Levvey had accepted the accident theory as fitting the facts known to him, and Bony was beginning to regard this theory with some seriousness. The failure of the aborigines to locate the tracks of a man between the Fence and the bore lake might mean that in truth there were none to see. The shot might have been fired east of the Ten-Mile gate, either by an aborigine or by either Nugget or Needle Kent. Either of the latter could have fired the shot through the netting, and then, to avoid leaving tracks anywhere about the lake or the dead man, have gone for water to Bore Nine, several miles deep into New South Wales.
Nugget could not be excluded from responsibility although known to possess a Savage rifle. It was still not proven that he did not have a Winchester in his gear. The accident theory would have to be tested.
Working his way southward, eventually Bony came to the turn-off to Quinambie homestead, passed it and when camped at the bottom end of his section met Nugget and his tribe coming northward and headed to the cane-grass shed.
“How you going, Ed?” was Nugget’s greeting.
“Pretty well. Bit of work to do after the windstorm, but Mount Everest escaped damage.”
Nugget and those with him were greatly interested in the Monster.
“He joined the party at Bore Ten and refused to leave us, and so I brought him along,” replied Bony. “Quiet enough. Reckon he’d do better work than Old George who is a bit of a worry without water.”
“What I told the boss,” asserted Nugget, at the moment engaged slicing a tobacco plug for his pipe. “Should of pensioned Old George off years ago. Levvey said he’s seen you. Had a natter, he said.”
The dark eyes were directed to Bony, and Nugget waited for possible enlightenment as to what had been said.
Bony carelessly told him that Levvey was after cattle to push westward and left it at that. The lubras went on with the camels, following Bony’s section to the turn-off. One would be about forty, the other in her twenties. The children went with them. Bony had noticed a rifle in a canvas gun-case slung from the riding camel’s saddle, and shrewdly guessed it was the Savage so dear to the heart of its owner.
He also noticed that at the approach of Nugget’s party the Monster evidenced growing restlessness. At first he thought this was due to the coming of strange camels, and then that it was caused by the women. Bony had known of a camel who behaved badly at the sight of a woman’s skirt, and of yet another who would bolt at the sight of a man on horseback. Nugget was saying:
“Jack Levvey told me you reckon the murder could of been an accident. Said you might be right.”
“Weren’t you nearly shot one time?” queried Bony.
“Too right, Ed. Bullet went past me that close I heard it. Come across the feller that fired it, and felt like giving him a hiding.” Nugget laughed, and Bony failed to see the reason. “Bloody blackfellers shouldn’t be allowed a rifle. I told Newton about it and he agreed.”
Chapter Ten
Testing Needle Kent
ONCE AGAIN at the northern end of his section, Bony proceeded to test the theory of accident. Standing at the Bore Ten gate he found the ground clear enough to see through the trees to the stakes marking the place where Maidstone had fallen. He could not see the bore or its lake of water, as the trees to his left were too close together where they merged against the slope of the sand range. By walking northwards from the gate, at a hundred yards distance he obtained a still clearer view of the stakes and from there he could see the lake as well.
Assuming that Maidstone was walking back to his camp, a shooter at this hundred yards’ point could hardly fail to see him unless absorbed by the sight of a bunch of kangaroos, but if at the gate among the closer-growing trees the shooter was aiming at a ’roo, it was possible not to notice the man beyond them. All the shooter had to do was to slip the rifle barrel through the netting, take careful aim and fire. That he missed the kangaroos and hit the man could have been due to haste when the kangaroos were on the run. Summing up, Bony decided that an accident was possible, if not probable.
It was late on the day before Needle Kent was to meet the Lake Frome utility with his ration list that Needle arrived to shout his greeting before it was necessary and, having gulped the pannikin of tea waiting for him, he and Bony combined forces and proceeded to the lake. Needle was curious about the extra camel and was given the explanation passed on to Nugget. The sun was setting when, having watered the animals and filled the drums and taken a bathe, they returned to the camp and settled at the camp fire.
