8 April 1937

HOW AN OUTLAW WAS CREATED 

Injustice Responsible For Four Men's Deaths

A neatly kept bush camp was pitched in a picturesque spot in North Queensland, and the dozen horses grazing contentedly round about were being rehobbled after a drink by a slim wiry lad of 19 summers. 

Neatly clad in close fitting, snow white moleskin pants, a clean Crimean shirt, and the light elastic sided boots horse men use, young Joe looked what he actually was, an ideal type of outback bushman. From a waist belt lined with cartridges a Colt revolver swung from his hip. Joe might easily have passed for a sunbronzed young white, whereas he was actually a half-caste. 

From a tent emerged a man of middle age, who walked with the short quick step of a horseman. There was no mistaking the relationship — father and son, without a doubt. 

'Better catch a horse, Joe,' the man said, 'and take one up to the pub for your mother. We'll be making back to Waanye Range tomorrow.' The trio had come in from the station where they worked to a bush race meeting. Old Joe had lent his Aboriginal wife, Kitty, to the shanty keeper's wife as an assistant during the festive week. 

Willingly young Joe complied with his father's wishes and was soon on the five-mile journey to the pub, leading a spare horse. Having put the horses in the yard, he stepped on to the pub verandah. With a civil 'Good day' to the burly shanty keeper, he asked for his mother. Still feeling the effects of a week's debauch, the latter cursed the half-caste lad, telling him to get to hell out of it and refusing to release the woman. 

'If my father comes he will take Kitty,' argued young Joe, 'and give you a hiding as well.' Incensed at what he considered cheek from a half-caste, the shanty keeper rushed at the lad. In the struggle Joe's revolver was fired while still in its open pouch. No damage resulted except that a weatherboard of the shanty wall was splintered by the bullet. 

Joe broke away and ran across the heavily grassed plain in front of the shanty. The man then picked up a rifle and fired at the fleeing figure. Joe collapsed in the long grass after the manner of a person mortally hit. On seeing the lad fall, the shanty keeper became scared, he rode to the nearest police station and reported the matter, stating that the lad had tried to shoot him, and that he had been competed to fire in self defence. 

Accompanied by a policeman, he rode back to the pub, but on arrival there it was found that young Joe had calmly arisen from his grassy cover after the fear-stricken white had departed, and with his Aboriginal mother had ridden away. He had simply played possum, and had not been injured by the shot.

On being informed of the incident, the father had delayed his departure, and, together with his half-caste son, sought to explain what had happened. Joe, however, was arrested and charged with shooting with intent to kill. In vain he pleaded that it was the publican who had actually managed to fire the revolver. 

Joe was kept in gaol awaiting trial for some weeks, during which time he became convinced that he would eventually be hung. He, therefore, watched his chance, and at last managed to escape, taking the best police horses and a saddle with him. His parents, meanwhile, had left the district, and nothing more was heard of the fugitive for some months. 

A warrant was issued for Joe's arrest, and every police post through out the colonies was advised. Joe, however, had travelled some hundreds of miles over country inhabited by hostile natives, and had at length reached a remote cattle station in an other State. The hard-working owner of the run took an instant liking to the lithe, active horseman. The natives were troublesome and treacherous. Cattle killing kept the herd unsettled. 

With young Joe as right hand man, and his team of civilised natives, the old owner for once knew some peace. He installed Joe as head stockman, and it is pretty certain that the young half-caste gave his boss an account of his trouble. 

The only fly in the ointment was a police post, some 50 miles distant. Unconscious of such things as warrants, the half-caste had a lurking suspicion that all was not well. On the only occasion, some months after his arrival, that the constable paid the station a visit. Joe's revolver hung at his hip, and his cartridge belt was fully lined with live shells. 

Black Bob, the dour, sun-tanned Scotsman, who represented the law, did not fail to notice this fact. He evinced a disarming friendliness towards Joe, and departed with a cheery. 'Look in if you're down my way, lad.'

Perhaps in some measure this hoodwinked Joe; but in any case, Black Bob was throwing away no chances. He knew that the half caste was an expert shot with rifle or revolver, and made his plans should that warrant arrive. A year had elapsed since Joe's escape in the other colony. 

To Black Bob's isolated post came the warrant for the arrest of Joe on a charge of attempted murder. With no small misgiving, the constable set out to carry out his task. 

As we sat at a camp-fire years after the young half-caste had been arrested, the constable told me of his part in the business. 

'It was at this self-same camp,' began Bob, 'that Joe tried to escape. On our first day of travel, after a late start, we pulled in here just after dark. A bad packhorse to catch gave the only opportunity. Joe was loaded with chains from neck to feet. Yet as I helped my subordinate block the refractory horse, there was a rattle of chains and my prisoner was off in the darkness. 

He made straight for the range, stumbling over rocks with me doing the same not far behind him. How he managed to keep going is a mystery. Disgrace complete would have been my portion had he got away. So, guided by the clank of metal, I fired three shots in quick succession, and still staggering on, almost fell over his prostrate body. He lived and struggled to regain his feet, so I smashed by revolver butt to the back of his head. 

We carried an unconscious prisoner back to camp. He was a tough customer, and we kept up a steady twenty odd miles a day right through. Not a word did the half-caste speak, although at times he gave me a look that settled any doubt of what he felt regarding me. 

The doctor at the port where I took Joe soon had him right, and when the vessel called with an escorting constable from Queensland to take Joe back it was my job to deliver him on board. As I turned to go ashore, the outlaw said, 'If ever I get away again you will be the first to get paid.' 

