The Barrakee Mystery

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Read that, and give it to Knowles when he comes,” urged Clair, and began to cough alarmingly. Dugdale gave him a towel before bending over the writing-pad, on which was written, in a shaking, spidery hand:

  August 12th, 19—.

  I killed an aboriginal named King Henry at Barrakee on the night of Saturday, March 5th, with a boomerang. I threw the boomerang and missed the throw in the dark. The boomerang returned to my feet. Him and me both dived for it. I got it, and while he was stooping hit him once on the head.

  William Sinclair

  “Sinclair?” Dugdale echoed.

  “Yes. My name is Sinclair, not Clair. Get me a drink of coffee, please. Let—me—lie—down. I’m—crook—”

  “Just a second, Bill,” the younger man entreated. “You are soaking wet. Let us get your clothes off first. Come now, old man. Hold on.”

  Sinclair, as he had named himself, had gone limp. Dugdale found it necessary to hold him with one hand whilst he removed the sodden coat. Somehow he managed to get the gaunt man down on the blankets, when he cut away the blood-soaked shirt with a table-knife.

  As Sinclair had said, he had been shot through the left lung, dangerously near his heart. The wound had ceased to bleed outwardly, and the young man washed it gently and wrapped about it a sheet snatched from his bed. His bed blankets he laid over the dying man.

  Above the roar of the rain on the roof the alarm clock ticked as loudly as a grandfather clock, and the falling embers rattled in the fire. There was nothing more that he could do till day came: little, then, since it would be impossible to run the truck over the now soft track. And out there in the rain, in the pitchy darkness, another man, probably hurt, was either lying senseless or wandering about aimlessly searching for the hut and succour. Entirely on this latter account Dugdale drew aside the curtains and raised the blind. The lamplight might serve as a guide.

  For nearly an hour Clair was unconscious. His coat and trousers, which Dugdale had set close to the fire, were then dry, and for something to do he folded them neatly and placed them on the table. It was then that Sinclair opened his eyes, in which at first was a vacant stare; but quickly understanding and memory came into them.

  “Promise to deliver the letter, Dugdale,” he struggled to whisper.

  “I promise.”

  “And, Dugdale, in my coat-pocket is a wallet. Take that to the Little Lady as well. Promise!”

  “I promise, Bill. Can I get you anything?”

  “Coffee.”

  Dugdale filled the cup, and, kneeling, slid an arm beneath the gaunt man’s head, which he slightly raised. But Sinclair had forgotten his need. He was murmuring:

  “Grandfather Sinclair was a commander of a King’s ship. Father Sinclair was a magistrate. Present Sinclair and sister Mary were orphaned, young and penniless. But we Sinclairs had our honour. For twenty years—the stain—was there. Present Sinclair goes out—without stain.”

  Since the dying man refused to drink, Dugdale put aside the cup, laid him down again, and wiped his blood-stained lips. He seemed to sleep. The chest rose and fell, but slowly. Dugdale, seated beside him, watched and waited. He had never before seen the coming of death; but he knew he would face it soon.

  Seemingly far away a horse neighed. It was his own horse; he recognized the note. The dogs barked furiously. Two minutes later slow thudding hoofs sounded from without. Clair opened his eyes.

  “The—sergeant—comes,” he whispered. “Apologize—to—him—for me—Dugdale. Must have—head—no—bad head.”

  The door was opened suddenly. A tattered uniformed figure stood within the frame. Clair sat up, and in a loud voice cried:

  “Thank you, Little Lady! You are safe.”

  And, when Dugdale caught him, William Sinclair was dead.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Two Resolute Men

  SERGEANT KNOWLES appeared as though he had rolled in the mud; which was precisely what he had done, albeit unconsciously. The dark blue tunic was covered with a mass of red-brown clay, his khaki breeches were in a similar plight He had lost his hat.

  Apparently the significance of the scene which met his gaze when he opened the door was borne in upon him; for, when he closed the door, he removed his tunic and seated himself in the easy-chair at the dead man’s feet before he spoke. Then:

  “Well, that’s that,” he said grimly. “I gave Clair every chance, but he would bolt. Got anything to drink, Dugdale?”

