The GIRL WHO HELPED NED KELLY

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 755, 30 August 1929, Page 5

The GIRL WHO HELPED NED KELLY

l By

CHARLES E. TAYLOR

“They'll be getting ready now, and tonight they ride away." “Must they go?” Jack asked.

“Ned says they must,” she replied, la a way that indicated that nothing further need be added. He recalled Kate Kelly’s “Ned knows best” as further evidence of the complete faith which all his friends reposed in this masterful outlaw leader. “‘The blacks have been round here.” Jennie said, with fear in her eyes, as though she realised what added danger .he employment of those uncannily skilful trackers meant to her lover. “Some of them are not trying I know, for fear the gang will shoot them, aud we’re all doing our best to let them know that the boys have sworn to kill every one they set eyes on. Oh! but they’re so clever. It was hard enough with, the police scouring the bush night and day. but the trackers are making it ten times harder. They’re more than human. I saw one of them just glance at the ground and say, ‘Big doe kangaroo come along two, three hour ago?’” “But he mightn’t have been right.” ' He was right. Dad paw the ’roo himself just about that time.” “Do you mean to tell me that a blackfellow can tell from tracks which we wouldn’t even notice the sex of the animal and when it made them?” 'They can do it easily. Every time 1 see or hear of a tracker my blood runs «old.” "Ned told me that they could sleep undisturbed last, night, because someone was on guard.” said Jack. “There were four of us watching last night—Dad. Red Regan, Tom Stevens, and me.” Briant looked as though he had not heard aright. "Do you mean to say you were out in the bush all night?” Her lips parted in a wan smile. “We all lake our turn,” she said simply. “You stagger me! You amazing girl!” “Is that very much to do for the fnan I love?” "It is something that very few girls would do,” he replied, with a trace of bitterness in his voice.

'YVe're only poor, simple bush people, but we do stick to our friends.” _ “Assuredly you do!” he * xclaimed. "it's a pity— ’’ "I know what you are going to

ted) say,” she interrupted. “It's a p

pity you are not doing this lor better men/*

“I didn’t mean that. Ned and the others aren't saints, but—”

"Ned never was a saint, I know. Even before this trouble he sold horses that didn’t belong to him. • Dozens of others did the same thing. X don’t care if he did. He’s the bravest, kindest man that ever breathed, and I love him. He never did anyone real harm until that terrible affair in the Wombat Ranges, and then the police brought it on themselves. He was driven to the bush by the police. Their lies put his mother in gaol. I hate every trooper in the lorce!’’ Her eyes blazed and her bosom heaved. "The police are like every other sort of people—there are good and bad ones,’’ he remarked. "If I saw a policeman drowning and could save him, I wouldn’t move an inch:” she declared with bitterness. “Oh, yes, you would.” “I would not!” Jack put his bauds ou her shoulders and looked squarely into her eyes. "A girl like you couldn’t be mean and ungenerous. If a trooper were drowning you'd be the first to go to his rescue.” “I’d like to shoot every one of them:” she snapped, pushing his hands away. “Wrong again, Jennie,” he smiled. A heavy step was heard outside. A big form darkened the doorway, and Joe O’Donnell stepped inside. He was one of these young-old men often met with in the bush —tall and broad, with a tangled red beard and bushy eyebrows, giving him a fierceness that the kindly quirk at the corners of the mouth belied. "Didn’t know there was anybody here,” he remarked, looking Jack up and down. “This is Mr. Briant, Dad,” said Jennie. Jack held out his hand, but O'Donnell ignored it. "Oi’ve heard about ye and Costello,' he said, with a scowl. Briant laughed. "Tour father shares the general opinion that I'm a policeman, Jennie. He looked at me just like Dan, Steve and Joe did at The Ledge last night.” O’Donnell gasped. "At The Ledge?” "Yes,” Jennie interposed, “he spent last night with the boys, and this

