Bony and the Black Virgin Page 15

  “Anyone coming from Jorkin’s Soak would cross the creek at this point?” pressed Bony.

  “That’s so.”

  “It’s about half an hour to sundown. We’ll camp here for the night. If you’ll make camp, I’ll prospect on foot.”

  Choosing hard and dry ground, Pointer made a fire and dragged near to it much dead wood to serve till the morning. He watched Bony going up the creek, noted how he walked on the balls of his feet, and his head held as though low on his shoulders. The stretchers were set up beside the utility, and the tucker box and cooked provisions placed ready for dinner.

  It was dusk when Bony returned. He pointed upward, and the overseer witnessed two wide wedges of duck passing high, two black chevrons, the mark of possession, against the cool greening sky.

  Later they sat on their heels before the fire and smoked, and presently Bony proceeded to allay Pointer’s long-pent curiosity.

  “I’m beginning to think, Jim, that you are as naturally patient as I am. You ask no questions. You are the perfect travelling companion. I will tell you a little.

  “In general it has been thought that the murderer of Carl Brandt and Paul Dickson came down from the north to Lake Jane. Although I am gravely doubtful, that might well be so. But, at that time, a man drove a truck from the south, then crossed the creek here and proceeded in that direction.”

  Bony pointed slightly north of where the sun had set. He said:

  “What lies in that direction?”

  “A disused bore called Number Eleven.”

  “Ah! I remember it on the map. On the same line as Bore Ten, Blazer’s Dam, and this Bore Eleven. Possible to raise water?”

  “Windlass and bucket. Water’s brackish, and I wouldn’t like having to live on it. You didn’t find the tracks of that truck seven months after they were made and after ten inches of rain, did you?”

  “Yes. I tracked him going and tracked him coming back this way.”

  From looking at the dark face illumined by the fire, Pointer stared into the lazily leaping flames. Abruptly he asked:

  “What the hell would the feller drive to Bore Eleven for? There’s nothing there. There’s nothing beyond it. Seems silly, but are you confident about the age of the tracks?”

  Bony nodded, rolled a cigarette and lit it with a fired stick about two yards long. Under other circumstances, Jim Pointer would have been amused. Now he waited tensely for further enlightenment, a big man sitting on his heels with the ease of long practice, his large square face lacking even the hint of his daughter’s vivacity. To him time dragged before Bony spoke again.

  “I am not liking my job, Jim. You know, chasing a criminal is similar to going on a journey. One gains the impression of travelling from place to place, and not knowing where the place ahead will be. Now and then the traveller can see ahead what the weather is going to be: clear, stormy, foggy. And there is no going back. I am facing foggy weather, and I never liked fog.”

  A few minutes later Bony decided on bed, and for some time thereafter the overseer lay looking up at the stars and wondering what kind of a road he himself was on.

  The next morning the wind came early and hot from the north, promising to reduce the risk of bogging with every hour.

  To confirm his discovery of the previous evening, as well as to provide interest for Pointer to balance information withheld, Bony directed his driver to the area on which the tracks of the truck had been preserved. However, no matter from which angle Pointer studied the ground, he could see no marks, and frankly admitted defeat.

  “They are there, all right,” Bony assured him. “I’ll put a foot in one of the wheel tracks.” Pointer ruefully abandoned further effort, and Bony asked:

  “Assuming that he proceeded in that direction, he would reach Bore Eleven?”

  “Yes. He’d reach the L’Albert boundary about three miles from here. Bore Number Eleven is five miles beyond the gate.”

  “Then we’ll proceed direct to the gate. I’ll stand up at the back. I might be fortunate enough to sight his tracks again.”

  Standing at the rear of the cabin, when his eyes were twenty inches higher than its roof, Bony could see much farther and without interruption. The country was similar to that crossed the previous day. He sighted no tracks on this cross-country section. He saw only two blue cranes looking into a pool of water which he was sure was merely two inches deep.

