The Sands of Windee

by Arthur W. Upfield

  The workers watched them during work, wishing earnestly that one would move across the sun and shield them from its scorching rays. At times it looked as if their wish would be granted, when a cloud was seen moving towards the sun with stately slowness, but always to move round and past it. Not until four o’clock did the many clouds begin to find mutual attraction and drift into huge blue-black masses, within which the shimmer of lightning flickered and thunder rumbled.

  When Bony and his companion returned to the homestead it was to see the arrival of Sergeant Morris and his trooper, both mounted on magnificent police horses. Their advent set up speculative comment among the hands who were preparing themselves for dinner, and the number of the men at Windee that evening was far in excess of that at any other time of the year.

  The two policemen were met by Marion Stanton, astride Grey Cloud. They saluted her and spoke with her, the three horses bunched. Then Marion rode away up along the creek, seizing the opportunity thus early—since later she would have to welcome her guests—to take her daily ride. From the door of his bunk-room Bony smiled, and watched the uniformed men ride to the stockyards, where they left their horses, thence to walk with military stiffness to the station office.

  Having set the match to the gunpowder train, he prepared himself to enjoy the spectacle of the explosion.

  For nearly twenty minutes the office door remained closed. Then emerged Mr Roberts, hatless and carrying a notebook. He moved in his usual deliberate fashion round the house towards his room. For two seconds the angle of the walls concealed him, and when he reappeared Bony saw him pass out of the side wicket-gate, glance back once, and hurry away up the creek.

  A few minutes after that the sergeant and the trooper came out. With significant purposefulness they crossed to the men’s quarters and asked for Bates, the custodian of the Windee plant, and of him required a half or three-quarter inch wire rope. Neither so much as glanced at the amused Bony.

  He watched them accompany Bates to one of the store-huts, and saw the three of them come forth carrying a long length of wire rope, which they took down the curving road leading out over the plain and to Nullawil.

  “Surely they ain’t going to hang Bates,” Withers suggested.

  “Naw, they’re going to put up a swing for the Christmas party,” Ron announced, making motions with a toothbrush.

  “I’ll go along and see what is doing,” Bony said loudly, and proceeded to follow the police party by slipping from tree to tree. He found them stretching the rope across the track, securing it to a tree-trunk on each side so that a car-driver coming to the homestead would see it just before he would be obliged to decelerate in order to get over a fifty-foot stretch of loose sand.

  Facing along the outward track from the rope through the western fringe of creek trees, the vast expanse of plain appeared as though it were a grey patchwork carpet. Vast irregular areas were darkened by the cloud shadows, and between the areas the low salt-bush gleamed and shivered in the mirages. At a great distance, probably ten miles, a slowly mounting cloud of dust appeared stationary. It was, in fact, caused by a rapidly moving automobile.

  “They are coming now,” announced the trooper.

  Morris grunted, and satisfied himself that the blocking rope was securely fixed before he, too, gazed out over the plain. To Bony these preparations for the arrest of Dot and Dash seemed almost absurdly excessive, yet he also foresaw the difficulties that the partners in their truck could raise against mounted men. They had but to see them to drive at and past them and escape. Morris, seeing the danger of frustration or resistance, had cleverly selected a place where the driver of the truck would be obliged to stop, and that place being sandy would prove exceedingly awkward for a man to turn a truck, for, once out of the formed wheel-tracks, it would bog, and before he could reverse out on the hard ground the policeman would be able to board him.

  For no definite reason Bony remained carefully concealed, now a mere onlooker, amused and entranced, his mind busy with speculation as to the various possibilities of his coming arrest.

  The gong for the men’s dinner was struck by Alf the Nark, yet Bony felt it impossible to leave his chosen post of vantage. Bates moved away at its call, but Sergeant Morris halted him, saying that he might need his assistance, and in any case did not wish a crowd to collect there, as assuredly would be the case if it became known what was pending.

