"I once done a man in Victoria," he said, "when I was shepherding; he found me out taking his fat sheep, and was going to inform on me, so I done him with an axe, and put him away so as n.o.body could ever find him."

The squatter thought that Nosey's story was mostly blowing, especially that part of it referring to the murder. No man who had really done such a deed, would be so foolish as to confess it to a stranger.

Another man was engaged to work at the station. As soon as he saw Nosey he exclaimed, "h.e.l.lo, Nosey, is that you?"

"My name is not Nosey."

"All right; a name is nothing. We are old chums, anyway."

That night the two men had a long talk about old times. They had both served their time in the island, and were, moreover, "townies,"

natives of the same town at home. Nosey began the conversation by saying to his old friend, "I've been a bad boy since I saw you last --I done a man in Victoria"; and then he gave the full particulars of his crime, as already related. But the old chum could not believe the narrative, any more than did the squatter.

"Well, Nosey," he said, "you can tell that tale to the marines."

In the meantime the runs around Lake Nyalong had been surveyed by the government and sold. In the Rises the land was being subdivided and fenced with stone walls, and there was a chance that Baldy's grave might be discovered if one of the surveyed lines ran near it, for the stonewallers picked up the rocks as near as possible to the wall they were building, and usually to about the distance of one chain on each side of it.

A man who had a contract for the erection of one of these walls took with him his stepson to a.s.sist in the work. In the month of August, 1869, they were on their way to their work accompanied by a dog which chased a rabbit into a pile of rocks. The boy began to remove the rocks in order to find the rabbit, and in doing so uncovered part of a human skeleton. He beckoned to his stepfather, who was rather deaf, to come and look at what he had found. The man came, took up the skull, and examined it.

"I'll be bound this skull once belonged to Baldy," he said. "There is a hole here behind; and, yes, one jaw has been broken. That's Nosey's work for sure' I wonder where he is now."

No work was done at the wall that day, but information was given to the police.

Mounted constable Kerry came over to the Rises. The skeleton was found to be nearly entire; one jaw-bone was broken, and there was a hole in the back of the skull. The feet were still encased in a pair of boots laced high above the ankles. There were portions of a blue-striped shirt, and of a black silk necktie with reddish stripes.

There was also the brim of an oiled sou'wester' hat, a pipe, and a knife. The chin was very prominent, and the first molar teeth on the lower jaw were missing. The remains were carefully taken up and conveyed to Nyalong; they were identified as those of Baldy; an inquest was held, and a verdict of wilful murder was returned against Nosey and his wife.

After the inquest mounted constable Kerry packed up the skeleton in a parcel with every small article found with it, placed it in a sack, put it under his bed, slept over it every night, and patiently waited for some tidings of the murderer. In those days news travelled slowly, and the constable guarded his ghastly treasure for eighteen months.

Nemesis was all the time on her way to Piney station, but her steps were slow, and she did not arrive until the seventeenth anniversary of the disapppearance of Baldy.

On that day she came under the guise of constable, who produced a warrant, and said:

"Cornelius Naso, alias Nosey, alias Pye, I arrest you under this warrant, charging you with having murdered a shepherd, named Thomas Balbus, alias Baldy, at Nyalong, in the colony of Victoria, on the 28th day of February, 1854. You need not say anything unless you like, but if you do say anything I shall take it down in writing, and it will be used as evidence against you at your trial."

Nosey had nothing to say, except, "I deny the charge"; he had said too much already.

He was handcuffed and taken to the police station at Albury. In one of his pockets a letter was found purporting to be written by Julia, and disclosing her place of residence.

Soon afterwards Nosey and his wife met in captivity after their long separation, but their meeting was not a happy one; they had no word of welcome for each other.

The preliminary examination was held in the court house at Nyalong, and there was a large gathering of spectators when the proceedings commenced. On a form below the witness box there was something covered with a white sheet. Men craned their necks and looked at it over one another's shoulders. The two prisoners eyed it intently.

It was guarded by constable Kerry, who allowed no one to approach it, but with an authoritative wave of the hand kept back all impertinent intruders. That day was the proudest in all his professional career.

