Bony - 22 - Bony Buys a Woman Read online

“One blackfeller stayed in camp that time you go walk­about, or he came back pretty quick. He went to homestead. He saw Mrs Bell dead on ground. He saw the blood mark on her back. It was like this.” With a stick Bony drew the mark of interro­gation. “He wait here till you all come back from the Neales. He didn’t send up smoke about Mrs Bell because he knew Mr Wootton and the men thought all blackfeller off on walkabout. Okee! All right!

  “You all come back on trucks, perhaps. I don’t know prop­erly. But, when Canute and Murtee come back, that black­feller who stayed in camp and saw Mrs Bell told about her, and showed Canute the mark on Mrs Bell’s back. He held Canute’s wrist like he’s doing now, and made Canute see that mark. You, Beeloo, was blackfeller who saw Mrs Bell dead. Well, you now tell me about Mrs Bell all dead, eh?”

  Not the flicker of an eyelid.

  “Okee! All right, you-all! You know big old red-gum, your treasure house? I find magic churinga stones, and head bands, and magic Kurdaitcha shoes, and pointing bones. I find all them. What you-all say to that?”

  That defrosted them. Murtee leaped to his feet, stumbled when Bony’s automatic was directed to his paunch.

  “Sit down, Murtee. You-all sit down. Feller that gets up till I say so is pretty quick dead. I am big-feller policeman. Whitefeller law. You try fight whitefeller law you get shot pretty damn quick. You listen.

  “You Orrabunna fellers all finish. I took away the treasure, the pointing bones, everything. I lock ’em up. Black-feller law no good any more.”

  The loss of their tribe’s treasure was devastating. Minus their magic stones, their precious heirlooms of human hair, their ancient dilly-bags, and the all-powerful-with-magic pointing bones, they were divested of family, of tribe, of origin, almost of being. As Bony had said, without command of their treasure they were as nothing. There sat the white­feller law. Death looked at each from that pistol, and now all protection from the white and the black laws was withdrawn from them. They were naked, defenceless against their enemies that had been kept at bay by generations of forebears with and by that hoarded treasure.

  It was a body blow that Bony hated to deliver, and not for an instant would he have done so, had it not been for Linda Bell. Those shuttered eyes, the stubborn minds, were barriers not to be surmounted by bribes, threats, persuasion, argument, or even physical punishment.

  “I have other pointing bones,” snarled Murtee. “I kill you. Short time, long time, I kill you.”

  Bony puffed cigarette smoke, lifted his upper lip in a magnificent sneer.

  “Wind, Murtee. Strong-feller wind. Pointing bones I took, more powerful than your other pointing bones. I point the bones back at you. You die slow time, long time. Then you-all die.”

  Livid fear mastered them, tautened every lip, tensed every muscle.

  “We trade, eh?” said Bony softly.

  Canute dashed drops of sweat from his forehead. Murtee seemed to shrink into himself. The ancient man shook, but his claw-like hand continued to grasp the Chief’s wrist.

  “What trade? You say,” pleaded Canute, and Murtee shouted. He attempted to stand, but his neighbour hauled him down. It seemed that Murtee’s protest strengthened Canute, and the others nodded as though he could see their support.

  “You tell about Yorky and Linda, I give back your magic treasure.”

  “Okee, all right.”

  “I give back your treasure and Murtee not point the bone at me, or any whitefeller.”

  “Okee, all right,” agreed Canute; and the others, including Murtee, nodded agreement.

  “You tell all about Yorky and Linda, and I get treasure from lock-up at homestead, pretty soon, quick, eh?”

  “We seal it,” Canute said, and Bony drew on the ground between them two interlocking circles. The ceremony of the intermingling of blood followed, then Canute ordered the ancient who was his eyes to speak. His English was so light that a translation is given.

  “I am a very old man, but still active about the camp. I could not go so far on walkabout as the Neales River. When the tribe went walkabout, I go bush. My heart is heavy. I am old and lonely. By and by I come back near homestead. I hear Mr Wootton shoot crow, and I say this is strange, because this day Mr Wootton he go to Loaders Springs. I sit down long time. Then I get up and look-see out over lake, and I see Linda and Yorky out there on walkabout.

