23 May 1935

NATIVE OUTLAW MEETS HIS DOOM 

Shot By Police After 10 Years' Reign Of Terror

In 1875, I was working on Barryooloo station on Cooper's Creek, Central Australia. I returned from a droving trip to Adelaide to find a police party on the station, consisting of 12 armed native constables under the leadership of Sergeant Dunne, a white police officer. They had come there to make an earnest attempt to put an end to the activities of a notorious aboriginal outlaw named Marracoota. 

This native outlaw had a terrible record. He was chief of the old men of the Cooper's Creek tribe and used to slip about the country like a shadow, with a band of 40 native warriors at his heels, spearing cattle and murdering white settlers. 

He had begun his reign of terror 10 years previously. Jack Norman was alone on a station; the rest of the men were out on the run, mustering cattle. Jack was watering the station garden one evening when, suddenly and without warning, dusky warriors rose from the grass all around the vegetable patch and rushed at him. Jack took the only chance he had of saving his life; he pulled out the revolver which, he carried and charged straight at them, firing as he ran. When his revolver was empty he struck out right and left with his fists. He managed to reach the station hut, horribly cut and battered about the head and face by waddies, and collapsed just inside the door. The natives knew that rifles were kept there and they all cleared out, never thinking that their victim was lying on the floor, unconscious and at their mercy. 

Jack came to his senses next morning, lying on his face in a pool of blood: when he tried to remove his hat he found that it was stuck tightly to his head with dried blood. He scrawled a message on the hut door in charcoal to tell his mates what had happened, then took a bridle, caught a horse, and set out to ride to the nearest place where he could get help— Nockatunga station, 50 miles away. 

That afternoon Mrs. Dryman, wife of the owner of Nockatunga, saw a horseman whose clothes were stiff with dried blood come riding up. She ran out to meet him and caught him just as he collapsed and fell from the saddle. She had to cut his blood-soaked hat into little pieces to get it off his head, and then she sewed up the fearful gashes with a needle and horsehair. Thanks to her care and nursing, he recovered. 

Maracoota had led that attack, and in the years which followed he instigated one atrocity after another. Finally came the day of reckoning. As I knew the country round Barryooloo, Robert Doyle, my employer, detailed me to act as guide to the police party. We found the tracks of Maracoota's band, followed them for two days, and came up to them at a rise on the Cooper which is now known as Waterloo Hill. Here we hid in the scrub until 2 o'clock the following morning, then swam the river and surrounded the camp on three sides, leaving the side facing the river open. 

At daylight Dunne and I rode into the camp, called on the natives to surrender, and pointed to the line of native constables, standing with levelled carbines. At the same time, the boss of the native police told them in their own dialect that none of them would be hurt if they gave up Maracoota, their leader. With a wild howl, every man in Maracoota's band grabbed their boomerangs and let fly at us. One boomerang struck my horse in the flank, the sharp end penetrating deeply, and as the pain-maddened animal reared a second boomerang struck me on the head. I fell from my horse, half stunned, and crawled to safety. 

The leader of the native police gave a yell of 'This feller Maracoota,' and rushed in among the natives. He seized a dusky giant with a fierce, brutal face, and tried to drag him away. A second later the native policeman was felled from behind by a blow from a waddy. By this time it was plain that there was no longer any hope of capturing Maracoota alive, so Sergeant Dunne shouted, 'Drop Maracoota!' to the nearest trooper. The man immediately flung up his carbine and shot Maracoota through the body. Then the native policeman, who had tried to capture the outlaw alive, rose to his feet, snatched up a two-handed club, and laid about him with berserker fury. His opponents fell right and left. Several of the native policemen shot down wild blacks, who were in the act of throwing spears, then the outlaw band surrendered with a chorus of wails. 

Maracoota was dead when we walked over to where he lay; the heavy Snider bullet had passed through his heart. Even in death his face, was terrible; it was low-browed, savage, and without a single redeeming feature. Sergeant Dunne spoke to the rest of the cowering, shivering natives, and his head policeman translated his speech. The natives were told that the white men had no quarrel with them, now that their leader was dead; they were free to go where they wished. But if ever they speared cattle again, or killed any more white fellows, the police would come against them once more and punish them severely. 