He had prepared his evidence and his exhibits with the utmost care.

At the proper moment he carefully removed the white sheet, and the skeleton was exposed to view, with everything replaced in the position in which it had been found under the rocks in the Rises.

Nosey's face grew livid as he eyed the evidence of his handiwork; Julia threw up both hands, and exclaimed:

"Oh! there's poor Baldy that you murdered!"

Nosey felt that this uncalled-for statement would damage his chance of escape, so, turning to the bench, he said:

"Don't mind what the woman says, your lordship; she is not in her right senses, and always was weak-minded."

The constable being sworn, related how, on information received, he had gone to the Stoney Rises, and had uncovered a skeleton which was lying on a broad flat stone. The bones of the legs from the knees downward were covered with stones. The boots were attached to the feet, and were pointing in such a direction as to show that the body must have rested on the right side. Large stones, but such as one man could lift, had been placed over the feet and the legs. The other bones were together, but had been disturbed. With them he found the brim of an oiled sou'-westr' hat, a clay tobacco pipe, a rusty clasp-knife with a hole bored through the handle, fragments of a blue shirt; also pieces of a striped silk neckerchief, marked D. S.

over 3; the marks had been sewn in with a needle. There was a hole in the back of the skull, and the left jaw was broken.

Just at this time a funeral procession, with a few attendants, pa.s.sed the court-house on its way to the cemetery. Julia's father was going to his grave. He had come over the sea lately to spend the rest of his days in peace and comfort in the home of his daughter, and he found her in gaol under the charge of murder. There was nothing more to live for, so he went out and died.

The two prisoners were committed, but they remained in gaol for more than seven months longer, on account of the difficulty of securing the attendance of witnesses from New South Wales.

But when the evidence was given it was overwhelming. Every man who had known Baldy seemed to have been kept alive on purpose to give evidence against the murderer. Every sc.r.a.p of clothing which the wild cats had left was identified, together with the knife, the pipe, the hat brim, and the boots; and the prisoner's own confession was repeated. Julia also took the side of the prosecution. When asked if she had any questions to put, she said, "My husband killed the man, and forced me to help him to put the body on his horse."

The jury retired to consider their verdict, and spent two hours over it. In the meantime the two prisoners sat in the dock as far apart as possible. They had never spoken to each other during the trial, and Nosey now said in a low voice:

"You had no call, Julia, to turn on me the way you did. What good could it do you? Sure you might at least have said nothing against me."

The pent-up bitterness of seventeen years burst forth. The constable standing near tried to stop the torrent, but he might as well have tried to turn back a south-east gale with a feather.

"I was to say nothing, indeed, was I? And what call had I to say nothing? Is that what you ask? Was I to stand here all day and say never a word for myself until they were ready to hang me? Tell me now, did I murder poor Baldy or did you? Was it not you who struck him down with the axe without saying as much as 'by your leave,'

either to me or to him? Did you say a word to me until you finished your b.l.o.o.d.y work? And then you threatened to cut me down, too, with the axe, if I didn't hold my tongue, and help you to lift the man on to your horse. It is this day you should have remembered before you began that night's work. Sorrow's the day I ever met you at all, with the miserable life you led me; and you know I was always the good wife to you until you gave yourself entirely to the devil with your wicked ways. Wasn't I always on the watch for you every evening looking for you, and the chop on the fire, and the hot tea, and everything comfortable? And is it to hang me now you want to pay me back for the trouble I took for you and all the misery I suffered these long years? And the death of my poor father, who found me in gaol, is at your door too, for he would have been alive and well this day but for the deed you done, which broke his poor old heart; the Lord have mercy on him. And who is to blame but your own self for being in this place at all? You not only done the man to death, but you must go about the bush bragging of it to strangers, and twisting the halter for your own neck like a born idiot; and that's what you are, in spite of your roguery and cunning."

And so on for two hours of h.e.l.l until the jury came back. They acquitted Julia and found her husband guilty. She left the court without once looking back, and he faced the jury alone.

