Breakaway House

by Arthur W. Upfield

  Tremayne dismounted. With the reins looped through his crooked arm, he led the horse close to the fence, where he leaned casually against a post and proceeded to roll a cigarette. “Good day-ee, miss,” he said in a drawling voice, his eyes twinkling, yet his mouth compressed into a rule-straight line.

  “You beast!” reiterated the girl.

  “Dear, dear! I seem to be engaged in general warfare with the female sex this morning,” he said lightly, looking up from his task to regard with unfeigned admiration the flushed face and supple figure of this young woman sitting on her motionless horse. Doubtless it was the effect of too much cigarette smoking which caused his heart to beat erratically, but that could not have accounted for the sudden trembling of his fingers. She was like one of those squatters’ women of the old days, coldly surveying a ticket-of-leaver who had neither legal nor moral right to breathe the same air as she did.

  Slowly his gaze moved downward, to note the open-necked dark blue poplin blouse, the well-tailored white cord breeches, and the polished, military-style, high-topped laced riding boots. On them his eyes lingered critically before beginning the slow upward movement, finally to rest again on her face.

  “How’s Perth?” he inquired irrelevantly, or what to a duller intellect would have sounded irrelevant.

  She was mentally keen enough to know that his question contained a sneer at her city riding togs.

  He realised that with satisfaction, as he watched her breast rise and fall and her lips part in anger. He calmly lit his cigarette.

  “I would like you to know that I’m Miss Tonger,” she said icily. “I shall ask my uncle, Mr Morris Tonger, to report your disgraceful treatment of that poor horse to Mr Filson. Why, you are a low cad! Indeed, you are!”

  “I’m all that, and more,” he agreed gravely. “I become, when the chance offers, terribly drunk and I smoke four ounces of tobacco every week. Sorry I can’t offer you a tailor-made cigarette. My name’s Tremayne – Harry Tremayne. Better mention it in the report. There’s half-a-dozen fellows working for Brett Filson, you know.”

  Now furiously angry with this man who cared nothing for haughty eyes and icy tones, Frances Tonger determined to end this chance encounter. She jabbed her spurred heels into her horse’s flanks, cut it smartly with her light switch, and the next instant she was sitting on a saltbush and her horse was galloping for home.

  “What did you go and do that for?” Tremayne inquired mildly. “Your horse wasn’t doing anything.”

  Seeing that the girl was unhurt when she sprang to her feet to stare after the fleeing horse, Tremayne strapped the fence wires together, persuaded his horse to step over them, and then, unstrapping the wires, approached her rigid back. With very genuine concern, he asked: “Not in pain, I hope?”

  Mortified to the verge of tears, she refused to face him. Her voice trembled when she spoke after a silence, which eloquently proclaimed her fight to regain self-control. “Your melodramatic sarcasm certainly has not affected me, if that is what you mean.”

  “Good! You sound all right, anyway,” he told her, suddenly chuckling, which angered her still further. Now in the saddle, he kneed his mount round her slim figure, so coming to look down into her face. “Just you stay right there,” he advised cheerfully. “I’ll bring Dobbin back quicker than he departed. By the way, what’s the difference between melodrama and just plain drama? It’s a question which has often puzzled me.”

  “Oh! You are insufferable!” she cried, her small hands clenched.

  “That’s what my bank manager told me last month when I asked him for the loan of ten bob. Well, as they say: ‘I’ll be seeing you.’”

  Watching him depart in a cloud of dust, Frances Tonger fervently prayed that his horse would throw him and break his neck. Of all the uncouth louts, this man was the worst. Never had she been dealt with in such a fashion by a man; certainly not by those belonging to the circle of youths with whom she was friendly in Perth; gentlemen whose hair was always well oiled, whose hands were always lily white, and whose high collars were invariably speckless to match their speckless sports cars.

  Having tidied her short chestnut-coloured hair, dusted her shining military officer’s boots and hand-brushed her white cord breeches, she rearranged the set of her blouse and fell to watching the horseman streaking across the plain in pursuit of the runaway. It was then that she saw a second horseman converging on the runaway from the north-west, and presently she witnessed all three horses hunched together, and then the two horsemen came riding towards her with her horse between them.

