Table of Contents
Chapter One: The Sundowner
Chapter Two: The Sin of Silence
Chapter Three: The Homecoming
Chapter Four: Dugdale Goes Fishing
Chapter Five: A Wet Night
Chapter Six: The Inquiry
Chapter Seven: The Only Clue
Chapter Eight: A Round of Inspection
Chapter Nine: The Washaways
Chapter Ten: Sonny’s Hundredth Case
Chapter Eleven: Poor Old Bony
Chapter Twelve: Bony on Boomerangs
Chapter Thirteen: Mrs Thornton’s Ambition
Chapter Fourteen: Bony’s Imagination
Chapter Fifteen: Chasing a ‘Killer’
Chapter Sixteen: Three Letters—and a Fourth
Chapter Seventeen: The Great Land Lottery
Chapter Eighteen: The Surprise Party
Chapter Nineteen: Blood and Feathers
Chapter Twenty: A Grain of Sugar
Chapter Twenty-One: A Bullocky’s Camp on Sunday
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Pool
Chapter Twenty-Three: Bony is Surprised
Chapter Twenty-Four: The Cemetery Clue
Chapter Twenty-Five: When Black is White
Chapter Twenty-Six: In a Cleft Stick
Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Cold Camp-Fire
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Pincher Joe
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Dugdale Departs
Chapter Thirty: Bony Sees the Light
Chapter Thirty-One: The Coming of the Flood
Chapter Thirty-Two: The Passing of Clair
Chapter Thirty-Three: Two Resolute Men
Chapter Thirty-Four: Crossing the Paroo
Chapter Thirty-Five: A Nice Day
Chapter Thirty-Six: Flash Harry Deals the Cards
Chapter Thirty-Seven: Duty—and Common-Sense
Chapter Thirty-Eight: Bony Takes Command
Chapter Thirty-Nine: ‘Judge Not’
Chapter Forty: Maternal Love
Chapter Forty-One: The Midnight Visit
Chapter Forty-Two: Flood-Waters Subside
Glossary
Other Titles by Arthur W. Upfield:
1 THE BARRAKEE MYSTERY
2 THE SANDS OF WINDEE
3 WINGS ABOVE THE DIAMANTINA
4 MR. JELLY’S BUSINESS
5 WINDS OF EVIL
6 THE BONE IS POINTED
7 THE MYSTERY OF SWORDFISH REEF
8 BUSHRANGER OF THE SKIES
9 DEATH OF A SWAGMAN
10 THE DEVIL’S STEPS
11 AN AUTHOR BITES THE DUST
12 THE MOUNTAINS HAVE A SECRET
13 THE WINDOWS OF BROOME
14 THE BACHELORS OF BROKEN HILL
15 THE NEW SHOE
16 VENOM HOUSE
17 MURDER MUST WAIT
18 DEATH OF A LAKE
19 THE CAKE IN THE HAT BOX
20 THE BATTLING PROPHET
21 MAN OF TWO TRIBES
22 BONY BUYS A WOMAN
23 BONY AND THE MOUSE
24 BONY AND THE BLACK VIRGIN
25 BONY AND THE KELLY GANG
26 BONY AND THE WHITE SAVAGE
27 THE WILL OF THE TRIBE
28 MADMAN'S BEND
29 THE LAKE FROME MONSTER
Chapter One
The Sundowner
WITH EYES fixed thoughtfully on the slow-moving muddy stream of the River Darling, William Clair lounged in the golden light of the setting sun. His frame was gaunt, his complexion burnt-umber, his eyes were blue and unflickering, his moustache drooping like that of a Chinese mandarin was jet-black, despite his fifty-eight years.
It was the beginning of March, and the river was low. The birds, perched on the up-thrusting snags, were taking their evening drink; the galah, the cockatoo, and the kookaburra mingling their screeches, chatterings, and maniacal laughter with the funeral caw-cawing of the sinister crows. Not a breath of wind stirred the light-reflecting leaves of the giant gums bordering the river. From gold the sunlight turned to crimson.
