Breakaway House

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “Cripes! You’ve said it, boss,” Ned assented vigorously, using a common Americanism.

  Tremayne pressed on in his task of imparting wise philosophy, tugging at Ned’s ripped and soiled trouser-leg: “You find fella for Nora to love, eh? She clean in white woman’s clothes, you like wild black. You wear ragged trousers, no shirt, no hat. You look like mangy camel.”

  “Yes, boss,” agreed the crestfallen Ned. “You said a mouthful.”

  Tremayne could not restrain a smile. Quickly he laid open the contents of the parcel. “You put these on now,” he ordered sternly, presenting the astonished Aborigine with a pair of white moleskin trousers and a sky-blue shirt. “And you give these to Nora and tell her you bought them off me.” A pair of grey silk stockings and a yard of wide pink ribbon were also presented.

  Without looking up, Ned finally said after a pregnant silence: “You good fella, boss. I bin a damn fool.”

  CHAPTER VII

  SUSPICIONS AND FACTS

  JUST a week later, when Tremayne reached the Bowgada homestead late in the day, he found Brett Filson returned from Perth. “Well, how did the quacks treat you?” he asked cheerfully while waiting for Jackson to bring in his dinner.

  “They’re as sympathetic as they know how to be, but they and I know perfectly well that I’ll never again be a whole man,” replied Filson, whose weather-tanned face displayed lines of fatigue.

  “Better half a man than a dead one.”

  “That’s the philosophy of a whole man.”

  Tremayne gave his attention to the plate put before him by the cook, who did not veil his displeasure at the lateness of the dining hour. Filson’s mood was obviously influenced by his having been to Perth buoyed with hopes, destined to be destroyed yet again, and the tragedy or this once athletic bushman, so courageous and likeable, saddened Tremayne.

  “Do you think Tonger was speaking the truth when he said he didn’t remember my brother passing through Breakaway House?” he asked, deftly changing the subject.

  “It’s always difficult to decide whether Tonger was speaking the truth or not. Have you made any discoveries?”

  “Nothing of great importance. I’ve thoroughly examined the whole length of this east breakaway on your country, poked my nose into every hole and cave, and read all the tracks to be seen. There are caverns enough in which to imprison a thousand abducted persons, run all the coining and gold treatment plants in the world, and one series of caverns which would make a fine resting place for a bunch of Mug Williams’ duffed cattle. But as for tangible results – nothing.”

  “I saw your father as you asked me to,” Filson said as Tremayne, having eaten, rolled the inevitable cigarette. “He sent a message.”

  “Which is…?”

  “He’s hoping you’ll be quickly successful in establishing the fact of your brother’s life or death, for your mother’s sake.”

  Tremayne was grave when he responded: “He has a reputation for wanting results in ten minutes. He’s never had outback experience, and doubtless imagines that the Murchison is but a little longer and wider than Hay Street. This is a job on which one has to go slow to make haste. I’m always thinking of my mother, which is why I’m travelling slowly but surely. You know, I could be wrong, but I feel there could be more to this than just gold-stealing.”

  “Really! Why do you say that?” asked Filson, surprised.

  “It’s just a feeling, but it seems to me too many people have been killed or made to disappear just to protect a gold-stealing racket.”

  “What do you think it could be then?”

  “I really don’t know. Perhaps drugs. But there’s not enough to go on and as I said, it’s just a feeling.”

  Tremayne changed the subject. “Ever noticed mysterious lights on the Breakaway House breakaway about two and a half to three miles south of the homestead?”

  “Mysterious lights! No.”

  “There were two at the same spot two nights ago. Looked to me as though someone was signalling with a flash lamp. Do you know how Mug Williams gets Tonger’s cattle to his killing yards outside Myme?”

  “No. I’m surprised and yet not surprised. Have you proof?”

  “Of course. He picks them up in the paddock west of Acacia Well, drives them to a big area of surface rock over which runs your boundary fence, lays the fence down and passes the beasts through into Bowgada, then cuts ’em to a wide shallow creek running into Bowgada from the Myme Common, lifts up the netted flood fence crossing the creek, drives them out of Bowgada, and is then about four miles from his slaughter yards.”

  “You tracked him?” Filson asked grimly, in his eyes a hard glint.

  “Naturally. He rides an old cow and doubtless uses a silent-working heeler dog. I’ve seen the cow he rides, faintly saddle-marked.”

  “Oh! Then he’ll have to be arrested. I once told him if he was duffing cattle he’d get caught in the long run.”

  “He’s not going to be arrested for cattle duffing by longer, anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cos Tonger does a bit of duffing, too.”

  “Tonger!” Filson looked astonished.

  Tremayne nodded. “Yes. Not cattle – women.”

  “Oh.”