morning showed them how to build a j fire and hide the smoke.” “Who told you that?” "Ned did.” “Mr. O’Donnell,” said Jack, going up to the big Irishman, "if I d wanted to put Ned away I could have done it weeks ago. Why, the first time 1 met him I could have shot him dead.” He related the incident. Jennie smiled. "Ned told me that, too.” “Then who the divil are ye?” O’Donnell demanded. “At present a swaggie, doing odd jobs wherever I can find them.” O’Donnell's face showed how curiously mixed were his feelings. He had heard enough about this mysterious youngster who was able to tell several days in advance what was going to happen to a policeman to share the suspicion of half the coun try side; yet, if what he had just heard about Ned Kelly were true it was impossible that Briant had any connection with officialdom. The boy didn’t look like a sneak, and Jennie, with her uncanny intuition concerning people who were and people who were not to be trusted, had accepted him. “Tou’ve got Dad puzzled,” laughed the girl. “Looks like it. That was an unlucky guess of mine about Costello. You see, I knew that young fool would strike troubla sooner or later, but I had no idea I was such a good prophet,” he added in response to O'Donnell’s inquiring glance. At last the big Irishman came to a decision. He held out a hand that looked like a mallee root. “If Jennie says ye’re right ye can’t be far wrong. We’re goiu’ to hav’ a boite to ate, and Oi’d like ye to ioiu us.” “That's very good of you. A swaggie never refuses a meal, you know.” “He’s a funny swaggie, isn t he, Dad?” smiled Jennie. “Oi’ve seen his loikes before,” her father responded. "He’s not the first mahu to lave the city and come to the bush because somethin’ happened. But if ye're a frind av Ned’s ye re a frind of moine.” “I'm very glad to hear you say that, Mr. O’Donnell. I say, I wonder whether Martin will take my tip that the gang is heading north?” “Whin they’re goin’ south,” grinued O’Donnell. “By jove, I’d like to be with them!” exclaimed Briant. “Ye wouldn't.” “Why?” “Because it wouldn't be good for yez. Do ye know pwhat it manes, bhoy, to be hunted all the toime? Do ye know pwhat it manes to watch iverv sthip ye take, to hoide in holes in the daytime, and crape out at noight loike a dingo? Do ye know pwhat it manes not to be sure of ivery one who calls himself a frind? ' Do ye know pwhat it manes to have to snake loike a thafe to the people ye can trust only whin it’s certain the coast’s clear? Do ye know pwhat it manes to be min that the law says annyone can take dead or alive? Do ye know. pwhat it manes to long for the friendly voices of the people ye : love? If ye don’t, ye don’t know I pwhat those poor bhovs are goin’ i through—God help them:” With a gesture of despair, O'Don- ! nell walked to the window and looked | out on the everlasting hills into whose | safe keeping so many strange secrets | had been entrusted. CHAPTER XXII. ; STICKING UP YOUNG HUSBAND'S There was greater activity than ever at the Benalla police station when Constable Martin came in with Briant's story of the bushrangers go- ' ing north. Every station as far as I Wodonga was warned, and the New South Wales authorities were advised

that an attempt might be made to cross the border.

Every road leading north was closely guarded that night, and scores of troopers scoured the bush. The men they were looking for were riding in another direction, however, Ned and Byrne about half a mile ahead of Dan and Hart. They talked at long intervals, for each of them seemed impressed by the seriousness of the undertaking upon which they were engaged. Twice they rode into the bush to avoid travellers —first a horseman, then a man and woman in a spring cart. Sunrise found them on the outskirts of the little township of Euroa. Concealing their horses in a thick clump of timber, they walked to a small rise from which a clear view was obtained of the homestead of Younghusband's Faithful Creek Station. For over an hour they watched and waited. “What’s the good of hanging round any longer?” said Dan irritably. “Let’s go over now.” “Not yet,” replied Ned. Half an hour later a train puffed its way over the main railway line, which was a short distance from the collection of buildings which constituted the homestead, and In full view of them. “Why not ride over together?” suggested Steve Hart, as the guard's van disappeared round a curve. “No!” cried Ned. There was a mutinous, glitter in Hart’s dark eyes, and Dan and Byrne also were showing signs of restlessness —partly due to excitement, which the idleness insisted upon by their leader did not allay, Ned recognised the symptoms and frowned. “This has all been carefully planned and I'm not going to run any risk by rushing things. About midday’s the time.” “I don’t see why we can't go now,” grumbled Dan. “I can, and we're staying here till the right time!” There was a dangerous glint In the outlaw’s eyes, and the others, recognising the futility of further protest, remained silent. The hours dragged slowly by. At last Ned untethered his horse and mounted. “Follow me in a few minutes,” he said, as he rode away. Except for a dog, which growled at his approach, there was no sign of life at the homestead when he dismounted and walked round the back to a hut with a smoking chimney. Two men and a woman were eating their midday meal in the room, which he rightly guessed was the kitchen. “Is Mr. McCauley, the manager, about?” he asked. j The woman replied that he was not, | -

