Man of Two Tribes

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Gord! How much more of this? Week after week walk-in’ to nothin’, that’s what we’re doin’. Shoulda stayed behind with old Havant. Woulda, too, if that slut had stayed. I’d have found out what she was made of.

  Crikey! That land over there looks different to what it was yestiday. Must be movin’ along it. There’s a rabbit. Ain’t seen a rabbit after that one what done a bunk from them sticks and things Mark stirred up. Eat! I’d eat him fur an’ all. When I get off this ruddy Plain I’ll get the lend of a hundred quid off Maddoch—have to talk cobber-like—and I’ll buy a hundred loaves of bread, half a side of beef, two sides of bacon, ten dozen eggs, and I’ll hole up somewhere. No more farmers for me. No more livin’ with cows. Wimmen! To hell with wimmen. Grub ... tucker ... food ... that’ll be all I’ll ever want. I’ll eat, and eat, and eat.

  The sun rises in the east, sets in the west ... ran the mind of Edward Jenks. Can’t bluff me. Makin’ south, all right. Getting closer to that land all the time. The d. knows his onions, give him his due. More sting in him than all the rest in the bag. Caw! Joe’s all in, the big slob. Mark’s wobblin’ like a drunk, and Clifford couldn’t run a yard if his missus turned up.

  That leaves me. Tough Ed, they called me. Well, I ain’t done so bad at that. Lotta life in the old dog, as I’ll show ’em—an’ that trollop, when I get me chance. No woman puts it over me like Cliff’s missus did. Come to think it all out, that leaves this ruddy cop what calls himself a Detective-Inspector. Got a reputation they say. So has Mister Edward Jenks, Esquire, A.B. Different method, that’s what. Another day, maybe two, an’ we arrives some place. Then we all start again on scratch, and if ever I happen to meet that Myra Thomas on a dark street, well, well, what do we say, Mister Jenks and Missus Thomas?

  The nights now were mere interludes. The rest periods ordered by Bony were without reality. Myra Thomas existed on her dreams of power and glory. Jenks looked up now and then, not at the Plain which was battering them into themselves, but at the lurching figure of the female shape in male attire. None of them even noticed the crows that came to meet them from the ‘coast’, as though they were doves leading them to the land and trees where they roosted o’ nights, safe from wild dogs and foxes.

  The following day was to be the last day of this trek, and during the afternoon they skirted the coast, travelling from one promontory to the next. Bony watched the sun, maintained a check of time, and camped that night in the shelter of a small ‘island’ on which grew a few mulgas. They had one tin of meat and two of fish, and that was the end of the food supply.

  Argument arose because three tins could not serve as plates for six people.

  “Caw! What am I goin’ to eat out of?” snarled Jenks, and the girl said, contemptuously:

  “Be your natural self. Eat off the ground, of course.”

  Jenks glanced at Riddell as though expecting support. Bony quickly suggested a pannikin in lieu of a golden platter, and emptied half a tin of herrings in tomato sauce into a pannikin for himself, and presented the other half in its tin to Myra, saying:

  “At our last camp we still had plates and forks, you will remember. Someone has left them behind. Now we have only our fingers.”

  “Which will serve Ted for the rest of his life,” sneered the girl.

  “Ain’t we gettin’ snooty, Myra? Next week we’ll be seein’ Mrs. Myra Thomas, the famous ex-murderess, a-strollin’ down Pitt Street. And no one will be thinkin’ that the lovely on the prance lived with a lot of men on a Plain where there’s never no bush nor a tree to hide it. Will you be tellin’ your dear public about all the terrors you went through?”

  “I’ll tell my public all about you, Jenks. About how you eat like the guzzling pig that you are.”

  “And how you was the hen with all the roosters, I suppose. How you fought off the roosters and saved it? And how you bumped off your husband because he found out you’re sexless, like Doc Havant said. I could’ve fixed that. Woman! Caw! You ain’t a woman. You’re all blah and bilk. Why, them ten-bob-a-timers in the back alleys off the water-front is more a woman than you. You wasn’t even born a female. Wait till I have my little say on the wireless.”

  “You won’t. They’re particular about keeping the air clear of microbes.”