Judge Pohlman had never before sent a man to the gallows. He made the usual little moral speech, and bewailed his own misfortune in having to perform so disagreeable a duty. Then he put on the black cap and pa.s.sed sentence. At the concluding words, "May the Lord have mercy on your soul," the condemned man responded with a fervent "Amen," adding, "And that's the last of poor Nosey." He seemed greatly relieved when the ceremony was over, but it was not quite the last, there was another to follow.

For ten days he remained in his cell, and no one visited him except the priest. His examination of conscience was not difficult, for he had often rehea.r.s.ed it, and much of it had been done for him in public.

He made his last journey between two priests, joining fervently in their prayers for the dying. His step was firm, and he showed neither fear nor bravado. The hangman quickly drew down the cap, but he seemed more flurried than his victim. The sheriff, without speaking, motioned him to place the knot in the correct position under the ear. Then the bolt was drawn and the story of "The Two Shepherds" was finished.

The man whom Philip met at Bendigo had farms in the country thinly timbered. North, south, east, and west the land was held under squatting licenses; with the exception of the home paddocks it was unfenced, and the stock was looked after by boundary riders and shepherds. To the south, between Nyalong and the sea--a distance of fifty or sixty miles--the country was not occupied by either the white or the black men. It consisted of ranges of hills heavily timbered, furrowed by deep valleys, through which flowed innumerable streams, winding their way to the river of the plains. Sometimes the solitary bushman or prospector, looking across a deep valley, saw, nestled amongst the opposite hills, a beautiful meadow of gra.s.s. But when he had crossed the intervening creek and scrubby valley, and continued his journey to the up-land, he found that the deceitful meadow was only a barren plain, covered, not with gra.s.s, but with the useless gra.s.s-tree. There is a little saccharine matter in the roots of the gra.s.s-tree, and a hopeful man from Corio once built a sugar-mill near the stream, and took possession of the plain as a sugar plantation. There was much labour, but very little sugar.

In the dense forest, cattle had run wild, and were sometimes seen feeding in the thinly-timbered gra.s.s land outside; but whenever a horseman approached they dashed headlong into the scrub where no horseman could follow them. Wild boars and their progeny also rooted among the tall tussocks in the marshes by the banks of the river, where it emerged from the ranges into the plains.

Blackfish and eels were plentiful in the river, but they were of a perverse disposition, and would not bite in the day-time. The bend nearest to Nyalong was twelve miles distant, and Philip once spent a night there with Gleeson and McCarthy. A fire was kindled and some fish were caught, but Philip took none home. Gleeson and McCarthy reserved their catches for their wives and families, and Philip's fish were all cooked on the fire at sunrise, and eaten for breakfast.

Fishing was sport, certainly, but it was not profitable, nor exciting, except to the temper. Sometimes an eel took the bait, and then twisted himself round the limb of a tree at the bottom of the river. He then pulled all he was able until either the line or the hook was broken, or his jaw was torn into strips.

After midnight Philip was drowsy, and leaned his back against a tree to woo sweet sleep. But there were mosquitos in millions, bandicoots hopping close to the fire, and monkey-bears, night hawks, owls, 'possums and dingoes, holding a corroboree hideous enough to break the sleep of the dead.

After breakfast the horses were saddled for home. Philip carried his revolver in his belt, and Gleeson had a shot-gun. A kangaroo was seen feeding about a hundred yards distant, and Gleeson dismounted and shot at it, but it hopped away unharmed. A few minutes afterwards, as the men were riding along at an easy walk, three other hors.e.m.e.n suddenly came past them at a gallop, wheeled about, and faced the fishermen. One was Burridge, a station manager, the other two were his stockmen. The six men looked at one another for a few moments without speaking. Both Gleeson and McCarthy had the Tipperary temper, and it did not remain idle long.

"Well," asked Gleeson, "is anything the matter?"

"I dinna ken yet," said Burridge. "Did na ye hear a gunshot just now?"

"Yes, I fired at a kangaroo."

"A kangaroo, eh? Are you sure it was a kangaroo?"

"Yes, it was a kangaroo. What of that? Oh, I see, you think we are after shooting your cattle. Is that it? Speak out like a man."