“Did you test him on the likelihood of the shot having been fired at Madden’s homestead?” asked Bony.
“Yes, and he seemed certain it came from the boxes. He put the time as seven-thirty. The wind strength would have prevented anyone at Mira hearing the report, and the noise in the trees at Madden’s place would prevent anyone there from hearing it.”
“Seems logical, Lucas. Continue with Petersen.”
“According to Petersen there was no one in or near the ute. He didn’t know who owned it, and said he wasn’t interested. He cut across country to pick up the track from Madden’s to Vospers’, boiled his billy at a well called Blackman, and reached Vospers’ in time to be given lunch.”
“Better obtain instructions from the Super about the disposal of the weapon, Lucas,” Bony said. “And you might be able to fire it by thumbing the hammer. If so, get specimens of bullets, and hold them for checking. Thanks a lot. Oh, and check on the man called Bullocky Alec. It might not have been him Petersen thinks he saw.”
It was as Cosgrove predicted, for the following morning the water surrounded the homestead. During the night the river had risen five feet and now the trees bordering Madman’s Bend appeared to be absurdly stunted, and ashamed of it.
Bony accompanied MacCurdle, who drove a jeep to inspect the work done on the levee. He stared at the reddish water covering the flats behind the protected area. The track to the back end of the run, the one by which he and Ray had gone for the mail, and the road to Bourke, on this side, were all submerged; the nearest pieces of dry land were the isolated salmon pink sand-dunes marking the verge of the higher plain country.
The manager was sombre, and he grunted disapproval when he saw Mrs Cosgrove talking with overseer Vickory in charge of a gang. This morning she was wearing slacks and stockman’s boots, and when the jeep stopped she came to speak to MacCurdle.
“Mac, I think the men are going slow purposely. I simply don’t understand it. I’ve told them I’ll double the bonus. If they won’t work properly, then the river will break through.”
“Perhaps the dignity of labour has something to do with it,” Bony said quietly. “All these men are here because there is more than money attracting them. Were it only money they would be living in a nice coastal city. They choose to live in this outback for the same reason that you have come to do. They have been moulded by this outback, and when they pack up and move on and on, it is because the movement, bringing remembered scenes, also gives the assurance of freedom from being compelled to obey a factory whistle, to catch a train or bus on the minute, to work, or sleep in a park and be harried by the police.”
Mrs Cosgrove regarded Bony as she had done when he landed from the trip across the river.
The manager said tartly, “That’s the truth of it, Mrs Cosgrove.”
“One thing, and quite important, too, that they dislike is being watched by a woman while working,” continued Bony. “By going slow they are giving a hint. If you were not here they might well work normally, because again they differ from city workers, who watch the clock, and who work under the eye of a foreman. In the city, constant hostility between worker and boss: here there isn’t that hostility.”
“You put it very well, Bony, and you make me inclined to accept the hint. It isn’t the first time I find myself failing to understand you Australians. I’ll go back to the house with you.”
“Wise woman,” Bony said, smilingly. “And we shall be in time for morning smoko.”
“You Australians think of nothing more than tea-drinking, and you have ruined me as well.”
Bony spent the remainder of the morning, and part of the afternoon, telephoning the surrounding homesteads from Bourke down to Tilpa, below White Bend, and making additional notes on his map. There were disclosed fourteen men who had had opportunity to murder William Lush, and two of them were the most likely killers. In every case motive was lacking. The means could have been possessed by any one of them.
Chapter Twenty-six
Bony and His Shovel
BONY BORROWED old pants and boots and reported to Vickory for work the following morning. He was received by his work-mates with a derisive cheer, and offered ten or a dozen shovels.
“This is goin’ to be good,” declared the solemn man in the torn coat. “To see a flamin’ detective on the right end of a shovel is goin’ to make me young all over again.”