  “What about calling it a day?” complained Maddoch. “No one enjoys listening to your polite conversation.”

  “Don’t you butt in, Clifford. You know how this cow played us all against each other. You know how she worked us up so that someone bashed poor old Mitski. She could’ve done him in only she was being raped by Mark at the time, wasn’t she, Mark?”

  “Don’t drag me into it,” pleaded Brennan. “I’m too legweary even to think about it. Give us peace ... peace ... and more peace. Why the hell were women invented?”

  “Lovely liars,” drooled Jenks. “Smooth legs ’n soft beds. I just itch to see ’em again, not havin’ seen a woman for years. I...”

  “It will be even more years before any of you again see women, lovely or otherwise, if you forget to obey me when we reach this homestead,” Bony interrupted. “There are white men and white women, and we shall be dependent on them for food, clothes and transport to the railway. You may even recognise someone who was instrumental in your kidnapping, and should you lose your temper and do anyone an injury, then you will surely find yourselves back again in jail to serve the rest of your sentences—plus a little extra.”

  “Ah! So you thinks we might meet up with someone we’d like to argue with, do you, Inspector?” Jenks pressed, his voice hard.

  “I do. You have never troubled to conceal your hope for revenge, Jenks. To prevent you doing something which would result in Mark and Joe and Clifford being returned to jail, I have half a mind to arrest you now.”

  “Don’t you worry, Inspector,” snarled Riddell.

  “No, just leave that to me,” added Brennan. “Anyone makes a break stopping me getting back will get a guts full of bash.”

  “So be it; d’you see that star?”

  “That red star?” asked Myra. “Low down?”

  “That’s the one, Myra. It happens to be a light in a house window. That is the homestead called Mount Singular. Do you think you could walk there, now?”

  “Now! I’ll have a damn good try.” She rose to her feet without sign of fatigue, and the others were as agile.

  “How far d’you reckon?” asked Brennan.

  “About four miles. Hard miles, too, and a hard cliff at the end. I’d like to get there before midnight when most radio stations will be off the air. We’ll walk single file. Mark, you take the rear. No talking. No striking matches.”

  Maddoch said, excitement shrilling his voice:

  “We won’t have to carry anything, will we?”

  “Nothing,” Riddell growled. “Only our ruddy selves.”

  Excitement sustained them over the first mile. Then Brennan fell, cursed wildly and lurched to his feet. The girl tripped and had to be assisted, and actually requested a halt and the flare of a match, that she could use her small mirror. The promontory on which Mount Singular was built eventually rose before them like a wall against the starry sky, and the ‘star’ which had beckoned them set like the moon behind a cloud.

  As on that night in the long ago when they left the caverns, so now did they follow-my-leader, who had eyes with which to see, and a nose with which to scent. He led them in and out among the boulders and over the shallow gutters to the northern base of the promontory, and then, when bringing the bulk of land against the sky to determine the least difficult ascent, he stopped.

  “Can you people smell what I smell?” he asked.

  “Kerosene,” replied the girl.

  “Petrol,” Brennan decided.

  “A garage,” voted Maddoch.

  They appeared to be standing on a clear space, and Bony led them forward till stopped by an obstruction. They could just see his raised arms. They saw him stoop, and then heard him knock with a stone, on wood.

>   “Doors at the entrance to a cave,” he said. “Wooden doors.” He lay on the ground for a second or two. “Oil and petrol on the other side. Doors wide and high enough to admit a helicopter. Now for the final effort. And, for the last time, remember it rests with yourselves whether you go on to life and lights, or back to jail.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  It Could Have Been Worse

  THE room was large, solidly furnished, serviced by two standard lamps. Against the wall opposite the french windows a stout redwood table supported the radio transceiver before which now sat Charles Weatherby.

  His younger brother, Edgar, was wholly absorbed by an aviation journal. Nearer the french windows sat the wives of these two men; one sewing, the other idle, her glance fixed upon a picture her mind did not register. When the older woman spoke, she apparently didn’t hear. Nor was she listening to her brother-in-law, who was saying:

  “Yes, Jim. Two hundred fats. They ought to reach Kal on the 17th. I got permission to travel ’em through Lancefold, where there’s plenty of feed at the back of the run. Will you see the boys through your place and on to town? Over.”

