Two Resolute Men
SERGEANT KNOWLES appeared as though he had rolled in the mud; which was precisely what he had done, albeit unconsciously. The dark blue tunic was covered with a mass of red-brown clay, his khaki breeches were in a similar plight He had lost his hat.
Apparently the significance of the scene which met his gaze when he opened the door was borne in upon him; for, when he closed the door, he removed his tunic and seated himself in the easy-chair at the dead man’s feet before he spoke. Then:
“Well, that’s that,” he said grimly. “I gave Clair every chance, but he would bolt. Got anything to drink, Dugdale?”
Dugdale covered the face of the dead, kneeling by Clair’s head to do so. Over the body the two men regarded each other. It came dully to the younger man that, if Clair was to have been hanged for killing a black, what a paradox it was that another man should be licensed to shoot him because Clair disliked being hanged.
Rising without reply, he “bulled” the coffee-or, in plain English, added hot water to the coffee remaining in the billy. Bringing a fresh pannikin, he filled it and set it at the sergeant’s elbow on the table.
“You appear to have had a wild time of it,” he said.
“One of the wildest. If you’ve got any aspirin, for the love of Mike give me four tablets in a little water. My head is split right open and the halves are clapping together.”
Dugdale gave him the aspirin, and the policeman, having taken the dose, followed by a few sips of coffee, leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Dugdale found his pipe and tobacco.
Five minutes passed thus. At the sergeant’s feet was a small pool of water that had oozed from his leggings and boots. Although he had removed his tunic he was no drier, for his shirt and vest were soaked. Watching him, Dugdale saw the frown between the eyes fade out and the grey eyes open.
“That’s better,” Knowles sighed. “Clair hit me mighty hard. When did he get here?”
“About three hours ago.”
“Didhe! Well, he walked three miles to get here. Where was he hit?”
“Just above the heart.”
“So! It’s a wonder he got here. Well, I’m sorry he’s dead, and yet I’m not sorry. He died a man’s death, which is better than the law’s death. Is there any coffee left?”
“Half a cup,” Dugdale answered. “Drink it, and I’ll make more and cook you a couple of chops. I’ve no cold meat. I’ll lend you a shirt and a pair of pants, too, if you like.”
“You’re a saint. But first of all I must see to my horse. It’s a great beast that. Waited beside me till I came to. Can’t understand why Clair didn’t take it, unlessPronty wouldn’t betook.”
“What happened?” asked Dugdale.
“By a strange coincidence, both Clair and I were making for this hut of yours. I came on his tracks just this side of theParoo, and just before it started to rain, and when they debouched on to a wide sandy plain I saw Clair in the middle of it. He was on foot and had no chance to get away. When he saw me he made no attempt to get away. He stopped when I called upon him to do so, laying down his swag but still holding a heavy waddy, which he was using as a staff. That I told him to drop, getting off my mount as I said it. I told him to hold out his hands for the bracelets. He did so, and just as I was about to snap them on he lowered his head and rammed me in the middle.
“The force of his head in my solar plexus paralysed me. He began to run. My horse was feeding, drat him! some fifty-odd yards away. I pulled my gun and called to him to stop. He was making for theParro, on the cracked dry bed of which he would have defied me till dark, as my horse could never have faced the ground. You know the kind of place I mean. This was about an area of some ten acres. As he would have beaten me to it and wouldn’t stop, I aimed low, and fired. But, damn it! a policeman isn’t always using his gun. I didn’t allow for the kick-up.
“Clair dropped-I thought dead. Even then I couldn’t stand. I was doubled up for quite three minutes longer. When I was able to straighten up I went over to Clair and, when within a dozen feet of him, he jumped up and threw his waddy at me. There had been plenty of practice behind that throw. I saw the waddy coming at me, and no more.
“When I came to it was dark. Mymoke was still feeding about. I could hear the champing on the bit. Since then I have been circling for hours, so it seemed. Not a blessed star for a guide, and as dark as the tomb. Bit of luck seeing your light.”