It was remarkable the amount of gossip they had to exchange, what with Bony’s meetings first with Levvey and then with Nugget, and with Needle’s story of his work and of the goanna that stole the remains of a cold stew he had forgotten to cover. When the stars were out and the bells were telling of the direction in which the camels were feeding, Bony opened with his questioning:
“Did you fire through the netting at a kangaroo hereabouts?”
“Don’t remember. Why?”
“At that time Maidstone was shot?”
“Don’t think so. No, I didn’t. What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing much. What do you do at night before turning in?”
“Talks to meself, I think. You know, bakes a damper for the next day, makes a stew for breakfast, all that.”
“It’s the same with me, but I haven’t yet arrived at talking to myself. I will do if I stay on the Fence for long. I’ve been looking around and thinking about the Maidstone murder, and I’m thinking now it was an accident. I’m trying to prove it was, for something to do.”
Needle took time to absorb this problem of something to occupy the mind after the day’s work. Bony rolled a cigarette, lit it with an ember at the point of a fire-stick before saying:
“Well, if you stand at the gate you can see the stakes marking where Maidstone was walking back to camp. Let’s say that beyond the gate was a nice fat kangaroo. The feller with the rifle wanted meat and he’s so excited about getting the ’roo that he fires without seeing Maidstone, misses the ’roo and hits the man.”
“It could of been that way,” Needle agreed, interest making his normally high-pitched voice rise even higher. “The police didn’t argue that out as far’s I know. That’s the way it must have been, Ed. No one’s thought it out like that. There’s no motive for it. Maidstone being the stranger he didn’t have no enemies up around here. Yes, Ed, you could be right at that.”
“I think the police took too much for granted,” softly commented Bony. “They mixed the dates for one thing, and for another they didn’t have the trackers working this side of the Fence. Supposing a party of Quinambie abos were out this way. Some of them have rifles. Supposing one of them fired through the fence at something, missed whatever it was and accidentally killed Maidstone. Wouldn’t that account for them missing out on the tracking before the wind came? Supposing you were the abo with the rifle, what would you have done?”
“Gone for me flamin’ life!” was Needle’s prompt reply.
“Wouldn’t you have gone to see if the man you hit was actually dead?”
“I’d have watched from the Fence to see if he moved before doing a get. But you made out I was an abo, and I’m telling you what an abo would do. Anyway, about them abos falling down on the tracking job, remember the cattle came down the Fence and blotted out the tracks. They blotted out my tracks when I went with my camels for water.”
“You think the cattle would have watered at the place where we watered?”
“They’d break away from the Fence about here and make for the lake, same as we do. It would be dark, and the duffers wouldn’t see Maidstone’s camp, or Maidstone alive or dead.”
“We seem to be out of joint,” Bony said cautiously. “I think you are wrong on your dates.”
“How so?”
“Let’s work it out this way, Needle. Maidstone left Quinambie homestead after lunch on June Eighth. Joyce understood he’d made for the Lake Frome homestead, but
Maidstone camped for that night at Bore Nine. Next day he went on to Bore Ten and camped there that night. Very early the next day the cattle passed you at some place up the Fence, and so, as you say, the cattle would veer off the Fence at about here, and the duffers would see Maidstone’s camp.
“So that very early on the morning of June Tenth Maidstone was in camp near Bore Ten with a cold fire, and the duffers were heading their cattle towards the bore lake. Then there is the man with the rifle. If the accident theory is correct, he was at the gate when Maidstone was coming back from the lake with his billy early on the same morning, but before the cattle were veered from the Fence to blot out his tracks and your own.”
“That would be about it, Ed,” Needle said, trapped into an admission that he was lying when he had insisted that he was camped at the Ten-Mile along his section when the duffers passed. He even confirmed the admission. “Yes, I was at the Five-Mile that night. I wonder if the abo with the rifle was there to meet them duffers?”