  The approaching dust-cloud became appreciably nearer, and it was some five miles away when the waiting men saw a second dust-cloud far beyond it. Separated by four miles, two motors were speeding to Windee, but whether the first was the partners’ truck or the overseer’s car was not known, since the stock-riders at Range Hut were then at the homestead and there was no one at the house in the hills to answer the telephone.

  Now, had not the small pinion-wheel in the differential of the car first seen shed its cog-teeth, subsequent happenings on Windee might have been quite different. The breakdown occurred about one mile from the homestead, and it was signalled to the watchers near the wire rope by the nearer dust-cloud, which suddenly dwindled and vanished. The second machine came on steadily, and with obvious impatience Sergeant Morris rolled a cigarette blindly, his attention fixed on the plain. At that distance it was impossible to tell whether it was the car or the truck which had broken down, but it mattered little, since the passengers by the first would assuredly be brought on by the driver of the second.

  Twenty minutes elapsed. By that time the second machine was quite near the stationary first. Bony then saw that the attention of the sergeant and his trooper was taken by something north of them, and on the edge of the plain. Bates’s round face was alive with interest. Two minutes passed slowly before Bony’s curiosity was allayed.

  Across the plain, from a point above the homestead, there sped a grey horse and a white-dressed rider. The flying hooves sent up a long trail of greyish dust. The animal’s head was low: its rider sat a little crouched forward, a rose-pink veil floating out horizontally behind her head. Riding Grey Cloud, Marion Stanton was rushing towards the disabled car.

  With no uneasiness but a thrill of admiration, Morris watched the beautiful action of the horse and the easy seat of his rider. It was natural to surmise that Marion Stanton, having observed the breakdown, should determine to ride and learn the fault. The significance of Mr Roberts leaving the office before the policemen and hurrying up the creek when Marion Stanton had already ridden that way was not realised till later.

  They saw her reach the stationary machine at the same instant as the second drew up. The two machines, now that the dust-cloud had left them, looked like a pair of black ants, about which tiny objects moved no larger than pinheads. With his keen vision Bony distinguished two people about Grey Cloud. No effort was made to examine the faulty machine, which indicated that the fault was serious and not to be repaired in a hurry.

  Precisely what was going on out there the watchers were unable to decide. Nothing happened for several minutes. Then Grey Cloud moved a little apart. There arose a faint haze of dust. Through the still air Bony’s ears just caught the hum of an engine. One of the machines was moving. A cloud of dust arose and hid it. The dust-cloud became elongated, lengthened as though a destroyer was creating a smokescreen. And the machine that raised the dust was going away from Windee, was racing back to the hills towards Nullawil.

  The grey horse came slowly towards the watchers. Time seemed to drag. Eventually they could see that Grey Cloud carried two riders. Two men moved about the broken-down car. The other car was speeding westward. Bony was delighted. Marion Stanton had warned Dot and Dash of their impending arrest, having been informed of it by Mr Roberts.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The Strike

  VERY SOON it was evident to the waiting men that the riders of Grey Cloud were women, obviously Marion Stanton and Mrs Foster. Beyond them several figures moved about the broken-down car, and later it was learned that these were Harry Foster and the two stockmen,
merely waiting for a station truck to arrive and tow them to the homestead. Why the fur-getters had gone back was a mystery that only the women could solve.

  When a quarter of a mile from the waiting policemen, Grey Cloud was turned off the track on a more direct line to the big house, and Bates was then asked to remove the obstructive wire rope while the sergeant and his trooper went to intercept the riders between the creek and the stockyards. Outside the homestead they met Marion and her companion, who dismounted.

  “How do you do, Sergeant Morris?” Mrs Foster said gaily, with the faintest trace of mockery in her tone.

  “Very well, Mrs Foster. What has happened?” Morris’s voice was sharp. He was visibly annoyed. The flush on Marion’s face, her obvious excitement, aroused his suspicions. Mrs Foster, standing before him and looking up at him, smiled with her mouth but revealed in her eyes a flash of malice.

  “Something went wrong with the differential,” she explained, when Marion had led her horse away. “Naturally we counted on coming along on Dot and Dash’s truck; but when Dot and Dash learned that you were after them they turned tail and fled. Oh, what have they done, Mr Morris?”

