The Barrakee Mystery b-1 Page 2

  THE HOMESTEAD of Barrakee Station was set, white-walled and red-roofed, in an oasis of brilliant green lawns and orange groves, the whole surrounded by a thick windbreak of ten-foot waving bamboo. The bottom extremity of the gardens was separated from the river by a dry billabong, some fifty-odd yards in width.

  At thatpoint of the river were moored the station boats used chiefly to transport travellers to the farther side, as well as to provide anyone belonging to the station with recreation on the river.

  To the south of the homestead, and close to it, were the offices, the barracks used by the bookkeeper and the jackeroos, the store, and the shops. Facing the offices and divided from them by a large clear space were the tennis-courts and the croquet-lawn.

  The essential factor, which made Barrakee homestead one of the show places in the western division of New South Wales, was the limitless supply of water from the river. Mrs Thornton ruled the homestead; her husband reigned over the vast run, the thirty or forty employees, and the fifty to sixty thousand sheep. Neither interfered, by a single suggestion, in the domain of the other. Both were united in the one purpose of leaving Ralph Thornton a great inheritance.

  At a quarter past three, one of the junior hands, who had been stationed on the staging supporting the great receiving tanks, observed through field-glasses the approach of the Barrakee high-powered car. He signalled its appearance by firing a shotgun.

  Thornton and his wife were outside the garden gates which opened to the clear ground in front of the offices to receive their son. The car drew up close by with a noiseless application of brakes, and from it sprang a dark handsome boy dressed in grey tweed of most fashionable cut. He was followed more circumspectly by a young woman dressed in white.

  “Mother!” ejaculated Ralph Thornton, clasping the small mistress of the homestead in his arms.

  “Ralph! Oh, Ralph, I am glad you are here,” she said, looking up with proud, wistful eyes.

  For a moment he held her, more like a lover than a son and, during that moment, it flashed into her mind that if he had known his maternal parentage he would not have held her thus. How glad she was that she had been firm in her insistence that the knowledge must be withheld.

  “You must be tired, Katie,” the squatter said gently to the girl. “It’s been a hot day.”

  “Has it, Uncle?” Her voice was sweetly allied to her fresh beauty. “I’ve been too excited meeting Ralph to notice it. Don’t you think he has grown?”

  “I haven’t had much chance to notice anything yet,” he replied, with twinkling eyes.

  “Notice now, Dad,” the young man commanded, his face flushed with happiness, reaching for his foster-father’s hand. “Ideclare, both you and the Little Lady look younger than ever. And as for Kate-she just takes a fellow’s breath away!” Then, seeing the bookkeeper hovering behind, he exclaimed, going to him: “Hallo, Mortimore, how are you?”

  “I do not look nor do I feel any younger, Mr Ralph,” the bookkeeper countered. “When I first saw you, ten years ago, you were make-believing you were playing the piano on the office typewriter. And now! It seems but yesterday.”

  “That is all it is, too. You are mistaken about the ten years,” the young man said, with a happy smile. Then, returning to his mother, he took her on his right arm and caught the squatter on his left, the last, in turn attaching Kate Flinders; and so aligned, the reunited family slowly returned to the house.

  From Brewarrina to Wentworth and from Ivanhoe to Tibooburra the two women of Barrakee were famous. From the squatter and his manager to the boundary-rider and thesundowner, Mrs Thornton was known as the “Little Lady”. Her unvarying kindness to all travellers, from swagman to Governor-General, was a by-word. The example on which she patterned herself was Napoleon Bonaparte. Her gifts were bestowed with discretion, and her judgements were scrupulously just, but always tempered with mercy.

  Katherine Flinders, her orphan niece, was about Ralph’s age. Her lithe, graceful figure was the admiration of all, and once seen on a horse was a picture to live in memory. The easiest way to purchase a ticket to the nearest hospital was to speakslightingly of either-together referred to as the “Women of Barrakee”.