“Then you and the inspector can move on closer to the ’dozer,” Vickory ordered, and the pair did as directed. After twenty minutes of silent but steady working Champion asked if Bony had been put on to work for his tucker, and with a show of indignation Bony said he wouldn’t work for a squatter below union wages.
“What’s the bonus they’re paying?” he countered.
“She raised it to half the wages this morning. Then looked narked ’cos we went slow. Hate being gawped at by a woman boss.”
Bony announced his agreement, and the following conversation was spasmodic. They discussed the river and the odds in favour of defeating it. Then Champion mentioned Lush and asked if Bony “was doing any good”.
“Stumped, Champion. Couldn’t pick up tracks before the river came down. By the way, where were you that day Lush vanished?”
“I was camped with a feller called Miner Smith at the old wool-scour on Murrimundi. You don’t drag me into it.”
“Still, you’ve only his word about that, and he has only your own. Any backing?”
“No. No other travellers. But we got backing, if that’s what you’re looking for. That day the ute was found two blokes from the homestead came to load old iron. We was up-river, fishing, and they was there when we got back. Ask ’em.”
“I don’t think I’ll trouble. I’m beginning to make up my mind that it’s Petersen I want. He was camped here the night before and he left very early to go out to Vospers’ to work. I’m told he carries a ·32 calibre revolver, and Lush was shot by a thirty-two. Now I’m stuck here, and where he’ll be when I get away from this flood could be a thousand miles off. You might keep it dark from the others.”
“Too right!” agreed Champion, and Bony knew it would be passed round at the camp fire that night. “How did you find out old Pete carries a gun?”
“He told me.”
“Told you? You goin’ to get him put up for it?”
“Certainly not,” answered Bony. “No business of mine until I pin this murder on him. I’m not nailing fellers for carrying a concealable weapon. That’s the job for the New South police. I’m a Queensland detective. Didn’t you know?”
“I didn’t. But all you police are as thick as thieves, aren’t you?”
“On many points, yes. On others, no. We have a union, too. Stick to the rules like other unionists. We don’t go around scabbing on the police in other States. Only on homicide jobs. My trouble’s if every swagman on the Darling carries a gun. I’ve a wife to maintain.”
By afternoon smoko Bony was beginning to feel the strain of this unaccustomed labour, and long before knock-off time he was watching the sun. A hot shower revived his weary muscles, and he was feeling happy at having tested Miner Smith’s statement that no other swagman turned up at the scour while he and Champion were there, and by having directed attention to Petersen.
Immediately after dinner he put on blackened tennis shoes, and replaced his collar with a black scarf; noting the direction of the light wind, he made his way in the dark to draw near enough to the swagmen’s fire to listen in to the talk. He was not long there when Champion unconsciously played the part awarded him.
“The d— told me he’s after Petersen. Said Petersen left here early that morning Lush got his, to work for Vospers. Reckons Lush was at the ute. He threatened Petersen and the old bloke shot him.”
“Wouldn’t put it past him,” said Silas Wishart. “Lush would’a been too good for him at his age.”
They discussed Petersen as the likely killer, and the majority found him innocent. Then someo
ne pointed out that the police would be down on him, anyway, for carrying a revolver, and Champion took up this point, repeating Bony’s aversion to breaking union rules. It was now that the old saying that eavesdroppers seldom hear good of themselves had something to it.
“He’s a funny sort of cop,” said thick-set Bosun Dean. “Could be as he says. Them half-castes are pretty canny. Don’t say much and don’t give much away to the boss. He’s down here on a murder case, so why should he poke his nose after blokes carrying a gun? I carry one meself, not having a mate to travel with.”
“I don’t,” said the Paroo Bikeman. “I’m in foul enough with the cops as it is. A well-ground dinner knife’s good enough for me. But talking of half-castes being cocky with their bosses is about right. Give ’em a foot and they take a mile.”
Champion couldn’t let his bone alone.
