Bony - 29 - The Lake Frome Monster

by Arthur W. Upfield

  On a skyline rose a pointed object, and the object was moving towards Bony’s tree, rapidly becoming larger. Bony bunched his knees, raised his body to stand hard against the tree trunk. Then in the faint starlight the object was about to pass the tree.

  Like the old man of the sea Bony jumped on the man’s back and planted his hands about the fellow’s neck, thumbs at the back. The smell betrayed the aborigine, who emitted a startled shout of fear. The bell clattered and the hobble chains rattled as the camels sprang to their feet, the silence of the night shattered.

  The aborigine heaved and twisted, and Bony’s thumbs sank into the nerves at the back of the man’s head. The victim bent forward, slewed his head, twisted his neck, but the pressure increased, and the fingers tightened about the throat, but not to the point of cutting off breath. The victim remained conscious enough to experience the frightful agony flaring through his brain.

  Hobble chains rang like steel on an anvil. Great padded feet thudded upon the ground. A low rumbling roar of diabolic fury ruled the night and the pressure about the aborigine’s neck was suddenly released.

  “Up the tree!” Bony shouted. “Fast, you swine. The Monster’s on us.”

  Instinctively, the aborigine leapt for a branch and swung himself up. Just as actively Bony followed him, certain that the Monster’s gaping jaws were but a few inches behind him. The red uvula would be fully extended, and from the mouth half-digested cud would jet. Again came the roar of anger, and this ended in a squeal of frustration. The tree shook as the heavy body pounded the trunk in relentless fury. The branch to which the aborigine and Bony clung shivered and creaked, and both waited for the assault to cease, with the hope that the Monster would fail to uproot the cabbage tree. They could see the Monster’s shape as he circled it.

  “That,” Bony said, “is the Lake Frome Monster. Now I know what they say about him is true. But it must have been your tribe who tortured him so that he goes berserk from time to time. I’ve a mind to knock you off your perch so that you can argue it out with him. I will, too, if you don’t talk. What’s your name?”

  He could see the white of the man’s eyes and the glint of white teeth in a mouth grinning with fear. The Monster was moaning, now less angry. It could wait, and would.

  “Come on! Who are you?” Bony demanded.

  “Quinambie feller. Boss said look for cattle. I was only going home.”

  “Liar. Looking for cattle without a horse. Looking for cattle in the middle of the night. How are you called? Out with it, or I’ll smash you off the branch.”

  “I wasn’t doing any harm,” the aborigine almost whim­pered.

  “No! Only going to move my camels four or five miles. Last night a lubra did it. The Monster likes women but doesn’t like aborigines looking for cattle in the dark. I asked your name.”

  The fellow became mute, and Bony reached for a higher branch and stood on the one he had been sitting on. He said:

  “I’ll kick you off if you don’t answer or if you attempt to shift your possie. The Monster’s still down there, in case you have forgotten about him!”

  The Monster was certainly still below, and he wasn’t merely scratching himself against the tree. Old George’s bell clanged now and then, telling that he was an interested onlooker.

  “Well?” Bony persisted.

  “I’m Luke,” replied the aborigine. “I was out looking for cattle. The boss sent me as I said. I got tossed off me horse when I wasn’t thinking, and it was getting late and the horse cleared off from me, the bastard.”

  “And you were just walking home?”

  “That’s right, Ed. You are Ed, ain’t you?”

  “I am so. Where did you say the horse tossed you?”

  “Down south opposite the Number Four Bore.”

  The stars said it was past midnight. Had Luke been bucked off his horse at sundown he would have been farther on than Bony’s camels and this comforting cabbage tree. More likely than not he would have holed up at dark and waited until break of day before continuing his journey to the homestead. As for the yarn about looking for cattle, it could be checked when next Bony went in for rations.

  Time passed slowly and presently the abo balanced him­self on his branch to use both hands to roll a cigarette. Leaning against the higher branch, Bony adopted the idea, and when he had consumed the cigarette he thought that the Monster was losing some of his sting. Old George lay down again, and they could hear the soft gurgle as the Monster periodically brought up a mouthful of cud. Now he was leaning hard against the trunk like a drunk against a street veranda post.

