Bony - 21 - Man of Two Tribes

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “There is something I want you to do on your return to Chifley,” Bony said. “Report the date you left me at Mount Singular. Add my last instruction to you, which is to make no attempt to contact me. Address the report to Box SS11, G.P.O., Adelaide. Clear?”

  “Okay,” Easter replied. “About a mile to go, that’s all.”

  The track was now winding over the slight undulations bearing tussock grass, bluebush, currant and tea tree, and above all, the spaced bull-oak and the lesser belar. Cattle country, good cattle country.

  Then the roof of a house appeared above the lower scrub, and eventually sheds and small dwellings.

  The homestead was orderly, conspicuously tidy. About the main house of one storey and wide verandas was a white-painted picket fence, and when the jeep stopped before the main gate they could see the flower beds beyond and blooming rose bushes and water sprinklers which kept the creation alive.

  In accordance with his role, Bony remained standing beside the jeep when Easter passed through the gateway to the front door. Before he could reach it, two women dressed in white appeared round the angle of the house to welcome him with obvious surprise and pleasure. What he said Bony could not overhear, but Easter also played the game right by not mentioning his passenger when invited to enter the house.

  It was now about three-thirty, and Bony smoked two cigarettes and nothing happened. With the nonchalance of the aborigine, he loafed about the jeep and surveyed the place from the main house to the distant stock and horse yards. He could see a lubra taking washing from a line, and several aboriginal children playing under a distant oak. A little brown dog came to make friends with him, and a flock of black cockatoos came and departed with harsh caws.

  Eventually, round the outside of the picket fence came an aborigine, walking with the effortless grace of the true wild man. Fully six feet in height, he was proof of good living. He wore an American-type wind-cheater, dungaree trousers tuckered into short leggings, and elastic-sided boots heavily spurred. A wide-brimmed felt hat completed the outfit.

  Although fifty, he was clean-shaven. On both cheeks were cicatrices denoting manhood, and the hole in the septum through which is drawn the wand of the medicine man when in action told his rank. Over the wide face spread a smile not registered by the large black eyes. White teeth flashed when he said:

  “Missus say for you come in for drink of tea.”

  “All right,” Bony returned, looking shiftily at everything bar those black eyes. “A drink of tea would go good.”

  Set beside Easter, D. I. Bonaparte was never insignificant. Set beside this fat aborigine, William Black felt himself a midget.

  “You Kalgoorlie feller, eh?” probed the guide as they followed the fence.

  “No. Diamantina.” They were passing under a sugar gum, and Bony slipped off his shirt and undervest for the black eyes to feast on the cicatrices he bore on chest and back and upper arms.

  “My father was brother to old Patsy Lonergan,” he explained. “Patsy just died in Norseman. I come along for his camels and gear.”

  He prodded a forefinger into the fat covering the stock­man’s ribs, and they both laughed.

  Chapter Four

  Just Another Homestead

  HAVING been served tea in a tin pannikin and cake by an immense aborigine woman in the men’s meal hut, Bony returned to the jeep where he had to wait for Easter only a few minutes.

  The policeman appeared with the women, and they came together along the iron-hard path made from pounded ants’ nests to stand for a moment, exchanging final messages. At the time Bony didn’t know that these two women were sisters, and there appeared nothing in common to lead anyone to assume the relationship. The elder was large and genial, her eyes being grey and her mouth generous. The other was smaller and slight, her dark hair closely cut. Her eyes were large and intent, and her smile was obviously forced.

  Both in their early thirties, neither wore make-up, and the complexion of both was the work of the sun and the wind. The larger woman asked to be remembered to Mrs. Easter, and the younger then reminded him not to forget the mail, which was odd, because Easter carried the mailbag under an arm.

  These women, especially the younger, reminded Bony of someone he had met, and he was working on the puzzle in a way one does when passing an idle moment, when Easter shook hands formally and emerged from the gate. The women turned back to the house, and Easter came to the jeep into which he stored the precious mailbag.

