Bony - 22 - Bony Buys a Woman Read online

  Bony Buys a

  Woman

  ARTHUR UPFIELD

  PAN BOOKS LTD : LONDON

  First published 1957 by Wm. Heinemann Ltd.

  This edition published 1959 by Pan Books Ltd,

  33 Tothill Street, London, S.W.1

  ISBN 0 330 10586 8

  2nd Printing (re-set) 1966

  3rd Printing 1971

  Printed in Great Britain by Richard Clay (The Chaucer Press), Ltd,

  Bungay, Suffolk

  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 Twenty-seven

  Chapter One

  A Beginning for Linda

  THE DAY was the 7th of February, and it was just another day to Linda Bell. Of course, the sun was blazing hot at six in the morning, another morning when the wind sprang up long before six and was a half gale when the sun rose. It sang when crossing the sandy ground, and roared farewell as it sped through the line of pine trees guarding the Mount Eden home­stead from the sprawling giant called Lake Eyre.

  For Linda this day began like all other days. First she slipped from bed and gazed at the large calendar on the wall above the dressing-table. Later she would be asked to name the day, and already she knew that to remember it would be conducive to happiness.

  Linda was most self-dependent although she was only seven years old. She needed no rousing, no instructions on how to begin a new day. Taking a towel from a rack, she tripped daintily through the open french windows to the veranda, and along the covered way to the shower recesses. She sang a little song to the accompaniment of the wind under the iron roof as the tepid water from the great tanks high above the ground sluiced down her white body. Now and then into the song crept the word ‘seven’, and the same word occurred when she was still singing, on regaining her room and proceeding to dress. She was making her bed when the breakfast gong with­out defied the wind, to call the Boss and the Hands.

  The homestead kitchen was large, already hot, filled with the aroma of coffee, frying mince-balls, and grilling steaks. At one end stood the small table where Linda and her mother ate, and at the other end was the annexe in which the men ate. The men appeared and sat at the long table, and Mrs Bell asked each what they chose, and served them. That done, she served a cereal to Linda without consulting her, and then carried Mr Wootton’s breakfast tray to the inner dining-room.

  Mrs Bell was plump, fair, thirty, and pleasing to behold. It was said that her husband was a horse trainer, and that she had once been a school teacher. She believed that children were no different to horses—that they needed to be trained with firm­ness and kindness, and that if training is left too late, the child becomes a useless adult, precisely as belated training is wasted effort on a horse or a working dog. Thus she spared herself no trouble, but saved herself much worry.

  “You have done your hair nicely this morning, Linda,” she observed as she sat at table with her daughter. “Saves time to do it nicely in the first place. What is the date today?”

  “February Seven, One Nine Five Seven,” intoned Linda, her grey eyes wide and faintly impish.

  “That’s my girl,” approved Mrs Bell. “Mr Wootton says he’s going to town today, and I see that your comb has lost two teeth. What colour would you like the new one to be?”

  Linda chose blue, but her mind was on the slight noises made by the hands leaving the meal annexe. Her mother asked her to tell the time by the wall clock.

  Hurrying now to finish her breakfast, Linda’s jaws slowed while she gazed at the clock. Then she guessed a little, as she always found it difficult to be sure whether before or after the hour. This morning she guessed correctly by answering:

  “Seven minutes to seven, mother.”

  “Good for you, Linda. Now I suppose you want to run out to see the men off to work. Well, you may go. When the men have left, come in and do your lessons. It’s going to be a nasty day, and we’ll get through as quickly as you’ve a mind to, shall we?”

  The homestead buildings at Mount Eden formed the sides of a large square. The main house occupied the east side, the men’s quarters the side opposite. On the flanks were the office and store shed, the horse yards, the trade shops, the well and reservoir tanks. In the corner of the square was a round house, constructed entirely of canegrass.

  When, a trifle too hurriedly, Linda said grace and skipped from the kitchen, she stepped right into the open square. Already the early morning shadows were deepening in sharp contrast with the sunlit ground, and squadrons of dust horses ridden by riders of the west wind were racing from the men’s quarters to the house, passing by and speeding up the slope to the line of pine trees and the vast open Lake Eyre beyond them.

  The men were coming from the quarters to receive their orders for the day. There were four, all white men. Three wore spurs on their riding boots. One was a heavy man, two were lean, and the fourth a young man darkly handsome, and, com­pared with the others, almost flashily dressed in the ultra-stockman style.

  They halted just outside the office door. The young man waved to Linda, and the big man called the morning greeting. Then Mr Wootton appeared from the house side veranda. He was short and stout, red of face, when the complexion of his men was uniformly nigger-brown. His clipped moustache was dark. His hair was worn short and was plainly grey at the tem­ples. His eyes were small and distinctly green, and always kindly for Linda. To her he was the Big Boss, the King of Mount Eden. Unfailingly he must be called ‘Mister Wootton’. Invariably he wore a soft-collared shirt and a tie, gabardine trousers and shoes, instead of riding boots.

