“All right!” exclaimed Bony impatiently, for he had spent an hour the previous night arguing this point. “But we’re not taking unnecessary risks. I shall walk well ahead, and if he is waiting for us, I’ll try to flush him from cover. You are being extremely foolish, although it isn’t vitally essential that I know the name of your friend at this moment. Nor do I need your cooperation.
“Before leaving the homestead, Yorky, I broadcast my intention of hunting you here, and by now the lake is being patrolled by men waiting for us to make shore. I made no secret of our ability to walk the mud by following the dingo pads. And I let it be known that I do not believe you are guilty of murder.
“Broadly, that was the situation when I left the homestead. The guilty person anticipated that you would be cut off by the flood water, then he would always be safe. Now that he knows he isn’t safe from the consequences of his crime, it is most likely that he’ll attempt to stop us returning. Where better to do that than somewhere along this sandbar? He could drop one of us, and take his chances in a duel with the other man. Better than inevitable arrest. This pal of yours, does he know of this shorter route to the shore?”
Yorky had been staring at his boots, and now he gazed steadily at Bony.
“You done it purposely, drawing the killer out here?”
“I did,” replied Bony. “This rifle is able to out-range any Winchester. I gave him the chance to come here and fight it out because of that, and because I thought I’d have you to back me up. Now that you won’t, then I’ll go ahead and take the risk of being dropped before I can locate him.”
“You said you guessed who done the killing,” argued Yorky, eyes small and hard. “Why didn’t you arrest him before you started?”
“It’s a long road between knowing and proving.”
Again Yorky stared at his boots, and Meena watched, silently, Linda cuddled against her, tired and fearful from this, to her, inexplicable conversation. Abruptly, Yorky stood and, without looking at them, said:
“You got it all over me, but I’mstickin ’ to me guns. I could be ratting on a mate. You andme’ll go on ahead of Meena and Linda. We’ll take equal chances. You’re the Law. But law or no law, anyone starts after Meena and the lass, I shoot and keep onshootin ’. We got to get off thisflamin ’ lake, and quick. She’sstartin ’ to heave already. I can see it.”
Looking over the mud, at first they saw nothing unusual.
“You’re referring to that moving ribbon of reflection, are you?” asked Bony
“Yair, that’s it. I’ve never seen it before, but theabos got a name for it. It’s a low sort of swell, and the sun’s glinting on it along one slope, like a water wave. Old Canute told me about it. The water keeps on pushing into the mud, and instead of running over the top of the mud, it comes up from under.”
Yorky turned to the girls.
“Drop all your traps. Me and theInspector’ll carry ’em. You take the shoes, Inspector. I’ll carry the water-bags. Dump the rest. Meena, you tarry awhile. Give us half a mile lead, then come on.”
“Okee. Don’t worry about us.”
“My dolls!” cried Linda. “I won’t leave my Meena and Ole Fren Yorky.”
“We’ll carry them, Linda,” soothed Meena.
“Keep to the beach,” instructed Bony. “Any firing, crouch down against the sandbank.”
The two men spaced themselves and advanced along the bar, their weapons ready for instant action. They could see for several miles above the grass and the wind-fashioned hummocks of sand, and less than fifty yards ahead into the grass or over a sand hump. It wasn’t dissimilar from stalking quail, but anticipation of action was certainly based on far different conditions.
The good general projects himself into the mind of his opposite number, and Bony tried doing just this. It would be unlikely that the killer of Mrs Bell would delay his first shot one moment after the distance between him and them fell below two hundred yards. The odds were grossly in favour of the ambusher dropping one or other of his adversaries, who were under the compelling urge to get clear of the lake. Just too bad if he manoeuvred himself so that they both passed him before he fired.
Fortunately it was a calm morning, and the stiff tussock grass was still. They held a slight advantage given by the eagles and the rabbits, and by four crows which had followed them from the camp. The crows often flew on ahead, but certainly would behave erratically did they see a man prone on the ground beneath. It was easier to watch them than the eagles, two of which were flying high.
