Breakaway House Read online

  “Comfortable?” inquired Tremayne of his companion.

  “Lovely,” replied Violet, sighing happily. “Why can’t life always be like this?”

  Presently, looming out of the darkness came the spidery outline of the mill and the low, box-shaped hut of Acacia Well. Beside the track, Fred Ellis awaited them.

  “I opened the gate for you,” he called. “You needn’t stop to shut it. When me and Ned come home after sundown we found Nora cleared out. Ned raising hell, gonna start a war, thinks she’s gone to the dance.”

  CHAPTER X

  BREAKAWAY HOUSE BALL

  WITH Acacia Well behind them, the beacon appeared to rise and then, a little later, on its left and below it, winked many lights which rapidly grew in brilliance. Higher still rose the beacon. They could see its leaping flames, and could discern the black shapeless mass of the breakaway on which it burned.

  All the homestead gates were wide open. Beyond it the lights of three cars blazed as they descended the long slope from the high ground. Tremayne put their car much nearer to the shearing shed than the mass of parked cars, and turned it to face the homeward run. From the shed issued the music made by an improvised orchestra. Between it and the homestead, the men’s kitchen was a hive of industry. From the homestead, which had every window lit up, came the sound of happy laughter and raised excited voices. Then Morris Tonger was beside the car, opening its doors.

  “That you, Filson?” he said, ignoring Tremayne.

  “Good evening, Tonger! I’ve brought my overseer and two ladies,” Brett said, assisting Ann Sayers out. Having introduced the ladies, he formally introduced Tremayne, and Tonger said with studied politeness:

  “Oh, ah! That you, Tremayne! Glad you came. Well, go along all of you. You’ll find my niece serving coffee in the drawing room of the house. Excuse me now. Here are other guests arrived.”

  The lights of the approaching cars showed them up as though it were day. They revealed Morris Tonger’s big and mottled face and his magnificently proportioned figure within well-cut evening clothes. The Bowgada party walked to the rambling bungalow house, Brett leaning heavily on his stick, Ann walking by his side – following them Violet Winters and Tremayne, who restrained her impulse to hurry forward to give her arm to Filson. Tremayne liked Ann Sayers for also leaving his friend a little independence.

  Guests were walking from house to shed. Uniformed maids were busy between house and men’s kitchen. Obviously Tonger was doing the thing in style, keeping up his father’s reputation for hospitality.

  At the homestead door a quiet, efficient-looking girl relieved them of their coats and wraps, and, on direction, they found Frances Tonger serving coffee in the drawing room.

  “Hello, Brett! Awfully glad you came,” exclaimed a tall girl in a sea-green dress. “Let me introduce you all to Miss Tonger. Why, Miss Sayers and Miss Winters! Well, well! Wonders will never cease.”

  The malice in her voice jarred. She was the daughter of a man who owned a run near Youanmi and lived mostly with her married sister in Perth. In that city the father was never mentioned because he had remarried an Aboriginal woman when his first wife died.

  “It’s the rule that one must not come without one’s friends,” Brett said calmly. “Have you met Mr Tremayne? Tremayne, Miss Tinley-Bucklow.”

  “So pleased to meet you, Mr Tremayne.”

  “Charmed,” drawled the overseer, whereupon Miss Winters stepped in. With her mouth close to her cavalier’s ear she said in what was supposed to be a whisper: “Don’t you be. She’s not half as nice as she appears.”

  Whereupon Miss Tinley-Bucklow fled, permitting Brett to introduce his friends to Frances. Dressed strikingly in a creation of unrelieved black, she was a superb representative of that type of woman diametrically opposed to the blond type represented by Ann Sayers. Frances was genuine in her welcome – until Tremayne’s turn came to be presented.

  “How do you do, Miss Tonger?” he said, standing squarely before her. She held out her hand, although there was cold fire in her eyes, and he bowed over it with the suaveness of Brett Filson. “I’m a stranger on the Murchison, and because of it I am the more indebted to you for your kind invitation.”

