Death of a Swagman

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Abruptly the quarry turned and again proceeded to walk southward, moving very fast over the white sand; and, maintaining the distance between them, Bony followed.

  So far the situation was quite satisfactory to Bony. The moon would not set until after day broke. There would be no period of darkness to give his quarry the chance of slipping away or of hiding up and taking a better-aimed shot at him. Well, well, was he, Bony, not correct when he told Sergeant Marshall that Providence was always kind to detectives? Kind especially to patient detectives!

  There now appeared even greater purpose in the quarry’s walking. He was moving diagonally away from the sand range, and if he should continue along that line for two miles he would then reach the timber edge. That was probably not his objective, for had it been he would have turned due west to reach the timber in less than half a mile. And then, suddenly, he vanished into the ground.

  Again Bony halted. He could not see it, but he knew that his man had jumped down into a dry water channel coming down from the west to end at the Walls.

  Now what? The fellow could adopt one of at least two movements. He could remain in that gutter and defend himself from physical arrest, or he could sneak along the gutter till he reached the timber country, where he would have a much better chance to evade his tracker.

  But would he? Come on, Bony, use your brain. He could not stay in that gutter for ever because if he did his tracker would also keep his position. He couldn’t wait even till after day broke, for, like Cinderella, he must get home before daylight revealed his garb to all and sundry. He must be making for the timber. Well, in that case, why not walk to it in the open? Did he want to gain time? Time for what? Ah ... time to reach a horse, and, once astride a horse, he could ride his tracker down and shoot him at close range.

  The initiative had passed from Bony.

  Bony could not be caught out on that open country. Even against a man on a horse, he would be far safer within the timber, for trees balk a horse as well as providing a degree of shelter from pistol bullets. He began to race for the timber.

  It was half a mile distant, the white sheet of the sand ending abruptly against its black border. Only half a mile! But the soft sand cloyed his feet and before he had covered half the distance he began to experience the sensation of a man in a nightmare.

  Then out into the open sprang the hooded man, running fast despite the hessian about his feet, running parallel with the gutter towards the timber line. His tall and robust figure appeared to move without effort, and Bony began to deplore his cigarette-smoking habit. His quarry had appeared at least two hundred yards ahead of him, and now seemed to be increasing the lead.

  Yes, there it was. Bony could now see the horse neck-roped to a tree. It was standing motionless, watching the men approach, standing in the shadow cast by the leafy cabbage tree. Useless now to continue in the direct line to the timber, following as he was the hooded man, who would certainly first reach the horse, and, having reached it, mount and come riding back to meet him on the open ground.

  Bony veered north-west. The timber still offered him better protection than the gutter, deep and angled though that would be. He clenched his teeth for an instant when he saw the hooded man gain the shadow of the tree beneath which stood the horse. Then he opened his mouth wide to gulp in air and steady his heaving lungs.

  Providence had been kind, indeed, and now she was teasing him, teaching him more respect for her, teaching him not so easily to accept her for granted. He was two hundred yards from the timber edge when the hooded man came out from the tree shadow on the horse, plunging into a gallop, riding straight towards him.

  Bony halted. He had to conserve his strength. To run was to use up what was left to him. With breath rasping through his mouth and nostrils, he bent forward, arching his body, his hands resting on the ground. With all the might of his mind exerting control over his body, he waited.

  The moon was just above the rider’s left shoulder. The man’s hood was almost in alignment with the horse’s head. He held the reins in his left hand, in his right was the pistol. For the waiting Bony, much depended on the training received by the horse.

  As is normal on such occasions of mental stress, time ceased to have meaning. The very condition of mental stress cleared Bony’s brain. He was no longer conscious of bodily fatigue, no longer conscious of his rapid breathing, and no longer was there any effort required to remain still, to wait. The instinct of self-preservation was now in full control of him.

  He could see the rider’s purpose. The hooded man was not going to be foolish enough to ride him down, followed by the probability of his horse tumbling and throwing him. It showed that he hadn’t that confidence in the horse, or in himself as a horseman. He intended to ride past on Bony’s right and attempt to shoot him. And he held the reins only in his left hand.

  The very manner in which he held those reins gave Bony hope. And the very manner in which the fellow rode the horse increased hope. Still Bony waited, crouched forward upon his hands. He waited till the horse was but ten feet from him, headed to pass him, when he sprang upward, jumped high with arms flung wide, and shouted at the top of his voice.

  The horse flung up its head in swift fright, and with it missed the head of its rider by a fraction. It swerved far to the rider’s left, almost unseating him, so that he had to bring the pistol hand up and across the other to bear upon the reins. Now the horse was past Bony, and now the rider was engaged in mastering it as it continued to gallop down the slope towards the foot of the distant Walls of China.

  And Bony continued his race towards the timber, refreshed by the short space of waiting. He had two hundred yards to cover.

  He had halved the distance when, looking back, he saw that the hooded man had mastered the horse and was turning it to ride back to get him before he could cover the last hundred yards. He had reduced that last hundred to fifty yards when he was forced to halt and again meet the charge.

