Winds of Evil Page 2

  “I know. But ... but are you a stranger in these parts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you don’t know about the Strangler?”

  “Well, I have heard of him.”

  It was, perhaps, his easy smile that brought her from the tank to stand closer to him. Fear still lurked deep in her eyes. Despite the day, she appeared fresh and cool in a house-frock of brown linen. There was character in the moulding of her mouth and chin and grace in the outlines of her body.

  “Wait here and I will fetch you some meat,” she requested abruptly.

  From inside the house a woman called:

  “Mabel, who’s that?”

  “Only a swagman, mother. He wants meat,” replied the girl, and now more composed she flashed Joe Fisher a half-smile and then hurried across to the canegrass meat-house.

  The man’s critical eyes took in the out-houses, noting their condition and neat preservation. It was obvious that Storrie’s Selection prospered. The girl returned carrying meat wrapped in newspaper, and when she gave it him she again attempted to advise him not to camp beside Catfish Hole.

  “Oh, I’ll be all right,” she was assured. “I’ve camped often enough in wild country, and to be forewarned is to be forearmed. Besides, the last attack made by this mysterious strangler was last March, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. And this time last year, too. You want to be very careful. No one walks about, or camps in the open anywhere along these creeks. I’m going to the dance at Carie tonight, but my brother is taking me on the truck.”

  “Late in the year for a dance, isn’t it?” he questioned.

  “Yes, it is so, but then, you see, we haven’t any other amusement in Carie.”

  Again Joe Fisher smiled.

  “Well, thank you for the meat. I hope you will enjoy the dance. Do you think I would have a chance of work on Wirragatta Station?”

  “It might be worth trying. The Borradales are good people to work for.”

  “Then I’ll try them tomorrow. Good-bye and thank you.”

  Having raised his hat, Fisher adjusted his swag, picked up the water-bag and continued his tramp to Nogga Creek, now to be seen dusty-green below the red canopy of whirling sand. All the way across the half-mile flat between the two creeks the wind roaring through the trees provided the overture for the coming night of dark terror.

  The day was nearly done when Fisher reached Nogga Creek, crossed it, and then strode up along its far bank, hoping to see Carie and not greatly disappointed when all he did see was the netted fence and its barrier of buckbush disappearing into the menacing murk.

  Thereafter, he followed the creek eastward for a quarter of a mile, when he arrived at the lower end of Catfish Hole, a long and narrow lagoon of sparkling water lying in the creek-bed. The tip of this waterhole touched a sand-bar, fine and white and dry, and here Fisher decided to make camp for the night.

  Now, when the sun must be setting, and the high-flying sand, indeed the very air, was not transmuted for a few moments into the rich colour of blood, Fisher knew that the wind and the dust would be even worse on the morrow. When the rack overhead was tinged with dark grey, when it seemed that the very tree-tops supported this evil sky, he sat on his swag before the fire he had made and ate grilled mutton chops and stale damper, and now and then sipped hot black tea heavily laced with sugar.

  With the coming of night the wind dropped to a moaning breeze. The leaden sky came still lower like a material weight threatening to crush the suffocating world. The fire-light painted the near trees against an even black when, an hour later, he unrolled his swag, bunched the blankets into the form of a sleeping man, and then stole away beyond the fire-light to seat himself against a tree-trunk and watch.

  He heard the whirr of wings preceding the splash of hydroplaning ducks. After a long time a curlew vented a long screaming cry as it passed above him. There was something almost human in that.

  As he carried no watch he had no means of telling the time. He guessed that it was eight o’clock when he heard a car or truck cross the creek on its way to Carie, and he guessed again that it was taking the Storrie girl and her brother to the dance.

  After that Fisher dozed fitfully. Some time during the night he heard the curlew scream again, now towards the track by the fence. Quite an hour afterwards the car or truck returned from the township.

  It was altogether a most uncomfortable night spent by this swagman, with his back pressing against a tree-trunk. Hence he slept long after the new day dawned. He was eating breakfast when another car reached Nogga Creek from the south. The rising wind prevented Fisher from hearing it. He did not know that it stopped for several minutes when it gained the northern bank of the creek.