  A combined light lunch and afternoon tea was set out on the broad veranda, where they found Martha applying the final touches. Her great face was irradiated, though not beautified, by a gigantic smile. She stood beside the table while the small party mounted the veranda steps, her figure encased by a voluminous blue dressing-gown belted at the waist by a leather strap stolen from a bridle. Her poor feet were concealed by highly polished elastic-sided brown riding-boots. Truly on this occasion she was superb.

  The whites of her eyes were conspicuous. The wide grin of genuine welcome revealed many gaps in the yellowing teeth. Her greying hair was scanty. She was nearly overcome with excitement.

  “Well, Martha! Not dead yet?” greeted Ralph gravely, holding out his hand. She took it in her left, her right being pressed to her vast bosom.

  “Oh, Misther Ralph!” she articulated with difficulty, “Poor Martha no die till she look on you once more.”

  “That’s right,” he said with a friendly smile. “I shall be very much annoyed,” he added, “if you die now.”

  The squatter and his wife were content with a cup of tea, whilst their “children” ate a long-delayed lunch. Anticipating the boy’s lightest wish, the Little Lady hovered at his side, her eyes sparkling with happiness, her small finely-moulded features flushed. She and her husband were content to listen to his description of the holiday spent in New Zealand and of his last term at college.

  As a collegiate product he was perfect. His speech and manners were without reproach. There was, however, inherent in him a grace of movement which no school or university could have given him. Of medium height and weight, he sat his chair with the ease of one born on the back of a horse. His dark, almost beautiful face was animated by a keen and receptive mind; the fervid enthusiasm of the mystic rather than the unveiled frankness of the practically-minded manwas reflected from his eyes.

  He was to both his adopted parents a revelation. Six months previously he had left them, still a college boy, to return to college. He had come back to them a man, frankly adult. The youthful boastfulness had given place to grave self-assurance-too grave, perhaps, in one still in the years of youth. Never once did he mention football, cricket, or rowing, his previous enthusiasms. If superficial, his knowledge of politics, of the arts, and of the lives of the great, was extensive. The heart of the Little Lady overflowed with pride and exultation: her husband was admittedly astonished by the lad’s mental and physical growth in six short months.

  “Well, Dad, and now that I’ve finished with college, what do you want me to do?” he asked suddenly.

  “Why, dear, you must know what we want you to do, surely?” interposed Mrs Thornton.

  “I was thinking,”the squatter remarked quietly, “that your education and your address indicate the Church.”

  The Little Lady’s eyes widened with amazement. The young man’s face clouded. Kate alone saw the suppressed twinkle in her uncle’s eyes.

  “Would you like to be a parson, Ralph?” she inquired, with a laugh.

  “Surely, Dad, you cannot mean what you say?”

  “What do you want to do?” he asked kindly. “The choice is yours. Whatever path through life you choose, Law, the Church, the Services, or any of the professions-your mother and I will accept.”

  The young man’s sigh of relief was audible.

  “I thought you meant that about the Church,” he said slowly. “I would rather-and I mean no reflection on the Church-I would rather carry my swag up and down the Darling all my life thanbe a bishop. I would rather be a boundary-rider than an armygeneral, or a bullock-driver than an Under-Secretary. If there is one thing I’ve learned in this last half-year, it is that I cannot be happy away from Barrakee. Down in the city I feel like a caged bird, or an old sailor living out his last days away from the se
a. I want to stay here with you three. I want to learn to be a pastoralist, to breed better sheep and grow finer wool. I hope you approve?”

  “Oh, Ralph, dear, of course we approve!” declared Mrs Thornton, leaning towards him with shining countenance. “I should have been heartbroken had you chosen otherwise.”

  Chapter Four

  Dugdale Goes Fishing

  FRANK DUGDALE, not quite twenty-eight years of age, held the position of sub-overseer on Barrakee Station. Ten years before he had found himself almost penniless and practically without friends. He had no recollection of his mother, and when, on the verge of bankruptcy, his father killed himself, the loss left him dazed and helpless.

  Mr Dugdale senior was the sole representative of Dugdale amp; Co., Wool Brokers and General Station Agents, and at the time of the crash the son was about to enter the firm. From their schooldays his father and Thornton had been friends, and, whilst lamenting the fact that his friend failed to apply to him for financial assistance, the squatter had offered the youth the opportunities of a jackeroo.