  This time he did not wait. Horse and man were fifty feet from him when he began to run towards them, crouching low and zigzagging. The manoeuvre nettled the rider, who came on direct and opened fire. Where the bullet went Bony could never subsequently make up his mind. It was instantly evident that the horse was not accustomed to a pistol being fired close to its ear, for the shock of the explosion so astonished it that it faltered in its stride, almost tripped, and almost sent its rider over its head.

  That was when Bony was approximately twenty feet from the horse’s bridle bit, and during a split second he debated whether to rush forward and grab that bit and toss the rider off, or to continue his progress to the timber. He decided on the latter course, and made for it.

  He had almost reached the nearest tree when the report of the pistol followed the impact of the bullet into the trunk of a tree to his right. Again the pistol cracked. The bullet must have gone high, for he did not hear its whine.

  No lover ever caressed his loved one with such fervour as Bony laid hands upon the trunk of that tree he reached, a nice substantial mulga-tree of about a foot in diameter and as hard as teak. There he halted himself, swung round to its far side, and with astonishment saw the hooded man riding south as hard as he could press his mount.

  When he recovered normal breathing the hooded man and horse had disappeared along the timber line, and Bony’s strained face was subsiding to normal.

  “Ran out of ammunition ... That’s a monty, as son Charles would say,” he said aloud. “But what a nice, determined gentleman! Now what will he do? What will he be planning to do whilst I make and smoke a cigarette, just to calm my nerves? Why, he will be wanting to get home as soon as possible for two quite simple reasons. One, to shed his ballroom clothes for his workaday clothes among the cinders, and two, to get his horse over the ground as soon as possible in order to give that damned wind every chance of smothering his tracks so that he can’t be tracked to his home.”

  Leaning back against the tree trunk, he felt elated whilst he smoked. This
case was breaking his way at last, even though fresh questions rose like an army of enemies from the Walls of China. What had that man been doing on the reservoir tank stand? He had been there for some time certainly, because he must have been there all the time Bony had been standing with his back to the cane-grass meat house, and that had been for at least forty minutes.

  Examination of the ground about the tank stand and mill, as well as the mill and tank stand itself, might solve that question and provide, possibly, other information. The wind was going to obliterate the faint tracks left by the hessian-covered feet, and it might well cover the horse’s tracks on the white sand and red sand which came down to border it. And, further, with the dawn, the wind would probably increase in velocity.

  That the fellow had ridden off to the southward did not indicate that he had come from the south. He left with the knowledge that he had been observed, and he would ride in order to frustrate that observation.

  Well, Bony could do little until day came, for the moon even now was against tracking the horse, its light too oblique. He could wait there for daylight and then do all possible to track the horse, or he could return to the hut, boil the billy for a badly needed pint of coffee, and then go out to the horse paddock and catch and saddle his own station horse. Or ... But wait...

  Tossing aside the cigarette end, he rose and began a long easy trotting run to the township. He covered the distance in three-quarters of an hour, reaching a position due south of the parsonage when dawn was barring with white the sky above the Walls of China. Maintaining that easy lope, and conscious of the risk he was taking of being shot at, he skirted wide southward of the township till he came to the wire fence surrounding the butcher’s horse yards and stables.

  He was climbing through the fence when he heard a horse shake itself inside the enclosure. He found that horse, felt it with his hands all hot and sweat-grimed. It had but recently been freed from saddle and bridle. The blaze on its forehead proved that it was the horse owned by the Rev. Llewellyn James.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Lawton-Stanley Talks

  THE REVEREND LAWTON-STANLEY was a great man as well as fine Christian. He was a lover of all men and women, and he appeared to be utterly blind to their faults. His popularity among outback folk rested entirely upon his ready sympathy and his remarkable simplicity.

  There was no “side” about Lawton-Stanley, and no narrowness of outlook. He composed love letters for young men and letters of conciliation to the wives of older men separated from them. Never did he leave a homestead without taking the mail for lonely stockmen stationed on the track ahead. He could talk horses with the best, and he could talk on any cultural subject to the many hungry for culture. When a man swore in his presence he smiled and fined the culprit a shilling, which went towards the fund for the purchase of Bibles. A lot of money passed into that fund, too.

  Day was breaking when Bony slapped the side of the canvas hood covering the evangelist’s truck and softly called for the “padre”. The padre was sound asleep in blankets laid upon a straw mattress that in turn was laid on the floor of the truck, and when he awoke to recognize Bony’s voice he directed his visitor how to enter his house on wheels and switched on the tiny bedside electric light.

  “A little early,” he said, faint surprise in his voice. “Anything wrong?”

  “Nothing serious,” replied Bony, sitting down on a petrol case and producing tobacco and papers. “Just a little problem which I find I must discuss with you. Sorry to wake you so early. Mind if I start up that primus stove and make a pot of tea?”

  “Do. Pump ’er up. Water in that drum with the tap. Spirit in the bottle over there. Make plenty. I like three cups.”

  “Bad for the wind—so much tea before breakfast,” Bony asserted smilingly, and began work on the stove.

  “Not nearly so bad as those terrific cigarettes you smoke. It’s a marvel that you have any wind at all.”