An hour passed. Yorky constantly glanced across at Bony, keeping abreast. The sun was rising to the zenith and the heat was powerful. Bony thought of Linda, argued whether to make a halt or not. On looking back, he could see the upper portion of Meena, and the head of the little girl above the edge of the bank. They were keeping distance very well. He called to Yorky:
“Leave one of the water-bags on the beach for the girls.”
Yorky nodded and the march proceeded, each man zigzagging in short legs, each tensed to dive for cover at any instant, Yorky also watching the birds and working widely with Bony when the sandbar widened.
An hour before noon, Bony fancied he could see the extremity of the sand, and he was laying odds in favour of the ambusher waiting there, when just ahead of Yorky a pure golden dingo appeared on the top of a sand hump, saw the men, and loped away, followed by four well-grown pups. Bony sighed his relief.
Having decided that Meena and Linda hadn’t halted at the water-bag to eat and leave scraps the crows came on after the men, passing them, and flying on over the dogs. The end of the bar, now clearly seen, was perhaps half a mile distant, when the four crows arrived there, and swept skyward as though from a ground explosion, and at height swirled like black snowdrops. Their cawing came to the men, and the tale was told.
“That’s him sure enough,” shouted Yorky, and converged to Bony. “Wegonna move on like we done in the blasted war?”
“Yes,” agreed Bony. “We can each keep to a beach to gain partial cover. Now for the drill. Although I don’t look it, I’m a law officer. Although you don’t look it, you’re an Australian citizen. Our job is to get that fellow alive, and he isn’t going to be much use to you dead. So, unless you are pushed badly, don’t shoot to kill.”
“Suits me.”
“Back to the beaches,” cried Bony almost gaily.
There they gained two feet of sandbank cover, and yet were able to mark each other’s progress. The crows were circling over the end of the sandbar, their suspicion prolonged by an object lying prone, and their behaviour brought low the two eagles, soaring in gigantic circles, with seldom a wing flap.
It was then that the enemy knew he was sunk, and his nerve, what there was of it, failed. Two men stalking him when they should have been walking blithely into hisgunsights. He could both see and hear the damned crows betraying him to the men, one of whom was reputed to be the finest rifle shot in the back country.
Hastily strapping on his boards, he slithered over the dog pad, watched by the fearful dingo bitch and her curious pups. On Bony and Yorky reaching the end of the sandbar, which was fashioned like a crab’s claw about a small sheet of gleaming water, the mirage had given him stilts.
The disappointed eagles rose to cooler altitudes. The crows were decidedly annoyed. Bony sat down and produced tobacco and papers.
“That your friend?” he asked.
“How do I know?” replied Yorky. “With your rifle I could drop him. Got better range than mine. That particular bastard means nothing to me.”
“To the contrary, he means very much to you,” insisted Bony mildly.
“That bloke’s still in range. He’d have got one of us, and then if he’d got the other he’d have killed the lass and Meena. Gimme that Savage.”
The Winchester was aimed at Bony’s chest, and casually Bony set down the Savage on his far side.
“Meena and Linda would see you shoot me,” Bony explained. “That wouldn’t do, Y
orky. Load your pipe instead. I know how you feel on being betrayed by one you trusted. Who is he?”
Yorky shook his head, and the stubborn perversity of his class came out when he said:
“You’re a policeman. I can’t inform to a cop.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Pinned Like A Specimen
HAVINGRESTEDfor almost an hour, chiefly on account of Linda, Bony led the party on to the mud, the pad clearly marked by the impressions of the boards worn by the retreating ambusher. It was then one o’clock, and Bony pointed out the advisability of reaching land before five, after which hour the westering sun would blind them, but not the man who might decide to stage a battle from the cover of a sand dune.
The child was subdued, but walked a full two miles before complaining. Then Yorky demonstrated that little men are often physically stronger than larger men. He passed his rifle to Meena, took Linda astride his shoulders and carried her as though her weight was identical with that of the weapon. The afternoon was exceedingly hot, completely still, and the surrounding mirage dazzled the eyes and limited shooting visibility to eighty yards.
