CHAPTER XXXI

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*OFF TO THE GOLD DIGGINGS*

"The mountain air is cool and fresh, Unclouded skies bend o'er us, Broad placers, rich in hidden gold, Lie temptingly before us." SWIFT.

Tents were struck, and the campers' impedimenta securely fastened to the pack-saddles, in the grey dawn of the following morning--the party having breakfasted by starlight.

The gold diggings about to be visited was situated in the ranges, equi-distant from Bullaroi and the Bay. The route from the Bay lay along the homeward track as far as the caves. At this point the trail turned due north--winding among the rugged country to the site of the mining camp, which, in its palmy days, covered a flat that lay between some precipitous hills and a swiftly flowing mountain stream.

The diggings in question was deserted, save by a few fossikers, or gully-rakers, as they were generally called--men who earned a precarious living by following up the dry gullies, and picking out wash dirt from between the rocks; or else dry-blowing likely spots of the surface. The lure of gold--so common to all--fed the imagination of these men. They became nomads; lived in the most primitive ways; faced and endured untold hardships; and, if not cheerful, were always hopeful. They saw visions and dreamed dreams--of gold. The years passed, age pressed heavily, eyesight grew dim, and limbs palsied with weakness: but even when broken down and encompassed with infirmity, their very senility sustained its spirits upon visions of the rich find that was surely coming--to-morrow.

When the diggings "broke out," and the rush "set in," the flat was white with tents, the population running into four figures. It was an alluvial diggings; that is, the gold was washed from the earth, and not crushed from the quartz. In the flush days of Rocky Gully, rich "pockets" of gold were struck, and huge fortunes made. Life then, in the character of its splendours and pleasures, was barbaric. Lucky diggers, with the spending lust upon them, ordered champagne baths, lit their pipes with five-pound notes, shod their horses with plates of gold, squandered their suddenly acquired riches on camp wantons, and among the harpies of the gambling hells. There were many exceptions to this foolish course, 'tis true; but such is the mental intoxication consequent upon a lucky find, and the sudden acquisition of wealth, that the majority of lucky diggers succumb, and in a few weeks or months, shorn of their possessions, either blow out their brains in remorse, or challenge fortune once more upon the same or some other goldfield.

Rocky Gully was now a worked-out diggings, and its population had long ago drifted away to other fields. Naught remained to remind one of its glory now but a few tumbledown houses, and the wood skeletons of iron buildings, together with countless heaps of empty tins and other refuse. Naught, that is, save a dozen or so of fossikers, who were distributed over the field; each having his area, into which the others never intruded.

How was it, then, that the Bullaroi party should have included a trip to the deserted mining camp in their programme of sport and adventure? There was nothing inviting in the region so far as game was concerned; nor was there the rough excitements of a live diggings. The truth is, it was the outcome of a suggestion of Harry. The stockman had a yarn he was very fond of relating, which included some tragic incidents associated with Rocky Gully. As a youth he lived there in its "boom" days, and towards the close of his stay there he was mates with Humpy Bob. Humpy Bob was an eccentric character, well known on a dozen goldfields, whose shrewdness as a gold finder was countervailed by his incredible folly in spending his riches. On one occasion, when he had struck a "pocket," from which he drew over a thousand ounces, he began a carouse which continued until the last penny was spent.

As illustrative of his folly during that spree, he purchased a general store for the sum of one thousand pounds. The same evening, in company with the drunken guests of a champagne party he had given, he proceeded to the store, deliberately fired it, and, with the other banqueters, stripped stark naked, danced a wild corrobberie while it burned.

Bob sober was the antithesis of Bob drunk. Abstemious, taciturn, industrious, solitary, with a genius for divining likely places, he followed the pursuit of gold: seldom failing to earn good wages; often winning handsome profits; occasionally making a pile.

Humpy's end came suddenly and tragically; and of this Harry was a witness.

The two men were driving a tunnel at a likely spot in the bank of a blind gully about three miles from the main camp. They worked in relays, and had driven in about a score of yards, when Harry suggested shoring it with saplings for safety. Humpy Bob, however, who was always running risks, made light of the suggestion. They had just struck a vein of promising stuff, which gave "prospects" of several grains to the dish. When it was Bob's turn to go on, Harry again suggested shoring up certain loose spots; especially one near where he had been picking, for there had been a small fall during his shift. This the other would not consent to, though his partner pleaded earnestly.

"There's a hundred to one chances against there being anything serious, mate, and I'm not goin' to waste any time in propping up the blessed tunnel. It's not worth it. We'll most likely clean it out to-morrer. So-long!"

