they realised their complete helplessness against such numbers.

But the natives, at beginning, were won derfully friendly, helping with the camp work, carrying the little cargo that re mained. They even brought him women— but that meant trouble, sooner or later.

Then, there was the gold. Only a trace at first, but it led him on and on, with increasing promise, till the day when, clambering up the mountain-side, they found it; not another “Edie”, but the

nearest thing yet. He’d never forget the first wonderful prospect as the swirling water swept the covering black sand off; a glowing yellow crescent that took his breath away. Shake and swirl, shake and swirl; he must have done that for an hour—day dreaming.

Then followed months of hard work and real anxiety; but the contentment, the promise of things to come, laughter and women, wine and good food, with music to go with it, made up for that and all the lesser hardships—the continual diet of native food, lack of tobacco, and the hunger for the sight of one of his own race.

GRADUALLY a change had come in the attitude of the natives. They no longer treated him with awe; they saw that he was a man—one of themselves.

He had now to make himself an influ ence in the community. How he juggled and schemed; friendly with the old, influ ential men, but discovering the young bucks jealous of his power, greedy for his trade, and itching for trouble.

They began thieving. His decision to leave brought things to a head. He ex plained to the old men that his trade was almost finished, that soon he would be unable to pay them for their food. They wanted him to stay, willy-nilly. They clasped him round the knees on the morn ing of his departure—with a shock, he realised that it was only yesterday—and cried, refusing to let him go; the “marys” set up a mournful wailing. But the young men were nowhere to be seen.

That morning, just before the dawn, they rushed the camp and butchered his boys before they were properly awake; only he and Yadu had had a chance to put up a fight. Shotgun and rifle checked the attackers, drove them to temporary cover in the tall grass, while the two survivors slipped away quickly before the dawn could show them up.

When it came they were w'ell away; but Yadu was done. An arrow in the ribs had pricked his lung, and the long hard break for the timber had finished him.

Well, the young bucks would be along again as soon as the camp was sacked.

They’d be at it like crows on a carcase.

RAYNOR, looked down on the boy, now breathing jerkily, lying flat on his belly. God, what hard luck —for both of them. How much he owed that lad. If he could only get him out. But the thing was impossible: Yadu was as good as dead. He plucked a handful of grass and covered the long, bubbling puncture in the boy’s side, round which the flies were already buzzing.

What if they had really got clear —by some chance, eluded the murdering swine?

What then? He couldn’t take the bpy.

For pity’s sake, he’d have to put him out. After all, one wouldn’t deny even an animal a painless death.

Raynor tried to think rationally. Was there any chance for the boy? Wouldn’t it be the sensible, the humane thing, to help him out quickly and then save his own life? Two lifes lost would help no one.

The facts faced him like a wall; no way round. He knew that in other circum stances he would have no hesitation in leaving the boy; in giving him the mercy shot. Yadu seemed in a coma; blood was on his lips. Raynor drew his revolver stealthily, then thrust it back with a groan. It was the right thing to do, but he just couldn’t do it; too much like desertion in the face of danger. Lack of guts it was; he knew he would never forget it—if he lived.

A SINGLE, fierce yell behind him, fol lowed by a concerted savage roar,

spun him round to see his pursuers mass ing on the ridge-top; they had cut him off. His first thought was one of im mense relief —the decision was out of his hands now.- The natives circled round the head of the little valley, chanting and jeering.

“We’ll eat your guts, white pig.”

Ye Gods! They must have brought out every fighting man in the valley. Arrows began to “plop” into the grass near him; from the hilltop, they flighted them hund reds of yards. The white man flattened himself further into the slight protection of the gully, his one hope now to save himself till his enemies were close—and kill, kill, kill.

Now, they swarmed down the slope in a forbidding black wave, the bamboo bowstrings thrumming like the beats of a kundu drum. Peering over the edge of the depression, Raynor watched with fierce intensity. He was in a world apart;

no sound in all the uproar reached his brain; his whole being held in reserve for the supreme moment.

Closer now; just a little more. His breath came faster in the excitement of the approaching climax. Instinctively he bunched his feet under him. An arrow burned his back. Now was the time.

He came erect, rifle roaring, a snarl twisting his lips. One moment they paused, silenced by the sudden thunder.

Then they closed in.

Mr. B. Taylor, provincial headmaster in the Fiji Education Department, re turned to Suva in January after visiting England. He was accompanied by his wife.

Sister N. Winterbottom recently re signed from the Melanesian Mission in the Solomon Islands. She has returned to Australia.