The Red Chief

THE RED CHIEF

‘Jack’ Idriess was born in 1891 and served in the 5th Light Horse in the First World War. He returned to Australia to write The Desert Column, which was published following his huge success with Prospecting for Gold.

He went on to write 56 books and was largely responsible for popularising Australian writing at a time when local publishing was still not considered viable.

A small wiry mild-mannered man, Idriess was a wanderer and adventurer, with a vast pride in Australia, past, present and future.

THE RED CHIEF

TOLD BY THE LAST OF HIS TRIBE

ION IDRIESS

ETT IMPRINT, SYDNEY

Exile Bay

This edition published by ETT Imprint, Exile Bay 2017

ETT IMPRINT PO Box R1906

Royal Exchange NSW 1225 Australia

First published by Angus & Robertson Publishers Australia 1953.

Reprinted in paperback 1965, 1969, 1973.

Reprinted as an Australian Classics edition 1981, 1986, 1991 by CollinsAngus&Robertson Publishers

Published with ETT Imprint by Richmond Ventures 2003

© Idriess Enterprises Pty Ltd, 1953, 2017

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission.

Inquiries should be addressed to the publishers.

ISBN 978-1-925416-24-4 (paper)

ISBN 978-1-925416-25-1 (ebook)

Design by Hanna Gotlieb

THE LAST OF HIS TRIBE

He crouches, and buries his face on his knees,

And hides in the dark of his hair;

For he cannot look up to the storm-smitten trees,

Or think of the loneliness there—

Of the loss and the loneliness there.

The wallaroos grope through the tufts of the grass,

And turn to their coverts for fear

But he sits in the ashes and lets them pass

Where the boomerangs sleep with the spear—

With the mullah, the sling, and the spear.

Uloola, behold him! The thunder that breaks

On the tops of the rocks with the rain,

And the wind which drives up with the salt of the lakes,

Have made him a hunter again—

A hunter and fisher again.

For his eyes have been full with a smouldering thought;

But he dreams of the hunts of yore,

And of foes that he sought, and of fights that he fought

With those who will battle no more—

Who will go to the battle no more.

It is well that the water which tumbles and fills

Goes moaning and moaning along;

For an echo rolls out from the sides of the hills,

And he starts at a wonderful song—

At the sound of a wonderful song.

And he sees through the rents of the scattering fogs

The corroboree warlike and grim,

And the lubra who sat by the fire on the logs,

To watch like a mourner, for him—

Like a mother and mourner for him.

Will he go in his sleep from these desolate lands,

Like a chief, to the rest of his race,

With the honey-voiced woman who beckons and stands,