“It’s possible, Needle. But hardly likely. Having accidentally shot Maidstone, he wouldn’t hang about but go off back to Quinambie and report to Moses or Charlie the Nut. So we arrive back at the point that it was an accident.”
Needle Kent beamed agreement, produced a pipe and filled it with cigarette tobacco.
“You got a education,” he said. “All that works her out good.”
“Too good, Needle. I wouldn’t like you to tell it to Newton, or to Levvey, or to anyone. Let the police work it out. That’s what they are paid for. And we don’t want to be associated with those cattle and the duffers, do we?”
“Not on your life, Ed.”
“Only Newton knows what you told him and he promised to keep it to himself. Or rather he promised to keep you out of it.”
Needle now gave proof that he wasn’t 100 per cent non compos mentis when he asked how Bony knew that Maidstone had indeed camped at Bore Nine. Bony told him he’d gone for water and found the remains of a large camp fire, and of the empty matchbox which was not purchased at the Quinambie store.
“Without the matchbox it could be said that that night fire had been lit by Nugget or one of his family,” he explained. “Anyway, you keep that under your hat. It isn’t important.”
“Trust me, Ed. Yes, you worked her out fine. You should have been a ‘d’. Cousin of mine was a policeman down in Melbourne. Got up to detective-sergeant. Had a gift for it.”
Bony studied Needle as he rattled on about his policeman cousin and thoughtfully reappraised this human skeleton. He felt he had at last straightened out the background which had never been clear and altered constantly. Needle had claimed to have been at various mileages on the night of June Ninth, most likely to confuse the story of the passing cattle, in his determination to have nothing to do with rustlers.
The record was now clear, and facts were related logically to facts. Maidstone had arrived at Bore Ten on June Ninth and had decided to take pictures that night at the bore lake. That night also Needle Kent was camped five miles north of the gate, not two miles or ten miles. Again on that night rustlers drove cattle past Needle’s cold fire at two in the morning. They had at this time to drive the cattle five miles to the gate plus one mile to the lake. South of the gate by six miles were Nugget and his family—if Nugget could be believed.
If Nugget could be believed! Having established to his own satisfaction where Needle was on that vital night, Bony would have to examine whether Nugget could be believed or not.
Here indeed was a crime seemingly without a motive. It was tempting to accept the theory of accidental shooting. Many a man, Bony knew, had been mistaken for a wallaby or kangaroo in bush or when the light was bad, and shot as such, even in shooting parties when one would expect to come on human beings. Out here, one would not ordinarily expect anything that moved to be human. The mystery was made difficult of solution by the very paucity of suspects. A perfect stranger comes among these few suspects and for no apparent reason is killed. That the rustlers had anything to do with it was very unlikely, because they would be the last to draw attention to their activities, which require the stealth and swift action associated with robbing a bank vault at night.
Those rustlers knew they had a clear run to Bore Ten and beyond at a point where the stolen cattle would be out of sight of the fencemen. Levvey had told Needle that he would not be going to Quinambie as he had work to do westward of his homestead. He and his riders would be far distant from travelling stock coming down the Fence far to the eastward. In fact, the two operations would be separated by some ninety miles. Someone must have informed the rustlers that on one or two nights they would have a clear run. Needle, for one, knew it, and doubtless Joyce’s overseer would know it, as well as Charlie the Nut and his chief, and Nugget and his people.
Needle concluded his story about his cousin and got up to pour water into a billy for tea. This action broke off Bony’s reflections. He allowed sufficient time to elapse to create the impression that he had been listening intently to Needle and then said:
“You don’t keep a diary, Needle, and so how do you keep track of the days to get you down here in time to meet Levvey with the ration list?”
“Easy, Ed. I read in a book once that a bloke kept time by notching a stick. Every night before turning in I notches a stick, starting from the day I leave here. I forgot twice and had to go into Quinambie for the rations and meat.”
