the Mulga
All of a sudden, as they passed through a ten-foot thicket of wattle, hideous yells sounded and a shower of spears flew.
Chapter I
Two Yanks
Across the dry beds of the Salt Lakes, thirty miles northeast of Kalgoorlie, the bearded, dust-grayed driver of a spring wagon halted his weary pair of horses. He unhitched and made desert camp.
Through binoculars he carefully scanned the desert sunset horizon. Not even a dust puff raised by some lolloping, lone kangaroo, showed above the sand and stunted mulga scrub.
The bearded messenger nodded silent satisfaction. He had been careful to keep his starting time a secret. That was the chief reason why he had made so many safe trips between the bank at Kalgoorlie, and the new dry placer camp of Kargie. The last two weeks, however, there had been rumors. The giant, black-bearded inhuman monster, Paxton Trenholm, had been glimpsed not far away, leading his camel-riding Malay murderers from the North.
This bushranger, Paxton Trenholm, for all his awesome fits of madness and violence, had uncanny sources of information regarding mine bullion, payrolls, and even the occasional lucky finds made far north on the pearl beaches. He had a way of turning up and looting, where the honeypot of wealth was stickiest.
There were thirty-one separate rewards on Trenholm's head.
The dusty messenger, Tom Varney, took two water cans, a galvanized pail and a sack of oats from the back of the wagon, now he believed it safe to stay here. He cared for the horses. Then he brought out a Primus stove, and prepared a frugal meal of tea and damper for himself.
Packing away everything, since he intended to start at first streaks of
dawn, and breakfast in Kargie, he put
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