'And by the holy smoke he was in deadly earnest,' added the burly Scot. 

'The fact is Bob,' I replied, 'you were dead scared of that youngster, and brutally ill-used him when he was helpless.' 

'There's something in that,' replied Bob candidly. 'I've never told you how I collared him on Sandstone Station. Riding along over the fifty miles I was making plans. If Joe had any suspicion, I was due for a bullet. He was just outside his shack when I spotted him first and saw that he wore no revolver. 

I had a brain wave, and while still some distance off I bellowed out a tale of blacks having stuck up a station forty miles south. My news threw Joe clean off his balance and he walked with me to the boss's hut. We sat side by side on a greenhide bunk, Joe waiting for me to break the bad news to his boss. 

Instead I just grappled with him, and being about six stone heavier, held him till my native police boys joined in. I never gave him a chance to do anything. I was very glad when I finally got rid of him. Whatever started him up as an outlaw, made a right good job. When news of his later escape came I felt as if my own death warrant had been signed.' 

Soon after Joe arrived back in Queensland the lock-up in which he was placed was burnt to the ground and he and another prisoner escaped. Soon afterwards the half-caste was seen at the shanty where his troubles started. He was armed with a Winchester magazine rifle and had plenty of cartridges. The former publican had, fortunately for himself, departed. 

In cool, quiet tones Joe in formed the new licensee that he had meant to shoot his former enemy. In the same deliberate manner he expressed his intention of shooting every policeman he could, and Black Bob of the other State in particular.

Many stockmen sympathised with the unlucky young half-caste, and in time he turned up at the station on which he and his parents had worked for years. Misfortune, however, still dogged his footsteps for the old owner was out when he arrived. A nervous bookkeeper took a pot shot on recognising who the visitor was. 

Concealed by cover of a building Joe's return fire sent his foe under cover. No injury was sustained by either, but a squad of native police boys and their young white officer appeared, and forced Joe to take refuge in a small, one-roomed slab hut with only one door and a small, open square for a window. 

Soon the hut was surrounded by some twenty armed men, including the half-dozen police boys. At the white police officer's command the little hut was made a target for scores of bullets. After an hour's heavy fusilade with no answering shot, one station native rushed towards the hut window. He fell dead in his tracks. 

Further bombardment followed, and again an unwary native succumbed to a single shot from the hut. Furiously the attacking party poured in volley after volley, yet drew no fire. 

The old owner rode up. 'I will get young Joe to surrender,' he said confidently. As he walked nearer to the little hut others of the party moved up. 

'Don't come any closer, Boss,' came in clear tones from behind the slab walls. 

'Give yourself up,' answered the boss, still moving forward. A shot was the only answer, and the old owner spun to the impact of a bullet in the shoulder. Quickly further tragedy followed, as the shadows of night approached. 

The young white policeman, unnerved by the various casualties, acted rashly. Bidding the party stand back, he advanced alone, revolver in hand. 'Surrender in the Queen's name,' he commanded. Those words were the last he uttered. A bullet pierced his brain almost as he spoke. 

Night fell with the outlaw still uncaptured, and with three dead men and another badly injured as a result of his shooting. Throughout the long night watch was kept on the outlaw's lair, while native voices raised in shrill chanting for their dead, re echoed through the valley below the homestead. 

When morning came silence brooded over the station. The few white workers moved cautiously about. The natives, police boys included, kept well under cover. In striking contrast to the hundreds of cartridges expended on the slab sides of the hut, only four laden messengers had answered the challenge. Was the outlaw still watching? None seemed anxious to enquire. 

It was left to a native woman to solve the problem. She had turned up from a bush walkabout late in the night. Boldly the old lubra announced her intention of inspecting the hut. She declared that Joe could not shoot at her. 'Him all the same picinniny be longta me.' she explained. 

She approached the shack and without hesitation pushed the rough door. It swung open to reveal an empty space. Pools of congealed blood showed on the earthen floor. Four spent shells lay in a corner. From an angle, Joe had done his shooting. 

With a peculiar keening of grief the woman followed a blood trail down the ridge. Armed natives followed at a distance. In tall rank grass they saw the old lubra cast herself to earth in a frenzy of sorrow. They heard the high note of an aboriginal death song. 

Outlaw Joe had passed, and as the station folk, both white and black, gathered round, they saw a grief stricken old lubra clasping his still form in her bony arms. Later inspection of that once lithe body disclosed the existence of seven distinct bullet wounds. 

On a high knoll overlooking the Waanye Valley of the north-west, one may still find a cluster of graves as mute record of those bygone days when an outlaw was created through the injustice of the white man's law. — J.K.L. 

The Cat Came Back 

The homing instinct of dogs, cats, and horses is well known, but no one has yet been able to explain it. 

I know of a dog that found his way back to his old home, 200 miles away; of a cat taken 40 miles into the bush, and coming back next day; and of a horse returning 150 miles, and swimming 20 miles across St. Vincent's Gulf, as a short cut. 

The most remarkable instance I know, however, was the performance of a cat belonging to a friend, who lives in the country. When he came home one day he found the cat with seven kittens four or five days old. 

Thinking it an opportune time to get rid of them, he took them about nine miles away, and left them in the scrub. Next morning they were all back at the farm. As the kittens were too young to walk, the mother must have carried them. 

If she carried two at a time, she must have travelled 63 miles, and if she carried one at a time, she must have covered 117 miles during the night. Truly a grand tribute to mother love! — F.G.