  The abo made another cigarette, and Bony sat on the branch to see his face when the match was ignited. It was the face of a young man, and it would not be forgotten, nor would his tracks when Bony examined them in the morn­ing. They sat a while in silence before the aborigine said:

  “Where did you pick up that mad camel?”

  Bony explained the circumstances, adding:

  “All he wanted from me was the company of my camels. He’s got it, and we’ve got him.”

  “How long do we stay here?”

  “Until the Monster becomes hungry and wanders off for a feed. You can then dash off from tree to tree, and heaven help you if he catches you in the open. He can travel faster than a truck: hobbles and all.”

  “Why the hell did you bring him this side of the Fence?” complained the aborigine somewhat bitterly.

  “To keep lubras and bucks like you from taking my camels at night.”

  “I wasn’t going to take ’em off. I told you so. How d’you know a lubra took ’em?”

  “I can track, stupid. Her feet were bare. It could have been that young lubra with Nugget. I’ll know when I see her tracks again.”

  Now and then the aborigine eased himself on the branch and the Monster lay down. It was a long night and at last quite peaceful, but every night has an end and when the dawn was advanced the camels did what Bony anticipated they would do.

  Old George discovered that his cud was too dry to chew, and thus he stood and began to shuffle in his hobbles to the camp in the hope of a drink of suddy water. The Monster moaned and stood looking at him. He left the tree by a couple of yards and then came back to it in a hurry. Rosie yawned, grunted and stood, and moved off on Old George’s tracks. The Monster could not permit himself to be left alone and followed her, and soon all three had disappeared into the scrub.

  “Now’s our chance,” said the aborigine.

  “Better wait a few minutes, then don’t forget to look behind you,” Bony advised. “Meanwhile, tell old Moses and Charlie the Nut from me that moving my camels at night is going to be tough on them. I don’t like it, tell them. It annoys me and when I’m annoyed I can be just as rough as the Monster. Now get going, and travel fast.”

  “You go to hell,” Luke said, but waited until he had dropped to the ground before he said it. He gazed about cautiously, and then sprinted. Bony jumped down and unlimbered his cramped muscles before going after his camels.

  He found them at the camp. Rosie and the Monster were feeding, and Old George was standing with splayed hind legs waiting for his two pannikins of water. The Monster took no notice of Bony. Having washed as best he could with the meagre ration, Bony ate a breakfast of salt beef and hard damper, the last crust of which he took to the Monster.

  It ought not to be thought that the camel is an endearing animal, nor can it be said of it that, as the ship of the desert, it is man’s closest friend. Like the cat to which it is allied, it cannot be conquered, but like the elephant it can be tamed to undertake certain chores. With patience it can be “broken” to carry a rider, to work in harness with another to draw a buckboard, to carry a heavy load all day. Not being a utility beast it is best when specialized work is required of it.

  The Lake Frome Monster was obviously a beast of burden, but he was a powerful animal where Rosie was light, was older, and was a creature of habit. Bony now needed a steed of stamina. He neck-roped
Rosie and Old George each to a tree and put the Monster down beside the riding saddle. The Monster was not amused. He fidgeted, he sniffed at the long iron saddle. He pretended that ants annoyed him and he wanted to stand. Sternly “hooshed” down, he absurdly attempted to move forward on his knees. So Bony roped him down and forcefully thrust the saddle over his hump and tightened girth and belly band.

  The rope binding his bent foreleg then had to be removed, whereupon the Monster attempted to stand and was compelled to lie down. Bony gently placed a foot in the stirrup, and before any weight could be added the camel leapt to its feet in a fraction of a second. You cannot con­quer a cat, ’tis said, but you can partially conquer a camel by wearing him out before you are worn out.