  Thus it was that Harry Tremayne met Frances Tonger and her uncle in the same morning.

  Tonger was a larger man than he. His colouring was dark, and the weather had darkened his face, whilst too much drink had blotched it. The dark eyes were slightly protruding, and the lids above them seldom winked. He was dressed in a similar fashion to the younger man. “What happened to my niece?” he demanded in the manner of one accustomed to total obedience.

  “She was thrown,” Tremayne replied lightly. “Horse not used to spurs.”

  “She was thrown!” Tonger echoed. “Why, that horse couldn’t throw a bag of vegetables.” His black eyes examined the policeman with insolent minuteness. “Who are you?” he asked sharply.

  “I’m a person of no social importance whatsoever,” Tremayne replied, inwardly rattled by the other’s tone. His voice became suggestive of the barking of a dog. “Who the hell are you?”

  Tonger’s eyes opened wider and blazed with sudden temper. A dull flush mounted into his mottled face, and he gazed at the younger man as though judging his ability to resist violence.

  Tremayne rode on, leading the girl’s docile horse and expecting at any moment his own mount to start another tantrum at the first unguarded moment. He gave Tonger another knock before he could recover from the first. “Well, who the hell are you?” he insisted.

  Now Tonger’s eyelids drooped, but his expression did not adequately hide the anger within him. Still, more civilly he replied: “I’m Tonger. I own Breakaway House station. You’re on it now.”

  “Oh! Well if I trod on your feet you must blame your tone. I’m a stranger on the Murchison. My name is Tremayne, Harry Tremayne, and I’m working for Brett Filson.”

  “That so? Being a stranger to the Murchison, where have you come from?”

  “From the Kimberleys. Been up there for years. I’m not going to tell you why I came out of the Kimberleys, or how much money I’ve got, because I don’t see that it’s any damn business of yours.”

  For a while they rode in silence, Tremayne watching his horse’s ears, and beyond them the figure of Frances Tonger near the boundary fence.

  Tonger, covertly glancing at Tremayne, noted the set of him, and his easy, assured seat. It was not lost on him that this young man’s slow action concealed tiger-like agility, and that behind the soft drawl was knife-edged mental quickness. Yet the smart remained, stoking the fires of temper which flared up when they reached the waiting girl. His ensuing exhibition of uncontrolled anger astonished Tremayne.

  The large flabby face became crimson and the big body trembled. “What are you doing out here in those togs?” shouted Tonger, leaning forward over his horse’s neck. “Didn’t I tell you I’d have no do-dahs on my place? I won’t have you dressed in that Pommy togging. A habit was good enough for your mother, was good enough for your aunt, and is good enough for all the Tonger women. Breeches, even top-boots if you must be flash, but you won’t wear high heels to ’em and spurs to mark my horses. You with heels…”

  “Cut it out, Tonger,” Tremayne said quietly.

  Frances Tonger faced her uncle with scarlet cheeks, her eyes expressing hurt amazement. Tears began to slide down her cheeks.

  “You keep out of this, you,” Tonger snarled at Tremayne.

  “Your horse, Miss Tonger,” Tremayne said politely, holding her horse in position for her to mount. To relieve the tension, he went on: “Mr Tonger is right, you
know. High heels on any kind of boots are dangerous. You see, a high heel might fasten you in a stirrup-iron trap.”

  With a little rush she was beside the horse and in a second she was in the saddle. For just one instant her tear-blinded eyes met his, and he saw in them her thanks for his courtesy. Then, in defiance of her relative, she dug her spurred heels into the animal’s flanks and with one mighty plunge the horse was off to the homestead, the girl crouched along its neck.

  “Say, you want to be a bit diplomatic with young women,” Tremayne drawled coolly, which halted Tonger in his intent to race after his niece.

  “I’m not taking advice from you on how to treat women,” Tonger roared, viciously reining back his mount which was eager to follow the other.

  “Perhaps my advice is worthless. To tell the truth, I haven’t had much experience with women.”

  “Well, I have,” snapped Tonger. “And any man with sense treats women like he treats horses. Good day to you.”

  “Hi! Wait a second. Miss Tonger left her switch.”