  “I think Mr Wootton gone off to Loaders Springs, and I go on to homestead see if Mrs Bell give me tobacco. I tell her the tribe left me behind, and I am lonely and my heart is heavy.

  “When I come to homestead, I don’t see Mr Wootton. I don’t see any feller. Plenty of crows, though. I go round back of men’s quarters. No one there. All the men away. I see some­thing on ground near kitchen door. By and by, I go over and see it is Mrs Bell. She’s lying on her stomach. She is dead. I see the blood on her back. Then I run like hell, and all day and the next day I see the mark of blood on her back. Long time I think I go bush. Then I know the tribe is back in camp and I come back, too. I tell Canute about Mrs Bell. I tell about Linda.”

  “Did you see Mr Wootton’s car?”

  “No.”

  “Or the dust of his car on the way to town?”

  “No.”

  “You tell lies, eh? If Yorky and Linda walkabout on lake, whitefeller see their tracks,” taunted Bony.

  “Yorky wear whitefeller Kurdaitcha shoes. Yorky follow dingo pad. Yorky not leave clear tracks. Whitefeller don’t think to look for Kurdaitcha marks on dingo pad.”

  “Good! You speak true. What Yorky do out on lake? He go right over other side?”

  “Might be he camp along little-feller sand dune.”

  No matter how he probed this last statement, Bony made no further progress relative to this point. The curtain had been lifted just a little to reveal the purpose of that discarded case board he had found outside Yorky’s last camp. The white-feller’s Kurdaitcha shoes were certainly shoes for walking on mud. The ‘little-feller’ sand dune could be a tiny area of sandy-dry land in the sea of mud, the summit of a mountain in the mud sea, as the Pacific Islands are mountain tops rising above the ocean. The picture was clear enough, but the reality was to be questioned. Bony asked:

  “Why didn’t you tell all this to Constable Pierce?”

  The answer was good and sufficient. Canute said:

  “Ole Fren Yorky white-blackfeller.”

  “Now you, Beeloo, you tellum truth. You say no one at homestead that time you find Mrs Bell dead. Who did you see near the homestead?”

  “Yorky and Linda.”

  “Who else?”

  “Saw horseman way up on rise.”

  “Pine tree rise?”

  “Other side of homestead. Long way ’way. Going like hell.”

  “Who was he?”

  “Don’t know. Long time. Long …”

  “Could be a mile,” interposed Canute.

  “What colour was the horse?”

  “Not look. Much dust that day. Just horse and white-feller.”

  “When you saw the horseman, where were Yorky and Linda?”

  “Way out on the lake, like I told.”

  They sat on the ground like so many squat idols on one side of two blurred circles, the circles representing the gulf between ancient and modern Man. There remained much to be ex­plained. For instance, there was the crucial point of contact between Yorky and the aborigines during those periods when Yorky must have collected food.

  Who met Yorky with the tucker? Had he to go to the camp for it? What had he told the aborigines of the motive behind the shooting of Mrs Bell? These questions yielded little save the impression that Yorky had given nothing away from which anyone, like Pierce or himself, might gain.

  “Okee! All right! We finish trade, eh?”

  Canute smiled with infinite relief.

  “You come with me to homestead, Murtee. I give back your treasures.”

  The two men walked the track to the homestead. Neither spoke a word. Bony’s mind was occupied with th
e horseman riding from Mount Eden long after Wootton had left for Loaders Springs. He wasn’t Arnold Bray, who was driving a truck that day. He was Bill Harte, or Eric Maundy, or Harry Lawton. If not one of these men … It had to be one of them.

  Wootton was waiting in the doorway of his office, watching the approach of Murtee and Inspector Bonaparte. He saw Bony nudge the aborigine, frowned with perplexity when they both turned and skirted the house and walked up the rise to the pine trees. They stood there for a few moments during which Murtee indicated with out-flung hand a point on the long rise on the opposite side of the homestead.

  Arrived at the office, Bony asked for the sugar sack from the safe. Before parting with it, he stood calmly staring into the dark inscrutable eyes of the Medicine Man.

