Death of a Lake

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Then with slow deliberation of all movement, which is the greatest weapon in the breaker’s armoury, he opened a gate to an inner yard. A bay filly made a hesitant step forward, hoping that through that gate lay freedom. A black sister nudged her, and as one the fifteen sprang for it. Twelve got through before the gate barred three.

  With the patience of a row of Jobs, the rail-sitters watched for thirty minutes Bony merely sauntering after those three horses, round and round the yard walls. They could hear his tongue clicking, and the seemingly careless slapping of hand against a thigh, and they watched as the three animals slowly tired and became bored with this seemingly endless roundabout.

  When Bony finally stood in the yard centre, the three horses also stilled to watch him, ears thrust forward, nostrils quivering. He moved quietly towards them, talking softly, and they stiffened and shivered and whistled through pinklined nostrils. Then they would break and rush to another corner. The watchers lost count of the number of “tries” before one horse stood, forefeet braced, nostrils flaring, muscles trembling, and waited for man’s next movement.

  Bony walked to this horse, his eyes upon the eyes of the horse, his voice low, crooning, himself creating the impression of irresistible power. The horse became as of hewn marble. The gap between it and the man narrowed till but two feet separated them. The horse couldn’t back, for the yard wall was hard behind it; it could lunge forward, but it didn’t dare. Instead, it brought its soft muzzle towards the man, and its body seemed to lean forward over the braced forelegs.

  “He’s hypnotizing the bastard,” hissed Lester to the overseer, and Martyr ignored the comment.

  Bony’s right hand rose slowly to touch the animal’s jaw. The horse shivered violently. The human hand slid from the jaw to the rippling shoulder muscles, and the watchers witnessed fear die away and muscles gradually calm. They saw Bony patting the shoulder, slip a hand under the horse’s throat, pass up the arched neck to the ears. Then Bony slowly turned his back to the horse, remained in that position for half a minute before walking away.

  The second horse proved more difficult, but the third was like the first, and finally Bony climbed the rails to sit beside the overseer, and roll a cigarette. No one spoke. Having applied a match to the smoke, Bony said:

  “You have a handy paddock for the mokes?”

  “Yes. What do you think of them?”

  “Passable. I’d like the lot taken out to the paddock and yarded again this afternoon.”

  “Why?” asked Martyr. “You’ve got ’em for the day, haven’t you?”

  “I want them to become used to yarding without rebellion. I want them to become so accustomed to these yards that they will never give trouble when being driven to any yard. And I want to handle them so that they will stand while I climb over them, under them, all round them. They have to be quiet before I ride them, because I’m no buck-jumper rider. I don’t break a horse, I train him.”

  “All right, if that’s the way you want it.”

  “Thanks. You might ask your riders to leave their whips behind. There’s too much noise, too much excitement. Later, I’ll get them used to a whip cracking against their ears.”

  Martyr ordered Carney and MacLennon to return the youngsters to the paddock and to bring them to the yards again after lunch. Lester seemed inclined to remain, and was told to get on with his chores. Alone, Martyr said:

  “Haven’t seen you in this district before.”

  “First time I’ve been down this way. The Diamantina’s my country.”

  “Oh. Then why come?”

  Bony chuckled.

  “Woman trouble,” he said, and from Martyr’s nod knew he had been accepted.

  Chapter Five

  Below Surface

  AT THE CLOSE of his first week as horse-breaker, Bony knew he had successfully “edged” himself into this small community, and further, he was confident that there were strange undercurrents in this community, opposed to him and to two other men ... Kurt Helstrom and Earle Witlow.

  Helstrom, always addressed as Swede, was grey and tall and long-jawed. He had a strong sense of humour which he himself appreciated most and it made no impression upon his ebullient nature when others appreciated it not at all. He preferred the company of Earle Witlow to anyone else’s and it appeared that Witlow liked the Swede. Witlow, much younger, looked much older, for he was a sun-dried raisin of a man who spoke but rarely to anyone other than Helstrom.