and Ned, saying he would wait until he returned, went to the front of the house, where his companions were tying up their horses. When the four of them appeared at the kitchen door and announced whom they were, the two men jumped to their feet, but the woman went on with her meal. “We want want food for ourselves and our horses.” said Ned. “No harm’ll come to you if you do as you’re told.” The eagerness with which the two station hands fed the horses showed that the warning had been effective. “What you goin’ to do with us?” asked the more youthful attendant, as though uncertain of what terrible fate awaited him. When told that he would be locked up with everyone else who came along, his relief was so profound that Dan laughed. "Think we were going to roast you alive?” he grinned. "N—no. I didn’t think that,” the youth gasped. The two men were put uuder lock and key In the storeroom, a long, wooden iron-roofed building. At intervals arrived other employees, whose astonishment when they learned that the station was in the hands of the Kellys was expressed in a variety of ways. One old man fell on his knees and prayed to the good Lord to defend him. A redheaded youth with freckles the size of threepenny bits walked into the storeroom with head erect and chest expanded, as if he fully appreciated the importance of the occasion and felt the reflected glory of association with such notorious outlaws. When Mr. McCauley arrived he was inclined to treat the matter as a joke, but when he saw the revolvers carried by the bushrangers he realised that It was serious business. He was a broad-shouldered man with a pair of kindly grey eyes. “Oh, well,” he said, when he was certain that the intruders were the Kellys, “you might- as well make yourselves comfortable. Come in and have tea.” Ned and Hart followed him inside, while Dan and Byrne kept guard. “I thought you fellows had crossed into New South Wales,” remarked McCauley, as he filled up their plates, and the housekeeper poured out tea. “Don’t wait,” he added, as the bush rangers showed no inclination to begin their meal. “After you,” said Ned, significantly. “Oh, the food’s safe esough,” McCauley laughed, as he proceeded to eat. Thus reassured Ned and Dan set to with a will. “You've beaten the police for over seven months now,” remarked McCauley. "Whatever one's feelings might be. no one can help admiring your bttshcraft.” A gratified smile parted Ned's lips. He liked admiration, and praise of his leadership flattered him more than j anything else. “It hasn’t been too easy, either,” he ■ replied. “Judging by the crowd of i troopers about, a fellow would think I every second man in the colony was a policeman.” \ “And you've given them ail the 1 slip.” “Up to now.” “They’ll never get us alive!” exclaimed Steve Hart, i Ned’s glance was a rebuke, and j Hart took no further part in the con- ! versation. The bushranger had found j that his companions, particularly Dan and Steve, were inclined to be reckless of speech, and he preferred to do most of the talking himself. With some hesitancy, as though un-

certain as to how the topic would be received, McCauley remarked that Sergeant Kennedy, one of the victims of the "Wombat Ranges tragedy, had been a friend of his, and his death had shocked him. “Kennedy shouldn’t have shown fight,” Ned replied. “He brought it on himself. We were four to two, and they hadn't a dog’s chance. He should have seen that. It was a bad business, and I’m as sorry as anybody else. If we hadn’t shot him he would have got one of us, perhaps more, and when it meant his life or ours we couldn’t do anything else. They call it murder. It was a fair fight.” “But —but the law gave the police the right to shoot, and didn’t give it to you.” “The law-!” Ned spat out the words. “The law believed Fitzpatrick’s lies, and sent my mother to gaol. The law drove us to the bush. If you were Ned Kelly and I was a trooper, and we met in the bush, wouldn’t you shoot first if you believed I’d set you if you didn't.” McCauley thought for a moment, and then frankly admitetd that he believed he would. “Well, that’s what happened on the Wombat. It’s easy to call us murderers —it isn’t so easy to tell us how we could have done anything else.” “Now you put it that way, it isn't,” McCauley agreed. Ned and Steve ate quickly, and when they had finished their meal they exchanged places with Dan and Joe Byrne. “You’d better stay here till they're through,” Ned told the manager, who, while betraying no fear, obviously was impressed with the necessity for obedience. He talked freely to Dan and Joe, but failed to draw them out. Beyond a few non-committal replies to the questions with which he plied them, they were uncommunicative. By dusk the prisoners in the storeroom numbered 30. They included a travelling hawker named Gloster — whose van yielded the outlaws a muchneeded change of clothing—the boy who accompanied him, and an old man whose features were almost hidden by bandages which swathed his head. There was a miscellaneous assortment of station requisites in the storeroom, and the eyes of one bearded giant, w'ith huge hairy arms, turned longingly to a half-dozen axes which lay in a corner. “Why not give ’em a go for it?” he suggested. Two others —an undersized youth

