# Life of John Boyle O'Reilly/The Dukite Snake

THE DUKITE SNAKE.
A WEST AUSTRALIAN BUSHMAN'S STORY.
WELL, mate, you've asked me about a fellow You met to-day, in a black-and-yellow Chain-gang suit, with a peddler's pack, Or with some such burden, strapped to his back. Did you meet him square? No, passed you by? Well, if you had, and had looked in his eye. You'd have felt for your irons then and there; For the light in his eye is a madman' s glare. Ay, mad, poor fellow! I know him well, And if you're not sleepy just yet, I'll tell His story,—a strange one as ever you heard Or read; but I'll vouch for it, every word.
You just wait a minute, mate: I must see How that damper's doing, and make some tea. You smoke? That's good; for there's plenty of weed In that wallaby skin. Does your horse feed In the hobbles? Well, he's got good feed here, And my own old bush mare wont interfere. Done with that meat? Throw it there to the dogs, And fling on a couple of banksia logs.
And now for the story. That man who goes Through the bush with the pack and the convict's clothes ​Has been mad for years; but he does no harm, And our lonely settlers feel no alarm When they see or meet him. Poor Dave Sloane Was a settler once, and a friend of my own. Some eight years back, in the spring of the year, Dave came from Scotland, and settled here. A splendid young fellow he was just then. And one of the bravest and truest men That I ever met: he was kind as a woman To all who needed a friend, and no man — Not even a convict—met with his scorn, For David Sloane was a gentleman born. Ay, friend, a gentleman, though it sounds queer: There's plenty of blue blood flowing out here, And some younger sons of your "upper ten" Can be met with here, first-rate bushmen. Why, friend, I— Bah! curse that dog! you see This talking so much has affected me.
Well, Sloane came here with an ax and a gun; He bought four miles of a sandal-wood run. This bush at that time was a lonesome place, So lonesome the sight of a white man's face Was a blessing, unless it came at night, And peered in your hut, with the cunning fright Of a runaway convict; and even they Were welcome, for talk's sake, while they could stay. Dave lived with me here for a while, and learned The tricks of the bush,—how the snare was laid In the wallaby track, how traps were made. How 'possums and kangaroo rats were killed. And when that was learned, I helped him to build From mahogany slabs a good bush hut. And showed him how sandal-wood logs were cut. I lived up there with him days and days, For I loved the lad for his honest ways. I had only one fault to find: at first Dave worked too hard; for a lad who was nursed, ​As he was, in idleness, it was strange How he cleared that sandal-wood off his range. From the morning light till the light expired He was always working, he never tired; Till at length I began to think his will Was too much settled on wealth, and still When I looked at the lad's brown face, and eye Clear open, my heart gave such thought the lie. But one day—for he read my mind—he laid His hand on my shoulder: "Don't be afraid," Said he, "that I'm seeking alone for pelf. I work hard, friend; but 'tis not for myself."
And he told me then, in his quiet tone, Of a girl in Scotland, who was his own,— His wife,—'twas for her: 'twas all he could say. And his clear eye brimmed as he turned away. After that he told me the simple tale: They had married for love, and she was to sail For Australia when he wrote home and told The oft-watched-for story of finding gold.
In a year he wrote, and his news was good: He had bought some cattle and sold his wood. He said, "Darling, I've only a hut,—but come." Friend, a husband's heart is a true wife's home; And he knew she'd come. Then he turned his hand To make neat the house, and prepare the land For his crops and vines; and he made that place Put on such a smiling and homelike face, That when she came, and he showed her round His sandal-wood and his crops in the ground, And spoke of the future, they cried for joy, The husband's arm clasping his wife and boy.
Well, friend, if a little of heaven's best bliss Ever comes from the upper world to this, ​It came into that manly bushman's life, And circled him round with the arms of his wife, God bless that bright memory! Even to me, A rough, lonely man, did she seem to be, While living, an angel of God's pare love, And now I could pray to her face above. And David he loved her as only a man With a heart as large as was his heart can. I wondered how they could have lived apart, For he was her idol, and she his heart.
Friend, there isn't much more of the tale to tell: I was talking of angels awhile since. Well, Now I'll change to a devil,—ay, to a devil! You needn't start: if a spirit of evil Ever came to this world its hate to slake On mankind, it came as a Dukite Snake.
Like? Like the pictures you've seen of Sin, A long red snake,—as if what was within Was fire that gleamed through his glistening skin. And his eyes!—if you could go down to hell And come back to your fellows here and tell What the fire was like, you could find no thing, Here below on the earth, or up in the sky, To compare it to but a Dukite' s eye!
Now, mark you, these Dukites don't go alone: There's another near when you see but one; And beware you of killing that one you see Without finding the other; for you may be More than twenty miles from the spot that night, When camped, but you're tracked by the lone Dukite, That will follow your trail like Death or Fate, And kill you as sure as you killed its mate!
Well, poor Dave Sloane had his young wife here Three months,—'twas just this time of the year. ​He had teamed some sandal-wood to the Vasse, And was homeward bound, when-he saw in the grass A long red snake: he had never been told Of the Dukite's ways,—he jumped to the road. And smashed its flat head with the bullock-goad!
He was proud of the red skin, so he tied Its tail to the cart, and the snake's blood dyed The bush on the path he followed that night.
He was early home, and the dead Dukite Was flung at the door to be skinned next day. At sunrise next morning he started away To hunt up his cattle. A three hours' ride Brought him back: he gazed on his home with pride And joy in his heart; he jumped from his horse And entered—to look on his young wife' s corse. And his dead child clutching its mother's clothes As in fright; and there, as he gazed, arose From her breast, where 'twas resting, the gleaming head Of the terrible Dukite, as if it said, I've had vengeance, my foe: you took all I had.
And so had the snake—David Sloane was mad! I rode to his hut just by chance that night. And there on the threshold the clear moonlight Showed the two snakes dead. I pushed in the door With an awful feeling of coming woe: The dead was stretched on the moonlit floor. The man held the hand of his wife,—his pride, His poor life's treasure,—and crouched by her side. God! I sank with the weight of the blow. I touched and called him: he heeded me not. So I dug her grave in a quiet spot, And lifted them both,—her boy on her breast,— And laid them down in the shade to rest. Then I tried to take my poor friend away. But he cried so woefully, "Let me stay ​Till she comes again!" that I had no heart To try to persuade him then to part From all that was left to him here,—her grave; So I stayed by his side that night, and, save One heart-cutting cry, he uttered no sound,— God! that wail— like the wail of a hound!
'Tis six long years since I heard that cry, But 'twill ring in my ears till the day I die. Since that fearful night no one has heard Poor David Sloane utter sound or word. You have seen to-day how he always goes: He's been given that suit of convict's clothes By some prison officer. On his back You noticed a load like a peddler's pack? Well, that's what he lives for: when reason went, Still memory lived, for his days are spent In searching for Dukites; and year by year That bundle of skins is growing. 'Tis clear That the Lord out of evil some good still takes; For he's clearing this bush of the Dukite snakes.