  Presently he could see the fence ahead, and silently complimented the driver on aiming his utility directly to it. Arrived at the gate, both jumped to the ground.

  “Damn it, Bony! I shouldn’t have doubted, but I did,” confessed Pointer. “There’s his tracks, I’ll bet a million. Excepting Nuggety Jack no one’s been out here for a couple of years. That’s the track of a truck dead in the gateway. Even the rain didn’t wash it out, as you can see. Do you know the feller who was driving the truck all that time ago?”

  “Yes,” was the answer, and Pointer wondered at the sadness of the voice.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Civil Servant

  DIFFICULT country demanded an hour of time to reach Number Eleven Bore. Here the hut was in bad repair, and the stockyards would need attention before again being used. Once there had been a windmill to raise water; now there was a windlass with a bucket attached to wire rope, and the bucket was useless. In its place was a much rusted petrol tin.

  They had seen no tracks of the truck since passing through the boundary gate, and Bony said, brows slightly raised:

  “Why, do you think, was that truck driven into this paddock?”

  “Ask me another, Bony. I don’t know and can’t guess.”

  “We’ll prospect out wide,” Bony decided. “I’ll stand at the back to get a higher sighting-elevation. We know he came into this paddock, and he must have had a purpose.”

  “You reckon he’s important?”

  “Yes, Jim, very important.”

  Pointer drove from the Bore for a full half-mile, when he began the circle which had the Bore as its centre, and which, when completed, would cut across the tracks of anyone visiting the Bore, were they washed out or not. He had proceeded on this giant circle for three-quarters of the way, when Bony stamped the order to stop. There was a short line of horse droppings left when the horse was passing between the Bore and a wood or copse of Australian black oak. The trees occupied a low ridge, and Pointer was asked to drive to them.

  “If I had to camp at the Bore for a few days, Jim,” Bony said, when they stood on the ground, “I’d be nervous of camping in that old hut. I’d look around and see these trees, and choose this place to escape the wind and dust. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I think I would. It’s only just over half a mile to the Bore and water.”

  “Any horses running in this paddock, say over the last twelve months?”

  “Probably the two Nuggety Jack used to pull his car.”

  “Could be. Still, I rather think the aborigines wouldn’t be as particular as you or I when choosing a campsite. Some of those trees have been lopped. Let us prospect.”

  They found first the mound of ashes indicative of a campfire of long duration. They found horse droppings at trees, indicating that the animals had stood for long periods tethered to those trees. Then they found deep depressions, proving that a heavy truck had stood just there for a long period. Under a small mass of brushwood was found a heap of food tins.

  “The truck man camped here for more than one night,” Pointer said, looking at Bony beneath brows knit. “What in hell for?”

  “Today I am feeling like a Civil Servant, Jim. One of those extraordinary persons who never makes a plain statement, who always uses such terms as ‘It would appear’, ‘It might be assumed’, ‘It could be alleged’.

  “It would seem that the truck driver parked his truck here, where he met Nuggety Jack and the horses employed instead of petrol. On the truck were petrol and oil. The aborigine’s car was serviced and driven away by the truck driver. When th
e truck driver returned from whatever mission he was engaged on, he drove off in his truck to the place from which it might be assumed he started. From all the evidence, it could be assumed that a high degree of secrecy was maintained throughout what might be termed unlawful activities. Can you find a plain statement in that lot?”

  “Yes. On the truck was petrol and oil.”

  “Precisely. I could not evade that statement of fact. We will have lunch here and exercise our brains, for now we have to follow the car instead of the truck.”

  “I would never make a detective, even in my own country,” admitted Pointer, and was solaced by:

  “How ridiculous would the great FBI and Scotland Yard appear in action in your country, Jim. Let us be serious. The point of major importance in our investigation to date is the secret camp. It was chosen because no one came here, and no stock had been turned into this paddock for several years. The secret camp wasn’t the truck man’s objective; it was used merely for the change-over from truck to car. But we don’t yet know his objective. In what condition does Nuggety Jack keep his car tyres?”