Just below Clair were moored three small boats. Behind him was the homestead of Barrakee Station, set amid the paradisaic oasis of cool green lawns edged by orange trees. A little down the river, above a deep hole at a bend, were the men’s quarters, the kitchen garden, the engine that raised necessary water into the two great receiving tanks set upon thirty-foot staging. Further down was the huge corrugatediron shearing-shed, adjoined by the shearers’ quarters—all now empty. In the shearing-shed were Clair’s swag and ration-bags.
Half a mile upstream the river took a sharp turn to Clair’s left, and above the angle of the opposite bank a pillar of blue-gum smoke marked a camp-site. It was a camp of blacks, and interested the gaunt man mightily.
Beneath the gums the shadows darkened. The glory of the dying day laid over the surface of the river a cloth of crimson, patterned with shimmering silver rings where the small perch leapt for flies. The colour of the cloth dimmed magically to that of glinting steel. A kookaburra broke off his laughter and slept.
Clair waited, motionless, until the last glimmer of day had faded from the sky. Then, without noise, without haste, he slithered down the steep bank to where the boats were moored, pulled out the iron spike at the end of one of the mooring chains, softly coiled the chain in the bow, got in, and silently swung out the oars. The operation was so noiseless that a fox, drinking on the opposite side, never raised its head.
The “sundowner”, for Clair at that time was carrying his swag with no intention of accepting work, sat facing the bow and propelled the boat forward by pushing at the oars. There was no suspicion of the sound of water being dug into by oars, nor was there any noise of moving oars in the row-locks. Boat and man slid upstream but a darker shadow in the gloom beneath the overhanging gums.
At the bend, half a mile above, a dozen ill-clad figures lounged about a small fire, not for warmth, but for the sake of spirit-defying light. Clair pushed on silently for a further two hundred yards, when he slanted across the stream and landed.
It is the law of New South Wales that no white man shall enter a camp of blacks. Of this Clair was not ignorant. Nor was he ignorant, being well read, that laws are made for men, and not men for laws.
Avoiding fallen branches and water gutters with the ease of a born bushman, he passed through the darkness to the camp, where he halted some twenty feet from the fire.
“Ahoy! Pontius Pilate!” he called.
Lolling figures about the fire sprang up, tense, frightened at the suddenness of the voice in the night.
“I want to speak to you, Pontius Pilate,” called Clair.
A grizzled, thick-set aboriginal stared suspiciously in Clair’s direction. He gave a low-spoken order, and three gins hastened to the seclusion of a bough-constructed humpy. Then, striking an attitude of indifference, Pontius Pilate said:
“You want-it talk me; come to fire.”
When Clair entered the firelight the grizzled one and a youth of nineteen or twenty regarded him with unfriendly eyes. After a swift appraising glance, Clair sat on his heels before the fire and casually cut chips off a tobacco-plug for a smoke. The two aborigines watched him, and when he did not speak they edged close and squatted opposite the law-defying guest.
“Have a smoke?” said Clair, in a tone that held command. The elderly black caught the tossed plug, bit a piece out of it and handed it to his companion. The young man wore nothing but a pair of moleskin trousers; the elder nothing but a blue shirt.
“Only got one suit between you,” observed Clair unsmilingly. “Well, I reckon you can’t get sunburnt, so what’s the odds? You fellers belong to this part?”
“We come up from Wilcannia las’
week,” came the literally chewed response. “Where you camped, boss?”
“Up river a bit. Is old Mokie down river, anyway?”
“Yaas—old Mokie, he married Sarah Wanting. You bin know Sarah?”
“I reckon so. Sarah must be getting old,” Clair replied, though as a matter of fact he had no idea to which of the many Sarahs Pontius Pilate referred. Blacks marry and get divorced with a facility somewhat bewildering to the white mind. “I come down from Dunlop,” he went on. “Ted Rogers breaking-in horses up there.”
“He’s still there?” was the young man’s first speech.
“I think,” said Clair dreamily, “that I said it.”
The conversation was carried on disjointedly, punctuated by meditative smoking and tobacco-chewing. Then Clair put the question he had asked at countless camps in the course of many wandering years. No one present, not even the suspicious gossiping blacks, would have thought that his visit was solely for the purpose of asking this question:
“I knew an abo once, a terrible good horseman, feller called Prince Henry—no, not Prince Henry, some other name—tall big feller, old feller now. You know an abo called Prince Henry?”