  Bony put him down again, and again put gentle weight on the nearside stirrup. Thus it went on—up and down—and before each rebellion the weight of the man’s foot was slightly increased. For the foot to be caught in the stirrup when that lightning leap upward was made would have meant a broken leg or lesser injury. Eventually, Bony was able to put all his weight on the foot and to dance with the free one, and ultimately he swung the free leg across the saddle and was seated when the astounded Monster was on his feet and wondering how he had been tricked.

  The Monster laid back his cat ears and attempted to bite his rider’s leg. Bony threatened to kick his teeth in. Nor­mally polite, Bony called him a dirty brown bastard. Such epithets as swine, cur, mongrel, etc., would have been mis­placed as pussy cat. Having won with patience he waited for the next phase of rebellion, were such to come, and after five minutes of quiescence he rolled a cigarette. The Monster looked foolish meanwhile. One of the oldest domesticated animals, the camel is swift to surrender.

  The cigarette consumed, Bony gently jerked the nose-line to the right, whereupon the Monster turned in that direc­tion and proceeded without argument. Back at the cabbage tree where he had perched most of the night, Bony circled it and picked up Luke’s booted tracks, thus beginning a long day of tracking in reverse.

  Luke had been truthful when he said he had been thrown from his horse. About a mile from where Bony had made his camp, a succession of deep hoof marks in the sand showed that the horse had reared suddenly as if suddenly frightened and then commenced to buck. Luke had ob­viously been no match for his steed in these circumstances and a larger indentation in the loose sand showed where he had first come to earth in a manner not approved by the Equestrian Association.

  Bony recalled that sound travels a long way on a still night and maybe one of the Monster’s intermittent bellows on settling down may have been too much for the horse.

  Bony, who did not yet trust the Monster sufficiently to dismount, pulled his head sharply round and continued to follow the horse’s tracks. These did not lead directly towards Quinambie homestead, but appeared to be tracing a parallel course to the Fence and roughly, as far as Bona­parte could judge, the direction of the section of the Fence which was then cared for by Nugget.

  The sun was now high in the sky and Bony began to wish that he had brought his water-bottle. He had expected the horse’s tracks to lead him directly to Quinambie, where he had half-hoped to be able to force a showdown with the aborigines. Bone-pointing by stealth having been circum­vented, they were obviously still prepared to go to extreme lengths to discourage his further stay in that area. En­grossed in his thoughts he suddenly noticed that the tracks had entered a fairly dense bush of swamp gums and low-growing scrub. Here the tracks were less easy to follow and in a clearing it appeared as if the tracks of Luke’s horse had met those of another horse. Bony suddenly pulled his camel to a halt. Just as he did so, there was a sharp “splat” and the whine of a ricochet as a bullet hit the swamp gum near him a glancing blow and whined off into the distance. Almost simultaneously, Bony heard the sound of the rifle itself.

  There was now no question of whether Bony could afford to dismount from the Monster. He flung himself almost headlong from the saddle and darted behind the swamp gum, at the same time reaching inside his shoulder holster for the ·45 revolver which some sixth sense had made him buckle on for the first time earlier that day. There was no sound, except for the Monster, who, enjoying this unex­pected freedom, was busily chewing some rough herbage which he had found among the trees, and the occasional bird noises that came from the clump where he was shelter­ing. Bony cautiously worked his way from tree to tree until he had reached the outside section of the clump. He saw then that maybe a quarter of a mile away was another and a larger bush which extended for perhaps half a mile parallel to the Fence. Obviously, his silent assailant had vanished into this timber. Bony watched for a while but there was no movement and no further shot. He did not believe for a moment that an expert marksman bent on killing him would not have been able to pick up his move­ments in the timber and be in position for another shot. It seemed obvious that as he had not heeded the previous warnings this was intended to be a sterner one. Bony took it for exactly what it was, a direct and uncompromising threat that if he continued to put his nose into matters concerning Maidstone’s murder, he himself would wind up equally dead. Bony kept his revolver in his hand while he worked his way back to where the Monster was still uncon­cernedly grazing.