  “From whom did they learn we were to arrest them?” the sergeant barked.

  “Why, Marion”—the hard eyes resting for a moment on the white-clad figure near the yards. “You see, Marion rode out to find what was wrong, and happened to mention to Mr Dash that you were here.”

  “Oh she just told them that we were here?”

  “Yes, that’s all.”

  “But a moment ago you said they learned from Miss Marion that we were here to arrest them.”

  “Did I? Well, really, perhaps I should not have said that. I must have imagined it. Do you—what are you arresting them for?”

  “There seems to be a mystery here,” Morris growled. “I cannot understand how Miss Marion came to learn that we wished to arrest Dot and Dash. Rowland, ask Miss Stanton to join us.”

  Across the open space in which they stood a voice roared out for “Mister Roberts”, and, turning his head, Morris saw Jeff Stanton standing on the veranda outside the office door. Waiting for Marion, Morris impatiently looked in the direction of the men’s quarters, to see the bookkeeper hurriedly leave and walk swiftly towards his employer. When Marion came back, he said in his bluff manner:

  “Who told you, Miss Stanton, that we are here to arrest Dot and Dash?”

  Peculiarly defiant, she answered: “Does it matter?”

  “Not much, probably. It matters more that apparently you conveyed a warning to Dot and Dash. Why did you do that?”

  “Really, I hardly know,” Marion told him easily, but with an expression much like that on her father’s face in his grimmer moments. “I rode over to find out what was wrong with the car, and mentioned conversationally that you and Mr Rowland were here. I trust they have done nothing serious.”

  “This is beside the point, Miss Stanton,” Morris objected stiffly. “Doubtless you mentioned the fact without thought that by so doing you were interfering with the course of my duty. Excuse me, I must speak with your father.”

  The two men walked to the office. Little Mrs Foster, slipping an arm through one of Marion’s, told her softly:

  “I am afraid, dear, that I have put my foot in it this time. It was I who told the sergeant you told Dot and Dash about him waiting for them. I am so sorry, but I am so eaten up with curiosity to know what they have done. It was so silly.”

  “Never mind. Sergeant Morris will forgive me some day, I know.”

  They walked over to the main door of the house. Outside the office Sergeant Morris was saying to Jeff Stanton:

  “Your daughter inadvertently warned Dot and Dash that they were wanted, and they have cleared off back. I want to use your telephone to warn all homesteads and neighbouring townships not to supply them with petrol. Have you any idea how much they would have with them?”

  “No idea whatever,” was the gruff answer. “However, not more than a case of eight gallons and what was in their tank. Perhaps Foster could give you a closer estimate.”

  “We must ask him. Whilst I am telephoning, will you loan us a truck and three or four cases of petrol? A driver, too, as neither Rowland nor I can drive, as you know.”

  “You can take my car if you like,” agreed Stanton, unable to offer less.

  “Good. It is far faster than Dash’s truck. The chase will last until their petrol gives out, when probably they will abandon their truck and go on foot. As it is likely that we shall want a tracker, go along, Rowland, and get old Moongalliti.”

  Jeff Stanton and the trooper moved away together when Sergeant Morris entered the office, a general prepared evidently to check every move of the enemy. There was no doubt in his mind that Stanton’s outside estimate of the partners’ petrol supply was fairly accurate. In such case, at the farthest, they would have to replenish within the distance of two hundred miles. His duty was to warn the towns of Wilcannia, Tibooburra, Milparinka, and eight station homesteads that lay within the radius of two hundred miles.

  Eventually Dot and Dash would be forced to abandon their truck, take to horses if they could procure them, to foot if not. He recognized the importance of overtaking them before they left the truck, or as quickly afterwards as possible. Should the thundery conditions culminate in rain, their tracks might well be washed out, and, being experienced bushmen, their complete getaway probably would follow. The telephone engaged him for half an hour and when he had shut off all probable petrol supplies he left the office without a word to Mr Roberts.