  Chapter Two

  The Ruler Of Carie

  NELSON’S HOTEL STOOD at the southern extremity of the township of Carie. It was the only two-storied building in the town, and from its upper veranda it was possible to enjoy a wide if, perhaps, not always interesting, view.

  Southward from the hotel the track to Broken Hill wound like a snake towards the bluebush covering the town Common, then disappeared among it towards Nogga Creek. A bare quarter-mile distant it passed through the left of two gates set in the Common fence, thence skirted the east boundary-fence of Wirragatta Station for fourteen miles. It was the fence now familiar to Joe Fisher. Just before the Common fence was reached a branch track took the right-hand gate and led one to the homestead of Wirragatta.

  Beyond, far beyond the Common fence, the arc of the level horizon of the bluebush plain extended from the eastern tip of Nogga Creek’s box-trees round to the north, where lay the distant township of Allambee, and thence farther round to the line of mulga forest, and so to the south and the tall red gums of the river. Here and there over this great plain were low, sprawling sand-dunes which had not been there when Mrs. Nelson was in her teens.

  Opposite the hotel was the bakery, and along that side of the straight, wide and solitary street the eye passed the store, the police station, the hall—used as the court house—and then an irregularly spaced row of iron-built houses. Returning along the hotel side of the street, one’s eye passed over several more small houses, the doctor’s house, the post office. Every building in Carie was skirted by vacant allotments. There was no great house shortage, and the town had ample room for expansion should the shortage ever exist.

  The people of Carie were free of class distinctions, and the general happiness stood at a high level. One only among them was the leader, and, in consequence, there was a delightful absence of snobbery.

  In any community outside the bush proper, Dr. Mulray would have stood at the apex of the human pyramid. Next to him would have come the bank manager, had there been one, then the postmaster, followed by the senior police officer. But Dr. Mulray cared nothing for society. His interests lay entirely among his patients and in his chess-board. The postmaster had been relegated to a back seat by his considerable family, whilst Mounted-Constable Lee desired only peace and leisure to read novels. As for the storekeeper and the baker and the butcher—well, they knew that to rebel against the leader would preface their examination in bankruptcy.

  To dispute with the leader of Carie was to ask for trouble, for the leader held a mortgage over the store, the bakery and the hall. The leader owned Dr. Mulray’s house and furniture, the butcher’s shop and the majority of the none-too-numerous dwellings. In fact, save for the government buildings, the leader owned almost the whole of Carie, and partly owned several out-lying pastoral properties.

  The leader was Mrs. Nelson, the owner and licensee of the only hotel.

  On the morning following the last of the winter dances—to be exact, on 30th October—Mrs. Nelson, as usual, arrayed herself in a black silk dress, a white linen cap, black woollen stockings and elastic-sided boots. She was short and stout and something over seventy years old, remarkable for the beauty of her snow-white hair and the brilliance of her dark eyes. Her appearance denoted the essence of res
pectability, her movements bespoke eternal youth, her personality proclaimed the ever-alert business woman, never to be defeated by circumstances or daunted by advancing age.

  With the vigour of a woman twenty years her junior, she stepped through the open french windows to the wide balcony which was so well protected by canvas blinds during the summer months. Half of this front balcony constituted her home. She was seldom found downstairs, and even more rarely went out. It was as though her portion of the upper veranda was her throne from which she ruled Carie.

  The sun, she saw, was well above the Common, its colour a sinister deep red. The limits of the plain were drawn close by the thickening red-brown fog, and the dark line of trees to the south marking Nogga Creek was blurred and featureless.

  The one street was deserted save for a flock of goats and Mr. Smith, the baker, who was carrying out sacks of bread to load into a shabby gig to which was harnessed a piebald mare. Mrs. Nelson’s dark eyes registered no expression when they became focused on the waistcoated figure of the elderly Mr. Smith, whose philosophy of life doomed him to die a poor man. It was a philosophy frowned upon by Mrs. Nelson.