  The offer was eagerly accepted. Dugdale came to Barrakee and resided with the bookkeeper in the barracks. In ten years he had proved his worth. At the time that Ralph Thornton left college Dugdale was renowned for his horsemanship, his knowledge of wool, and his handling of sheep.

  Of average height and build, his complexion was fair and the colour of his eyes hazel. Ralph and Kate were playing tennis when Dugdale passed, smoking his pipe and in his hand a fishing-line. For a moment he watched the flying figures in the golden light of the setting sun, and his pulse leapt as it never failed to do when he beheld Kate Flinders.

  “Hallo, Dug! Are you going fishing?” asked the flushed girl, energetically gathering the balls to serve.

  “No-oh no!” he drawled, with a smile. “I am going kite-flying.”

  “Now, now, Dug! No sarcasm, please,” she reproved, half-mockingly.

  Pausing in his walk he faced her, holding out the line for inspection, saying:

  “I cannot tell a lie, as Shakespeare remarked to Stephen. Here is the kite-line.”

  “Quite so,” she observed sweetly. “But you should conceal the spinner. Also your quotation is hideously mixed. It was Washington who boasted he never told a fib.”

  “And Stephen lived a few centuries before Shakespeare,” Ralph contributed.

  “Did he?” replied Dugdale innocently. “I fear my education is fading out. And what year did the lamented Stephen arrive upon the throne?”

  “In the year eleven hundred.”

  “BC or AD?”

  “AD, of course, you ass.”

  “Then I am constrained to marvel at your poor arguments. I distinctly said-”

  “Goodbye, Dug, and good luck! Service!” cried Kate joyously. She was not sure of herself regarding Frank Dugdale. He said nice things, quaint and unexpected things. He was efficient, neat, and self-assured, but…

  Reaching the river-bank, he descended to the boats, and just then the sun faded. This being unexpected for another half-hour caused him to look westward, when he saw a dense bank of clouds behind which the sun had disappeared. Selecting the lightest of the boats, he pulled out into the stream, proceeding to attach the shining spoon-spinner to the line, and then, pulling slowly again, he allowed it to run out over the stern. His end of the line he fastened to the top of thespringer -stick lashed to the side of the boat, so that when a fish “struck” the “springer” would hold it without the line snapping. Thespringer took the place of a second fisherman.

  The line set, Dugdale slowly pulled up the sluggish stream, keeping to one side when the absence of snags allowed, pulling out and round the snags when he reached them.

  Although the evening was brilliant the air was still and humid. The softest bird-cry, the faintest splash of a fish, was an accentuated sound. When a kookaburra chuckled, the devilish mockery in its voice struck upon the heart and mind of the fisherman as a portent.

  Now, for several years, Dugdale had loved Kate Flinders. It was the white passion of pure love which seeks not possession but reciprocity, the acme of love which strives to keep the adored object on a pedestal; not to reach upward to bring it down.

  Dugdale regarded the fulfilment of his love as hopeless. He knew himself a penniless nobody, the son of a bankrupt suicide. The highest point to which he could rise in the pastoral industry was a stationmanagership. To attain such a position would be the result of influence far more than of ability. There was no certainty in that dream. It was more probable that he might obtain an overseership; but he had decided that he could never ask Kate Flinders to accept an overseer for husband.

  Whilst theThorntons always treated him as an equal, he realized that his position, social or financial, would never reach theirs. There was, however, one way in which his dreams could be realized, and that was to be lucky enough to win a prize in the great New South Wales Land Lottery.

  If he were sufficiently lucky to win one of the prizes-and to be so he would have to be lucky enough to draw a placed horse in a lottery-he would possess an excellent foundation on which to build, with his knowledge of sheep and wool, a moderate fortune in a few years. About this, as about themanagership, was no certainty.

  He had reached the bend at which Pontius Pilate and his people were camped. His boat was well over the hole gouged out by countless floods, but the spoon bait, many yards astern, was at the edge of the hole when the great cod struck.