  There was now none of the slurred bush drawl. His expression plainly indicated deference to her beauty, and respect for her as his hostess. Try as she did she could detect no mockery in his voice or see mockery in his twinkling eyes. With a sense of annoyance she found herself judging him in his favour.

  “The Breakaway House Ball is famed as far north as Wyndham,” he was saying. “I do really consider myself fortunate in being present this year. If you will honour me with one dance I shall always thank my gods that I left the Kimberleys.”

  She was no less surprised than several of her friends when she found herself giving him her dance card. Afterwards she excused herself on the plea that he proved himself sufficiently a gentleman not to publicly remind her of their first meeting. When he returned her card there was a faint expression of wonder allied to the hardness in her eyes. Tremayne smiled gaily, and stepped back to permit the presentation of another party of guests. Even whilst welcoming these fresh arrivals she visually sought him out, and found him waiting upon the enormous woman in the blue gown.

  She thought what an extraordinary person was this Miss Winters to be brought by a man like Tremayne, who was even more extraordinary. And, months later, she declared that the most extraordinary thing of all was the tiny thrill which touched her heart when, glancing at her dance card, she discovered that Tremayne had impudently written his name carefully against two waltzes.

  Within the great shed all was movement and colour and merriment. Bunting and paper streamers hung beneath the roof. The interior fittings had been removed and the fake floor, which old Tonger had had constructed in his day, laid over the floor proper.

  Violet Winters danced with her eyes shut in the safety of Tremayne’s arm. He was giving her the treat of her life, and he happily guessed as much. This third dance was the second they had partnered. In the middle of it Violet felt her escort trip and opened her eyes to see a man she knew as Buck Ross cease dancing, and snarlingly demand why Tremayne was so clumsy.

  “You appear to be deliberately looking for trouble,” Tremayne answered, white with anger. “You attempted to trip me a minute ago.”

  It became proved that Violet Winter was a superb liar, although in fact she was right. It became proved, too, that she had not lived in mining towns, and in mining camps before living in mining towns, without having gained an extensive knowledge of men.

  “Buck Ross, you did that on purpose,” she said, and, disengaging herself from her partner’s hands, she stepped swiftly to the scowling man beside who stood his embarrassed partner. Violet’s hands became pressed against her hips. Her head was thrown back and her eyes were pin points of gleaming light. “If you do that again, Buck Ross, I’ll slap your face so hard that your head’ll be turned back to front. Mr Tremayne can’t make a scene here, but I’m never slow in taking up an argument.”

  “Excuse me, Miss Winters,” urged Morris Tonger, inserting himself between her and Ross, whose dark face had become crimson. “Mr Ross, there’s a gentleman outside who wants to see you. I’ll take your partner if, Miss Pink, you will so honour me.”

  Perhaps none but Violet and Tremayne and Buck Ross witnessed the fury in Tonger’s dark eyes.

  Tremayne was astonished to see Ross’s demeanour replaced by one of sullenness, and he watched the fellow’s broad back as he made his way through the dancers to the main door. Tonger’s voice recalled his attention.

  “Sorry, Miss Winters, you were quite right in your action. I happened to see Ross trying to trip Mr Tremayne.”

  “But why, Mr Tonger?” exclaimed the overseer. “I don’t even know the man. I’ve never met him before.”

  The squatter shrugged before swinging away with the interested Miss Pink.

  “I know why he did it, Mr Tremayne,” Violet said, ang
er still remaining in her eyes and voice. “He’s been wanting to marry me for a long time. Now you keep your eyes open. He’s a bad customer, is Mr Buck Ross.”

  Tremayne was now smiling, and when she saw how amused he was, she said impatiently: “I mean it. He wouldn’t fight any man fair. He’d get his gang at Myme to smash you up.”

  Tremayne continued to smile broadly. Violet shook him with the hand laid on his shoulder. “Stop it!” she commanded in the manner of a lord of the kitchen. “Do you hear what I say? Be sensible, do. You keep your eyes open for Buck Ross.”

  “What does he do for a living?”

  “Anything bar honest work. He’s got a small mining show four miles out of Myme, but that’s only an excuse for humming beer.”

  “Ever been in gaol?”

  “Not yet, but there’s still time.”