  She was standing with one beringed hand resting on the balcony rail when there came to her a girl dressed in the severe uniform of a maid. The girl’s complexion had been wholly ruined by the sun when she had daily ridden after her father’s cows and goats, and now it was doubtful if any expertly applied make-up could repair the unfortunate damage. She asked the question she had asked every morning over the past two years.

  “Where will you be havin’ your breakfast this morning, ma’am?”

  Mrs. Nelson turned to regard the girl with eyes that bored through flesh and bone into the soul of her, standing docilely placid.

  “The wind is rising, Tilly, and it is going to be another nasty day, but I will take breakfast here.”

  The girl withdrew, and when again she appeared she was carrying a breakfast-tray. This she placed on a small weather-beaten table before dusting and placing a chair beside it. Mrs. Nelson was dissatisfied with the position of table and chair, and Tilly was directed that they be placed nearer the end of the balcony, where the view of the Broken Hill track would be unobstructed. Tilly lifted the cover from a dish of bacon and eggs; her mistress poured milk and tea into a delicate china cup.

  “What time did you get home last night?” asked Mrs. Nelson.

  “It was after one o’clock, ma’am.”

  “Hum! And I suppose you’re fit for nothing today?”

  “I’m all right, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Nelson noted the faint colour in Tilly’s face.

  “If you are, you are stronger than I was at your age. Who did you dance with?”

  The faint colour swiftly became a vivid blush.

  “My boy, mostly, ma’am,” replied poor Tilly.

  Mrs. Nelson’s attitude imperceptibly stiffened.

  “Does your father know that you have a young man?”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am. It ... it’s Harry West.”

  “Oh!”

  For ten seconds Mrs. Nelson gave her attention to her breakfast. Tilly waited, her nervousness increasing, as Mrs. Nelson intended it should. Tilly both feared and loved her mistress, and in this she was not alone, but she loved and feared her father more. There was nothing of the rebel in Tilly’s mental composition. Now, in softer tones, Mrs. Nelson spoke again.

  “So it is Harry West, eh? Well, he’s steady enough. You could do much worse. You must bring him to see me one evening. You are a good girl, Tilly, and there are things I will have to say to him. Were Mr. and Miss Borradale at the dance?”

  “Yes, ma’am. And the doctor, and Barry Elson, and oh! almost everyone, ma’am.”

  “How was Barry Elson?”

  “He was all right, ma’am. He could dance.”

  “He couldn’t dance yesterday afternoon, anyway. Who did he dance with ... mostly?”

  “Mabel Storrie. He took her home. They walked home. Tom Storrie drove her in, but when the dance broke up he and the truck couldn’t be found.”

  “So Barry and Mabel have made up their quarrel?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I think so.”

  “You only think so!” sharply exclaimed the old woman.

  “Well, ma’am, Barry Elson was very attentive to Mabel all last evening, but she seemed to be keeping back. I don’t blame her. Barry had no right to go and get drunk yesterday afternoon. I ... I don’t think I’d forgive Harry in a hurry if he went and got drunk just because I gave him a bit of my mind.”

  “A wise woman never gives bits of her mind to a man before she’s married to him,” Mrs. Nelson remarked severely. “And what happened to young Tom Storrie and the truck?”

  “I think he took Annie Myers home and didn’t trouble about his sister, ma’am. Brothers aren’t very considerate.”

  Mrs. Nelson was again devoting attention to her breakfast, and the girl continued to stand patiently to await dismissal.

  “What dress did you wear?” was the next question.

  “I wore my black crêpe de Chine, ma’am.”

  “Hum! You were wise there, my girl. Colours don’t suit you. How was Mabel dressed?”

  “Oh, she wore blue ninon, and her shoes were of blue satin. She looked just lovely, ma’am. I wish—I wish_____”

  “Well, what do you wish? Out with it.”

  Tilly faltered and again blushed. Then:

  “Nothing, ma’am. Only I wish I was like Mabel Storrie. She looked lovely last night—just lovely.”

  For the second time since she had sat down, Mrs. Nelson stared hard at the girl.