  The others, that is Lester, Carney and MacLennon, for the two aboriginal stockmen were quite apart, while not openly hostile to each other were bound by an invisible cord which would have been accepted by anyone less intuitive than Bony as the clannishness of old employees.

  Witlow had been employed at Porchester Station for four years, but at Lake Otway for only the last seven months, and the Swede had been put on the pay-roll eight months back. Neither had been at Lake Otway when Ray Gillen came, or when Gillen was drowned. Lester had been working on Porchester for fifteen years and he had gone to the city every year for a spell, but not after Gillen had come to Lake Otway. MacLennon’s service had begun three years ago, and Carney had ridden paddocks about Sandy Well for two years before being transferred to the out-station shortly after Lake Otway had been born.

  Lester and MacLennon and Carney had been working here when Gillen vanished that moonlit night. That was fifteen months back, and not one of them had left the place for a spell since then. One man of several working under such conditions of isolation might decide not to take a spell, his ambition to knock up a good cheque, but it was rare enough to be an oddity for three men to work more than a year without a holiday.

  The same tag applied to the Fowler women. They had come to Lake Otway shortly after its birth and had remained ever since without once leaving the out-station. Like the men, they bought their clothes per mail-order, but, being women, it was a trifle odd how they had so long resisted the shops.

  There was another matter to spur speculation. The two women, the three men and Barby, the cook, were much more concerned by the coming death of Lake Otway than seemed normal, certainly more so than Witlow and the Swede, and when Bony coloured the known facts concerning Gillen with impressions gained during this first week breaking horses he felt that the death of Lake Otway could coincide with the climax of a drama which began when Raymond Gillen came.

  He had had no further opportunity to probe Red Draffin, as Draffin had returned to the main homestead the day after he brought Bony and the load to the Lake. Draffin had certainly voiced suspicions, but it had been to a casual worker who would not long remain, concerning especially the suitcase and contents belonging to the vanished Gillen. In view of the fact that it was officially believed that Gillen possessed twelve thousand odd pounds in notes of low denominations. Draffin’s remarks about the “tide” having ebbed in that suitcase appeared significant.

  As Bony had foreseen, this was not an investigation wherein he could bamboozle suspects with questions and hope to bring out the solution with the slickness of city detectives backed by willing informers. Actually he had but one problem: to establish Gillen’s fate, which, because of the nonlocation of twelve thousand pounds, cast grave doubt that the man’s fate had been accidental drowning.

  Seven people were here when Gillen vanished, and those seven people were still at Lake Otway, including George Barby, who was only twenty-six miles distant and who wanted to return for the trapping.

  Twelve thousand pounds is quite a sum. No bank held it in safe keeping, it being reasonable to assume that as Gillen came into possession of the money lawfully there would have been no cause for him to have banked the money in an assumed name. It was also reasonable to assume that Gillen would have done something about it had it been stolen from him. Thus, until proved otherwise, it must be assumed that Gillen arrived at Lake Otway with twelve thousand pounds “in the kip”.

  Twelve thousand pounds in notes of low denomination make up quite a parcel. A bank manager had demon
strated the size of the parcel to Bony before he left Brisbane, and that parcel could be the difference between the high and the low “tide” noted by Red Draffin.

  Further, if one of the men had stolen the money from the suitcase when it was thought Gillen had drowned in the Lake, would that man have continued working at Lake Otway? Assuming so, then the reason for sticking to his job must indeed be extremely powerful.

  Yes, questions here and now would be out of order. A prodding perhaps, a good deal of listening and working out sums, plus the aid of the old ally, Time, would provide a break soon or late. His role was to be unobtrusive, subtly diplomatic, acceptable to all seven suspects.

  Seven suspects! The overseer, Martyr, was run-of-the-mill. Public school education ... apprentice jackaroo ... sub-overseer ... undermanager. Next step up, manager. But that final step a very long step, indeed. Martyr knew how to handle men and, according to Mr Wallace, he was proficient in handling sheep and cattle. He was introspective, imaginative and ambitious.