  As usual, Mr Wootton slipped a key into the office door lock and entered. He was invisible for two to three minutes and Linda knew he was studying a big book kept on his desk, and knew, too, that he looked into the book to tell him all about the station, and what needed to be done. On reappearing, he stood in the doorway and called for Arnold.

  Arnold was the very large man who could do anything from blacksmithing to making a motor engine go. Because of the wind and the cawing of passing crows, Mr Wootton had to speak loudly.

  “Want anything from town today, Arnold?” The big man shook his head, saying:

  “Don’t think so, Mr Wootton. Not for the station, anyway.”

  “All right. The wind oughtn’t to be strong out at Boulka. You might take the truck and go for another load of iron. And take your time to get the iron off without tearing holes in it. You know.”

  “Good enough,” drawled Arnold, and Linda asked:

  “May I go with Arnold, Mr Wootton?”

  “If your mother says so,” he assented, and called Eric.

  Linda raced to the house. Eric was lanky, raw-boned, slow. When Linda returned he was saying:

  “The mud’ll keep ’em from crossing for another six weeks even if it don’t rain, which ain’t likely. Them steers know enough to shy off getting themselves bogged. ’Sides, before the lake is hard enough
to take ’em, the flood oughta be right down the Coopers and the Georgina, an’ spilling over from the Dia­mantina.”

  “Could be, Eric,” agreed Mr Wootton. “Well, take a ride out to Number Fourteen and look over the stores. Anything you want from town today?”

  Eric chuckled dryly, and winked at Linda.

  “Well,” he drawled, “you might bring me a box of them lollies with the nuts on ’em. Seems like I got to give a present to my girl. Must keep in with her, y’know.”

  “Yes, you must get a present for your sweetheart,” agreed Mr Wootton, seriously. “Is her name Linda, by any chance?”

  “That’s tellin’, Mr Wootton,” and again the wink which pro­duced beaming adoration in the little girl’s face.

  The next man called to receive orders was the young man named Harry. He came forward with rolling gait, and even the wind could not drown the tinkle of his spurs. He was sent out to ride a section of the boundary fence. The fourth man, named Bill, was instructed to ride into White-Gum Depres­sion and report on the feed. To him Mr Wootton put questions concerning the aborigines.

  “Any sign of Canute and his people, Bill?”

  “Sort of local? Naw, Mr Wootton. They’re never to hand when wanted. They’ll be away up on the Neales by now, living on lizards and ants, going for corroborees and such like, and putting the young fellers through the hoop.”

  “Charlie promised he would come back early to give a hand with the muster.”

  “You’ll see Charlie when you see Meena. And that’ll be when Canute says so. He’s their boss. You can send ’em to the Mission Station, teach ’em to read and write and sing hymns, but in the end they do just what old Canute tells ’em.”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Mr Wootton agreed explosively. “All right, Bill. Want anything from town?”

  “Well, you could bring me a coupla pairs of them grey pants you got me last winter. Oh, an’ what about a couple of ladies’ handkerchiefs? Small ones with lace round the edges, and the letter ‘L’ in the corner. The store’ll have them kind. I got a sort of sister called … why, hullo, Linda, I didn’t see you.”

  “You did so, Bill,” argued Linda, from whose face dis­appointment had been banished by joy.

  “Oh, Linda!” said Mr Wootton. “Will your mother allow you to go with Arnold?”

  “Mother says not to, Mr Wootton. Mother says I have to stay and help her because Meena and the others are still away.”

  “I didn’t think of that, Linda. Of course you must help your mother. All right, Bill. I’ll not forget the handkerchiefs and the box of nut chocolates.”

  Mr Wootton re-entered his office, and Linda accompanied Bill to the yards, where the other riders were saddling up. She watched them leave, and then went back to the house, and demurely dried breakfast dishes for her mother.

  After that, lessons at the kitchen table until nine o’clock, when Mrs Bell sounded the house gong, made tea, and pro­vided buttered scones. Mr Wootton came to the kitchen for morning tea, standing the while, and noting on a pad the items Mrs Bell needed. Linda accompanied him to the car shed, and stood watching as the dust and sun-glare took the car up into the sky over the track to Loaders Springs.

  She was now free for the remainder of the morning, free to be herself, free to chide and scold and love, instead of being chided and loved. There beside the car shed was her own circular house, a circular house having canegrass walls and a canegrass thatched roof, and a wood floor three feet above ground to keep the snakes and ants out; a little house for a little girl, built by the girl’s sweethearts.

  Thus far, just another day for Linda Bell.

  She ran up the two steps and through the thick grass door­way to enter her house, leaving the buffeting wind outside, and meeting with calm silence. There was a real window set in the thick grass wall, and the window faced to the south, from which the cool winds of winter came. There was a table with the legs shortened, and a chair with the legs shortened. There was a rough bookstand and real books on the shelves, and on top of the stand were four dolls.

  One doll was the exact likeness of her mother. Another was the image of Mr Wootton. The third was a lovely young woman with straight black hair and large dark-brown eyes, and the fourth was an elderly man with weak blue eyes, a long face, and drooping grey moustache.