  Dugdale covered the face of the dead, kneeling by Clair’s head to do so. Over the body the two men regarded each other. It came dully to the younger man that, if Clair was to have been hanged for killing a black, what a paradox it was that another man should be licensed to shoot him because Clair disliked being hanged.

  Rising without reply, he “bulled” the coffee—or, in plain English, added hot water to the coffee remaining in the billy. Bringing a fresh pannikin, he filled it and set it at the sergeant’s elbow on the table.

  “You appear to have had a wild time of it,” he said.

  “One of the wildest. If you’ve got any aspirin, for the love of Mike give me four tablets in a little water. My head is split right open and the halves are clapping together.”

  Dugdale gave him the aspirin, and the policeman, having taken the dose, followed by a few sips of coffee, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Dugdale found his pipe and tobacco.

  Five minutes passed thus. At the sergeant’s feet was a small pool of water that had oozed from his leggings and boots. Although he had removed his tunic he was no drier, for his shirt and vest were soaked. Watching him, Dugdale saw the frown between the eyes fade out and the grey eyes open.

  “That’s better,” Knowles sighed. “Clair hit me mighty hard. When did he get here?”

  “About three hours ago.”

  “Did he! Well, he walked three miles to get here. Where was he hit?”

  “Just above the heart.”

  “So! It’s a wonder he got here. Well, I’m sorry he’s dead, and yet I’m not sorry. He died a man’s death, which is better than the law’s death. Is there any coffee left?”

  “Half a cup,” Dugdale answered. “Drink it, and I’ll make more and cook you a couple of chops. I’ve no cold meat. I’ll lend you a shirt and a pair of pants, too, if you like.”

  “You’re a saint. But first of all I must see to my horse. It’s a great beast that. Waited beside me till I came to. Can’t understand why Clair didn’t take it, unless Pronty wouldn’t be took.”

  “What happened?” asked Dugdale.

  “By a strange coincidence, both Clair and I were making for this hut of yours. I came on his tracks just this side of the Paroo, and just before it started to rain, and when they debouched on to a wide sandy plain I saw Clair in the middle of it. He was on foot and had no chance to get away. When he saw me he made no attempt to get away. He stopped when I called upon him to do so, laying down his swag but still holding a heavy waddy, which he was using as a staff. That I told him to drop, getting off my mount as I said it. I told him to hold out his hands for the bracelets. He did so, and just as I was about to snap them on he lowered his head and rammed me in the middle.

  “The force of his head in my solar plexus paralysed me. He began to run. My horse was feeding, drat him! some fifty-odd yards away. I pulled my gun and called to him to stop. He was making for the Parro, on the cracked dry bed of which he would have defied me till dark, as my horse could never have faced the ground. You know the kind of place I mean. This was about an area of some ten acres. As he would have beaten me to it and wouldn’t stop, I aimed low, and fired. But, damn it! a policeman isn’t always using his gun. I didn’t allow for the kick-up.

  “Clair dropped—I thought dead. Even then I couldn’t stand. I was doubled up for quite three minutes longer. When I was able to straighten up I went over to Clair and, when within a dozen feet of him, he jumped up and threw his waddy at me. There had been plenty of practice behind that throw. I saw the waddy c
oming at me, and no more.

  “When I came to it was dark. My moke was still feeding about. I could hear the champing on the bit. Since then I have been circling for hours, so it seemed. Not a blessed star for a guide, and as dark as the tomb. Bit of luck seeing your light.”

  Certainly Knowles had been unfortunate. Dugdale knew that he was right when he said Clair could have defied him once he got to that terrible patch of cracked ground on the Paroo bed. No horse could have crossed it, and, had the sergeant followed on foot, leaving his horse, the odds between the two men would have been in Clair’s favour. It was the clumsy way of trying to arrest Clair, or Sinclair, that was impressed on Dugdale.

  “Well, I’ll go and unsaddle my moke. Will he get a feed if I turn him loose just outside?”

  “Yes; plenty of grass,” Dugdale informed him.

  “Good! But first we’ll move the corpse over there to the back wall. That his clothes?”

  The younger man nodded.