The lesson sank home; never again did the Cooper's Creek tribe murder white settlers or spear cattle in a spirit of wanton destruction. I know that it has often been said that white settlers forced the natives away from their waterholes, scared away the game and forced them to kill sheep and cattle for food. That was often true, but it was not so in this case. Wild, ducks were there in thousands, there were fish in every pool along the river, and native food in the shape of kangaroos, goannas, eggs and roots was abundant. The natives had no need to kill any cattle; when they did spear them they usually left the carcases to rot. Maracoota was a human wolf, like the American gangsters, of today, and he deserved his fate just as much as men of the type of the late, and unlamented, Dillinger did.— William Oliffe. 

See also https://digital.library.adelaide.edu.au/dspace/bitstream/2440/139670/1/Sallis2023_MPhil.pdf  pp.86-87

The Haunted Creek 

It was about 7 p.m. on Christmas Day, five years ago, when two weary horsemen, superbly mounted and leading several other fine horses, rode up to the hotel at Beltana, only to be told that the accommodation there was already taxed to the utmost. 

The two men, who had that day ridden from Blinman to reach Beltana for the cup meeting, decided that they would select a comfortable camping spot in the Warioota Creek, which runs through the township. 

They had unsaddled their horses and tethered them to a tree, and were preparing to boil the billy, when a lad of about 17 appeared and said, 'Hey, mister! Yer can't camp in the gum creek!'

'What?' came the reply. 'Yer can't camp there; the creek's 'aunted.' 'Creek's what?' ''Aunted; me uncle said so.' 'Oh is it? Well who's your uncle, anyway?' 'Mister W—— . 'Ere 'e comes now. Hey uncle, ain't this creek 'aunted?' 

'Of course it's haunted. Who said — ; if it ain't old Ron. How are you Ron?' 'Fine, John. Just over for the races.' 'Good. Short of a bed It seems?' 'Yes, but what's the strength of this ghost yarn?' 

'Ghost yarn? Hey you, Charlie. Get Mickey, and look for Skewie on the common.' 'But I wanter 'ear about the ghost,' protested the lad. 'Get Mickie or I'll —— .' The lad left at the double. 

Again the campers put the question to the boy's uncle: — 'What's the ghost like anyway?' 'Just have a good look at me.' 'You don't mean to say ? ?' 'Mean to say! Why, I've never seen a ghost more like me in all my life.' 'Now you're pulling our legs.' 

'No, it's a fact; if you can picture me hanging for dear life on to that tree over there, and my two bullocks, yoked together, doing double somersaults a hundred yards down the creek, then you've got a pretty good idea of the ghost.' 

The two campers laughed; this was too good. 'You don't mean to say,' said one, 'that because the creek came down a bit faster than usual, it's haunted.' 'Don't I just? Why, a flood like that in these parts is enough to haunt a man for the rest of his life.' 

'But surely you got some warning?' queried the second horseman. 'Warning! We hadn't had a drop of rain for months, and the sky was quite clear; but I will admit that it was pretty black over the hills way; they must have had feet out there.' 

'Some rain, all right then?' put in the original enquirer. 'I've never known a bigger in the 60 years I've lived in these parts. 

But not a word; here comes Charlie.'' 'Why?' 'Well he knows the creek's haunted, and he's bursting himself to know what the ghost's like.' 'Well, why not tell him?' 'Not me. It takes a blooming ghost to keep these young chaps in order.' — 'Nawoc.' 

MY TRIP TO KEEROONGOOLOO 

TO THE EDITOR 

Sir— Several members of the Birt family have read - 'My Trip to Keeroongooloo' by G. S. Lindsay in 'The Chronicle' of May 2, and do not corroborate Mr. Lindsay's statements. His memories are very mixed. 

Mr. Lindsay was engaged as an employe for Keeroongooloo station. My husband had not known him previously. He travelled on the journey he speaks of, but had no responsibility or authority whatever. He quite ignores the good man, and good bushman, my nephew, E. P. H. Birt (now deceased), in whose sole change my daughters were. They went by train to Silverton (without being affected by mal-de-train) near where the children stayed with a cousin, while my nephew went to Broken Hill, and there purchased buggy and two mares. These mares remain in my memory for their strong attachment to each other. If parted, they fretted, and soon lost condition. Having only these two mares for the buggy, the journey was necessarily by easy stages, and occupied from six to seven weeks, travelling from near Silverton, through New South Wales, and across the border into the south-western corner of Queensland. I had no premonition of their pending arrival, and being city bred never wandered along bush tracks alone. Mr. Lindsay made a good story, but in future, when he wishes to romance about the time he was employed on Keerooongooloo, we would prefer him to use fictitious names, and not ours. — I am, Sir, &c., S. BIRT.