  Linda stood before the dolls, and said:

  “Meena! What’s the date? No, it’s not February 10th, Meena. You should know the date. You went to Mission School. All right, Ole Fren Yorky, you tell me the date. February 9th! Of course it isn’t February 9th.” Linda glared at the doll with the weak blue eyes and the absurdly drooping grey moustache. She mimicked her mother: “Ole Fren Yorky, I’m asking you to tell me the date today. Oh dear! Won’t you ever learn!”

  So the conversation with the four dolls continued over a wide range of subjects, including a box of chocolates with nuts on top, and lace-edged hankies with the letter L in the corner. She was seated in the chair, the dolls on the table before her. She had straightened Mr Wootton’s tie, and had combed Meena’s hair, and was intently trying to twirl points of Ole Fren Yorky’s moustache when the report of a rifle obliterated the low buzzing of the blowflies.

  “Now, Ole Fren Yorky, stay still,” she scolded. “Your mous­tache is getting disgraceful. That’ll be Mr Wootton out there shooting the crows. You know very well how naughty they are, and have to be shot sometimes.”

  Ole Fren Yorky wouldn’t be still, and Linda had to con­centrate on gaining compliance with her efforts. Minutes later, she remembered that Mr Wootton had left an hour before for Loaders Springs. A tiny frown puckered her dark brows. She pushed Ole Fren Yorky to one side, and had put her hands to the table to push her chair away from it, when there appeared in the doorway the original Ole Fren Yorky.

  Terror leaped upon her. The man’s weak blue eyes were now hot and blazing. He ran forward, a light swag at his back, a rifle in his left hand. Linda sprang out of the chair, and then found herself unable to move. A bare arm gripped her about the waist and she was lifted. She opened her mouth to scream, and her face was pressed hard into a sweaty chest, and no longer was it just another day.

  Chapter Two

  Murder in Eden

  UNTIL FOUR o’clock it was just another day for Arnold Bray.

  Like many big men, Bray was deliberate in thought as well as action, and this led people to believe him to be slow in both. Under thirty, he received the respect of men of his class much older than himself, and from men much younger who noted his powerful physique.

  He was that asset to all pastoral properties—the man of all trades, and it was quite unnecessary for Wootton to advise him how to remove iron sheets from a roof. The building to which he drove this day was situated some twelve miles from the Mount Eden homestead, and had been used as a shearing shed in a period when sheep were reared, only to be severely attacked by wild dogs. In this land where rust is reduced to a minimum by the dry atmosphere, the roof iron was worth sal­vaging.

  By three o’clock Arnold had removed enough iron for a sound load, and, having lashed it securely from the high wind he would encounter on leaving this shelter amid tall blue gums, he took time to boil water and brew a quart pot of tea. It was three-thirty when he called the dogs into the truck cabin and started for the homestead.

  Once beyond the trees, the wind buffeted the load and made steering on the narrow and little-used track something of a task. The truck hummed powerfully as it moved up a long and gradual slope to the summit of the highlands, which were never more than two hundred feet above the lowlands marked so clearly by creek and swamp and depression. Here on the bare slopes lay vast areas of ironstone gibbers, closely packed like cobbles, evenly laid into the cement base of earth-clay, and so polished by the wind-driven sand grains that they re­flected the sunlight in a glassy glare.

  Here, this day, earth and sky merged without an horizon. Arnold could not have seen the summit of the long slope had he looked for it, so masked was this worl
d of open space and wind and dust by the distortion of sunlight. A tall solitary tree became a mere broken sapling; a boulder reached in a few seconds had appeared to be a dozen miles distant; what had seemed to be a barrier of sand was actually a faint fold in the earth.

  Abruptly, in front of Arnold’s truck was the homestead; the square of buildings, the line of pines, the braked windmills, all like a picture left upon the floor and covered with the dust of years-long neglect. Yet the homestead was two hundred feet below the truck, and a mile away.

  The wind was blowing to the truck, a gusty wind which stockmen would find slightly unpleasant, not unbearable. The two dogs squatting on the seat beside the driver were happy until but half a mile from the homestead. Then, at the same time, both tensed, began sniffing, finally joined in a chorus of low lament.

  Arnold could see Eric mounted on his horse, and the horse was standing almost motionless in the centre of the square fashioned by the buildings. The animal’s legs seemed a hun­dred feet high, and Eric appeared to be sitting on a barrel, causing Arnold to chuckle, because never was he bored by the tricks played by this remarkable land.

  Attracted by the dogs’ behaviour, wondering at the stock­man’s most unusual stance, Arnold pressed on the accelerator, arriving at the motor shed, where the iron was to be stacked, in a cross cloud of dust and squealing brakes. Eric dismount­ed, and led his horse to the man standing beside the grounded dogs.

  “Been hell to play,” he said, the slow voice failing to hide shock. “No one here but her. The kid … I can’t find the kid. Mrs Bell’s over by the kitchen door. I covered her up. I …”

  “What happened?” asked Arnold, his steady voice not matching the concern in his eyes.

  “Don’t rightly know. Exceptin’ that Mrs Bell’s been shot dead. The boss …”

  “Was set to leave for town,” supplemented Arnold. “Let’s look-see. How long you been back?”