The GIRL WHO HELPED NED KELLY

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 738, 10 August 1929, Page 8

The GIRL WHO HELPED NED KELLY

By

CHARLES E. TAYLOR

t Copyright ]

FOREWORD

The principal people in the story are the men and women who took part in this biggest drama of the Australian bush. The Kellys arc real. So are Superintendent Hare and Aaron Sherritt. For obvious reasons the names of the policemen and of the sympathisers of the gang have been altered. The exploits of the Kellys have been faithfuly recorded, facts hitherto unpublished having been obtained by the author after exhaustive personal investigation. A’o attempt has been made to canonise these young criminals or to justify their outlawry, but few people will read the exploits of the gang without feeling a tinge of pity for its ringleader—a brave, though misguided, young Australian, whose superb qualities of leadership, almost unexampled endurance and uncanny bushcraft, would have taken him far if Fate had willed for him a more honest career.

CHAPTER I. TRAMP AND BUSHRANGER *■ JJAIL UP!” The pleasant-facctl young man in shabby but well-cut clothes who sat watching his billy boil turned Sharply. When he saw a big man who obviously was young, in spite of his beard, covering him with a formidablelooking revolver, a smile chased the wonderment from his face, and he laughed softly. "Quick now—put your hands up!” The command was peremptory, but the young fellow made no effort to obey it. Instead, he held out his hand. "I’ve often wanted to meet you, Ned Kelly,” he said. “Won't you shake?” The big man watched him for a moment. “You’re game, boy.” His tone mingled amusement and admiration. “Who are you, and what are you doing in these parts?” “Jack Briant—looking for work. The billy’s nearly boiling. You’ll have a drop of tea with me, won't you?” The other’s eyes were very searching as he inquired, “Are you sure you’re alone?” “Yes—all alone!” Something in the boy’s voice induced the outlaw to lay a sympathetic hand on his arm and ask: “No friends?” "None that is any good to me,” he replied bitterly. Ned Kelly smiled. “I beat you there. I’m a bushranger, with a price on my head, but I've got the truest friends in the world. If I hadn’t I wouldn’t be here today.” Briant poured out a pannikin of tea and handed it to his strange guest.

“Yoij first,” said Ned. The younger man did not at once grasp the significance of the remark. When he did he took back the pannikin apd laid it on the log on which they sat. Pouring some tea into the billy lid, he waited for a few moments for it to cool, then with a cheery •’Good luck!” drank it in a few gulps. Ned reached for the pannikin. "One iran’t be too careful,he said, as he raised it to his lips. “Better luck, boy!”

A twig snapped, and the outlaw was on his feet in an instant, his hand going instinctively to his revolver holster. Briant, too, had risen, and with eager eyes searched the bush. For many tense moments they stood thus. A faint click came from the scrub in front of them, and was thrice repeated, each time more faintly. “A ’roo,” remarked the bushranger, as he resumed his seat. “My God, what a life!” The young man said it half to himself, but the quick ears of his companion did not miss it. “Yes —it keeps a fellow on the jump. Hunted like an animal, eh? Because of that dirty cur, Fitzpatrick. By God, if ever —” The fierce light quickly died out of his eyes, but there was little mirth in the smile that parted his lips. Jack Briant gazed at him in frank admiration: “You're not a bad chap, after all, Ned Kelly,” he said. “I didn't believe half the things they said about you." “What did they say about me?” There was obvious eagerness in the iuquiry. Ned Kelly had his weaker side. There was a strong streak of vanity in his make-up. The best brains of the police force had been pitted against his own, and he was still a free man. There was a substantial reward for his capture, dead or alive, yet none of his confidants had betrayed his trust. Small wonder, then, that his egoism was flattered. “I’ve worked my way up from Melbourne,” replied Briant, “and everyone is talking about you. Some say you're the biggest blackguard Australia has ever seen, that you murder people in cold blood, and that when you’re caught hanging'll be too good lor you.”

