Bony - 26 - Bony and the White Savage Read online

  Bony and the

  White Savage

  ARTHUR UPFIELD

  ANGUS & ROBERTSON PUBLISHERS

  ANGUS & ROBERTSON PUBLISHERS

  London • Sydney • Melbourne

  This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the

  purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as

  permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced

  by any process without written permission. Inquiries should

  be addressed to the publishers.

  First published by William Heinemann Ltd in 1961

  This Arkon paperback edition first published

  in Australia by Angus & Robertson Publishers and

  in the United Kingdom by Angus & Robertson (UK) Ltd in 1984

  Copyright © 1961 by Arthur W. Upfield

  ISBN 0 207 14671 3

  Printed in Australia by The Dominion Press - Hedges & Bell

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter One

  The Homing Prodigal

  KARL MUELLER was an old-timer in the deep south-west of Western Australia. His parents had migrated from Hamburg to settle north of Albany, and there Karl and his sister were born. Karl’s sister had married well, and with her children lived in Albany. Karl, however, lacked ambition. All he had inherited was his father’s love of the sea and his mother’s love of the mountains and the trees and the farm animals.

  For twenty-odd years Karl had worked for the Jukes who owned a farm and large grazing lease a few miles inland from Rhudder’s Inlet, and almost within sight of the famous Leeuwin Lighthouse which is said to signpost the approach to Australia’s Front Door. Now fifty years old, he looked less than forty, being nobbly rather than stout, blond of hair and blue of eyes, possessed of one virtue, loyalty, and one vice, alcohol.

  Every year he departed to spend the Christmas and New Year with his sister and family in Albany, returning always in the first week of January. He had a great aversion to spending money on rail and road services, and invariably walked both ways, and no aversion to spending money on booze and on presents for those whom he held in high regard, including his employer’s wife. He tramped the hundred-and-fifty-odd miles, keeping as close to the coast as rivers and inlets permitted, the western half of the journey lying over unsettled country of forest and gully and stream.

  For the record, this year he left Albany on 2 January, and on the evening of the ninth he made early camp beside a long disused logging track. All this day he had tramped up and over the tree-massed hills bordering the Southern Ocean, fording one river and, without removing his boots, tramping across the streams and sluggish water-gutters. He had greeted in his open simple fashion particular trees and rocks he remembered from previous journeys, and in three days he had not passed a house.

  Making camp in this quarter of Australia at this time of year is no chore to men like Karl Mueller. He chose to sleep in the lee of a robust bush, and instinctively built his small fire on clear ground. He boiled water in a quart pot, brewed tea, added a dash of rum, and, having supped, emptied the residue of the tea upon the embers of the fire. He unrolled his swag hard against the bush that he would not be dis­turbed by the moonlight, and having smoked his pipe and downed another double nobbier of rum, laid himself on the blankets, shut his eyes and slept. He was awakened, so he thought, by someone humming a tune.

  That anyone should be humming a tune in the middle of the night in this wildly virgin country was so unusual that Karl attributed it to the dwindling effects of the many bottles of rum he had consumed during his holiday. He lay there in the shadow of the bush beside the track, thinking he would like a snort but remembering there was but one left in the last bottle, and deciding to reserve that for breakfast.

  The night was as silent as the inside of a possum’s nest in winter, and the sound of a stick snapping on the leaf-and-debris covered track could not be ignored. Karl now knew that someone was coming along the track and humming the tune of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’.

  That was when the nightmare began, the creeping warn­ing of terror. Karl was lying parallel with the track, and without raising his head he could see beyond his feet the figure of the man coming from Albany way. The clear moon­light fell full upon him, and his face Karl had hoped never to see again. He was six feet tall, and would scale at least two hundred pounds. He walked with the peculiar gait which Karl remembered, head up, chest out, shoulders well back, like one accustomed to being stared at and admired. The beret was worn at a rakish angle, and the moonlight glittered on the ornament, or badge, worn at the front.

  One part of Karl’s mind claimed it must be the booze that brought about this visitation; and yet another part warned him to remain still and try not to sever the ropes binding him. The man advanced, waving his left hand to the beat of the tune he hummed. In the other hand he carried a suitcase. When beside Karl, when about to pass him, Karl gazed up at his face, and it was, indeed, the man whom no one wanted ever to remember. The face was large, the flesh slack under the eyes and about the mouth. The fore­head was broad, but the chin was weak. The hands were broad and fingers were stubby and powerful. The left hand still beat the time of the tune, and as the hummer was about to pass Karl the humming was interrupted to permit the voice to say:

  “Onward, you bastards, onward.”

  The widely-spaced, black eyes fixed their gaze directly forward, failing to notice the victim of nightmare lying within a yard of the large feet. Another stick snapped, and the ropes about Karl snapped. The terror waned, and he swung his body over to lie on his chest and gaze along the track to see the figure emerge from shadow into moonlight, and beyond the moonlight again into shadow, and vanish.

  “Must be having a touch of the horrors,” he told himself, and drawing a blanket up and over his head, slept dream­lessly until sun-up.