  Tremayne, picking up the elegant riding switch, proffered it to Tonger, and Tonger, snatching it from him, wheeled his horse away towards the homestead and the girl now far in the distance.

  “So long!” Tremayne called out, casually rolling a cigarette as he watched Tonger lash his horse into a gallop and ride away directly westward, not straight to Breakaway House.

  Having lit his cigarette, he spoke to the filly: “That’s the kind of master you need, you hussy. One who treats horses like he treats women. One of the understanding sort is Mr Morris Tonger. And the thrashing you’re going to get if you play the fool any more today will make you think that Mr Morris Tonger is on your back.”

  CHAPTER III

  MISS “IT”

  TWO miles southward of the point at which he had encountered Frances Tonger and her uncle, Harry Tremayne reached Acacia Well, beside which passed the Bowgada-Breakaway House track, and situated some two hundred yards distant from the boundary fence. Here he hoped to see Fred Ellis, who lived in the single-room iron hut built close to the windmill which raised the water supplying two long lines of troughing.

  Unable to trust the filly by merely dropping the end of the reins, he secured her to the hitching post by her neck rope, and then prospected the hut. The door was shut, and after a glance into the interior and finding the tenant not at home, he began again to roll the inevitable cigarette whilst deciding whether he would wait or return to the homestead.

  And then, round the angle of the hut wall there stepped a fine specimen of Aboriginal beauty. He first encountered her sloe-black eyes, round and soft, set squarely in a round face with fine and delicate features. About her short wavy hair was entwined a length of broad, Cambridge-blue ribbon. Her blouse was white, spotlessly white, and her skirt was of brown material. Her brown stockings were of silk, and her black shoes were fitted with Cuban heels.

  “Good afternoon!” exclaimed the astonished policeman.

  “Good day!” reciprocated the vision, in clear yet high-pitched tones.

  The minx turned a little from the man, affecting shyness. Over the flame of the match which lit his cigarette, Tremayne again appraised this Murchison girl, less astonished now by her clothes – he had become seasoned to her Kimberley sisters who wore none – than by her taste in clothes. Here were no clashing colours but an ensemble the equal of that seen in the city.

  “You must be Nora,” he said speculatively. Brett Filson had told him something of the history of Nora and Ned.

  “Yes,” he was told shyly.

  “Then where’s your man – Ned?”

  “Oh, he’s out with Fred. They’ll be home bime-by. You work on Bowgada? You got a job?”

  Tremayne nodded, and sat down on the doorstep.

  Nora squatted on the heels of her shoes and made of the hut wall a back rest. From somewhere she produced tobacco and papers in a tin and became engaged. Now and then he saw her sidelong glance at him.

  “How long you been here?” he asked presently.

  “Long time. You goin’ to camp here with Fred?”

  “No. I’m the new overseer. Where’s your camp?”

  “Back there in some acacia. You not come there. Ned would go crook.”

  “I don’t want to go to your camp. You married to Ned?”

  Abruptly she turned to look directly at him. Her eyes were veiled, and from between her lips a thin stream of smoke was spurted into his face.

  “No,” she said softly. “You married?”

  Tremayne grinned. “I’ve seen cinema stars with less IT in them than you’ve got, my girl,” he told her, “and less idea of what to do with it. You run away with Ned? Where’s your right man?”

  “He’s in gaol. He kill a blackfella. N’gobi no good. He beat me. When he kill that man I told police. Police lock him up and I went with Ned.”

  “And Ned – he doesn’t beat you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I don’t wonder at that, Miss Hazit. Your sort, black, yellow or white, can cause divorce and murder and suicide. Where did you learn to talk English and to dress so nicely?”

  “Old Mrs Filson showed me. I used to run away sometimes from N’gobi and work for her. Then she died. Mrs Filson good woman. She says: ‘Don’t chew tobacco, Nora, and don’t swear.’ So I don’t swear and don’t chew tobacco,” and again the cigarette smoke was impishly directed at Tremayne’s face.

  “You ever work at Breakaway House?” he asked, after a contemplative silence.

  Miss Hazit nodded.

  “When last?” he continued.

  “Before Miss Frances come,” Nora replied with a sudden hardness in her eyes Tremayne did not fail to notice.