Having insisted on a lead of two hundred yards from Yorky and the girls, Bony constantly peered ahead, worried by the fact that, as time passed, the sun would place him at increasing disadvantage. The crows had refused to follow the party, preferring no doubt to take shade among the foot-high grass, and now to look to the sky for the eagles was torture to sweat-rimmed eyes. Above and about there was nothing but colourless light.
On reaching an area of hard ground, he waited for Yorky and Meena, and eventually they appeared, first as tufted masts, and then walking on stilts, and became normal only when within yards. Yorky was still carrying Linda, and on setting her to ground, he stumbled to his knees and sprawled forward, wiping his sweat-drenched face on a bare forearm.
Meena poured water over the back of his head, and he told her to stop it, as they had yet five or six miles to reach land. Thereafter they all drank sparingly, and the men smoked little, the terrific heat pressing in from all sides equally with the direct rays of the cosmic sun. Yorky did spare water to saturate the towel which Linda wore for head covering.
“That’ll be better, sweetheart,” he told her gently. “It isn’t far to go now, and when we get to the hut we’ll pour buckets-full of water over each other.” To Bony he said: “On a bit there’s another dog-rest. It’s small and only a couple of miles from the shore. It’ll be there that bloke will be waiting again. After that there’s the shore dunes for him and open spaces for us. Then thefun’ll start. It’ll be all his way with the sun behind him.”
“Maybe not,” Bony said. “I’ll get along. Give me time. I’ll wait on that dog-rest if he isn’t there.”
Yorky brought his wandering eyes to focus on Bony. They were inflamed, and like agates set in beef.
“You forget you’re a copper. Just remember you got a Savage what’ll out-range a Winchester, and remember that we got to get off thisstinkin ’ mud before it bogs us. Thisain’t no time for the ruddy Law and gentlemen policemen.”
“Correct, Yorky.” Bony smiled grimly. “The water under the mud is the boss from here. I’ll be waiting at the next rest.”
The man and the woman and the small child watched the mirage shape grotesquely the departing Bonaparte, and Meena said angrily:
“You shouldn’t of said that. You got us all in this mess, and he knows what he’s doing without you telling him.”
“Had to chiack him,” retorted Yorky, glaring at his daughter. “Me, I can look aftermeself. But we got our little Linda sweetheart. Well, up we come and off we go.”
The heat was relentless and Bony was dismayed by experiencing a slight attack of giddiness. He thought perhaps he had been moving too fast, and slackened his pace a little to recover. He did, until minutes later, when he had another attack that almost sent him down.
It was then he saw it, the slow passing of a mud wave. It caught stronger light along its forward face than along its summit and rear, bringing foreboding of disaster. Half an hour later another mud wave tended to upset equilibrium, and then soon after that a wasp buzzed, and he heard the report which sent him chest-down into the mud, and his eye peering across the sights of his rifle.
“You’ve said it, Yorky. This is no time to be a gentleman,” he remarked. “Let me see this murderous swine that I may prove it.”
The frustrating light was much worse at mud level. He could not determine where the mud horizon met the scintillating atmosphere. Again the wasp fled by, and again came the report loud and sharp. He aimed at the point of the sound and fired, and the report of his rifle seemed to be blanketed about his own ears. It was worse than being blinded by fog. Irritation gave place to dull anger, and anger banished all veneers, leaving a man no longer a gentlemanly copper.
There arose, in this man of two races, emotion he rarely permitted to surface. It was like a heatless fire deep behind his eyes, and he swore at the blinding sun and the frustrating mirage. Pinned like a moth to a specimen board, he and those behind him were being vitally delayed for the mud to engulf them.
Ah! There was movement of a sort, a shape impossible to identify. Swiftly it grew to monstrous size, swiftly to diminish to vanishing point. The sniper was retreating.
Bony made to leap to his feet, and was brought to reality by the mud shoes. He wanted to run, but again the boards restrained him. In a semi-crouching attitude, Bony hurried after him, with the nightmare sensation of leaden feet.