  Karl tossed the blanket aside and sat on the ground-sheet. The bush was dark green and mountainous upon his left, and the old logging track passed close to his right side. Yes, that was where he had seen the man with the heavy white face, the wide shoulders, the thick legs with their majestic tread, and the old tune hummed as he had hummed it so many years agone. Marvin Rhudder, rapist, basher, gaol-bird, had passed by on the moonlit track in the dead centre of the hours of night.

  It wasn’t real this morning of bright sunshine, when the kookaburras in a nearby gully were chuckling, and a butcher-bird on a near branch was looking at him with his head to one side. What tricks the booze will play on a man, lifting him up and then dumping him like a sack in the bush to have a bout of the horrors. Karl stood, stretched, relaxed. He didn’t feel good and he didn’t feel bad. This day he would be home again.

  The remainder of the water in his canvas-bag he poured into the quart pot and boiled it for a brew of tea. Into the tea he emptied the remainder of the rum, and whilst sippin
g the concoction and chewing hard biscuits with a sliver of hard cheese, he felt again the doubt that the passing of Marvin Rhudder had been hallucination. Still worrying, he rolled his swag and sat on it while filling his pipe and smok­ing for fifteen minutes, the while arguing aloud the pros and cons as though the butcher-bird could understand what he was saying.

  “Look! The last we heard about this Marvin Rhudder swine is that he’s doing time for bashing and raping a woman on a vacant allotment in a Sydney suburb. If it was him last night, then he’s out of gaol. If he was heading for home, and he wouldn’t be here in the West without going home, he wouldn’t of been coming this way from Albany. He’d of been coming down from Timbertown on the milk truck, having come over to the West by train or ship. I can’t see him coming home, anyway, not after old Jeff Rhudder swearing a thousand times to shoot him on sight. Naw! Musta been mistook. Musta been a fit of the horrors. I ex­pected ’em, but they didn’t come till last night.

  “All right! Then let’s say it was him. We won’t argue how he got here. I got twelve miles to do today to get me home. He’s got fourteen or fifteen miles to get him back to the Inlet. He won’t be doing that right off, or will he? Could of camped for a spell at the old mill where there’s water, and he had none with him, and then branch off south to hit the Inlet right on the coast. Oh, blast it, I musta been mistook.”

  Karl stood and knocked the dottle from his pipe, stamp­ing it out on the hard ground. He poured the residue of the tea leaves on the now cold fire ashes, just to make sure there lingered not one spark, slung the swag behind a shoul­der and strapped the gunny-sack to fall suspended against his chest. Although the contents of the gunny-sack weighed twice as much as the swag, the arrangement gave balance and left both hands and arms free.

  Five miles on he could see the site of the old timber mill, nothing of it left save a few uprights once supporting the iron roof, and the battered useless debris littering the banks of a stream which now carried but a narrow flow of water. Karl spent almost an hour reconnoitring before he was assured no one was camped hereabout, and when again on his way he was convinced that the experience of the previous night was a dream.

  Even if it hadn’t been a nightmare, Marvin Rhudder would have followed the little stream down from the old mill, followed it southward to the Inlet and then along the shore of the imprisoned water to reach his people’s home­stead. Karl’s way was no longer on a track. He trudged up the slopes and down them, and presently he gained the top of a hill from which he could see Rhudder’s Inlet all blue and shimmering right to the narrow entrance from the dis­tant Southern Ocean beyond the white dunes. He could see the Rhudder homestead seemingly protected by the coast dunes, a rambling house surrounded by work-sheds, the milking-shed, the stockyards. His home at the Matthew Jukes farm was five miles inland.

  Emma Jukes was mixing a cake batter when the dogs began to bark, and the barking became frenzied when she heard Karl Mueller shouting at them. His was a joyful shouting, the joy of a man happy to be home again. Then he was standing just inside the open door of the large kit­chen-living-room, smiling broadly at her, and lowering to the floor his swag and gunny-sack.

  “Good dayee, Missus! Got home, you see.”

  Poor Karl! His suit purchased in Albany had been slept in during the journey. His boots were caked with mud and dust. His whiskers were two inches long. His eyes were still blood-shot although now wide and bright.

  “And glad to see you, Karl,” Emma said. “Have a nice break in Albany?”

  “Too true, Missus. Same old joint. Same pubs, same sister and brother-in-law. I got something for you. Hope you like it.”

  “You have!” Emma Jukes turned to spoon tea into the pot and pour boiling water from the heavy iron kettle. She was small and compact. Her greying brown hair was coiled neatly in a bun at the back of her head. Her brown eyes were alive and excited. Karl untied the mouth of the sack, gazed inside for several tantalizing moments, and brought out a package wrapped in gilt paper. Then, when Emma was looking and waiting, he said bashfully:

  “Sort of proving I didn’t forget the old farm when I was away.”

  Emma Jukes removed the wrapping to disclose a small fashioned after a butterfly. For a moment or two she stood looking at the brooch, and Karl waited as though anxious for her verdict. It wasn’t the thrill of receiving this present which sent her hastening to a wall mirror, to pin it to her dress. Dear, simple, honest, affectionate Karl. For twenty years he had worked with them and for them, and when their boy was taken by the sea, he had slipped into their hearts. Her eyes were very bright when again she faced him across the table.