  A voice through the speaker said:

  “O.K., Charles. I’ll attend to that, and keep in touch with your men through Lancefold. That head stockman of yours in charge? Over.”

  “No,” replied Weatherby. “Had to keep him back to muster a mob of stores to take down the line. Having missed that last rain here, our feed will dry off soon. How’s things with you?”

  The speaker said ‘things’ were reasonable. Weatherby was talking of feed prospects when the door was silently opened, and a figure appeared which brought his brother to his feet.

  The figure looked like a wild aborigine wearing cast-off mission clothes for the first time in his life. Dark hair was over long, and the stubbly whiskers were matted. His feet were bare, and the trouser legs hung from the knees in shreds. This wild man ran across the room to stand beside the transceiver and point an automatic at the senior Weatherby.

  “On your feet! Back! Farther back!” he ordered.

  The large man obeyed. The wild man’s eyes were hidden in the upper shadows cast by the lamp-shades, but the gun was clear enough.

  “Who the hell are you? What the devil...”

  “I am Detective-Inspector Bonaparte, alias William Black. There are five expendable cartridges in this weapon. Outside are friends of mine—gentlemen named Clifford Maddoch, Mark Brennan, Edward Jenks, and Joseph Riddell. A Mrs. Myra Thomas is with them. Also your head stockman. Being intelligent men, you will both realise that the situation has the element of danger, for you and your wives. Now contact Kalgoorlie.”

  “Be damned if we will,” whispered the younger man, and took four paces forward. “You wouldn’t shoot. You’re a mighty big bluff. Inspector be damned!”

  The french windows were rattled against their bolts, and one of the women cried out. The men spun about to see their head stockman flanked either side by reincarnations of the first bushrangers. Then the elder Weatherby turned again to Bony.

  “They’re all loose?” he asked, tightly.

  “All but Doctor Havant. Why hesitate? They are dangerous men. Raise Kalgoorlie for me, at once.”

  “No!” shouted the other man. “We have guns, too.”

  “Dead men never aim straight,” Bony reminded him, adding: “I always do.”

  “Charles!” called his wife. “Do what he says. He’s right. Raise Kal.”

  The elder Weatherby slumped into the operator’s chair and pushed down a switch and turned dials. Again the windows rattled against bolts. The women faced the threat from without. The younger man shrugged and withdrew to his chair, resignation in his dark eyes.

  “Mount Singular calling! Come in Lancefold. Come in Kalgoorlie. Mount Singular calling. Urgently calling Kalgoorlie. Over.”

  He switched over, and a voice deeply resonant spoke.

  “Kalgoorlie Base, Mount Singular. I am getting you clearly.”

  “Inspector Bonaparte speaking from Mount Singular, Kalgoorlie. Hold it a moment. Mrs. Weatherby! Admit those persons before they break through. Just another moment, Kalgoorlie.”

  Those outside surged into the room, pushing the head stockman before them. Bony signalled silence with his hand, palm outward. “Brennan, come here. You others remain inactive for one minute. Now, Mark, watch these Weatherbys while I report to Kalgoorlie. Take a message, Kalgoorlie. Over.”

  Bony motioned to the elder Weatherby, and then the speaker announced that Kalgoorlie was ready, adding:

  “We have been alerted for you to contact us, Inspector.”

  Weatherby worked on switch and dials, and Bony replied:

  “Thank you, Kalgoorlie. A message for Superintendent Wyeth—per phone. Inspector Bonaparte reports he is at Mount Singular, together with Mrs. Myra Thomas, and the following men who failed the conditions of their parole: Mark Brennan, Joseph Riddell, Clifford Maddoch and Edward Jenks. Despite extreme provocation, these men are behaving with commendable restraint, but the situation could be explosive and I need assistance with all speed. Got that, Kalgoorlie? Over.”

  “Every word, Inspector. Keep on the air.”