  “Pretty good. Actually, Nuggety is a good mechanic.”

  “Often the case. Well, Jim, I do know that the truck driver carried eighty gallons of additional petrol, and from that we might presume his objective to be some distance from this place. We shall have to do some real sleuthing to pick up his trail, and will succeed only by trial and error. The good general wins by projecting his mind into that of his opposite number. I should do just that ... project my mind into that of the truck driver. We shall take the track to Blazer’s Dam, where you found the body of Brandt.”

  With Bony once again standing at the back of the driving cabin, Pointer drove past Bore Number Eleven and followed the rarely used bush track to the gate giving entry to the Blazer’s Dam paddock. A mile on from this gate, the sandy ground gave place to a gibber field, an extensive area completely covered by gibbers.

  These stones, in size a little less than that of a man’s palm, are roundish and flattish on the upper surface, and had been polished by wind-driven sand to the smoothness of glass. Here they lay packed together like a man-made garden path put down centuries ago. Where the occasional buckboard and motor vehicle had crossed the field to and from Bore Eleven, the stones had been moved by the wheels, to leave twin ribbons of bare earth.

  Pointer was keeping the wheels of the utility to the twin tracks, by habit, and not to avoid the gibbers, when Bony at the back signalled a halt.

  “Reverse, and stop instantly when I stamp,” shouted Bony. Then: “A little farther. Now go on a foot, not more. Right! Come up and join me.”

  The overseer complied and Bony waved to the field, where the sun laid a road giving brilliant reflection.

  “Where the gibbers reflect the sunlight,” Bony said, “see anything?”

  Pointer contracted the lids of his eyes, gazed long before shaking his head, admitting he could detect nothing significant.

  “No matter. I can see car tracks, Jim. The car turned off and crossed that area of the gibbers. The driver drove as slowly as his engine would permit, in order not to displace the gibbers. But, despite his care, the weight of the car did fractionally disturb every gibber the wheels pressed on, altering the plane of each stone from that it had occupied for many years. The difference is revealed by the sun’s light, and could not be humanly observable minus the reflection of the sun. Luck! A few minutes earlier or later, and I wouldn’t have seen it.”

  “Still can’t see the tracks,” Pointer complained. “But wait a sec. Yes, I think I can now. No, I can’t be sure. Damn it! I’m imagining it. Luck, you said. Doesn’t eyesight count for anything?”

  “Neither eyesight, nor plain reasoning, nor merely common-sense is ever credited to the successful, Jim. It is always luck, they say. Right now in this particular instance, luck or fortune plays a small part. We happen to be here at this vital time, and not an hour before or an hour later. You say you did not see the majesty in the storm which passed over L’Albert before it arrived at Lake Jane. Understandable. We at Lake Jane were favoured by being at a particular angle with the storm-face, and it with the moon. At this moment we are favoured by being at a particular angle with the floor of gibbers with its angle to the line of the sun. If the car continued in that direction, it might ultimately come to the boundary with Lake Jane. Right?”

  “That’s so. The boundary would be just under twelve miles.”

  “A gate thereabouts?”

  “No. The nearest gate is that on the road from our homestead to the Lake.”

  “I remember that one. Let’s go. I’ll ride with you.”

  An hour later they became bogged at a creek crossing which looked to be as hard as bitumen. It occupied two laborious hours to get the utility to the far side, and Bony refused to go on until he had had a pannikin of tea, perhaps four.

  “Millions of civil servants have afternoon tea, and never miss,” he asserted. “I am a civil servant.”

  The overseer shouted with laughter. Both were smeared with grey mud, and thick slabs of it adhered to boots and legs. Less like a civil servant no human being could ever be.

  “Should have brought the private secretary,” chortled Pointer. “Or is it the junior typist who makes the afternoon tea for the masters of the taxpayers? Anyway, although you don’t look it, I must say you’re civil enough, and know your way out of a bog.”