“You would follow the track passing Bore Nine? How far off that track is Bore Six?”
“Seven miles when you’re about four from the homestead.”
“Have you been to Bore Six?” pressed Bony.
“Never no cause to. The blacks camp there most times.”
“D’you know how long Nugget has had his Savage?”
“Got her off the hawker last time he was at Quinambie. Lemme think. That would be just a month before the murder. Like me, he had a Winchester forty-four before that.”
At that stage the water for the tea boiled, and soon the two men were rolled in their blankets. It was the next morning that Bony continued to press the subject of Nugget’s rifle.
“Did Nugget do anything with the Winchester?”
“Couldn’t say, Ed. Sold it to the blacks most likely. They’re always tradin’ something. Funny thing about the abos. One buys a pair of pants and next week another’s wearin’ ’em. Same with rifles. One gets a rifle and every Tom, Dick and bloody Harry of ’em is shootin’ with it.”
“And one of them nearly shot Nugget?”
“He come close to it, Ed. Nugget went dead crook.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, some time before Nugget bought his Savage.”
“Then don’t you think that Nugget would be reluctant to sell a Winchester to the blacks? It was, I think, Newton who said Nugget said the abos shouldn’t be allowed to have rifles.”
“Then probably Nugget’s still got his Winchester. Mind you, I’m not sure about it. I’ll make the tea. He could have given it to Mary. You know, or perhaps you don’t, Mary’s his wife’s sister. Good-looking young lubra about twenty-five. She’d have to run like hell if I caught her in the open.”
“She might shoot you.”
“She might at that. Got the name for being a good shot.” Needle pondered for a moment, then chuckled before adding: “Still, I’d chance it. Sounds like Jack Levvey’s coming.”
The Lake Frome utility came through the gateway to stop within yards of the camp, and Needle handed over his list. Levvey waved to Bony. Three male aborigines in the back were silent among themselves, but they watched only Bony as the vehicle drew away on the track to Quinambie.
Chapter Eleven
The Playful Aborigines
IT WAS mid-afternoon when the day darkened. For several days there had not been a cloud in the sky, and now Bony looked up expecting to see the sun wearing a mask. The sun shone brilliantly as usual, but the daylight had waned. It was not due to a change of country, as so
metimes happens when one passes from open bluebush to dead herbal rubbish amid box trees growing on grey flats.
Bony was walking beside his Fence, the nose-line of the leading camel slung from an arm, the bell of the rear animal tolling its rhythmical tune. The day was normal, the surroundings now familiar and nothing seemed out of place. There was a post needing replacement, and Bony put his camels down, felled a mulga, removed the rotted post from the wires, erected the new post and wired it into position. The operation cost thirty minutes of time.
This job done, Bony leaned against the hump of the Frome Monster, and fashioned a cigarette. The day continued brightly but it had not recovered its normal stereoscopic brilliance. Shadows were as sharply outlined as usual, and yet there seemed to be a pervading shadow over everything in this normal world.
Thoughtfully and unhurriedly Bony smoked his cigarette, and having done so he stubbed out the remaining ash and pocketed the butt. The effect of the change of light was certainly in himself. It was not dissimilar to an abrupt attack of mental depression. It could be due to a threatening stomach disorder, but there was as yet no feeling of such a physical upset as might be occasioned by the bore water. He had to recognize the possibility of mental disturbance.
Once again on patrol, automatically noting the passage of the endless Fence, Bony pondered on the probability that the aborigines had begun their opening move. Somewhere amid these vast spaces in which one human being would occupy ten square miles or more, a man, or two men, perhaps three, would be squatting over a very small fire. They would be old men long past the age when they would be expected to be physically active in the conduct of the tribe, men having been inducted into secrets handed down for a thousand generations and skilful in practices which only fear of the white man’s law and the way of life had but recently blunted.
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