  Whether the heat of the day had sapped the Monster’s capacity for sheer hellishness, Bony did not know. At any rate, he allowed himself to be caught and mounted with the minimum of fuss. Bony cautiously circled round and first followed the tracks which had been made by Luke’s horse. Shortly after the meeting with the other horse, and once clear of the belt of trees, they turned directly towards Quinambie Station. Bony followed them for about a mile until this became obvious and then retraced his steps to where Luke’s horse had been joined by the other and unknown horse. This was much more interesting. Luke, at best, was only a pawn in this dangerous game someone was playing, and just how dangerous and how high the stakes were Bony had yet to find out.

  After the meeting with the other horse, the tracks of the horse ridden by the unknown rider headed directly towards the Fence. Bony followed these tracks, giving a reasonably wide berth to any clump of trees which could shelter a gunman, and after going up a fairly steep rise he suddenly stopped the Monster dead in his tracks. There, not three hundred yards away, was the hut which was Nugget’s headquarters for the section of the Fence which he had to patrol! The slab hut appeared to be deserted and only a wisp of smoke coming from the galvanized-iron chimney indicated that it had been recently occupied. There was no sign of Nugget or the lubras and Bonaparte could not see any horse. Bony sat on the Monster in silent thought for a minute and turned and headed slowly back towards his camp.

  As he rode thoughts kept jostling themselves in his mind. Nugget—so many things came back to Nugget. Nugget on his own story had been closer than anybody to Maidstone’s camp on that vital night. Nugget was a member of the Quinambie tribe of aborigines. Nugget was reputed to have had a Winchester rifle before he acquired his much-talked-about Savage. Nugget could easily have been working in conjunction with the cattle duffers. But motive was the thing. What possible motive could Nugget have had for killing Maidstone? Maidstone did not know him. Even if Maidstone’s murder was connected in some way with his photographic activities, the thing just didn’t make sense. Even if Nugget had had a record a mile long, there was no danger to him from Maidstone, even if that unfortunate traveller had taken photographs of him from every angle. As he neared his camp, Bony felt mentally weary. There were too many pieces missing from the puzzle.

  He was now convinced that Maidstone’s death was no accident and that someone had a vital and cogent reason for disposing of him, but so far there was simply no connec­tion between the pieces of the puzzle. Bony had felt up against a brick wall at many times in his previous investiga­tions, but never had he felt so much like a man trying to put a number of little drops of mercury together into a coherent whole. No matter what aspect of the case he touched, the leads seemed to peter out and disappear, just in the ve
ry way that the streams and channels in that part of the world mysteriously disappeared underground in the beat of summer. It was a tired and disconsolate detective who fed and watered his camel on his return to camp.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Glimmer of Light

  BONY WOKE early the next morning. An early-morning breeze was stirring the leaves on the trees round his camp and the chill of the night air still lingered. He brewed him­self some hot tea and suddenly put his cup down and gazed unseeingly into the distance. Maidstone! Maidstone had been the man who was killed and the motive for his killing could only be something that Maidstone had seen, or done, or known—something that presented a threat to the man who took his life. Maidstone—he didn’t know enough about Maidstone. Certainly Maidstone’s actions on his photographic trip had been innocuous enough. It may even have been something that Maidstone did not even realize he knew. The more he thought about it the more Bony was convinced that some at least of the missing parts of the puzzle were centred on Maidstone.

  He also thought over his expected reaction to the bullet that had been fired at him. If he said nothing about it, it would confirm in the minds of the aborigines, and anyone else who was doubtful, that he was in fact a policeman; and the web of silence would descend more firmly than ever. If, on the other hand, he was what he outwardly pretended to be, a workman engaged on the Fence, then such an outrage would bring him hot-foot to report to the nearest authority, who in this case would be Newton, and the story would no doubt be relayed to the police. Bony decided that he had to play the part of the outraged civilian who had been the victim of some grossly-negligent target practice and didn’t like it. He had to see Newton and he had to see if he could find out something else about Maidstone. He recalled that Maidstone had stayed with Joyce at his homestead and if Joyce would co-operate he proposed to go through every word of any conversation Maidstone had had with Joyce. Somewhere—some­how—there must be something that would give him a lead.