“No Prince Henry,” demurred Pontius Pilate, the gravity of a great chief having settled over his ebony features. “You no mean King Henry?”
Not a muscle of Clair’s face moved. Not a sign betrayed more than ordinary interest.
“Maybe he was King Henry,” he said slowly. “Worked one time here at Barrakee, I think.”
“That’s him, boss,” agreed the elderly black. “King Henry, Ned’s father. This here is Ned—King Henry’s son.”
“Oh,” drawled Clair, glancing from one to the other. “And what’s your mother called, Ned?”
“Sarah Wanting.”
“Humph! Sarah believes in change.”
“Oh, but Sarah she leave old Mokie now King Henry come back,” chimed in Pontius Pilate, pride of knowledge shining in his eyes.
“Ah!” The exclamation came like a sigh from the gaunt man. “Then your father isn’t far away, Ned?”
“Nope. He come down from Nor’ Queensland.”
“What’s he been doing up there? Thought he was a Darling abo.”
“Dunno,” interjected the elder, and then innocently contradicted himself. “Him bin do a get from white feller wanta killum. White feller him dead now.”
“Oh! So the coast is clear at last, eh?” And then came Clair’s momentous question:
“Where’s King Henry now?”
“Him down Menindee. King Henry him bin come up alonga river with Sarah. Going to camp with us.”
The puffs of tobacco-smoke came with unbroken regularity from the gaunt man’s lips. The gleam of satisfaction, of triumph, was hidden by narrowed eyelids. After a moment’s silence, abruptly he turned the conversation, and ten minutes later rose and left the camp.
Back at the boat, without sound, he unmoored it and stepped in. Without a splash, he pushed it across to the further tree-shadows, and, merely keeping it on its course, allowed the current to drift him gently by the camp, down to the station mooring-place.
He was at the open fireplace outside the shearing-shed half an hour later, drinking jet-black tea, and eating a slice of brownie. Between mouthfuls he hummed a tune—not a white man’s tune, but the blood-stirring chant of some war-crazed tribe.
“Well, well, well!” he murmured. “My years of tracking have brought me in sight of the quarry at last. William, my lad, you must go first thing in the morning to the prosperous Mr Thornton, abase yourself before him, and ask for a job.”
Chapter Two
The Sin of Silence
MRS THORNTON was a small woman whose fragility of figure was somewhat deceptive. Her age was forty-three, and, although it is not generally politic to state a woman’s precise age, it has here to be done to prove that hardship, constant battling against odds, and self-denial, do not necessarily impair the bloom and vigour of youth. Vitality, both physical and mental, radiated from her plain yet delicately-moulded features.
On the morning following the visit of William Clair to the blacks’ camp she sat sewing on the wide veranda of the Barrakee homestead. The weather was warm, Nature drowsed in the shade, and the only sound came from the big steam-engine operating the pumps.
Now and then Mrs Thornton glanced between the leaves of the morning glory creeper shading the veranda to observe a tall, blue-shirted man digging the earth above the roots of the orange-trees beyond the lawn. Which of the men it was she could not make out, and uncertainty made her irritable.
At the sound of a heavy iron triangle being beaten by the men’s cook, announcing the morning lunch, the worker disappeared. For a moment the mistress of Barrakee allowed the sewing to fall to her lap, and a look of balked remembrance to cloud her brown eyes.
A moment later the house gong was struck, and the little woman went on with her task with a sigh. Came then the sound of ponderous steps on the veranda boards, and round an angle of the house there appeared, carrying a tray, an enormously fat aboriginal woman. Like a tank going into action the gin rolled towards Mrs Thornton, near whom she placed the tray of tea-things on a small table.
Mrs Thornton gazed up at the beaming face with disapproving eyes. Without an answering smile she noted the woman’s flame-coloured cotton blouse, some six times wider at the waist than at the neck, then at the dark blue print skirt, and finally at the bare flat feet. At first the feet were stolid, immobile. Then at the continued steady gaze the toes began to twitch, and at last under the pitiless silent stare one foot began lightly to rub the other.