He came to the dingo-rest where the sniper had staged his last hold-up, and instead of waiting for the others he pressed on, determined to nail the enemy before he could gain cover behind the shore dunes. Now how far to the blessed land, the clean, the beautiful land? How much farther over this filthy mud? What had Yorky said? Ah, yes, two miles. A long way, and yet not so long when clean red sand and a hut near water waited.
An hour later he saw the red sand, sand rising in billows as of red spray suddenly suspended, great red cliffs of it, gouged and gullied by the shadow drifts of graphite powder. And he saw, without distortion, a man run from the mud and race up the beach. Without expending time sprawling, Bony halted, sighted and fired. He heard himself shout when the running figure staggered. He heard himself curse when the running figure recovered, to run on between two cliffs of red spray.
He was down on the mud yet again, fighting for control of breathing and nerves. He struggled to sink yet lower into the mud, knowing that his adversary was calmly selecting his cover from behind which he could pin down a regiment. How far was he from the beach? It was impossible to assess distances in this shimmering colourless radiance.
His rifle was ranged to fire point-blank up to 350 yards. He could do nothing now but wait, hoping to see the spurt of flame before hearing that wasp, thus learning the position of the adversary. Vain hope, indeed, when the sun is directly before one, and a bare five hands’ width above the summits of low dunes.
He was thinking how to place himself beyond range of the Winchester and still keep the dunes within range of his own rifle, when a sound like a cork being withdrawn came from his left, followed about two seconds later by the report. To turn about and retreat in a manner dictated by mud and hampered feet was to ask for a bullet in the back from a man able to see clearly with the sun behind him.
The next bullet hit the mud several yards immediately in front of Bony. He saw the tiny spurt of mud so disturbed, and found consolation in the obvious fact that the marksman could not see where his bullets hit, and so correct his errors, for the impact raised no dust. The following bullet informed him that the marksman was immediately to his front, and probably behind a low declivity between two humps.
To his complete bewilderment, therefore, he witnessed the appearance of a dark figure at a point at least two hundred feet to the right of this place; and the figure was a man who was waving something white. Then in the shimmering light haze he saw that the man was moving in a crouching manner along t
he foot of the dunes, and towards the place where the rifleman should be. Bony aimed at this position and fired, and was rewarded by the miniature avalanche of sand marring the face of the dune.
Now there was distinct movement on the top of the ridge between the dunes, and two things happened. A bullet plopped into the mud on Bony’s left, and the man at the foot of the dunes began to run, still crouching, towards where the marksman must be. He was stalking the rifleman, and had taken advantage to cover ground when knowing that the marksman was concentrating on his shooting.
Good man! Bony proceeded to assist him further by now and then claiming the rifleman’s full attention. The stalker entered a shadow, disappeared. A bullet plopped into the mud eighteen inches in front of Bony’s rifle muzzle, and he realized that, fortunately, bullets did not ricochet off mud. Then he saw the white fabric being waved atop a sand ridge much nearer the marksman, and Bony tried to dig a furrow across the ridge.
Minutes passed. The sun sank lower still, even more effectively blinding Bony, who could now see only by shading his eyes. Shortly afterwards even that was useless. Lying there utterly helpless while the sun sank behind the sand ridge were moments suspended for ever. Now the distant land was sharply silhouetted against the light; for the first time the odds were in Bony’s favour. The shadows were gone, the light shimmer was banished. He could see clearly the scar of the avalanche made by his bullet on the virgin face of the dune behind which lurked his adversary.
Then he saw a movement directly over his sights, and settled to make this a victory shot, stilling his nerves, freezing his arms and neck muscles while beginning the slow pressure on the trigger. This was it. He could actually see the top of the fellow’s head over the smaller blob of rifle muzzle resting on the sharply etched red sand line against the saffron sky. He knew now that the range was well under two hundred yards, and in his hands was a superb weapon. Conditions were ideal. Now to dispatch a high-velocity bullet into the brain of the killer!
The bushman who came back b-22 Page 17