So saying, the digger entered the drive, and was soon at his work. Harry, having nothing to do for a while, went to the tent and stretched himself on his bunk for a rest, intending to return in an hour or so to wheel out the mullock. Unfortunately he fell asleep, and hours passed by before he awoke. When he did, he jumped from his bunk and ran out to the drive, scolding himself for his negligence. The barrow was missing from its usual place, and, after a hasty search, the youth went to the tunnel's mouth and shouted to his mate. There was no response, nor were the usual pick sounds to be heard. The light was still burning at the end of the tunnel. Hastily traversing the drive in a half-stooping position, as indeed compelled by the size of the tunnel, the youth covered about half the distance when he stumbled over the barrow, severely barking his shins. Using hot language against the carelessness of his mate at leaving the barrow in such a place, and with a half fear at the unsatisfactory look of things, he scrambled up and went on towards the end of the tunnel. He had not taken more than two steps when he again stumbled; this time over a softer substance. It was his mate!

Humpy Bob was lying unconscious, half-covered with a mass of fallen earth and rocks. Groping his way across this pile of debris, the excited and frightened youth reached the end of the drive, seized the light and returned to his mate.

Tearing frantically at the soil and stones, he liberated old Humpy, and, as gently as possible, drew him to the tunnel mouth. Then dashing to the little stream below, he brought water in a billy, and made the customary attempts to restore his stricken mate to consciousness. His utmost attempts availed not. The vital spark had fled. Not all the resources of medicine or surgery could bring light into the half-closed eyes, or life into those rapidly stiffening limbs. Humpy Bob would never again unearth a nugget, rock a cradle, appraise the value of a prospect, or get on the "razzle-dazzle" and "paint the town red."

It would seem that after working for a while, and making a heap of mullock, the digger had come out of the tunnel for Harry. Not seeing him about, the old man seized the barrow with the object of wheeling out some of the earth. He had loaded it, and was in the act of wheeling it along, when a mass of earth fell full upon his back, fracturing the spine.

Harry was greatly affected by this sad occurrence; for Humpy Bob had many good points of character, and a strong attachment had grown up between them. As soon as his mate was buried, he left the goldfield, and got a job on one of the stations.

He had often thought of revisiting this scene, for he had a feeling that good gold would be found there. Of late the desire to test the ground again had grown strong, and, when the project of the jaunt to the seaside was launched, he suggested a trip to the old diggings. The boys gladly fell in with the idea, for it furnished them with an item that gave additional spice to the outing.

The journey to the diggings was necessarily slow. The pack-horses were heavily weighted by the extra burden of the fish, and the method of progress was that shuffling gait known as the "jog." Though monotonous and tiring to the rider, it is the easiest pace for the loaded animals, and one that can be kept up all day.

"Seems a pity that we should cart this blessed fish to the diggings, Sandy. Wouldn't it be better to 'cache' it somewhere near the junction? It's giving the horses unnecessary work, in my opinion. Let's see, it's twelve miles to the junction, an' fifteen from there to Rocky Gully. Supposin' we planted the stuff in the scrub at the junction; it'd save thirty miles of hauling, an' be no end of a gain all round."

"Good enough, Joe! What d'yer say, Harry? We could hide the barrels an' bag easy enough in the scrub."

"M-yes, perhaps so. Come ter think of it, I'm not so sure. Barrels'd be all right, but 'twon't be the dingoes' fault if they don't root out the dried fish. Tell you what, boys, plant 'em in the caves!"

"Good shot! The very thing the doctor ordered! The caves! yes. 'Twon't take us more'n a mile out of the way; an' 'twill be on the road to Bullaroi on the return trip. We can easily strike in on the west side of the cave ridge, and hide 'em in the stables. Nobody knows of that place but father an' the 'rangers; now poor ole Ben's shot----"

"Maybe it's ha-aunted, bhoys. It's juist th' sphot owld Ben'd hide his sowl in, so as to frighten awa-ay th' p'lice whin they goes rummagin' about f'r booty; loike th' carr-sthle ghosts in th' owld conthry. Bedad, thin, Oi'll be expactin' t' see th' bowld raider comin' on us out iv th' dark, his face shinin' loike th' stuff phwat matches is made ov."

"Brimstone an' treacle you're thinkin' of, ain't you, Denny? But, I say, chaps, it'll be better to hide 'em at the 'ranger's outlet; though it'll be the dickens own job to get the barrels into the cave up that slope. Wouldn't it be better, after all, to hide the stuff in the scrub, slinging the bag into a tree, high enough to be safe from the dingoes?"

So it would, and have saved a most painful experience; but having started the idea of hiding the fish in the caves, it presented an attraction that the others would not surrender. It gave a flavour of romance to the act. Now that he was dead, the bushranger's hiding-place took on a new interest; and so it came to pass that Tom found himself in a minority of one.

They found it a tough piece of work to get the barrels up the precipitous slope to the cave entrance. But, when the fish was at last stored in the forage chamber, as it was now called, and the party had remounted their horses, they could appreciate the advantage gained by relieving the pack-horses of so much dead weight.

They now made more rapid headway, and struck an accommodation house, in the early afternoon, kept by one Jago Smith--an old acquaintance of Harry's.

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