Briant noticed the outlaw’s just perceptible shudder at the mention of the gallows. “Others say you’ve been driven to it, and that after all they don't blame you. You've got the sympathy of most of the women. I’ve noticed. There's a girl down at Seymour who says she'd give five years of her life to be able to help you.” That recalled to Briant the stories he had heard of Ned’s sweetheart—a mysterious girl who was supposed to have performed prodigies of valour on the outlaw’s behalf in the way of keeping him advised of police movements and supplying the gang with food. "God bless her for that! Have

you ever talked to the police about me?” “To a few of them. They’re not bad chaps, either.” “B loafers!” The bushranger spat the words out. “You’re wrong there,” persisted Briant. “You can’t run a country without police, and the fellows who’re after you are only doing their duty. They’re not all Fitzpatricks, you know.” Little pin points of hate shone in Kelly’s eyes, and he bit his lip to stifle the words that rose unbidden to them. Twice his hand caressed the butt of his revolver, but he did not speak. “Why don’t you get out of the country, Ned?” The suggestion seemed to surprise him, but it elicited no reply. “They must get you in the end,” Briant went on. “Perhaps,” answered Kelly in a voice that indicated that his thoughts were far away. “They’ve got you now!” The sudden change of tone caused the outlaw to look up quickly. The muzzle of a big revolver was within a few' feet of his head. Instinctively his glance fell on his own empty holster.

“I’ve got you, Ned Kelly!” There was an exultant thrill in the youngster’s voice, and the clear blue eyes behind the weapon glowed fearlessly. “Up with your hands before I put a bullet through you!” Kelly hesitated, but Briant's "Quick now!” brought his arms above his head.

“You darned police pimp!” shouted the trapped bushranger. Briant jumped to the other side of the log. “1 ought to shoot you now,” he said. “You’re just as valuable dead as alive.” “Then shoot, and be damned to you!” There w'as no trace of fear in Ned’s voice. For fully a minute they stood facing one another, the silence broken only by the wind soughing through the trees.

“Anything you want to say? Any message to your friends?” Kelly ignored the question. “Surely you've got some confession to make,” the young man persisted. “I’ll promise to record it faithfully.” Ned’s brain was working fast: but there seemed to be uo escape from the trap into which, unwittingly, he had fallen. The hand that held his revolver was as steady as a rock. Suddenly the outlaw’s eyes gleamed, and, looking intently into the bush, he shouted excitedly, “Quick, Dan, shoot him! ”

Briant laughed. “Try again,” he said. “Those old tricks are worked out.”

Trapped as he was, the bushranger could not help admiring the callous bravery of the youth who had him at his mercy. Admiration changed to astonishment as he saw Briant lower the revolver and come forward with a smile on his lips. “I couldn’t resist the temptation, Ned,” he said quietly. “I’m no more a police pimp than you are. I just wondered what it would feel like to hold up a real ’ranger, so I sneaked your revolver when you turned your head. There isn’t a policeman in Australia who wouldn’t have given half a lifetime to have had a chance like that. Sorry if I scared you. You must admit I did it rather well.” Anger surged in the outlaw’s heart, but the smiling boyish face of the man who had tricked him, and wounded his pride, dispelled it. His Irish sense of humour also helped him, and before he knew it he was smiling, too.

“You young devil, I ought to shoot you for that,” he said, as he returned his revolver to its holster. “You had a fortune in your hands, and you let it slip. What do you mean by it?” “I’m on my uppers,” Briant admitted with a rueful grimace, “but I’m not as hard up as that. I say, is there any chance of joining you?” The bushranger shook his head. “Why not?” “This isn’t your affair.” “Couldn't trust me, eh?”

Kelly paused for a moment before answering. “After what you showed me just now I’d trust you anywhere. Who are you, boy?” “Just a down-and-outer tramping the country, heading for God knows where. Why not let me come along? I'm sure I could be useful.”

The bushranger’s “No” was so definite that Briant. knew that further argument was merely a waste of breath. Ned held out his hand: “You deserve better than this. Got any money?” Briant turned out his pockets and showed him a few shillings and a penny or two. "Take this.” He thrust several notes and a handful of silver into the young man’s hand. “Never mind where it came from.” he added, as he noticed bis hesitancy to accept it. “You could do with a fresh rig-out.” “You’re right there,” Briant agreed. “1 hate these rags. They’re—they’re net quite what I’ve been used to, you know.” “I guessed that. A fellow who keeps his chin clean like you do has seen better days.” Briant ran his hand over his smooth cheeks. “That's one thing I can’t seem to do without. I say. why don’t you get rid of that scrub?” Ned fingered his silky brown beard caressingly, and shook his head. “You’ll trip on it some day, and then they’ll cop you,” Jack laughed. “I’ll chance that. Well, I must be going. It’s a good job you didn't play that trick on Dan. You mightn't be alive now. I may see you again—who knows? Good luck to you. sonny!” “And good luck to you, Ned!” Their hands met in a lingering grip Then the man with a price on his head stepped silently into the busl.— so softly that the young fellow, noting