  “I sowed the wheat,” he said, softly. “The men are out but are expected back any time now. Told the women who you are, or are supposed to be, and your reason for coming.”

  “Good! Take it all right?”

  “Oh yes. Said they thought someone would come some time about Lonergan’s gear, or would write about it. I’ve got that job fixed in mind you want me to do. Anything else?”

  “Having accepted an assignment, my superiors exhibit astonishing impatience for results, Easter. Probably within a week or two you will receive an enquiry concerning me. Treat them kindly, Easter. Say I said, ‘Keep out and stay out.’ ”

  “Or words to that effect.” Easter grinned, knowing that he faced away from the house. Bony removed his swag from the jeep as Easter climbed in behind the wheel.

  That was all. The policeman turned the vehicle and without even a wave of the hand, departed.

  Standing loosely, Bony rolled a cigarette and lit it like the man to whom time means nothing. He was aware that he was under observation, not necessarily by the white women, for whom he would be of little interest, but certainly by the aborigines to whom he wasn’t related, even to the fiftieth degree of tenth cousin, and had no possible totem ties. From now forward he must be William Black.

  Having tossed his swag into a scrub tree, safe from the assault of the homestead dogs when they returned from work, he walked the fifty odd yards to sit on a boulder over­looking the Nullarbor Plain. It was then four o’clock.

  At ease, he gazed outward over the Plain, four hundred feet below. To the south and north were other dark head­lands of this inland coast. Before him was space and sun­light to quicken a man’s imagination, and behind lay the tree shadows, the rolling land and the dunes of white sand to give a sense of security and illusion of his own im­portance, providing comfort after the chill of nakedness imposed by the Plain.

  No wonder the aborigines didn’t like leaving this coast to venture far out on the sea of saltbush. They would want wood for real fires, not brush which makes a passing flash of heat. They would need something material back of them o’ nights so that the Spirit of this land they named Ganba would not steal upon them and breathe cold air between their naked shoulders. Man made only one careless slip in this country; by instinct the aborigines were never careless, and there are white men, but rare, who never make a slip and never are caught by Ganba.

  Old Patsy Lonergan was one of these. He would leave this homestead with two camels and a dog, vanish within Easter’s vacuum, and reappear after weeks to ‘put in’ his dingo scalps and be credited with the bonus. He would repeat this, perhaps three times a year, and on the money enjoy a genuine bender lasting a fortnight or three weeks.

  A foolish man? Of course not! There has to be a balance. If the body is starved it must be saved from death by food. And if the mind is pounded by threats of Ganba, then alcohol is an antidote, to balance the ledger of life, for alcohol is the open sesame to social conviviality so essential for the maintenance of sanity in the victim of solitude.

  It was a pity that his current diary was begun only in the previous January, and that it covered merely the last expedition and that preceding it. Otherwise there might have been further reference to the aircraft he had heard when last at the camp he named Big Claypan.

  He was a bright boy, that real nephew at Norseman who had located the diary. He had nous enough to understand the implication of the old man’s note on the helicopter. His report on the mental state of his uncle, added to that of the local police
man, removed doubt that Lonergan had imagined he had seen it. Aircraft at night over that part of Ganba’s country could have had no legitimate cause, its destination not a homestead, decidedly not a town or city, for none of these are within the vacuum.

  The explosion that diary triggered! The messages and signals, the conferences! Spies sneaking around the back fence to watch atomic tests! As though the spies would be silly enough to leave Canberra where they gain all they want in cosy bars and at official cocktail parties.

  Nonetheless, there was official as distinct from police interest; official interest being entirely confined to the preservation of what is called Security; police interest concerned merely with what had become of a missing person. And the two interests connected only by a sentence in a dingo trapper’s diary.

