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Queensland Figaro and Punch (Brisbane, Qld.), Saturday 8 October 1887

Razorback is a wild and rugged mountain on the southern edge of the Farewell Ranges, in Victoria. Its sides are so steep and rough, its surface is so broken, and the growth that covers it so wild and undisturbed, that from the green plains to the south the mountain barrier looks formidable indeed. To the north, behind Razorback, Rose Town settlement nestles among the Ranges. On the south side, at the base, stands the ruins of a hut built in the early days of the colony. A rough track, gradually ascending round the western spurs of the mountain from the hut to Rose Town, may still be traced. But the rugged, upturned face of Razorback shows neither track, nor fence, nor landmark to this day.

It is many years since the rude skeleton at the foot of Razorback was a habitable hut. It was put up by the first owner of the broad acres below the mountain, and was occupied by the shepherd of his outlying flocks. In 1854 the shepherd was William Bell, and with him in the hut lived his wife Maggie.

The Bells had married in Bonnie Yorkshire only to seek their fortunes together in the new land of gold. Labour in those days was very dear throughout the colony, and soon a considerable balance was credited to William Bell in his master’s books. But high wages could not reconcile the Bells to Australia. When summer parched the pastures, and all beneath the dark-blue sky was sere and sombre, they longed for the green lanes of Yorkshire, and the yellow rippling fields of corn, to cool their scorched eyes. What cared they for dark blue skies, and gorgeous birds that knew never a note of song?

And where was the charm of fantastic flowers that gave no scent, compared with their own wild country roses of old?

“O, Will!” Maggie used often to say, “let us go home, lad! We have enough money now—let’s take ship while we have it.”

“Wait a bit, my lass—a little longer,” he would answer, with tenderest love in his voice. So months went by, and Christmas found William Bell still shepherding flocks at the foot of Razorback, and Maggie still working and waiting.

“Come, a pannikin of tea, Mag,” cried William Bell, heartily, as he entered the hut after penning the sheep for the night, “For I’ve a journey to go.”

“A journey, Will? O, where?”

“Where but to the township, this Christmas Eve!—to do a bit of shopping.”

“Will, don’t you go to Rose Town tonight,” implored the wife

“And why not, my lass? Why, I’ll be back before daylight.”

“But it’s five miles by the road, Will.”

“But I don’t go by the road. No, no. It’s over the mountains for Will. And, bless you, I know every inch of old Razorback,” he added, catching a look of fear on his wife’s lace.

“They say it is dangerous” she whispered.

“Dangerous!” said Will, “why, who knows that mountain as well as I, who am hunting strayed sheep on it every week of my life? No, lass, ’tisn’t dangerous—for me. And—you mustn’t be foolish, but just look out for what I’m going to bring you from the township.”

Bell ate his meal with a cheerful air, kissed his wife tenderly, and taking a stout stick, left the hut and started up the mountain side.

She did not gaze after him. She did not watch him out of sight from the hut door. But she sat gazing at the glowing embers in the fireplace—thinking. Her thoughts must have been sad ones, for presently great tears gathered in her eyes and fell heavily in her lap.

Tears from heaven, too! noisy raindrops falling upon the iron roof. She went to the door; all was dark and lowering. Surely the leaden sky is very close to the earth; surely, too, it is touching the top of Razorback. But what is yon blood-red streak in the sheet of lead—seen for a moment, then gone? And what means this horrible cannonade overhead, that makes the ground quiver and the timbers of the hut rattle?

A storm—a summer storm! Short-lived, yet of terrible violence! And her Will out in it, out on the top of Razorback! More lightning more thunder; then a fierce whirlwind from the south, and driving rain. Again thunder, and more blood-red gashes in the leaden darkening sky. She fell hysterically upon the rude bed, and covered her head with the blankets, to shut out sight and sound. There she lay, trembling, sobbing, praying, until a dizziness came over her brain and consciousness left her.

When Maggie Bell awoke there was no sounds of rain on the roof. She rose and looked out of the door. The sky was clear and star-lit.

What time was it? She could not tell, but it must want a long while to dawn; and Will could not be back before dawn. But no more sleep for her tonight. She would set to work and tidy the hut against Will’s return—no more than her share towards making their Christmas day a bright one.

While she was busy, the dawn burst over an eastern range. She went on with her work until it was finished, and then lit a fire and set about preparing their breakfast, for Will was overdue now.

The water in the “billy” upon the fire bubbled over but no tea was added, for Will did not come.

The sun climbed high is his bed of blue, but no cheery “cooey” from the mountain side announced the husband’s return, and when Maggie looked out no human creature met her anxious gaze.

A sickening fear gradually stole over the heart of the girl. Memory of the storm, and the blinding rain, and the lightning and the knowledge of the rough, intricate wilderness that covered the mountain, came together to torture her. When the sun was at its highest, and still no sound nor sign of her husband, Maggie took her straw bonnet and started off at a fast walk along the rough track to Rose Town.

When she reached the township, she went straight to the general store, then to the blacksmith’s forge. These were the principal buildings at the settlement, and at each the answer to her enquiries was the same, shattering her brave hope that her husband had been detained in the township.

William Bell had never reached Rose Town.

She walked back to the store. “You must raise a search party,” she said; “my husband is out on Razorback. He may be hurt, or lost. For God’s sake, help me to find him.” Then she walked quickly and quietly through the township, and struck straight into the thick bush that covered the side of Razorback. She was not seen during the afternoon by the other searchers, and did not return to the township. But most of the party had heard from time to time a strange shrill cry, like the penetrating “cooey” of the blacks, but that the long note was so high and shrill, and the terminal wail so mournful. It must be Maggie, they said, cooeying for her husband.

For days afterwards the search was continued, without success. Nor was anything seen of Maggie Bell. But the sad, sustained cooey was heard from time to time by the searchers.

One dark night, a strange, wild female figure stole into the township. The woman begged some bread at the inn, but on being curiously regarded, fled with a wild cry in the direction of Razorback. The people said it was Maggie Bell, gone mad, and that she would roam Razorback until she died.

A new shepherd was installed in the Bells’ hut, and he alone saw Maggie afterwards—“Cooeying Maggie”, as folks now called her. She would come down the mountain side at intervals of a few days, and put one simple question to the shepherd: “Is he come back yet?” Then, reading in the shepherd’s face her answer, she would turn with a sob back to the mountain; but not before than man had thrust upon her bread and meat, and, perhaps, covering.

Once a strange drover, who was camping at the foot of the mountain, was startled by hearing a shrill, unearthly cooey, close, as it seemed, to his tent. The dogs ran into the camp cowering with terror, and the camp was immediately struck and removed by the terrified drover.

Cooeying Maggie, the fire of madness in her dark eyes, and her dark hair hanging in tangles about her ragged bodice, tramped for many weeks the cruel face of Razorback. Often she would pause, place her hand to her poor lips, and utter the shrill weird cry that was borne so far, yet never brought answer. Never answer, save the chattering of parrots, the chirrup of locusts and cricket, the hoarse mocking laugh of the jackass.

The brain of Maggie Bell had long ago given way, and, little by little, the body followed. The ground she traversed became daily less, and each cooey fainter and shorter than the last. Once the shepherd tried to detain her, seeing her altered looks, but, with a fierce cry, she burst from his kindly touch, and he never saw her more. Soon the cooeying on the mountain ceased.

There are those who still say they hear the wild, weird, despairing cry, mingled with the wind that blows over the mountain; and these believe that Razorback is haunted by the spirit of the cooeying woman.