  “Oh. And is Mrs Tonger alive?”

  “She died long time ago.”

  “Oh,” the policeman said again, and refrained from continuing the conversation along this line.

  Half an hour later, Miss Hazit stood up to gaze steadily towards the east, and Tremayne, following her gaze, saw the tiny shapes of two horsemen leaving the foot of the breakaway.

  “Ned and Fred coming now?” he asked.

  Nora nodded and vanished round the angle of the hut. When Tremayne moved to the corner he could see her crossing the clean river sand surrounding the place to an old grimy tent pitched in a clump of acacia. He turned back, smiling, to busy himself with lighting Fred’s fire and placing a tea billy over the flames. That done, he stood in the open doorway watching the arrival of a very tall thin man riding an undersized hack, and a youthful Aborigine astride a mule.

  “Good day, how are you? Where you come from? When you gotta go?” asked the white man without a pause.

  “Good day!” exclaimed the black man, piercing eyes examining Tremayne before they were directed at the ground adjacent to the hut. In that one swift examination, Tremayne knew, Miss Hazit’s man had accurately read quite recent history.

  “I’m Tremayne, the new overseer. I might go in an hour or I might stop over till the morning. You Fred Ellis?”

  “Yes, that’s right. You stop overnight and have a pitch. I’ll give you a bunk. Glad to meet you. Got the billy on. You’ll do. Dry as hell,” said Fred, of the untidy moustache, pale blue eyes and weak chin.

  They unsaddled before the door and Ned led the three animals to the night paddock, in which he freed them. He brought back the bridles, and then disappeared towards his camp. He was dressed in tattered trousers, minus boots and hat, and his shirt was a rag.

  “Glad you gonna camp. We’ll have a cupper tea, then I bash up some wood. Gonna be fresh tonight,” gabbled Fred, pouring water from a petrol-tin bucket into a basin. Even while he was spluttering in the soapy water, he went on: “See wool’s gone up again. Squatters’ll get cocky now – buy new cars, go for holidays. Won’t raise wages, though.”

  “Make more work, Fred. Hullo, what’s the matter over there?”

  “That’ll be Ned getting into his woman, trounces her now and then. It’ll be
the ribbon in ’er hair. I spotted it. He didn’t give it ’er. Someone else did. Ned gets hotted up some when other blokes gives ’er things. Don’t blame ’im. She’s got wings, that tart, and Ned can’t fly high enough.”

  Screams drifted across from the camp, intermingled with vocal evidence of Ned’s rage. Fred Ellis turned watery eyes towards Tremayne and grinned. And Tremayne, grinning too, cut half a damper into slices.

  “Leave ’em alone, says I,” Fred stated wisely.

  “Me, too,” agreed Tremayne. “Got a tin-opener?”

  “Yes. Kill a sheep tonight. Out of meat.”

  Miss Hazit’s screams and Ned’s yells continued while these seasoned bushmen stoically ate and sipped blue-black tea.

  “Who gave her the ribbon?” Tremayne asked, looking directly at his host.

  “Ain’t sure. Expect it was Tonger. Tonger’s a devil with the women. Used to get Nora over there afore Miss Tonger looked down ’er nose at him.”

  “Tonger’s that sort?”

  “You bet, and a bit more. Silly fool! He’ll get a spear in his back or a waddy on his crust one day. Now what’s to do?”

  The sound of running feet heralded the arrival of Miss Hazit. For an instant her slim girlish figure was silhouetted in the door-frame. Then she was behind Tremayne who had risen from the table, sobs intermingling with her panting breath.

  The outraged spouse soon followed, with the offending ribbon clutched in one hand and a doubled stockwhip in the other. Fred said, his voice a bellowing roar: “What’s she done? You let ’er be. She’s done nothink. ’Ave a heart, Ned.”

  The upper part of his shirt torn clean off his body, blood oozing from nail cuts across his magnificent chest, Ned held out his arms, the beautifully moulded arms of a god.

  “Nora took ribbon from someone,” he stated in fair English, due to long association with stockmen. “I make her tell me who it was. I give her the shoes and the dress from Ah Khan when he was here. What for she want to take things from other men, white fella, too?”

  As the question was directed to Tremayne, he replied. “Search me!”