Certainly Knowles had been unfortunate. Dugdale knew that he was right when he said Clair could have defied him once he got to that terrible patch of cracked ground on the Paroo bed. No horse could have crossed it, and, had the sergeant followed on foot, leaving his horse, the odds between the two men would have been in Clair’s favour. It was the clumsy way of trying to arrest Clair, or Sinclair, that was impressed on Dugdale.
“Well, I’ll go and unsaddle mymoke. Will he get a feed if I turn him loose just outside?”
“Yes; plenty of grass,” Dugdale informed him.
“Good! But first we’ll move the corpse over there to the back wall. That his clothes?”
The younger man nodded.
With the dead man covered from sight and removed farthest from the fire, the policeman went out into the rain once again. Dugdale heard him call to his mount, heard the animal whinny a reply. He put on a fresh billy of water and went to the meat-safe for the chop. And, while he was cutting off sufficient for a meal for them both, he remembered Clair’s injunction to take his wallet also to Mrs Thornton.
While he held the wallet in one hand and the coat in the other, Sergeant Knowles re-entered the hut.
“You’ve no business to touch those clothes,” he said sharply.
“I am taking from them what Clair told me to take,” came doggedly from Dugdale.
“Then you can’t. What is there belongs to the law. Give the wallet to me.”
Knowles advanced a step. Dugdale slipped behind the table.
“What the devil is the matter with you?” demanded the policeman. “You can’t have that. Clair’s possessions become the property of the State until they can be handed to his lawful heirs.”
“I am sorry, Knowles,” replied Dugdale, with paling face. “But with almost his last breath Clair gave me certain instructions about the wallet, and I promised to carry them out; as I shall do.”
Knowles measured his host grimly. He saw the determination in Dugdale’s jaw. Yet his duty was plain. As the representative of the law, he must take possession of the dead man’s effects.
“I’m in no condition for a brawl, Dugdale,” he said. “Don’t be a fool. Give up that wallet and let’s eat. I’m famished.”
“We’ll eat, certainly-but I keep the wallet.”
“All right: have it, then.”
Knowles slipped to the door, locked it, and pocketed the key. Without haste he approached the table, seized the lamp, extinguished it and placed it on the mantelpiece.
“Now, Dugdale, for the last time, give me that wallet,” he said savagely. Across the table, their faces lit by the ruddy glare of the fire, they faced each other, both equally resolute. Then, nearly as quick as light, the sergeant sprang on the table to vaultit, and at the same instant Dugdale dived beneath it and suddenly straightened, heaving upward table and policeman on his back.
The capsizing table upset Knowles’ balance a split second before his hands left it to follow his flying body. Instead of landing on his feet, he fell flat on his back, his head thudding on the carpet.
Dugdale, free of the table, jumped round to meet the next charge. The table stood on its edge. Two seconds passed and Sergeant Knowles did not appear. Slowly, cautiously, the young man edged round the wall to a point where he could see beyond the table. His nerves were taut with excitement; he was prepared fully to fight to the last gasp to retain the wallet and carry out Sinclair’s instructions.
And then the strain snapped and he could notforbear a laugh. It had been so absurdly easy. The argument had ended before
it had properly begun. Yet he must be careful. A picture of Clair shamming death till his pursuer was near him came to Dugdale. Perhaps the sergeant was shamming, too.
First he must have more light. Reaching up behind him he took down the lamp, and, setting it on the ration heap, lit it without taking his eyes off his adversary.
The policeman lay quite still, his eyes closed. He hardly breathed, and Dugdale sighed with relief at finding he was breathing, for he had conceived a horrible fear. His subsequent actions were almost mechanical. The idea dominating his mind was the fulfilment of Sinclair’s mission. What the dead man had written and what documents his wallet held Dugdale felt were no concern of his, but he had come to understand that Clair’s death and Mrs Thornton were inexplicably mixed up, and that it was of vital importance to the Little Lady that she should be placed in possession of the wallet and letter as quickly as possible. That being the case, his course was as clear as daylight.
From the sergeant’s tunic he secured the shining hand-cuffs. Then he took a chance. He dragged the insensible man to the open space before the fire and handcuffed him by one wrist to the heavy easy chair he had made with heavy cut timber and wire. It was a piece of furniture not to be moved with ease. Still, as a further safeguard, he lashed the sergeant’s feet securely against the long fire-poker, which served as a splint and would prevent him from drawing up his legs to release himself with his one free hand. And that done, Dugdale proceeded to revive him.