  “You big Medicine Man,” he said, adding: “I big-feller policeman. Perhaps you are not a cunning feller. Perhaps you just a bloody fool. I find out that Canute see blood mark on Mrs Bell’s back. Canute tell me about that blood mark. He tell me with dijeridoo. Perhaps you all bloody fools. Perhaps Yorky didn’t kill Mrs Bell.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Wages of Bluff

  MURTEE STALKED away over the bare track towards the home­stead gate and the camp. Bony called to Charlie, and when Charlie reached him, he loudly called for Sarah. The cook emerged and divided her attention between the departing Medicine Man and Bony, who said:

  “Come with me.”

  He took them up to the pine trees and told them to sit beside him. There was silence while he rolled the inevitable cigarette.

  “Now will you tell me everything I want to know,” he said smoothly. “There will be no more backing and filling. You don’t understand, but no matter, that all you aborigines have been bricks in a wall I have battered down. Now I tell you something else.

  “Remember those tracks I made at the veranda steps? Same tracks that were found behind the meat-house, and which every whitefeller said were Yorky’s. Someone else made those tracks, to make believe Yorky made them. I find out that old Beeloo didn’t go walkabout that time. He came to homestead thinking to get tobacco from Mrs Bell after Mr Wootton left for Loaders Springs. He saw Yorky and Linda walkabout on the lake, and he saw a horseman galloping up the rise back there. That horseman could have been the feller who made those crook tracks at the meat-house. He could have killed Mrs Bell.”

  Sarah’s eyes were now blazing black opals. Bony went on:

  “That horseman was too far away for Beeloo to see who it was. If the feller on that horse killed Mrs Bell, then why did Yorky clear out with Linda? You tell me, eh?”

  “One of them sums the Missioner asked us kids,” Charlie grumbled. “If it takes two minutes for a boomerang to go round in the circle in a north wind … Something like that?”

  “Yes, Charlie, something like that. Sarah, I’m telling you this because there’s a good chance that Yorky didn’t kill Mrs Bell. That’s a good reason why we must catch up with Yorky. Supposing he didn’t kill Mrs Bell. All right, then Yorky took Linda away, and if Linda died after he took her away, then Yorky is going to jail for a long time. That’s why you must tell me all you can.

  “Now Beeloo saw Yorky and Linda out on the lake, and he says that Yorky must have been wearing whitefeller’s Kur­daitcha shoes. Remember, Charlie, I showed you a board out at Yorky’s camp, and you wouldn’t say what it was. I know now. It was a board for Yorky to walkabout on the mud.”

  “That’s true,” admitted Sarah. “Yorky wore them boards when he had to work on the fence where it goes little way into the lake.”

  “Then he could go out a long long way along a dingo pad wearing those board shoes, couldn’t he?”

  Sarah nodded, her eyes now like garnets. She shook her head when Bony asked if ever she had gone with Yorky far out. Sensing opposition building to meet further questioning, he asked:

  “What’s out there? Dry land?” They looked at each other, each waiting for the other to answer. “I’ll tell you. There is dry land out there.” Their eyes showed relief when Charlie said:

  “Bad place out there, all right. Pretty near the middle. Nothing only sand and a bit of scrub. That’s what Murtee says. He’s been there, but no one else has, or won’t tell.”

  “Anything to eat?”

  “Plenty of rabbits. Along one side, so Murtee says, there’s a long waterhole with fish in it, and ducks nesting all about.”

  “A good place for Yorky to hide up with Linda, eh?”

  “You sure that Murtee not telling lies?” inserted Sarah. “First time I hear of that ole place.”

  “You’re a lubra,” Charlie told her loftily.

  “Yair. I’m a lubra. One time I’ll choke that Murtee.”

  “One time Murtee point the bones at you, and you fall down and grab your stomach and die. Murtee is plenty powerful.”

  “That will do,” commanded Bony. “Charlie, would you make me a pair of Kurdaitcha shoes to walkabout for Yorky?”

  “Too right. When d’you want ’em?”

  “By tonight.”

  “Okee. Boss let me work in carpenter’s shop?”

  “He will. That sun’s getting low, Sarah. What about dinner?”

  They went down the slope to the homestead, where Sarah entered the house to fence with a wildly curious Meena.

  Having showered and changed, Bony found Wootton in the living-room.

  “That little scheme of mine paid dividends this afternoon,” he said, sitting with the cattleman. “Will you be talking to your neighbours after dinner?”