When Mrs Thornton again looked up, the gin’s eyes were rolling in their sockets, whilst the beaming smile had vanished.
“Martha, where are your slippers?” asked her mistress severely.
“Missy, I dunno,” Martha gasped. “Them slippers got bushed.”
“For twenty years, Martha, have I tried to encase your feet in footwear,” Mrs Thornton said softly, but with a peculiar grimness of tone. “I have bought you boots, shoes and slippers. I shall be very angry with you, Martha, if you do not at once find your slippers and put them on. If they are bushed, go and track them.”
“Suttinly, missy. Me track um to hell,” came the solemn assurance. Then, bending over her mistress with surprising quickness in one of her avoirdupois, she added in a thrilling whisper:
“King Henry! He come back to Barrakee. You ’member King Henry?”
For fully thirty seconds brown eyes bored into black without a blink. The white woman was about to say something when the sound of a wicket-gate being closed announced the approach of her husband. The gin straightened herself and rumbled back to her kitchen.
Almost subconsciously the mistress of Barrakee heard her husband banteringly reprove Martha for the nakedness of her understandings, heard the woman’s mumbled excuses, and with an effort of will regained her composure. She was pouring tea when Mr Thornton seated himself beside her.
“Martha lost her shoes again?” he asked with a soft chuckle.
He was a big man, about fifty years of age. Clean-shaven, his features, burned almost brown, denoted the outdoor man and dweller under a sub-tropical sun. He had clear, deep-grey, observant eyes.
“Wasn’t it Napoleon who, after restoring order in France, tried all he could to make her one of the Great Powers, if not the greatest?” she asked, with apparent irrelevance.
“I believe it was,” agreed the squatter, accepting tea and cake.
“Wasn’t it his ambition, when he had brought chaos to order, to maintain order by a European peace?”
“Well, what of it?” counter-queried Mr Thornton, reminded of his wife’s hero-worship of the great soldier of France.
“Only, that every time he enforced peace on the continent of Europe, to allow his governmental machine to run smoothly, it was constantly being put out of action by the grit of a fresh coalition formed by England. England was his bugbear. Martha’s naked fee
t are my bugbear.”
“Well, well, we must remember that Martha once was a semi-wild thing,” Thornton urged indulgently. “Doesn’t it ever surprise you that Martha, who has been with us for twenty years, has never wanted to return to her tribe?”
“It does sometimes.”
“It’s the one exception to the rule,” he said. “And that’s that. I suppose you’re now counting the hours?”
“I am. Ralph’s train reaches Bourke at eleven, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. They should be here about three.”
“I quite expect he will have grown enormously,” she said with wistful eyes.
“He will certainly be a man. Nineteen years old yesterday. Even five months makes a big difference to a lad of that age.”
For a while they were silent. Having finished his morning tea, the man lit a cigarette and the woman pensively picked up her sewing. Her boy was coming home from college, and she ached for the feel of his strong arms around her. To her it had been a sacrifice to agree to his spending the last Christmas vacation with friends in New Zealand. She had not seen the boy, whom she passionately loved, for five long months, and was as tremulous as a woman standing on a jetty watching the arrival of her sailor husband’s ship.
“More than once it’s occurred to me,” drawled her life-partner, “that as Ralph is almost of age it would be a wise thing to tell him the truth regarding his birth.”
“No, John ... No!”
And before he started the fight Thornton knew he had lost it, seeing the iron will reflected in his wife’s face. That Mrs Thornton was strong-willed, a woman who invariably had her own way, he had known long before marriage. It was that trait of dominance in her character which had attracted him. He had been comparatively poor when the need of a partner was felt first; and, like a wise man, knowing the trials and hardships of the Australian bush, he did not select a weak, clinging woman, doubtless an ornament to a city drawing-room. His choice was reflected by his poise as well as his bank balance.
“But what we have to remember, Ann, is that Ralph one day may find out,” he argued. “Would it not be better for us to tell him gently, than for someone to tell him roughly that he is not your son, but the son of a woman who was our cook?”
The Barrakee Mystery Page 1