  There was Bob Lester, uninhibited, nervy, earth-bound, with a wonderful memory for sporting details. MacLennon was restrained yet virile, slightly morose, determined, and could be dangerous. Carney was young, fearless, imaginative, well read, and not as well educated as he claimed to be. Barby was something of a mystery, conforming to no type. Well read, quietly observant, careful with his money and ambitious to make more.

  The women had to be considered, for either could have raided Gillen’s suitcase. The mother was still young and attractive, man-hungry and avid for conquest. Not the type to stay put for so long. The daughter was alluring and knew it. Bring her in contact with a good-looking and daring young man and a bush fire could start in the centre of Lake Otway. Or would the flame be kindled by twelve thousand pounds?

  It was after five in the afternoon that Bony actually came in contact with the hands, for they and Martyr had been engaged in moving several of the huge flocks of sheep from the back of the run to those paddocks around Sandy Well. Even Lester, the rouseabout, was called on to assist, so that during the day Bony was the only man about the place. He suffered but one hardship: to keep track of the lies he told, for the way of the liar is, indeed, hard.

  As is the custom, one of the women would tap the triangle with a bar to call him to morning smoko-tea and again in the afternoon. Lunch, which he took with them, was more formal. He was amused to find both mother and daughter piqued because he failed to progress according to their assessment of him.

  At morning and afternoon “smoko” they talked intelligently of everything excepting Ray Gillen, to whom he never referred, but as the days slipped by their interest in the falling level of Lake Otway sharpened. At the close of that first week of Bony’s employment, the Lake fell by four inches.

  The men’s interest in the Lake was just as marked. Often they returned to the yards with only a few minutes in hand to wash before the dinner gong was struck, but always they scanned Lake Otway to note the imperceptible changes taking place. At this time of day, Bony was usually sitting in a broken arm-chair on the veranda of the quarters overlooking the Lake.

  Then came that late afternoon when the first sign of volcanic emotion surged above surface. Bony sensed that the beginning occurred before the men returned from work, before they came trudging across from the horse yards where they had freed their mounts to roll on the sand and take their fill at the trough.

  “I’m going in for breaking,” remarked Harry Carney when passing to his room. He was cheerful of voice, but anger lurked in his eyes.

  “Yair, better’n stock-ridin’, anyhow,” agreed Lester, and sniffled. “You just hypnotizes a youngster for an hour or two each morning, and then lays off all afternoon in a comfortable chair well in the shade, with a book or addin’ up the dough you’ve earned. Wonderful job.”

  MacLennon, stocky and powerful, said nothing. He stood at the end of the veranda looking down at the Lake, now as placid as a road puddle. Overseer Martyr appeared on the house veranda, also obviously interested in the Lake.

  “Been hot today,” Bony remarked. “Mrs Fowler said at lunch it was a hundred and two in the pepper-tree shade.”

  “Four hundred and two in the sun,” rumbled MacLennon. “I hate these windless days. Makes the flies real vicious.”

  He passed off to the shower, and the Swede came and laughed at Bony and asked how it felt to be a “cap’list feller”—asked with the usual roar of laughter. Witlow merely grinned and went in for his towel.

  Presently Carney reappeared, cleaned and his fair hair slicked with water. He stood by Bony’s chair and rolled a smoke.

  “No mail out, I suppose?” he asked, gazing down at the Lake. Bony shook his head, and Carney added: “’Bout time someone brought it. Hell! The Lake looks like someone’s poured gold into it.”

  The gong thrummed through the heated evening air, and Bony took his old and tattered Charles Garvice to his room. On coming out, he found Lester looking at Lake Otway, as Carney and MacLennon had done, and he called: “It will be still there after dinner.”

  “Yair, that’s so, Bony.” Lester joined him and they walked after the other two men. “Going down fast, though. Another four weeks will see her out.”

  “A pity.”