  “Probably. Why?”

  “Could you arrange with them to listen in to a broadcast at five tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes. What’s it all about?”

  “Who is your oldest neighbour; been living out here the longest?”

  “People named Petrie down on the south of the lake, I think.”

  “I’d like to talk with them tonight. Would you contact them?”

  “Easily.”

  Meena appeared, to set the table, and the cattleman knew something had happened from her excited eyes and energetic movements. He was frowning at the polished tips of his leather slippers when Bony asked if he would loan him a rifle.

  “Of course,” he replied. “I’ve a Winchester ·44 and a Savage ·25.”

  “The Savage. It would be lighter. Who are your nearest neighbours to the south?”

  “The same. The Petries. Their homestead is about a hun­dred miles from here. Well in financially. Two sons working there, and generally half a dozen white stockmen.”

  “I don’t remember the place,” admitted Bony. “Must have passed by on my way up when I skirted the lake. Track, of course?”

  “Yes. You go up the long rise to the old homestead where the Murphys once lived. You know, the people from whom I bought Mount Eden. On from there to the bore where young Lawton met you the other day.”

  “That day Mrs Bell was shot, Arnold Bray was sent to the old homestead for iron?”

  “Yes, that’s so.”

  “Does he do much riding?”

  “Very little. You’re damned mysterious this afternoon, In­spector.”

  “I’ll tell you something. You will recall that I said it was possible for one of you five men to have returned here that morning and murdered Mrs Bell. After you left in your car that day, a man was seen riding hard from the homestead up the rise and heading for the old homestead. I am rather curious to know who he was.”

  “Is that so?” drawled Mr Wootton. “Then one of three of us five could have ridden back and shot Mrs Bell?”

  “Don’t take me too literally. That rider could have come from the Petries’ station. He could have had nothing to do with shooting Mrs Bell. He might have come on a legitimate visit, found Mrs Bell dead, and rushed away in a panic. I have made certain plans, and you will learn something of them this evening when we talk to the Petries and arrange tomorrow’s broadcast. Dinner seems to be served.”

  Wootton’s excusable curiosity was una
llayed by Bony dur­ing dinner and, immediately afterwards, Bony left the house and sought Charlie, who had returned to the carpenter’s shop.

  The aborigine had fashioned the mud shoes and fitted to them leather straps, and Bony now tried them on, finding them most awkward.

  “Not that way,” Charlie told him. “You slide ’em. Sarah show me; I show you.”

  “Good! I’ll have to get the knack. Remember that dog-pad we saw half a mile from the pines? How many more pads like that nearby?”

  “One more—at the hut on the boundary. Two more up by the Neales.”

  Charlie agreed to keep watch on the pad near the home­stead, as from after dark, to inform Bony if any blackfeller went out to warn Yorky. Later, for an hour, he talked with the surrounding neighbours over the transceiver, and, indirectly, gained much useful information about the country, and noth­ing whatever concerning the centre of Lake Eyre, save that it must be a bog even during the long period of drought. Still later, Wootton became interested in certain preparations. The Savage rifle was checked, ammunition poured into a small calico bag, dry biscuits and tinned meat brought from the store, and an old rucksack Wootton remembered having for several years.

  Bony slipped away from the house and sought Charlie, who was faithfully on duty at the appointed dingo pad. The abo­rigine reported having seen no one on that part of the beach, and Bony sent him home to his bunk, and himself cat-napped the night away until just before dawn.

  It was five o’clock when he and Wootton sat before the transceiver, and Bony began his broadcast. He said:

  “It is now six weeks since Mrs Bell was shot here at Mount Eden, and her little daughter vanished. You all know of the extensive and the intensive search which followed. You know that it is strongly suspected that the man who killed Mrs Bell and abducted her daughter is a locally known identity named Yorky. From information received, and following the results of my own survey of the country, I have reason to believe that somewhere in the middle of Lake Eyre is an area of dry land forming an island in a sea of mud, and that the man Yorky escaped to that island, taking the child with him.

  “Also from information I have gathered, I think it is feasible for a man to cross the mud to that island by following one of the dingo pads, when wearing mud shoes. By this means I intend to test what are as yet only theories. I intend to try to reach the island by one of the dog pads from near this home­stead, starting within an hour.