his bulk, wondered at his lightness of foot. % As he watched him go, a wave of pity surged through Briant's heart. For the bushrangers there could be but one end, but the thought that their inevitable fate meant a broken heart for at least one brave girl depressed him. CHAPTER 11. A STRANGE OLD COUPLE Jack Briant stood watching the retreating figure of the notorious criminal with whom Fate so strangely had brought him into contact. When the bush had swallowed him he took from his pocket the money the outlaw had given him, and counted it. Four pounds nine and sixpence! Compared with his miserable earnings since he had become a tramp, it represented real wealth. He removed his well-worn boots, carefully placed the notes inside them, and put them back on his feet, smiling to himself as he did so. Gathering up his few scanty belongings, and scattering the embers of the fire, he noted the height of the sun, and, with his bluey slung over his shoulder and his billycan in his hand he swung along the track that joined the Benalla road. An old man who had stopped his dray to adjust the harness of his horse eyed him suspiciously. Briant flung him a cheery “Good day! ” As there was no response, he repeated the salutation. Again it was ignored. “Are you deaf?” Jack demanded. “I bade you good-day.” The old man’s beetling brows contracted into a frown.

“I can choose the likes of them 1 speak to,” he growled. "Meaning?” “1 ain’t got time for no police pimps! ” Briant laughed. “So that’s it, is it? That’s the

second time today someone’s made that mistake. Ned did ten minutes ago.” The old man stiffened. “Ned ’oo!” he snapped. “Ned Kelly, of course.” “Reckon you’re a smarty, I s’pose?” The smile which revealed a set of irregular tobacco-stained teeth was half a sneer. “Look here, you’re old enough to know better than that,” Briant laughed back at him. “Anyway, I’m looking for a job. Anything at your place?” “Not for the likes o’ you!” “So you still think I’m a police pimp?” “I bid you good-day!” The old man jumped up into his dray with an agility that belied his appearance. Jack seized the horse’s head. “Hold on, you needn't be in such a hurry.” “Let go of them reins, or I'll brain you! ” The threat was accompanied by the flourish of a stout stick which bad lain on the floor of the dray. "Ned wouldn’t like you to treat a friend like that,” the boy told him. The old man dropped his stick and got down. “Who aie you to say you know Ned?” he demanded, eagerly scanning the smiling face than confronted him. “Give me a job and I'll tell you all about it.” The veteran countryman did not reply. Instead, he rapidly Tan his hands over Briant's soiled clothes. “Looking for a pistol?” asked Jack. “Git up in the cart,” snapped the old fellow. As the vehicle lumbered over the rough bush track, Briant told him of his meeting with the bushranger. Apparently his story sounded convincing, for the old man thawed to the extent of talking once every half mile or so.

“Me name’s Jackson, and me place is over the rise,” he said. "Might be able to find something for you for a coupla days leastways.” “I shall be very grateful, Mr. Jackson,” Briant assured him. “It isn't all beer and skittles tramping the country.” “No more is it farmin’ in these

I parts,” the old man cut in—“-what with them interferin'—” He stoped in the middle of the senI tencet and, although his companion ; looked inquiringly at him, he showed i no inclination to complete it. Long shadows were creeping across the track, and the air was becoming cooler as the dray drew up before a wretched little bark bumpy set in a clearing of a few liungry-looking acres. Two big dogs bounded to meet it, both of them eyeing the stranger and voicing in vicious yaps what obviously w’as a protest at his intrusion. “Better mind them dogs,” Jackson warned him. Briant jumped down from the dray and snapped his fingers at the unfriendly animals. “Come here, you rascals!” he cried. The bigger of the pair looked at him doubtfully for a second or two, and then wagged his tail. The other was less conciliatory; but, taking the cue from his mate, he advanced gingerly and sniffed the travel-stained trousers of the stranger. “Bark at me, would you?” said Jack, taking the shaggy head between his hands and looking intently into the animal’s still distrustful eyes. “Best be careful,” Jackson warned him again. “Dogs never bite a good man,” laughed Briant. “Come here, you!” The bigger dog gave vent to a delighted yap, and fawned on his newfound friend. The other expressed confidence by his vigorous tail-wag-ging. “Them dogs have never took to strangers before,” remarked the old man, wonderingly. “All dogs are friendly with me,” rejoined Briant. “Recognise me as one of themselves—one of the under-dogs, I suppose.” A wizened little woman came out of the hut, wiping her hands on her apron. “Who you got there?” she demanded.