  “Yair. She was beaut up to last Christmas, and when she was full there was no need to go down to the seaside for a cool-off beer. Given a good wind the waves would come curling in a white surf, and at night you could hear it miles away. It never seemed hot in the paddocks, when you could come home to it.”

  “Have you seen this place when there’s no water?”

  “Too right. Just a flat all over, covered with bush rubbish. Blasted heat trap, too. Water comes into her every seventeen to twenty years, and then stays only for three years at most.”

  They ate without sustained conversation, what there was of it being carried on by Witlow and the Swede. They were, of course, tired from the heat and the burning sun and the pestiferous flies, but they seemed taciturn when a normal gang could have tossed chaff at each other. Only towards the end of the meal did one address Bony, and he was Lester, who inquired of his progress with a brown gelding. Bony was making his progress report when Joan Fowler came to the door leading to the kitchen and waved to Bony, saying:

  “Cards?”

  Bony rose and bowed.

  “At eight?” he said, smilingly.

  The girl laughed and disappeared. Bony sat down conscious of the hostility in MacLennon and Harry Carney. Witlow, the bow-legged, whimsical Witlow, dryly chuckled, and his apparent friend, the Swede, jibed:

  “You tink Bony been pawing the ground whiles we’s been working all day?”

  “Could of been,” conceded Witlow. “You can never trust these horse-breakers, Kurt.”

  “What you reckon?” asked the Swede, grinning at Bony. “Better for us to sit in on cards, too—just to make sure he keep all right?”

  “Yair, better,” Lester put in. “Bony isn’t old enough to play cards with grown wimmen. He’d be fleeced for a monty.”

  “Perhaps I shall need a little support,” Bony laughingly agreed.

  MacLennon crashed his eating utensils down on his plate, got up and left. In the silence, Lester sniffled, and Carney drawled:

  “You can cut out the fleecing idea, Bob. Sounds bad.”

  His round face was flushed and his eyes were void of the usual good humour. The Swede leered wickedly, opened his mouth to say something and shut it in pain when Witlow kicked his ankle under the table.

  That was that, and it fell out that Bony and Witlow were the last to leave the annexe. When crossing back to the quarters, the little man murmured:

  “Keep your hair on, Bony. That Bitch likes to make trouble. You might be able to use yourself, but Mac’s an ex-ring champ.”

  “Thanks for the tip. I’ll tread lightly,” Bony said, and added: “There wouldn’t be anything in treading on other people’s toes here.”

  “Wise feller. They’re a funny mob. Best
to let ’em cook in their own camp fire.”

  Bony chuckled, and they paused to look out over the Lake and at the sea-gulls that came winging in to land with the hens who were waiting to be fed.

  “Long way from the sea for the gulls,” Bony observed.

  “Five hundred miles from the nearest salt water at Port Augusta. It could be they’ve never seen the sea.”

  “Yes, that’s likely. Get the Swede to come in for cards. Safety in numbers, you know.”

  Bony pondered about Witlow, and decided he would ask this stockman a few questions.

  Chapter Six

  Fish and Fowl

  AT THE CLOSE of the first week Bony had his first horse far enough in training to he ridden outside the yard and sensible enough to be trusted to permit its rider to concentrate on matters having nothing to do with a sparkling young filly.

  Thus he gained freedom to examine Lake Otway, allegedly the scene of the death of Raymond Gillen. One morning he rode round the Lake, saw where the flood water had flowed into it at the northern end and where it had spilled over a sandbar into a creek at the southern end. He noted with interest the large area opposite the out-station taken over by pelicans for their hatchery and nursery, and where the swans had selected sites for their nests. Rabbits were everywhere in plague proportions, for the surrounding dunes and the slopes of the uplands outside the dunes were honeycombed with burrows. Often a “swarm” of rabbits would dash ahead of him, and when he shouted they would burrow and he could see the sterns of animals at every hole, unable to get in for the crush. Everywhere, too, claiming every major shadow were kangaroos, and away up the slopes back of the dunes were black dots of countless emus.