  “That’s comforting,” Tremayne told her. “What about a drink?”

  “I’m dying for one,” she replied honestly.

  “Have you known Miss Winters long?” Frances asked Brett Filson abruptly after Tremayne and Violet had moved off to the bunting-hidden cocktail bar in a far corner of the shed.

  “For several years. She’s a forthright woman.”

  “They appear to be fast friends already.”

  “Bush people make friends – and enemies – quickly, Miss Tonger. For instance, it didn’t take me long to accept Tremayne as a friend after accepting him as my overseer.”

  “No?” she responded sceptically.

  “No. I like Harry Tremayne,” Brett went on in his quiet manner. “I like a man who has retained his boyishness, as Tremayne has. He often says the most outrageous things, such as one would expect of inexperienced youth; yet there are occasions when I feel sure that he has much experience, both of life and of men.”

  “Men – not of women?”

  Brett smiled at her. “Don’t ask me to leave firm ground for quicksand,” he pleaded.

  “Did he tell you of our encounter near the boundary fence, Mr Filson?” Frances asked with slight colour.

  “Something of it,” Brett replied guardedly.

  “Did he tell you how rude he was?”

  “He didn’t appear to realise it until I pointed it out to him.”

  “Did he tell you how I fell off my horse and sat on a saltbush?”

  “No, he didn’t tell me that,” Brett cheerfully lied, and became both amused and a little astonished when she broke into a ripple of slow laughter.

  “I felt so foolish, I could have killed him. I wonder if he would lose his sang-froid if an earthquake happened?”

  “This is my dance, Miss Tonger, I’m positively sure,” said the object of their conversation. “Why I’m so positively sure is because I made a note of the dances you so kindly granted me, and I’ve been counting and checking the dances already passed.”

  To Filson’s delighted amusement, she said coolly: “I’d forgotten. Is this really your dance?”

  Gravely unsmiling, he said: “Yes. The moment of your execution has arrived.”

  Frances stood up. “Very well. Let’s get it over quickly, please,” she told him coldly.

  Brett had hard work not to laugh out loud.

  Then just as they were moving off, Tremayne, who was facing an open side door of the shed, said: “Just excuse me for a moment, please, Miss Tonger. There’s a little matter which requires my attention. I’ll not be long.”

  In silence Frances and the seated Filson watched Tremayne walk rapidly to the door and vanish beyond it.

  “Well…what…”

  “Sit down again, please,” Brett urged. “Tremayne apparently has found a long-lost friend.”

  “Then he might have waited until after our dance to greet his long-lost friend. He’s the most provoking man I’ve ever met.”

  CHAPTER XI

  TREMAYNE’S TRICKERY

  IT had been an almost instantaneous picture, that which was presented to Tremayne from beyond the side door of the shed, and it compelled him to leave Frances Tonger at the moment he was to hold her in the dance. Such a picture would not have called many men from the prospect of dancing with Frances, for it showed an Aborigine being knocked down.

  Without attracting attention, Tremayne reached the side door and left the building. When his sight became accustomed to the outside darkness, he was in time to observe Ned rushing on the man who had hit him, and, an inborn sense of fair play controlling him, he stopped short to watch the result of that purposeful rush. He saw the powerful figure of the white man draw upward to its full height; saw, too, what looked like a short stick brought down quickly on Ned’s head. Without a sound Ned collapsed and lay still.

  “What’s wrong,” Tremayne asked softly, approaching the white man.

  “Black hanging around when all Aborigines have been ordered up to the beacon,” calmly replied the smiter.

  “You are, I perceive, Mr Buck Ross. I also perceive in your hand a length of shoeing iron,” Tremayne said in tones suggestive of snapping steel.

  “That’s me. And you…why, if it isn’t Mr Blooming Tremayne. Now, this is a lucky meeting.”

  “Your peevishness seems to have started from about an hour ago. Why?”

  “Who wouldn’t be peeved at a bloke barging into him on a dance floor?”

  “Ah! Who, indeed?”

  “And now that you’re here, I’m going to show you who’s the cock of the farmyard.”