  With the dead man covered from sight and removed farthest from the fire, the policeman went out into the rain once again. Dugdale heard him call to his mount, heard the animal whinny a reply. He put on a fresh billy of water and went to the meat-safe for the chop. And, while he was cutting off sufficient for a meal for them both, he remembered Clair’s injunction to take his wallet also to Mrs Thornton.

  While he held the wallet in one hand and the coat in the other, Sergeant Knowles re-entered the hut.

  “You’ve no business to touch those clothes,” he said sharply.

  “I am taking from them what Clair told me to take,” came doggedly from Dugdale.

  “Then you can’t. What is there belongs to the law. Give the wallet to me.”

  Knowles advanced a step. Dugdale slipped behind the table.

  “What the devil is the matter with you?” demanded the policeman. “You can’t have that. Clair’s possessions become the property of the State until they can be handed to his lawful heirs.”

  “I am sorry, Knowles,” replied Dugdale, with paling face. “But with almost his last breath Clair gave me certain instructions about the wallet, and I promised to carry them out; as I shall do.”

  Knowles measured his host grimly. He saw the determination in Dugdale’s jaw. Yet his duty was plain. As the representative of the law, he must take possession of the dead man’s effects.

  “I’m in no condition for a brawl, Dugdale,” he said. “Don’t be a fool. Give up that wallet and let’s eat. I’m famished.”

  “We’ll eat, certainly—but I keep the wallet.”

  “All right: have it, then.”

  Knowles slipped to the door, locked it, and pocketed the key. Without haste he approached the table, seized the lamp, extinguished it and placed it on the mantelpiece.

  “Now, Dugdale, for the last time, give me that wallet,” he said savagely. Across the table, their faces lit by the ruddy glare of the fire, they faced each other, both equally resolute. Then, nearly as quick as light, the sergeant sprang on the table to vault it, and at the same instant Dugdale dived beneath it and suddenly straightened, heaving upward table and policeman on his back.

  The capsizing table upset Knowles’ balance a split second before his hands left it to follow his flying body. Instead of landing on his feet, he fell flat on his back, his head thudding on the carpet.

  Dugdale, free of the table, jumped round to meet the next charge. The table stood on its edge. Two seconds passed and Sergeant Knowles did not appear. Slowly, cautiously, the young man edged round the wall to a point where he could see beyond the table. His nerves were taut with excitement; he was prepared fully to fight to the last gasp to retain the wallet and carry out Sinclair’s instructions.

  And then the strain snapped and he could not forbear a laugh. It had been so absurdly easy. The argument had ended before it had properly begun. Yet he must be careful. A picture of Clair shamming death till his pursuer was near him came to Dugdale. Perhaps the sergeant was shamming, too.

  First he must have more light. Reaching up behind him he took down the lamp, and, setting it on the ration heap, lit it without taking his eyes off his adversary.

  The policeman lay quite still, his eyes closed. He hardly breathed, and Dugdale sighed with relief at finding he was breathing, for he had conceived a horrible fear. His subsequent actions were almost mechanical. The idea dominating his mind was the fulfilment of Sinclair’s mission. What the dead man had written and what documents his wallet held Dugdale felt were no concern of his, but he had come to understand that Clair’s death and Mrs Thornton were inexplicably mixed up, and that it was of vital importance to the Little Lady that she should be placed in possession of the wallet and letter as quickly as possible. That being the case, his course was as clear as daylight.

  From the sergeant’s tunic he secured the shining hand-cuffs. Then he took a chance. He dragged the insensible man to the open space before the fire and handcuffed him by one wrist to the heavy easy chair he had made with heavy cut timber and wire. It was a piece of furniture not to be moved with ease. Still, as a further safeguard, he lashed the sergeant’s feet securely against the long fire-poker, which served as a splint and would prevent him from drawing up his legs to release himself with his one free hand. And that done, Dugdale proceeded to revive him.

  Knowles was a sick man when he came to, and Dugdale made him as comfortable as the circumstances permitted with rolled blankets and his pillows.

  “You’ll be wanting more aspirin,” he said, overdosing the groaning, swearing man.

  “By Heaven, Dugdale! You’ll suffer for this. You must be mad about the wallet. It can do you no good. In fact, you’ll get jail for it for sure. I’ll see that you do; you can leave that to me.”