with ratlik© features, and a gauntvisaged Scotsman with fiery red hair —at once announced their readiness. “If we r-rush ’em when they open the ! door, we’d hae a chance,” the latter j declared. “They’d drop a few of us. j nae doot, but there’d be muekle siller | for those wha the guid Lord presairved.” The old man with the bandaged face ran to him in terror. “Man.” he shrieked, “yeTe mad: You don’t know the Kellys as I do. They’d burn down the shed and all of us in it. We wouldn't have a cjiance. We can do nothing but stay where we are.” The Scotsman shot a pitying glance in his direction. "Oot o’ this, ye wheedlin’ auld fool!” He turned to the others. “Are ye men, or what are ye?” he demanded. “We ain't damned lunatics, anyway,” observed a young station hand. “No more we ain't,” cut in the bandaged man. “D’ye know there’s two thoosand poons waitin’ for the capture of the Kellys?” the Scotsman came back at them. “Two thousand or twenty thousand ain’t much good to dead men.” counselled a middle-aged man with a cast in his eye. “It wouldna be to ye, because ye couldna see it unless it was roond the corner,”, retorted the Scotsman. This sally provoked a roar of laughter. As it subsided, the door opened, and Ned Kelly put his head inside. “You’ll need a bit of fresh air before we lock you up for the night,” he said. “You can all come out together, but mind you, no funny business.” He tapped his revolver to give emphasis to the warning. ' The prisoners eagerly availed themselves of the respite. As Ned walked a few steps away, and the three other bushrangers, each with a revolver in his hand, kept the captives under close view, the old man with the bandaged head managed to slip behind them. "Better be careful, Ned,” he whispered “some of ’em wanted to fight.” As Kelly leaned forward to get a closer view, the old fellow pushed aside his bandages sufficiently to reveal the grinning countenance of Sam Jackson. “I thought I'd surprise you,” he chuckled. "It’s risky for four men to hold up a mob, so I thought I’d come along in case you wanted any help. You just treat me like the rest, and if there’s any danger I’ll find a way to

let you know.” And before the astonished outlaw could voice his amazement, Jackson had moved away to join the rest of the captives. When the prisoners were finally locked up for the night, Ned told the womenfolk —who were not included among the occupants of the storeroom, but went about their duties unhindered—that they might go to bed, and no harm would come to them. The bushrangers slept two at a time, Ned and Byrne being the first to seek much-needed rest in more comfortable quarters than they had been accustomed to for a long time. Many of the prisoners were still sleeping in all sorts of extraordinary attitudes when Dan and Joe Byrne cut the telegraph wires along the railway line to prevent communication with the police at Benalla. A little later three Melbourne men and a local resident, who had been kangaroo shooting in the Strathbogie Ranges, drove up to Faithful Creek. Ned met them with the news that the station was stuck up by the Kellys, and told them to turn their horse round. The occupants of the spring cart, which contained shotguns and a rifle, got down, but the suggestion by one of them that they should get the weapons and put up a fight against the bushrangers was discouraged by Ned. "I believe you’re Ned Kelly,” he said to the owner of the cart, named Casement. “You’ve stolen that outfit.” Casement nearly exploded with indignation, and his fellow sportsmen hotly resented the imputation. "Even if you are a policeman, you needn’t insult honest men,” cried one of them. “None of your cheek, or I’ll put the bracelets on you!” threatened Ned, who was thoroughly enjoying the Joke. “It’s no wonder the police are unpopular!” declared another. “Much more of this, my man, and I’ll report you to your superior officer!” Winking at Dan, who had come up. Ned induced the sportsmen to follow him to the homestead, where the groom, who had been allowed out of the storeroom to attend to the horses, amazed them by saying, “In case you don’t know, this is Ned Kelly!!” (To be continued tomorrow)