  From this point the land changed from open sandy spaces to grey soil on which grew box and gum, many of them at mature age when Captain Cook landed at Botany Bay. At this time the prolific growth of herbage concealed the wet patches and water-soaked traps, and Pointer was forced to drive with exceeding care.

  As though planned, they arrived at the edge of a wide depression about an hour before nightfall. The hot north wind had blown all day and continued, and the noise of their approach to this large sheet of water was withheld from the waterbirds feeding on it. Pointer stopped the utility on a dry shelf at the very edge, and they looked first at the countless duck and then at each other.

  “We have two shotguns,” Bony murmured.

  “And plenty of cartridges,” added Pointer.

  “And wood to burn for ashes to cook ducks in.”

  “And a gnawing hunger for fresh meat.”

  “That fence crossing the water is the boundary with Lake Jane?”

  “That’s it, Bony.”

  “Then we shall camp here, make a cooking fire, shoot duck, and defer our worries until the morning. Guns! Pockets full of cartridges! You go one way. I’ll go the other. We’ll give each other fifteen minutes to find suitable cover. To hell with detecting and the Civil Service.”

  Ducks! There were Queensland grey ducks; mountain ducks; black ducks; teal ducks and small divers; pelicans and swans, and cranes and ibis and herons. Far out on the water were even seagulls ... six hundred miles from the sea. About the edge of the water thousands upon thousands of waterhens ran on their red legs before Bony, and those birds feeding at the water-edge merely swam a little way out, as though to give him passage, and swam to shore after he had passed.

  From behind a masking currant bush, Bony waited for Pointer to disturb this aquatic paradise, training his gun on a party of black ducks. When Pointer’s gun roared into the wind, Bony fired and, while hastily reloading, counted five ducks bagged by his two barrels.

  The picture now became one to remember. The shallow water was beaten to foam by the wings and legs of thousands of birds lifting from it. The air was filled with flashing colours beneath the evening sky, and filled, too, with the sound of wings. Flights and squadrons and fleets of ducks were jet-propelled above him. Now he wasn’t the crack shot he had thought to be. When he hit a bird, it was mere chance that his gun was aimed correctly.

  Eventually all the ducks departed for another water, and the swans and the pelicans flew at great height, as though to gain a superior bird’s-eye view of the uproar. Bony collected eight ducks for about twenty-f
ive cartridges, and was not at all put out when Pointer came back to the utility with seventeen for nineteen cartridges.

  “Well, they can’t say that we didn’t intend to shoot ducks,” the overseer claimed. “When do we get home, d’you reckon?”

  “Tomorrow, perhaps. Have to get these birds back in good condition. We’d better bag them now, and hang them somewhere to cool for the night.” Bony smiled, the sportsman still thrilled, his right shoulder feeling the shock of the gun butt. “Get a good fire going, Jim. I’ll take a little walk.”

  When he came back, Pointer had the camp set up, and a roaring fire making a beacon of light in the deepening dusk. The birds were returning, the big birds followed at intervals by ducks.

  “We’ll have baked duck for breakfast,” Bony said, looking with approval at the fire which would provide the necessary ashes. “I found the place where the car passed through the fence. The driver had, of course, to cut it, but he repaired it before going on. What kind of wire-strainer does Nuggety Jack use?”

  “Forked stick he can get out of the scrub,” replied Pointer. “Doesn’t do too good a job, though.”

  “Our man used a patent chain wire-strainer he bought at a store. He made a good job of repairing. My! I’m hungry. What’s for dinner? Oh, tinned meat again! Wish it was breakfast time.”

  Pointer agreed, and after they had washed the utensils they sat on their heels well back from the great fire they were burning for the ashes.

  “You will remember that girl at Nuggety Jack’s camp at Number Ten Bore,” Bony said casually, “the one you told that Mrs Long wanted to help out in the house?”

  “Yes. Jack’s daughter, Lottee. Fine-looking type.”

  “That’s the one. I saw her again yesterday. No marriage mark on her. A virgin, by abo standards, and yet she had a small child clinging to her neck when we saw her at Number Ten.”