  “It doesn’t matter much what you do—after I have carried out Sinclair’s commission.”

  “Sinclair? You mean Clair.”

  Dugdale moved the lamp and held Sinclair’s confession for the sergeant to read.

  “Sinclair told me to give you that,” he said. “You’ll find it on the table when I’ve gone.”

  Leaving Knowles then to recover fully from the effect of his second head blow, the younger man grilled chops and made coffee. The sergeant’s portion he cut up and fed to him with a fork, not daring to loosen the manacled wrist.

  Knowles made an effort to eat. Dugdale ate more than he required, for he wanted a reserve of strength. It was then about four in the morning.

  At five he went out for his horse, which he brought back and saddled. The policeman’s horse followed, the two animals remaining quietly outside whilst Dugdale made his simple preparations. First he made sure of the wallet, and in it he placed the letter, the wallet finding a safe depository in an inside coat-pocket.

  “You seem determined to go the whole hog,” observed Knowles, watching him with hard eyes. “Don’t be a fool, Dugdale, and serve a period in jail. Release me and hand the wallet over, and I’ll cry quits.”

  “Sorry,” came briefly from Dugdale. He placed a suit of spare linen on the table, together with a clean towel. “There is water to wash in the bucket here,” he said. “Here you’ll find some dry things. Over in the safe is meat and damper—help yourself.” For a moment they regarded each other grimly. “You may jail me, Knowles, as I expect you will,” the young man went on. “In fact, you may do your damnedest—it cannot be helped; but I would have you understand that what I have done regarding the wallet, and what I am going to do, benefits me personally in no way whatever. You’ve hunted Sinclair and you’ve got him. You should be satisfied, and not try to frustrate his last wishes regarding his property.”

  “I do what is my duty, and I shall continue to do it.”

  “Of course you will, Knowles,” Dugdale told him, taking from the policeman’s tunic the key of the handcuffs. “Here is the key to your release. I expect you will try to overtake me, but you’ll be wasting your time, as I ride one of the fastest horses in the west.”

  Dropping the key beside the ser
geant’s free hand, Dugdale went outside and vaulted into the saddle to start off on the wildest ride of his life.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Crossing the Paroo

  DUGDALE RODE Tiger, the deep-chested, powerful-loined grey gelding, at an easy canter. At the least he had nine or ten minutes’ start of Sergeant Knowles, and was confident that, should the policeman overhaul him, he could keep well ahead. His plan was to cross the Paroo directly east of his hut, and, when through the boundary of his block and on Barrakee Station territory, to strike north-east to Thurlow Lake homestead, a distance of about forty-five miles. He calculated that Mr Watts would willingly loan him a good mount for the remaining fifty miles to Barrakee homestead.

  This route, doubtless, he would have altered had he known that Sergeant Knowles, instead of pounding after him, rode south of Eucla for twelve miles, to a hut where he knew there was a telephone. For the sergeant of police was no fool. He knew his district thoroughly. Therefore it was easy for him to deduce the fact that Dugdale was making for Thurlow Lake by following his tracks for a mere mile. Also he realized that he was in no way fit for a gruelling pursuit Indeed, he was a very sick man.

  The rain had stopped, though the sky was still overcast and threatening. The clay-pans were full, the hard places treacherous and like greasy boards, so Dugdale rode circumspectly, choosing the softer, drier ground of the sand ridges. Constantly glancing behind, he came at last to the wide circular plain in which Sinclair’s encounter with Knowles had taken place, and, passing across this, mounted to the summit of the mulga ridge bordering the Paroo.

  The Paroo is like no other river in the world. It has no defined channel other than a strip of flat grey-black country varying in width from half a mile to three miles. Only once during the memory of the white man has the Paroo run the whole of its course. This was the second time. Subjected to mere local rains, the creeks draining the surrounding country empty their water into the Paroo, where, after running a little way, it disappears down the wide erratic cracks. Some places, notably that to which Sinclair tried to escape, are so crisscrossed by cracks a foot wide and many yards deep on rubbly subsiding ground that no horse could possibly cross them. The cracks scar all the remainder of the flat ribbon of river country in lesser degree, and anywhere where stock cross they have made a beaten track.