“A young feller lookin’ for work, Mum,” her husband answered, a little sheepishly, as though uncertain as to the reception that would greet an addition to the struggling household.

Mrs. Jackson was about to make some remark when she noticed the fuss the dogs were making of the newcomer. The old man followed her gaze.

“They seemed to have took a fancy to him, don’t they?” he commented. She nodded her acquiescence, and, without a word, re-entered the hut. “You go along inside. I’ll take the horse out,” Briant said to Jackson. “You must have had a long day, and can do with a spell.” “Spell! There’s no spell for folks as come to this district. Well, you can put the harness in' the shed there, and turn Roney loose.”

Having someone to do any sort of work for him was a new experience for Jackson, and it pleased him. A few minutes later the new “hand,” with the two dogs at his heels, appeared in the doorway and asked if he might come in. He was motioned to the end of the rough stool on which Jackson sat. “It’s rough,” remarked the old man, as he noticed Jack’s survey of his, squalid surroundings. “People as come to the bush don’t have many fal-lals. We ain’t got any place for you to doss in but the shed out there, but there's plenty o’ bags to keep you warm.”

Briant assured him that would oe luxury compared with some of the quarters to which he had been used. At that moment Mrs. Jackson, who had gone c tside, came in quickly,

eager interest in her faded eyes. She looked significantly at her husband, who hastily followed her through the dcor.

There was something in their attitude that aroused the watching young man’s curiosity, and he walked across the room. The old couple stood with their backs to the house, intently gazing at tlie far-distant purpling hills. Breaking a couple of boughs from a nearby sapling, Jackson brought them inside and threw them on the fire. Dense volumes of smoke arose from the green leaves.

“You might run acrost to the shed and get, me that box outer the dray,” said Jackson; and Briant, knowing at once that something was about to lake place that was not intended for bis eyes, instantly o'oe3'ed. Tt was not the contents of the dray that claimed most of his attention, however. From the rough stone chimney—which he noticed was unusually high, and had the appearance of recently having been added to—a cloud of blue smoke ascended, followed at regular intervals by two more clouds When he returned to the hut with a small bo:: from the dray the place was full of smoke, through which he noticed Mrs. Jackson carrying a big piece of hessian into the other room. “These here boughs smoke some tilin’ terrible,” the old man remarked. “They certainly do,” Briant agreed, rubbing his eyes.

“Soon clear away, though.” “Yes, I suppose so.” That was all that was said, but for a long time Jack felt that the glances which the old couple cast in his direction were prompted by a desire to discover how much he had seen. For the first time for five days Briant sat down to a hot meaL A huge plateful of steaming meat, a junk of coarse damper, and a mug of milkless tea were set before him on the bare boards of the Improvised table. The meat had an unfamiliar flavour, but was by no means displeasing. He was ravenously hungry, and his helping disappeared with astonishing rapidity. “Ever taste that before?” asked Jackson, quizzically. “Not that I know of. What was it —kangaroo ?” The old man hared his discoloured teeth. “That’s a good guess, anyway. Some as says they can’t touch it, but it’s —fillin’—and when you get it young I reckon there’s some goodness in it. We don’t have roast beef or turkey regular, you know.” “High living isn’t good for you, anyway—it gives you gout,” laughed Briant. After the meal, which was consumed almost in silence, Jackson drew a stool up nearer the fire and filled his pipe. “Smoke?” he asked. “Rather; but I’ll have a whiff later.” Then, to the old lady’s astonishment., she felt two strong hands on her shoulders, and was gently pushed into th" rickets' rocking chair that claimed •wide of place among the rude appointments of her home. “This is your off night,” Jack told her. “I’m the maid-of-all-work for once. You just watch me clear up those dishes. A ghost of a smile hovered round the old woman’s colourless lips as she beheld the .unusual sight of a man discharging one of the duties that formed part of her ceaseless round of toil. It was good to sit by while someone did even a small portion of the work from which there seemed no possible chance of escape. “There now, how’s that?” Briant asked, as he pointed to the dishes, which carefully, if clumsily washed, he had piled in a neat heap on the box near the end of the table.