Knowles was a sick man when he came to, and Dugdale made him as comfortable as the circumstances permitted with rolled blankets and his pillows.
“You’llbe wanting more aspirin,” he said, overdosing the groaning, swearing man.
“By Heaven, Dugdale! You’ll suffer for this. You must be mad about the wallet. It can do you no good. In fact, you’ll get jail for it for sure. I’ll see that you do; you can leave that to me.”
“It doesn’t matter much what you do-after I have carried out Sinclair’s commission.”
“Sinclair? You mean Clair.”
Dugdale moved the lamp and held Sinclair’s confession for the sergeant to read.
“Sinclair told me to give you that,” he said. “You’ll find it on the table when I’ve gone.”
Leaving Knowles then to recover fully from the effect of his second head blow, the younger man grilled chops and made coffee. The sergeant’s portion he cut up and fed to him with a fork, not daring to loosen the manacled wrist.
Knowles made an effort to eat. Dugdale ate more than he required, for he wanted a reserve of strength. It was then about four in the morning.
At five he went out for his horse, which he brought back and saddled. The policeman’s horse followed, the two animals remaining quietly outside whilst Dugdale made his simple preparations. First he made sure of the wallet, and in it he placed the letter, the wallet finding a safe depository in an inside coat-pocket.
“You seem determined to go the whole hog,” observed Knowles, watching him with hard eyes. “Don’t be a fool, Dugdale, and serve a period in jail. Release me and hand the wallet over, and I’ll cry quits.”
“Sorry,” came briefly from Dugdale. He placed a suit of spare linen on the table, together with a clean towel. “There is water to wash in the bucket here,” he said. “Here you’ll find some dry things. Over in the safe is meat and damper-help yourself.” For a moment they regarded each other grimly. “You may jail me, Knowles, as I expect you will,” the young man went on. “In fact, you may do your damnedest-it cannot be helped; but I would have you understand that what I have done regarding the wallet, and what I am going to do, benefits me personally in no way whatever. You’ve hunted Sinclair and you’ve got him. You should be satisfied, and not try to frustrate his last wishes regarding his property.”
“I do what is my duty, and I shall continue to do it.”
“Of course you will, Knowles,” Dugdale told him, taking from the policeman’s tunic the key of the handcuffs. “Here is the key to your release. I expect you will try to overtake me, but you’ll be wasting your time, as I ride one of the fastest horses in the west.”
Dropping the key beside the sergeant’s free hand, Dugdale went outside and vaulted into the saddle to start off on the wildest ride of his life.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Crossing the Paroo
DUGDALE RODE Tiger, the deep-chested, powerful-loinedgrey gelding, at an easy canter. At the least he had nine or ten minutes’ start of Sergeant Knowles, and was confident that, should the policeman overhaul him, he could keep well ahead. His plan was to cross the Paroo directly east of his hut, and, when through the boundary of his block and on Barrakee Station territory, to strike north-east to Thurlow Lake homestead, a distance of about forty-five miles. He calculated that Mr Watts would willingly loan him a good mount for the remaining fifty miles to Barrakee homestead.
This route, doubtless, he would have altered had he known that Sergeant Knowles, instead of pounding after him, rode south of Eucla for twelve miles, to a hut where he knew there was a telephone. For the sergeant of police was no fool. He knew his district thoroughly. Therefore it was easy for him to deduce the fact that Dugdale was making for Thurlow Lake by following his tracks for a mere mile. Also he realized that he was in no way fit for a gruelling pursuit Indeed, he was a very sick man.
The rain had stopped, though the sky was still overcast and threatening. The clay-pans were full, the hard places treacherous and like greasy boards, so Dugdale rode circumspectly, choosing the softer, drier ground of the sand ridges. Constantly glancing behind, he came at last to the wide circular plain in which Sinclair’s encounter with Knowles had taken place, and, passing across this, mounted to the summit of the mulga ridge bordering the Paroo.