  At their feet Ned groaned and moved.

  “So you hit him with a bar of shoeing iron?”

  “I did. He got what was coming to him. And now you’re going to get all that’s coming to you.”

  “You don’t say, my poor innocent, ignorant, Buck. Let’s start, then.”

  Tremayne’s right feinted to Buck’s stomach, and, as the man’s body bent forward to avoid the blow, Tremayne’s left fist uppercut him on the jaw.

  Considering that the light reflected through the shed door was poor, the blow was beautifully timed. Ross lay on his back, and Tremayne secured the bar of iron and tossed it far into the night. “Get up, my dear friend,” he requested.

  “You…you…!”

  Ross arose to stand swaying on his feet. The overseer waited. For Ross the world at length became steady, whereupon he rushed Tremayne. And Tremayne hit him a second time at the same point on his chin. Ross crashed earthwards to lie as inert as poor Ned had lain.

  Had lain is correct, for now Ned was on his hands and knees, fighting nausea and dizziness so that he could get to his feet and continue the battle. The top of his head was gashed, and blood streamed down his face. The language he used was excusable, perhaps.

  “Steady, Ned! Steady, old boy. Take things calmly,” urged Tremayne, assisting Ned to his feet. “Come over to the car and sit down.”

  “Bime-by, boss. I finishing Buck Ross first.”

  “He’s finished,” Tremayne pointed out with candid simplicity. “Like the sluggard, he slumbereth. Go easy, now. You had a terrific wallop.”

  Without doubt the bar of iron was less soft than a band leader’s baton, and, although at the time Ned’s spirit was willing, the mangled flesh was weak. Tremayne got him to the Bowgada car and made him sit on the running board. “Don’t you go from here,” he ordered sternly. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Crossing to the men’s quarters he entered the kitchen, where he found a big fat man in chef’s regalia working with the assistance of two women, both almost as fat as he. “Good night! I want a strip of clean calico. A lady has slipped and hurt her leg.”

  The untruth saved time. It produced a square yard of linen and a tin of Zambuk, with which he hurried back to the car. “How are you feeling now, Ned?”

  “Pretty crook,” Ned replied, to add with a brave chuckle: “Cripes, boss! He did swipe me. Put me right on the spot, he sure did.”

  “Yep, he sure did,” agreed Tremayne, unable not to grin. “Come over here. There’s a horse trough in which you can drown your head.”


  He tore the linen into strips while Ned bathed the gaping cut, and rendered first aid as best he could before taking Ned back to the car. He ordered him into the tonneau, and then got in himself to at once work at cigarette making. “What happened, Ned?”

  “I bin come after Nora, Mr Tremayne,” Ned began in explanation. “When me and Fred got back to Acacia Well Nora had gone walking – walking to here. I came on over her tracks. That Tonger, he got her over here, giving her ribbon. I saw her helping Miss Frances in the house, Nora all dressed up fine. New dress and stockings and white apron and cap like she uster wear for Mrs Filson.

  “Then I seen her going from kitchen to the shed, and I run after her. She see me coming and ran past Buck Ross into the shed. And he saw me, and when I got to him he hit me. Then he hit me with something I don’t remember. Tonger’s got Nora and he’ll keep her for days.”

  “How did you come here from Acacia Well?”

  “I run,” replied the black simply. “I reckon I’m a damn fool. I forgot to ride the mule.”

  “Of course,” Tremayne agreed, understanding how easy it had been for Ned to forget when he knew Miss Hazit’s destination. It was as well, perhaps, that the average Aborigine is a peace-loving man.

  “Do you know what you must do?” he asked.

  “What, boss?”

  “You must stay right here. I’ll fetch Nora at the first opportunity, and I’ll drive you both back to Acacia Well. And when you get Nora back to Acacia Well, when you have given her the hiding you have made up your mind to give her, you open up the parcel here I brought from Myme. If she’s not too dazed, she’ll appreciate the pretties. Now, will you stop here quiet?”

  “You’ll fetch Nora?” Ned pleaded anxiously.

  “I won’t leave Breakaway House without her, but if you interfere there’ll be nothing doing.”