“You’re a good boy,” remarked Mrs. Jackson, with a little quaver iu her voice.

They talked on various subjects for an hour or more. Neither Jackson nor his wife svas disposed to discuss the Kellys and their exploits or the girl whom Ned Kelly was supposed to love, although several times Briant adroitly turned the conversation into that wellworn channel. Every time he mentioned the outlaws they cut him short and iutroauced more congenial, if less enthralling, topics. By the aid of a lantern Briant sought his sleeping quarters. The shed was cold and draughty; but, as the old man had said, there were plenty of bags, and witb these he made his bed. Because of the notes concealed in them, he did not remove his boots. In strange country it always paid to be cautious. Next day he would find a safe plant for his money. For a long time he lay thinking of the events of the day, and particularly of the smoke signals by which the old folks had sent some mysterious message to friends whose identity he felt sure he could guess. His meeting with Ned Kelly thrilled him. Somehow he felt he would see much more of the outlaw leader in the near future —that, indeed, the bushranger would play some considerable part in shaping his career. Then sleep overtook him. Hosv long he - slept he did not know, hut when the barking of the dogs awakened him he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs. His first impulse was to get up to see who these nocturnal visitors might be, but prudence dictated another course, so he lay still.

After what seemed to be hours of waiting, he was just dozing again when he heard stealthy footsteps approaching. A man with a lantern entered the hut, and by its fitful rays he could see that he was younger than the stubbly growth on his chin indicated. When the stranger came closer, and subjected him to close scrutiny, he feigned sleep. Evidently the examination satisfied the man, for after a few seconds he left the shed. Jack saw out of the corner of his eye that the stranger walked backsvard, and kept the lantern well in front of him. He noted, too, that a heavy revolver hung from his belt. A little later again he heard the sound of horses’ hoofs, but this time fainter and fainter, until eventually they died away. CHAPTER 111. THE POLICE CALL. “What were the dogs barking at last night,” Briant asked Jackson next morning. The old man regarded him intently for a moment, then replied with a nonchalance that obviously was assumed: “They woke me, to<* You never know what they see in the bush o’ nights.” “Perhaps it was the police on the look-out for the Kellys.” “Not likely,” returned the old chap. “They know the gang don’t come this way. I got nothing they would want to take. Y'ou won’t see a policeman round these parts.” Jackson was wrong there, for early that afternoon two well-mounted horsemen pulled up at his hut. Although in civilian clothes, they were easily recognisable as troopers. One, a big fellow, heavily bearded, apparently was no stranger to the old couple. "What tricks have you been up to lately, Jackson?” he demanded. “Just the same old tricks, constable,” was the ready reply: “trying to make a livin’ by hard work.” The young trooper laughed. “Haven’t had any help lately, I suppose?” “No, worse luck—l got no one to help me ’cept the missus, and God knows she does her best.” “Y'ou lying old hound!” cried the bearded man. “We’ll get you yet, Jackson, just as sure as we'll get Ned and his gang.” “There’s nothing s - ou can get me for —-you know that.” “We’ve told you before what it means to harbour criminals,” the younger man said, as he dismounted. Jackson pointed to his miserable habitation. “Fine place to harbour anyone, I’m thinking.” “Y’ou’re a cunning old devil, and your old woman isn’t any better.” Jackson’s eyes blazed. “Y’ou wouldn’t dare say that if I was a younger man. I’d flay the skin of your dirty carcase. Y’ou hunt for Ned Kelly! And what would you do if you found him? Ruu like hell, I’ll warrant. I know j-our sort. Bulljin’ old men and women’s more in your line. Y’ou ” Want of breath cut short the angry tirade. (To be continued on Monday)