  “Why, it’s just lovely, Karl. How nice of you to think of me.”

  It always had been like this on the return from his annual bender. No gush. Just plain appreciation in her eyes, and simple happiness in his broad smile at the pleasure he gave. She poured tea and produced small cakes from a tin, and urged him to sit and eat whilst she continued with her mix­ture. He told her about the sister and the children, and the brother-in-law who was doing fine. He spoke of the various publicans in Albany in a manner as though they were close relations, and afterwards he picked up the heavy gunny-sack and emptied the contents on the floor, displaying to­gether with new boots and new shirts a mass of paperbacks.

  “Look at ’em, Missus,” he urged Emma. “All good blood-and-gutzers. Look! Wuthering Heights! Kidnapped! Peyton Place! Blood on the Sand! The woman at the shop picked ’em out for us. We’ll have some sessions now, won’t we?”

  “They look fine, Karl,” agreed Emma. “Now pack them on the sideboard, and go make yourself ready for dinner. Matt has Jack helping him with the milking and things, and Jack’ll be wanting to go home tonight.”

  “Still courtin’ Eve?” asked Karl.

  “We think so. Now, run along and make yourself tidy.”

  “By golly, yes,” he responded, having glanced at the clock on the mantel. He scooped up the boots and oddments into the sack, picked up the swag, and again at the doorway, turned to say: “See you later, Missus.”

  When Emma did see him again, he was shaved and show­ered and dressed as always for the evening in white open-necked shirt and drill trousers. He came in with her husband and a youth of nineteen. Matt Jukes was nearing sixty, and the years had whitened his hair but had not touched his black beard nor dimmed the dark and brilliant eyes. He was stocky and powerful of build, and now he was chuckling at something Karl had told them.

  After dinner Karl took the utensils to the wash-bench, and Emma expostulated, saying, “This is still your holiday time.” But he came back swiftly with the objection that as she had cooked the dinner it was his job to clean up as he had done for years. And afterwards, as had also been the custom for years, he would be rewarded by Emma reading to him one of his ‘blood-and-gutzers’.

  The temporary help roared away on his motor-bike back to Timbertown, and Emma tidied up and lit the power lamp suspended from the ceiling. Matt went off to lock up the fowls from the foxes, and when he returned he heard Emma say:

  “Something on your mind, Karl? You’re very quiet all of a sudden.”

  Matt sat with them at the table on which Emma had laid out the new books, and without speaking he began to load his pipe. Karl, he thought, looked tired, looked old tonight, and the annual bender wasn’t being carried off as stoutly as hitherto. Karl said slowly, wonderingly:

  “Yes, there is, Missus. I can’t make up me mind if I seen Marvin Rhudder last night or not.”

  The pipe slipped from Matt’s hands to the table-cloth, and Emma uttered a soft gasp of astonishment.

  “Yes,” Karl repeated. “And I can’t make up me mind.” They could see the uncertainty and desperation in his soft blue eyes. He could see on their faces the shock, and all the sorrow that had been there thirteen years before. Haltingly he related the experience of the night on the track.

  “You sure you saw what you saw, dream or real?” pressed Matt Jukes, his voice hard, h
is eyes blazing.

  “That’s what I dreamed or what I saw,” answered Karl.

  “But would you recognize him after all this time?” Matt argued. “Remember, when he went away he was only a lad, only just turned twenty. He’d be thirty-three now. He’d be different.”

  The heaviness lifted from Karl Mueller, and he smiled with relief. It was a dream after all. Then the smile vanished, and the weight of memory appeared to crush him into his chair.

  “No, I know now it was real,” he said. “I remember that as he was passing me he was humming like he used to. He was humming ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ like he used to.”

  Chapter Two

  The Timbertown Policeman

  SENIOR CONSTABLE Samuel Sasoon was the toughest of the many nuts Timbertown had failed to crack. A superficial survey of Timbertown would lead one to pre­sume that it could not crack a soft-shelled egg, all being nice and quiet and genteel during business hours.

  Samuel Sasoon’s father had been a tree-faller and sleeper-cutter in the forests of the immense Karri country, inland from the coast, between the Leeuwin Light and Albany. He had the physique of a gorilla; the nimbleness of a dancing master. It was as nothing for him to scale a karri trunk for two hundred feet to lop off the great crown of branches, and cling like a limpet to the beheaded trunk when the crown gave it the ponderous kick at parting, causing the bare trunk to vibrate like a tuning fork. He would ask someone to drive a peeled stick into the ground, anywhere they chose, and then fell the vast trunk exactly upon it. Once he failed. The trunk missed the stick by a couple of yards; he broke down and wept and got himself drunk for a week.

  The huge karri trees have killed many men, and continue to do so, but the elder Sasoon was killed by a piece of orange peel on the main street at Timbertown. Young Samuel was then fifteen and showing the promise of his sire’s body and feet. Also he was showing his mother’s fear of heights and his mother’s love of books of which she possessed two: the Bible and Uncle Tom’s Cabin.