  “Don’t indulge in vain regrets, child,” she said softly. “You have got one beautiful feature—your eyes. Be careful of them; use them well but sparingly. Now be off. Be sure all the windows are shut and fastened, and that the blinds are lowered three-quarters. Slip down and ask James to come up. Stay in the bar until he gets back.”

  “All right ma’am, and thank you,” Tilly said.

  That brought Mrs. Nelson’s eyebrows almost together.

  “Whatever for, child?” she asked.

  “For ... telling me about my eyes, ma’am.”

  “Rubbish!” snorted Mrs. Nelson. “Be sure you lie down in your room for two hours this afternoon, or you’ll go to sleep waiting at dinner.”

  Tilly vanished. She was a month or so over twenty-two, compact and sturdy. She possessed the lithe grace given to almost every bushwoman who since girlhood has habitually ridden half-tamed horses. Her constant use of the word “ma’am” was due less—much less—to any sense of servility than to an affectionate respect for the leader of Carie. Like all great men and women, Mrs. Nelson commanded affection mixed with respect.

  She now went on with her breakfast, to which, however, she gave less attention than she did to the point where the track to Broken Hill crossed Nogga Creek.

  Like a drop of ink, a horse and rider slid over the brown stained carpet of bluebush from the south-east to reach the right of the two Common gates. Behind the horse rose a long finger of dust—dust which became quickly merged in the as yet low-flying tenuous dust-clouds raised by the freshening wind.

  The rider opened, passed through and closed the gate without dismounting, then urged his horse into a gallop once again. On arriving at the township he turned down beside the hotel to the stables and yards at the rear. Mrs. Nelson knew him to be Fred Storrie.

  It was now ten minutes to nine, and on to the veranda through the sitting-room stepped a white-faced man whose eyes were startlingly blue and whose jet-black hair was lowered over his high forehead in what is known in England as a quiff. He was rotund, youthful, well under forty years of age. His trousers and open waistcoat were of dark tweed, his dress-shirt was without collar and tie, and on his feet were tan leather slippers. When he spoke London sprang out of his mouth.

  “Mornin”, ma’am!”

  “Good morning, James.”

  Mrs. Nelson turned slightly in her chair,
the better to examine her barman, and James hastily buttoned his waistcoat, then gently flapping in the wind, and endeavoured to hide his slippered feet under the table. James Spinks had been Mrs. Nelson’s barman for eight years, and he was, therefore, conversant with Mrs. Nelson’s passion for—among other things—sartorial neatness.

  “Is the mail on time this morning, James?” he was sternly asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Five passengers. All men. All passengers going through to Allambee.”

  “Of course everything is ready for them?”

  “Too right, ma’am.”

  “Any trouble last night from Constable Lee?”

  “No. No trouble at all, ma’am. Live and let live is Constable Lee. He ain’t severe-like on dance nights and Christmas Eve.”

  “Mr. Borradale—did he call in?”

  “Yes, ma’am. He and the doctor slipped in just afore the dance started and then again about midnight.”

  “Very well, James. After the coach has gone on, ask Fred Storrie to come up for a minute. That will be all.”

  James accepted his dismissal with a vigorous nod, which made it apparent that the quiff was too heavily greased to come unstuck from his forehead, and he having vanished, as people always seemed to do when Mrs. Nelson had finished with them, that lady proceeded with her breakfast and her watching study of Nogga Creek.

  For so many years had she seen, first Cobb and Co.’s coaches, and then the motor mail-cars appear and disappear at Nogga Creek that she knew exactly where the track disappeared among the bordering trees before crossing it. Visibility this morning was exceptionally bad and momentarily becoming worse, and her eyesight now was less good than formerly. Nevertheless, her interest was abruptly aroused by tiny flashes of reflected light at the place where the mail-car was due to appear.

  With the agility of a much younger woman, Mrs. Nelson rose and passed into her sitting-room. On coming out again she was carrying a pair of expensive binoculars, and when she levelled them at the reflected lights the blue-veined, china-like hands were trembling.