“Seemed pretty sure Petersen bumped Lush. He was moanin’ that he got that way only late last night, and now the flood’s cut him off from chasin’ after him. I asked him how he was so certain, and he looked wise. Then I said it mightn’t be old Petersen, and d’you know what? When I says it could of been someone in this camp he says he’s sure the murderer ain’t here ’cos he would’ve cleared out days ago, and no one’s cleared out.”
“Good arguing,” said Mick the Warder. “If I had finished Lush I wouldn’t be here now, inspector or no inspector. I wouldn’t be hanging about the scene of the crime.”
“You used to have a gun, Mick. Still got it?” asked a man known to Bony as Bill Wishart.
“I changed it for a forty-four Winchester. Musta been two years back. Bloke by the name of Teacher Miles. Ever see him up this way?”
“Heard about him,” said Wally Watts. “Victorian, ain’t he? Could use himself somewhat, someone told me.”
“That’s him,” agreed Mick the Warder, and Dead March Harry said, “The gun went off. Bomb … Bomb … Bomb …”
“Oh, cut it out, Harry,” complained Mick. “You can’t keep on going off the deep end, and the tablets are gettin’ low. Here, you’d better take one now. I’ll get the water.” The tall mournful man stood, and had repeated the solemn note twice when his mate brought the water, made him swallow the tablet and took him off to bed.
There followed prolonged silence. Champion broke it.
“Looks after him like he was ’is son. I don’t think Harry’s gettin’ any worse, do you?”
The question was directed to Bosun Dean, but Silas Wishart took it up.
“Yes, he’s gettin’ worse. They was camped with us, and Harry took off four times in two days. Used to be more’n a week for one go. Time’ll come when Mick will have to put him away. Mick knows it, too. Funny! I don’t have time for warders any more than coppers, but I’d put my hat on Mick any day.”
“Yair, good poor bastard,” admitted the Paroo Bikeman, standing up. “Well, here’s me for the blankets. I’ve had it.” The Brothers said they had had it, too, and the four men departed into the night to cross to the shearers’ quarters. Wally Watts stood up, stretched and sat again on the packing-case.
“The Brothers were talking about striking tomorrow. Whata you think about it?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” answered Bosun Dean.
Champion voted the other way. “Don’t seem right,” he said. “We’re getting good pay.”
“It’s the way I think,” Wally Watts said. “We’ll have to vote on it, anyway, and I abide by the majority. I’m into the bunk. Good night!”
The others went with him, and Bony thoughtfully returned to join MacCurdle in the office.
“I believe tomorrow will see the climax, Mac. The wind has shifted to the north, and the stars are dim. D’you know what Macey said of today’s chart?”
“That a low was approaching and a change predicted. The house radio said soon after you left this evening that the change should enter the State in forty-eight hours. As you said, if the wind blows hard from the west we might be up against it.”
“I’m turning in,” Bony said. “Could be hard day coming.”
“No need for you to work on the levee. Appreciated, though.”
“Everyone will be wanted on that levee, Mac.”
Bony was up at daybreak, and was aghast at the sight of the water topping the bank verge and lying against the base of the levee. Where the flood rounded the bend the surface gently boiled, and the far line of gums was visibly lower in the water. After breakfast he went to work and found not a man on the job.
“They’re holding a meeting,” the men’s cook told him. “Even Jacko’s gone there.”
“Where are they holding the meeting?”
“In the shearing-shed. The station men are with them. So’s the manager and Vickory, waiting to see how things will go.”
“What’s your attitude?”
The cook’s eyes gleamed, and the smile about his mouth was sour.
“They go on strike, I go on strike, and they don’t eat. Fair enough, ain’t it?”
Nodding agreement, Bony walked swiftly to the shed, where he found the overseer and the manager standing by the ash mound of the outside fire. They could hear a man speaking to the meeting. Bony nodded to them and entered the shed to stand at the rear of the assembled workers. Silas Wishart was saying, “There it is, fellers, Mrs Cosgrove says she won’t raise the bonus. We know that station hands’ wages plus the bonus don’t equal the wages of city workers. I reckons we strike until she raises the bonus to make the pay twice station hands’ pay. It’s hard enough labour and worth the dough.”