  “The wind I have got is a marvel even to myself,” admitted Bony. “I can sprint a bit even at my age. Hope this thing won’t explode.”

  “You sprint!” scoffed Lawton-Stanley. “Why, I could give you fifty yards in a hundred right now.”

  “You could give me ninety yards in a hundred right now, Padre, but I am not taking them. No, not this morning, or even tomorrow morning. I have had a guts full of sprinting quite recently. By the way, is ‘guts’ a swear word?”

  “No. Possibly a little more forceful than elegant. Get to work again on that stove.”

  A few minutes later the tea was made and set before the padre, who remained in bed, and who noted with interest that his visitor drank two cups of the scalding-hot beverage in quick succession.

  “Ah!” sighed Bony. “That’s better. Now for a smoke and then my little problem. You ever smoked?”

  “Never.”

  “Don’t ever. Smoking costs a lot of money—when your eldest son is loafing about a university and also smokes. I’d give a fiver to any of your numerous funds if only I could see the Rev. James smoking a clay pipe.”

  “Is he still occupying your mind?”

  “Now and then,” admitted Bony, draining his third cup of tea and pouring himself the fourth. “He is my current problem. You will remember that, when we spent the evening with the sergeant and his wife, I referred Mr Llewellyn James to you. As the subject appeared a little distasteful to you, I didn’t press it, but I am going to now in order to avoid what might be a bad mistake.”

  “Oh! Enlighten me further. If you want help, professionally, you will get it.”

  “Thanks. Well, now. Doubtless you are au fait with the series of crimes committed recently in this district. I am here to find the sting-ray, and the sting-ray is one of approximately twenty-eight men living in this district.”

  “And you think that friend James is the sting-ray?”

  “I am as uncertain about him as I am about a dozen others,” Bony answered. “I have to work on the assumption that all men are guilty until proved to be innocent ... the reversal of British justice. Among the killers I have brought to book there is, at date, not one minister of religion. Still, one never knows what the future will bring to my gallery. Parsons have committed murders, you know. Tell me all you know of our friend’s history.”

  Lawton-Stanley regarded the strong face of the half-caste whom he knew was his mental equal. Beyond the canvas walls of his “home” the roosters were crowing and the magpies were chortling. The wind irritated the canvas curtain, shutting off the truck’s cabin. It was becoming light outside.

  “It’s going to be rather difficult,” said the evangelist, “and I think that I would decline to discuss James with a lesser man than you. Even you, I fear, may not understand my difficulty!”

  Bony smiled, saying:

  “I shall understand. I am the most understanding man in all your wide circle of friends.”

  “I agree with you that that is probable. Well, here goes. Eight years back, James and his wife and I were in the same theological college, Mrs James then intending to become a church deaconess. Let me think, now, about ages. I would be twenty-seven, James was twenty-four, and Lucy Meredith would then be twenty-three.

  “Here is a fact which is distasteful to me to talk about to a layman. The majority of men who enter a theological college with the ambition of becoming ordained are men having in their hearts a love for the work in which they want to engage. But there is a minority who enter college and seek ordination because they desire a respectable, secure, and, they think, an easy life’s work. They have no more aptitude for the work than I have for your work. James belonged to the minority in our college.

  “His father is a minister, and a fine one, too. The son is one of those fortunate beings able to ‘swot’ well, but he seemed always too tired to ‘swot’ enough to pass his examinations with distinction. I don’t think anyone really liked him.”

  “Did he then have that nasal whine?” Bony inquired.

  “He adopted it durin
g his second year. Our principal frowned upon that kind of thing, but James persisted. As I have said, no one really liked him—that is, none of the men. A real Christian will speak straight out from his heart, not down through his adenoids.

  “James made no friendships, and of course, in a place like that, no enemies. And then during our fourth year that extraordinary attraction of opposites became manifested.

  “Lucy Meredith was, and still is, one of the loveliest women, spiritually, who ever lived.” The speaker paused and sighed. “I am unable to talk to you, Bony, as I could if you were not such a wretched pagan.”

  Bony smiled, saying softly:

  “A pagan can recognize, and appreciate, a lovely personality in a woman. I’ve seen in Mrs James all that you have. Proceed, please.”

  “I have thought it probable that Lucy Meredith first became attracted to James because of his self-sought isolation. The fellow has a brain and he might have played upon her unbounded sympathy. Anyhow, she married him. They were married the day following the passing-out ceremony, and there was not a joyful heart among those who were present.”

  “And he was appointed to a church?”

  “Yes, to a church in a Melbourne suburb. They were married so that he could accept the call.”

  “Ah! A round peg in a square hole, eh?” remarked Bony. “When he was at that church, his first, did his wife prepare all his service?”

  “No, I think not. Towards the end of his ministry there, I understand that she prepared his sermons because the elders expressed dissatisfaction. Anyway, the appointment was terminated, and after a period of comparative idleness he accepted the call to this church in Merino.”

  “When the wife prepared all the service, eh?”

  “That is so,” agreed Lawton-Stanley sadly.

  “What was his health like ... at college?”