  A day or two at this homestead might provide a lead from the aborigines. Little escapes their observation. The head stockman had become friendly once he had seen proof of the stranger’s sealing into the unknown tribe in faraway Queens­land. Bony had given nothing of value beyond the ‘fact’ of his relationship to Lonergan, and the purpose of his visit as well as the reason for being so far south of his Queensland tribe. And he had been given nothing of value excepting that the dingoes were not as numerous as some years and that they seemed to be keeping to the areas verging on the Plain.

  Lonergan had owned two camels and a dog named Lucy. His gear and personal effects were still within the hut he always occupied when at the homestead and which he kept locked during his absences. His traps the head stockman knew little about and, with a chuckle quite divorced from humour, he told Bony that if he wanted to locate the traps he’d have to go out and find them. Where? In what direction? Another chuckle. A wave of the hand like a compass needle twitching from a flea bite.

  No mention of a helicopter. But then no mention of the windmills, of the station utilities, of the Melbourne Cup about to be run. Black had asked no questions, not even where he might find his uncle’s traps. Like the ordinary aborigine, William Black metaphorically pulled his forelock to the medicine man.

  He watched Easter’s jeep when it left the ‘coast’ and went to sea, a tiny boat with an outboard engine, producing a short wake of thin dust. Finally all Black could see of it was the tiny dust puff which soon floated away. Seventy miles to Chifley! Just steer and wait for Chifley to come to you.

  When the sun was casting its shadows far out upon the Plain, a slight noise caused Bony to turn and see the large man who was approaching him from the house. He walked with the unmistakable gait of the horseman, and was dressed in the unmistakable fashion of the cattleman, the faint tinkle of his spurs having been the sound to attract William Black.

  “Good day-ee! You Black?”

  Bony stood and with slow and bashful drawl replied that he was.

  “I’m told you are Patsy’s nephew. That right?”

  Black essayed a smile of assent, kicked the dust with a boot, and from a shirt pocket produced the letter from the Norseman lawyer. He was a handsome man, this Weatherby, burned dark by the sun, made strong by the fight to succeed, poised like the man accustomed to giving orders. His dark eyes keenly examined the face of the lesser man, and his mind subconsciously noted the scuffing of the boot, the nervous reaction when in the presence of a superior. Accepting the letter, he broke the envelope and read it slowly as one habitually averse to scanning anything, be it a steer or a letter.

  “All right, Black, you can collect your uncle’s stuff. We don’t want it, of course.” The voice was clear and deep, the accent ingrained by the ‘old’ school. “All Patsy’s things are stored in a hut we let him use. There’s a credit on the books, too. What about that?”

  William Black hesitated, and Mr. Weatherby snapped fingers.

  “Well?”

  “Better let it stay, Mr. Weatherby. The lawyer never said nothing about any money. I can tell him.”

  “All right! Tell him. You had better come to the office for the key to the hut. And before you go, you must make out a list of the things you take. Write?”

  “Yes, Mr. Weatherby.”

  The cattleman moved away, and Black took his swag from the tree and slouched after him to the store building behind the main house. The office was merely a corner of this store, stocked with foodstuffs, machinery parts, drapery, and a hundred other items needed on such a place.

  “Now don’t forget that list, Black,” Weatherby said. “I’ll have it made in duplicate and you can sign one and I’ll sign the other for the lawyer. In the morning I’ll have the boys bring in the camels. The old man pass out comfort­ably?”

  No hint of sympathy. Barely of interest. A hard man this Weatherby who, Bony surmised, was the elder of the brothers.

  Again William Black sniggered, looked at everything save the man at the desk.

  “Drunk as Chloe, Mr. Weatherby.”

  The next question Weatherby put was wholly in order as the subject was the always problematic financial state of a gold prospector. He asked if Patsy Lonergan had left much of an estate, and was neatly informed that the lawyer hadn’t read the will excepting to a daughter and another nephew.