The Paroo is like no other river in the world. It has no defined channel other than a strip of flat grey-black country varying in width from half a mile to three miles. Only once during the memory of the white man has the Paroo run the whole of its course. This was the second time. Subjected to mere local rains, the creeks draining the surrounding country empty their water into the Paroo, where, after running a little way, it disappears down the wide erratic cracks. Someplaces, notably that to which Sinclair tried to escape, are so criss-crossed by cracks a foot wide and many yards deep onrubbly subsiding ground that no horse could possibly cross them. The cracks scar all the remainder of the flat ribbon of river country in lesser degree, and anywhere where stock cross they have made a beaten track.
At the point opposite that where Dugdale rode over the sand ridge there was one such pad, a few hundred yards above the place where Sinclair had thought to defy Sergeant Knowles. It was the pad both he and the sergeant had used the day before. Now it was covered with water.
The young man reined in and gasped. Whilst he knew that the flood down the Paroo was approaching, he was astounded to see that already it was between him and Thurlow Lake. Slowly, irresistibly, it was moving down to join the floodwaters of the Darling.
How far down was the head of it? Would he have to ride forty miles to cross by the bridge three miles above Wilcannia? Aghast, he turned his horse south, and followed the stream. Two miles down he was halted by a creek discharging a bank-high stream of reddish water from the clay-pans a few miles westward, water accumulated by the rain of the last night and not by the general flood rains of a few weeks earlier. The chances were that the creek waters would fall in five or six hours-but the Paroo water would be rising.
“Tiger, old man, you’ve got to swim,” Dugdale remarked to his restive mount. The creek banks were steep, but where the flow entered the flat country they shelved away into gentle slopes. The current was strong, and the horse objected to entering it; yet there was no time to be lost in gentle persuasive methods. Dugdale dismounted and cut himself a switch.
Only after punishment from switch and spurs did the grey abandon his resistance and sidle into the rushing torrent. He whinnied with fright when swept off his feet, but swam gamely while bein
g swept out into the broader stream of the Paroo. With voice and rein his rider urged him towards the same side of the Paroo as the creek, well knowing that once in the Paroo proper the water would be only a foot or two in depth, but the grey black bottom would be almost as bad as a quicksand.
Even as it was, when the horse, having swum the creek stream, found bottom on semi-black soil and sand, it was only with difficulty that it reached dry land. After that Dugdale rode at a hand-gallop for four miles, and then, crossing a sand-pit at a wide bend, he gave an exultant shout; for there, but half a mile ahead, was the edge of the creeping flood.
The edge of the flood consisted of a floating mass of logs, boughs, and sticks, branches of trees and rubbish. Even from the shore he could see that the mass was crawling with snakes, bulldog-ants, goannas, lizards, and even rabbits. It was being carried along at about four miles an hour.
He rode on a further mile. The main course there was a little more than a mile across-dry ground, butrubbly and soft from the recent rain. Was it possible to cross before the flood travelled that one mile? He thought not, and rode on.
For another half-mile he cantered, deciding to cross where a dead box-tree stood at the point of a wide bend; but when he reached the tree he pulled up sharply, for, beyond it, the Paroo bed was covered with water, which, whilst mainly flowing down, was also creeping up to meet the main flood.
Dugdale knew then what was happening, and what he would have to face if he attempted to cross between the two masses of water. The main flood was flowing through the cracks, deep below the general surface. Somewhere below him the subterranean stream had met an obstacle in the shape of a sand-bar, and, being unable to pass, was rising up the cracks to the surface. In very short time the dry ground opposite would be covered by the rising water and the meeting of the main with the subsidiary flow. If he was to cross, he must cross instantly.
He was fully aware of the risks he ran. He knew that when the water in the ground cracks rose to a certain distance from the surface, the surface would dissolve in mud exactly as sugar dissolves in tea. If that occurred whilst he was crossing, his horse would be inevitably bogged and he himself likely enough to be bogged as well, and finally overwhelmed by the water while stuck fast. Yet these risks were dismissed from his thoughts almost as soon as they occurred. Sinclair’s urgency for the letter and wallet to be delivered to the Little Lady as quickly as possible was sufficient spur to one who almost worshipped her.
The Barrakee Mystery b-1 Page 20