  Silence, and during the silence reaction hit them hard. Bony’s hopes to skate over this emotional ice were frustrated by Maddoch who pointed to the junior Weatherby and shouted:

  “I know you. You’re the man I met on the train going to my brother’s place, the man who coshed me on the station platform. You’re the man who kidnapped me. You vile creature!”

  “He! He!” sniggered Jenks from somewhere amid whiskers like a circular chimney broom. He mimicked “Vile creature! So now we know where we are, and now we know why you keep that helicopter in the cave at the foot of the cliff outside. I been waitin’ a long long time for this.”

  “Jenks!” Bony said sharply.

  Jenks remained tense, ready to go into action. He glared at Bony, downward to the automatic. Riddell spoke up:

  “Caw! Stop the how-doin’ and get us some grub and a bottle or two of whisky. Plenty of time to argue.”

  “Of course there is,” supported the girl. “We’re not standing for any rough-house, Jenks. Not now when the bright lights are only just round the corner. Smashing up these people and this place won’t get us anywhere but back to jail. Be your age, idiot.”

  “Gimme the gun, Inspector,” pleaded Brennan. “You’re too much of a gent to handle this. I’ll stop Ted while you are thinkin’ about doing something. No more ruddy jail for me. I’ve had a bit more’n I can take.”

  “You guard that transceiver, Mark,” Bony ordered. “Ladies! Food, and coffee or tea. Please. Here.”

  The older woman nodded and made for the door. Myra Thomas lurched after her, crying:

  “I want a bath, and clean clothes. I want...”

  The speaker said, stentorianly: “Superintendent Wyeth calling Inspector Bonaparte. Over to you, Mount Singular.”

  Bony stepped backward towards the receiver, had to turn to the elder Weatherby for a second, and this gave Jenks his chance. The ex-sailor leaped for Edgar Weatherby, evading Riddell’s grasp. Then Jenks had his hands about the throat of the seated Edgar, and was pressing him down into the back of the chair. The speaker continued to announce that Superintendent Wyeth was calling Inspector Bonaparte. Credit must be given to Riddell for acting promptly, but he was slower than the aborigine head stockman, who, sweeping up another chair, brought the front edge of the seat down upon Jenks’s cannon-ball head.

  This outraged loyalties. Brennan jumped past Bony and waded in with Riddell, to subdue the head stockman. Maddoch hovered on the outskirts. He grabbed another chair, then collapsed on the floor, turned on his chest, and began to cry with rage. The younger Mrs. Weatherby screamed and ran from the room. Her husband was nursing his lacerated throat, and Superintendent Wyeth still called for Inspector Bonaparte. Because of the poor physical condition of the white men, there was considerable damage done to the room’
s furnishings before the black man was finally put to sleep.

  “Over to Mount Singular,” ordered Bony. “Right! Inspector Bonaparte calling, Superintendent. I was delayed in answering your call by a slight diversion. Send relief as quickly as it can be managed. Please note. The persons listed in my first message were incarcerated by these Weatherbys, in underground caverns on the northern extremity of the Plain. Motive—out of this world, but acceptable. I am happy to report that they have behaved well and are continuing to do so. They deserve every consideration. Over.”

  “Quite a tale, Bonaparte. Quite a tale. There’s a man named Fiddler, another named Mitski, and Doctor Havant. Do they enter into it? Over.”

  “Yes. Fiddler and Mitski are dead. Havant we left in the caverns as he wasn’t fit to tramp two hundred miles over the Plain.”

  “Big thing, Bonaparte. Organised conspiracy?”

  “Well organised. It would be wise to keep all this from the Press until you choose to release it. Security doesn’t count. It’s all ours. Over.”

  “Good! Well, the man at Rawlinna is on his way, and Easter is being contacted to leave at once. I’ll charter a plane and the pilot will arrange to arrive out there when it’s light enough to see a landing. Tell those people with you that your report on them will be noted, and they’ll have nothing to worry about. Perth is waiting for me. Stay on the air.”

  Brennan smiled into Bony’s cold blue eyes.

  “Thanks for making it a bit sweet for us, Inspector.”

  “We have several hours ahead of us, Mark. Is Jenks dead? And that aborigine?”

  “The abo could be. No chair ever made could kill Jenks. What a man!”