  The spring-stick bent over and down to the water. Leaving the oars, he jumped for the line, taut as a wire. The boat began to move stern-first, drawn by the fish, and Dugdale waited tensely for the moment when the fish would turn and give him the chance to gain line with which to play it.

  The boat was travelling faster than when he had been pulling. Rigid with excitement, oblivious to the excited cries of the blacks on the bank, Dugdale waited. Thirty seconds after the fish had struck it turned, and dashed up-stream beneath the boat.

  He gained a dozen yards of line before the fish reached the shortened length of its tether, and then began a thrilling fight. The dusk of day fell and deepened the shadows beneath the gums. The cloud bank, racing from the west, was at the zenith. It was almost dark before the fish gave up and sulked. Slowly he hauled it to the boat, a weight listless and lifeless, as though he had caught a bag of shingle.

  That it was a huge fish he knew by its dead weight. Slowly he brought it alongside. The boat unaccountably rocked. For a moment he caught the outline of the broad green back, and then searched aimlessly with a foot for the crooked lifting-stick.

  “Let me, boss,” someone said. “Bring him back alongside. Aye-a little more.”

  Not daring to remove his gaze from the sulking cod, at any time likely to renew the fight, Dugdale saw a powerful black arm come into his vision holding the short stick crooked like a gaff.

  The arm and stick suddenly moved with lightning swiftness. The small end of the gaff slid up into the gills, there was a heave that nearly upset the boat, and the great fish-which eventually scaled at forty-one pounds odd ounces-lay shimmering greenly in the gloom.

  From the fish Frank Dugdale looked up at his timely helper, and beheld the very finest specimen of an aboriginal he had ever seen. The man was naked but for a pair of khaki shorts. The width of his chest, the narrowness of his hips, his powerful legs and arms now glistening with water, were magnificent. The colour of his skin was ebony-black, the colour of his thick curly hair snow-white.

  He was old-Dugdale thought him to be near sixty-but the vices of white civilization had not touched him. When he spoke his accent was Australian. In his voice there was no trace of the tribe:

  “That’s a bonzer fish,” he said. “I thought by the way he fought that he was a walloper and that you’d want a hand to land him.”

  “Thanks for your help. I don’t think I would have landed him without it,” the fisherman conceded. “If you care to send someone along to the station in the morning for a part of it, you m
ay.”

  “Goodo! I’ll send my son, Ned. Any idea what the time is?” he asked.

  “Must be about half past eight.”

  “Thanks. I’ll get going. I got a meet on.”

  And, without a splash, the aboriginal dived into the river, and disappeared in the gloom, now so profound that Dugdale only guessed he swam to the station side of the river.

  The remainder of the tribe having gone back to their camp-fire, Dugdale disentangled the line and slowly wound it on the small length of board.

  The boat was then in the gentle back-current of the bend, being imperceptibly taken up-river. Some few minutes were occupied in removing the spoon-spinner from the line: a few more in pensively cutting chips of tobacco for his pipe. Then, with it satisfactorily alight, he manned the sculls and slowly pushed himself forward into the main stream, and let himself drift down to the homestead.

  He was a hundred yards from the landing-place when the first drop of rain, splashing the water near him, coincided with the sound of a thin whine abruptly culminating in a dull report similar to that made by a small boy hitting a paling with a cane.

  It was a sound the like of which Dugdale had never before heard. It made him curious, but by no means alarmed. Without hurry he approached the landing-place, got out, and moored the boat.

  It was while driving in the iron peg to fasten the boat that he was astonished to hear above him the gasp of human agony; and now, alarmed, he straightened up to listen further. There came a low thud; then silence.

  For a moment he was paralysed, but only for a moment. In the pitchy darkness he clambered up the steep bank. At the summit the deluge fell on him. Again he listened. In the distance, towards the bottom fence of the garden, a dry stick cracked with a sound like a pistol-shot.

  Immediately Dugdale stood there listening. Lightning flickered far away, but by its reflection he saw the narrow embankment on which he stood, he saw the dry billabong between it and thegarden, and he saw dimly the white-clad figure of a woman before the garden gate.