“All right, we’ll take a vote on it,” said the Paroo Bikeman. “If the vote’s for strike, then the scabs had better look out.”
The threat of being labelled a scab would hold back every man who voted to work, should the majority vote to strike. Men looked at each other in an effort to see how the vote might go. Others betrayed nervousness. Bony, seeing a wool table close by, climbed to stand and address the startled men.
“If you decide to strike,” he began, blue eyes flashing, “there must inevitable results. You listen to what they will be. One is that the owner of Mira is a woman, and a very stubborn woman who declares she will not increase the bonus. The result of a strike will almost certainly be the smashing of the levee by the waves which will be raised by the rising west wind. That won’t be so great a catastrophe as some of you think. Not for Mrs Cosgrove it won’t, but by heck it will be for you!”
“How?” a man shouted.
“Get down, copper,” yelled another. Then Wally Watts spoke.
“Hold it! Let him have his say.”
“It’s going to be just too bad for all of you should you go on strike at this particular time,” Bony continued. “If the levee gives way, you know what will happen to the Mira homestead, and I’ll tell you what will surely happen to all of you. You will be hunted off this river, and what will hunt you will be starvation, for no homestead will ever again give you a handout or sell any food to any of you. Your freedom will be gone, because you are free to walkabout when and wherever you wish. You can get away to the wheat cockies, or down to the cities, and there you have only the simple choice of working or starving.
“For decades it has been the custom for homesteads to give out rations so that when men are needed there will be men at hand. It’s almost a law of the outback, and should you strike under the present circumstances you will be breaking one of the finest customs ever.”
Support came from a most unexpected quarter.
“Blast me if he ain’t right! Anyone game to call me a scab?” inquired the Paroo Bikeman, with sinister mildness. He was supported by Wally Watts and Champion. The remainder followed without troubling to take a vote.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Victory and Defeat
THE WIND from the north increased to become a stiff breeze, and its direction and speed were steady for the remainder of the day. Its effect on the levee facing the mile-long reach was negligible, but by evening the
level of the river was two feet up from the base.
Mrs Cosgrove would have no cause to complain had she watched the workers today, but she discreetly kept out of sight. Jill Madden had early insisted on relieving the station groom of milking the few cows, then of shepherding the ration sheep for the scant herbage and, towards evening, of slaughtering three of them. MacCurdle grabbed a shovel and joined Bony and Champion with Silas Wishart and his two brothers. It was shortly after eight the next morning when the wind moved to the west and began to work up to a gale.
By midday the position was alarming. The eye of the wind continued steadfastly at the two distant mail-boxes. It produced short waves about thirty inches high to beat upon the levee, and created a false average level as the water swirled round the bend like a highway built higher at the outside than the inside of a sharp angle.
No longer did men lean on their shovels; no longer were there periodic pauses by the machines; for now there was no hostility between capital and labour; they were united against a common enemy. The river had become a personality to be fought, and subdued if humanly possible.
During the latter part of the afternoon the men were so absorbed by the struggle that only Bony noticed Dead March Harry drop his shovel, straighten up, and begin to walk away with his measured tread. Mick the Warder was working several hundred yards away, and Bony could see that he was unaware of his mate’s latest turn.
Bony went after Harry and gripped him by the arm. His intention was to keep the man out of danger and to steer him back to Mick. Above the wind in the trees he could hear the bomb-bomb-bombing, and then the repeated phrase “I’m dead.”
“You’re not, Harry. You’re all right now. Let us go this way.”
“Dead! The gun went off. It wasn’t his fault. The bastard threatened to have me put away. Dead! I’m dead! Bomb! Bomb! Bomb!”
Bony - 28 - Madman's Bend Page 18