  It wanted about an hour to sunset. A mass of blue-black cloud emitted lightning and thunder far to the north, whilst another threatening mass was coming up from the western horizon. Anxiously scanning the sky, Sergeant Morris walked rapidly to the men’s quarters, where he saw Jeff Stanton talking angrily with his men, or rather with Jack Withers, who stood a little in front of them. Stanton’s eyes, when he turned them on Morris, were ablaze.

  “A strike! By Moses, they’ve gone on strike!” he roared, adding, as though it were impossible to believe: “My men have gone on strike, my men, mark you!”

  “What are they striking for?” Morris demanded, not yet realizing how this strike would affect them.

  Stanton threw up his arms in a gesture of helplessness. He was a man incapable of appreciating the causes in face of the devastating effect. He knew full well that incompetent parsimonious Australian employers were always dealing with strikes, but always had he regarded those employers with supreme contempt. He thoroughly believed that strikes were most easily avoidable by treating employees in a fair, straightforward manner, and by paying good wages to good men. Yet here were his men striking when always he had treated them straightforwardly and generously. How his rivals who had hated his methods would have the laugh of him now! The fact of the strike wiped from his mind the reason for Sergeant Morris’s visit.

  “I told my men they could come in for Christmas,” he roared. “Most of ’em are here. I’m providing ’em a flash dinner to-morrow; and now I come along and ask five of ’em in turn to drive my car for you. Ask ’em—ask ’em yourself why they won’t.”

  Jack Withers lounged before the sergeant and the squatter. His poor eyes were almost at right angles, but his mouth revealed the iron will that the eyes tried to conceal.

  “We reckon,” he drawled, “that, seeing as ’ow to-morrow is Christmas Day, the boss oughter recognize that we poor slaves’ as ’elped to make’ is millions, and that extra to the Christmas dinner ’e should make us a momentary [monetary] present, or bonus. We ’ave decided not to do no more work till ’e does.”

  “What utter rot!” Morris barked. “In any case, Jeff is loaning me his car, and I am asking for a driver. I’ll pay the union rates of pay, whatever it is, for overtime and double time. Now, Ron, get out the car, quick.”

  The Englishman shuffled on his feet. “Nothing doing!” he stated emphatically. “I’m no blackleg.”

 
“Well, I want one of you to drive,” the now exasperated policeman snorted. “I’m not concerned with your strike against Jeff Stanton. Any one of you who drives me can’t scab on his mates. Come now!”

  “There ain’t nothing doing,” Withers rejoined slowly. “We ain’t gonna do no more work till we gits that bonus.”

  “Well, damme, what are you aiming I should give you?” roared the old man, thinking far more of the way the affair would smirch his reputation than of obliging Sergeant Morris.

  “Oh!” Withers indolently exclaimed. “Now we’re talking, Jeff. What do you say to five hundred pounds per man?”

  “What!”

  Jeff Stanton’s mouth opened and shut several times. With stunned blankness he looked around him, sub-consciously noting Bony standing apart and looking highly amused, seeing Roberts walking from the office towards them, and the gathering black clouds low in the western sky. Five hundred pounds per man bonus! It was ridiculous. They must all have gone mad, or perhaps it was he who had suddenly lost his wits.

  Then Roberts was close to him saying something about fire and telephones. What was it? Lightning had caused fire in one of the northwest paddocks. Ned Swallow had reported it. Six thousand sheep prisoners in the paddocks. Just telephoned. And then Ron and Evans started racing towards the motor-shed. Two men were running towards the store with Roberts. And Jack Withers was thumping him on the back and yelling:

  “The strike’s off, Jeff. We gotta smother that yer fire in quick order, or we’ll miss our Christmas dinner. And we shan’t be able to spare anyone to drive the sergeant orl over the scenery neither.”

  Then Jeff Stanton came to life.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  “Great Doings!”

  THE EFFECT of Bony’s explosion, deliberately brought about, proved most satisfying to the half-caste detective. From the moment Dot and Dash’s truck turned and rushed across the plain towards the range, Bony lived from second to second. He began to watch, second by second, the actions of certain people governed by the peculiar circumstances he himself had created.