  “H’m! What part d’you come from?” was the question bound to be asked by any intelligent white man, and this one was satisfied with the answer, and didn’t smile when William Black told him that Lonergan had spent several years in Queensland when a much younger man. The dinner triangle was beaten and Weatherby rose from behind the desk, saying:

  “Your uncle was a tough old timer. You know, Black, now I come to think on him, he wasn’t so silly as he made out sometimes. The country got him all right, there’s no doubt about that. It’ll get any man who goes into it alone for weeks and months, and the man who does go out alone prospecting for metals and scalps and suchlike may be a fool, but he’s a damn courageous fool. Now you go along to the men’s quarters for dinner. See you in the morning.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Weatherby,” William Black said respect­fully, and departed.

  Already in the meal hut were several aborigines, including the head stockman, and two half-castes. The head stockman laughed at him, but pointed to the huge aborigine cook, saying:

  “See her, Bill! She’s the cook aroun’ here. Good cook, too, but jus’ nag and nag.”

  There was a general guffaw, and William Black smiled at the lubra, having met her at afternoon smoko. She served him with a great heap of roast beef and vegetables, and laughingly told him to return for more. Indeed a happy race that employs laughter to hide many things, which includes nervousness with strangers.

  They wanted to know where he came from, so he ex­plained where the Diamantina country is, and how he came to travel down to Norseman, and how he was related to Patsy Lonergan. They were genuinely sorry to hear that Patsy had died, and laughed delightedly when he told them that Patsy passed on when ‘as drunk as Chloe’. And Bony knew that this friendly reaction to him was based on the opinion held by the medicine man-cum-head stockman, but they did not accept him as one of themselves and would not have been friendly to the stranger had he intended to seek work with them, or attempt to join their conservative community.

  Following dinner, one of them pointed out Lonergan’s hut, then all of them wandered away to the scrub behind the homestead where doubtless their humpies would be.

  The hut contained but the one room. There was a rough bunk fashioned with poles, to which was stretched hessian bags and bearing on them a hessian mattress stuffed with straw. The late tenant had stowed his camel gear in here and Bony had to carry the pack-saddle and the riding-saddle outside before he could move about. Until it was almost dark he proceeded with the inventory, noting a pair of well-kept leather saddle-bags, a pair of five-gallon water drums, hobbles and noselines, a tucker-box, blankets, old clothes, including an overcoat with silk lapels which must once have been worn by a duke when waiting on Queen Victoria.

  He was lighting a hurricane lantern when a sound at the door brought to notice the wriggling body of a sm
all brown dog of United Nations breed, small bright eyes, and ears which one ancestor had influenced to droop.

  “Who are you?” asked William Black, and the dog entered and jumped to the bunk where she settled and coyly told him she was Lucy.

  Chapter Five

  Millie and Curley

  EARLY the next morning the horse tailer brought in Lonergan’s camels. Actually they were the descendants of the originally imported dromedaries of one hump, but like most words requiring slight effort to pronounce, the shorter and inaccurate designation was ever employed in Australia.

  Millie and Curley were in fine condition, and Bony found them in a high-railed yard, placidly chewing cud, and in their eyes the expression of resignation to more ruddy work. Millie was lighter in colour than her boy friend, and both appeared docile. Millie had her nose-plug in position, but Curley wore a strong leather halter, the ragged hole in his nose telling a story.

  “Had experience with camels, I suppose,” remarked Weatherby, who had approached with his brother to join Bony at the rails. The younger man was slighter than the other, even darker of hair and eyes, and he lacked the out­ward placidity of his brother.

  “Yes,” admitted Bony, and returned his gaze to the camels.

  “They’re quiet enough, but a little tricky. Made the inventory of your uncle’s gear?”

  “Most of it, I reckon. There’s still the traps. The old feller didn’t bring them in.”

  This was met with a silence attributable perhaps to the interest the others had in the camels. Ultimately the younger Weatherby said:

  “As no one knows where old Patsy set his traps, you’ll have to pass them up.”

  “Looks like it,” agreed the older man. “I doubt that the abos even know which way the old boy put down his last trap line. Be out west because that’s where the dogs are this year. Hey! Ringer! Come here.”