  “Besides, I want Mug’s cattle-duffing activities to use as a lever to blackmail him,”

  Two keen hazel eyes examined the lounging man idly drawing at a badly made cigarette. “You are a policeman, aren’t you?” Brett said slowly.

  “Was,” Tremayne corrected. “I wrote my resignation a few days ago. As a policeman I would have had to use lily-white kid gloves. As a private bloke I can use any weapon with freedom, from a gun to blackmail. I’m going to blackmail Mug Williams into telling me what he’s seen, heard and done while engaged in his illegal night work.”

  “Your father didn’t tell me of your resignation.”

  “I only sent it down by the last mail. I post-dated it.”

  “And you think Williams knows something?”

  “Sure! The night he was here, you remember, he got rattled at the mention of Tonger’s name. Pulled himself up in time to avoid making any accusations. Ned knows something, too. Yet, despite the fact that Williams hates Tonger, and that Ned hates Tonger for duffing his woman, both are afraid to talk. Why are they afraid? That’s what I’m most interested in, and why I’m going to use any and every weapon Dame Fortune presents to me.”

  “What do you suspect? You can trust me, you know.”

  “I can, and I’m going to, Brett,” Tremayne said in the direct fashion he could use when he wished. “I suspect a lot, but can prove nothing. Why those flash-lamp signals on the Breakaway House breakaway? Why is Tonger able to run a racehorse, buy himself a new car every year and give the annual ball started by his father in the good old days of prosperity? Why, when his run is in such a bad state, and his sheep and cattle are going to seed? And why does he tell you that my brother never reached Breakaway House when he did?”

  “He did reach Breakaway House! How do you know?”

  “That day, in the afternoon, Ned sent Nora to the Acacia mill-head to oil it. Although the distance is four miles she could see my brother opening and closing a gate half a mile from the homestead, the gate being on a rise and her native eyesight being up to standard. Tonger made a bad mistake when he said they hadn’t seen my brother. He should have said that my brother stayed the night there and went on to Kyle station the next morning.”

  “Strange…it’s very strange.”

  “It is, Brett. It is, too, very interesting. I’m going to the Breakaway House Ball tomorrow night, firstly to have a look round, and secondly, to remove any wrong impressions Miss Tonger may have of me. I’ll bet my last zac that if there’s any funny business going on over there then she is ignorant of it.”

  “Well, you’ll be able to go all right. Every station owner or manager or overseer in the district is automatically invited. But,” and Brett smiled wryly, “every man must take a female p
artner.”

  “Is that so?”

  “It is. Without a partner you would not be received.”

  “Then I’ll take Miss Hazit.”

  “Blacks are barred.”

  “I’ll take Millie English.”

  “Half-castes are barred. It’s a swell social function. More, it’s an old institutional custom established fifty-four years ago. Like old man Tonger before him, Morris Tonger receives as his guests to the ball even those whom he normally dislikes. Tonger is a well-bred man who has gone down after he reached years of discretion. You could punch him on the nose tomorrow morning and he’d welcome you politely tomorrow evening. But without a lady friend you cannot go.”

  “Who are you taking?”

  The faint light of amusement in Brett Filson’s eyes faded at this question.

  “I’ve decided not to go this year,” he replied quietly.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s hardly fair to the lady. You see, I cannot dance and she thinks it’s not fair of her to be dancing when I’m sitting out all the time. I believe, however, she’d be pleased to go with you if you agreed.”

  “Do me! Who is she?”

  “A Miss Sayers. She’s the daughter of the Myme Hotel licensee. Shall I ring her up and tell her, if she wishes, that you’ll fetch her tomorrow afternoon? You could be back in time to dine here before going on to Breakaway House, and, of course, you would have to take her back to Myme after the ball.”

  Tremayne made no decision while he rolled yet another cigarette. He was wondering why that note of sadness had crept back into Filson’s voice.

  “Good-looking?” he asked without glancing up, knowing that a man’s voice will betray him when his face remains a mask.

  “Very,” Brett said readily.

  “Old?”

  “Not much over thirty.”

  “Good dancer?”

  “Just wonderful.”

  “What’s her Christian name?”

  “Ann.”

  Abruptly Tremayne’s gaze rose to Brett’s face, to see Brett staring into space, his face vacant of expression. It was only for an instant, and then his own gaze became again centred on the cigarette. “I’ll go tomorrow afternoon,” he drawled in sharp contrast to his preceding, almost barked questions. “But don’t telephone. Give me a short letter of introduction. I can then use it or not at my discretion.”

  “But I’d like her to go, Harry. Indeed, she’s a very fine woman.”

  “In which case I’ll present the letter.”

  Then Tremayne abruptly diverted the conversation. “How does it come about that an Australian Aborigine who cannot read glibly reels off Americanisms as Ned does?” he inquired. With secret satisfaction he noted how Filson’s face regained expression. So Miss Sayers as a subject of conversation was dangerous to this semi-wreck of a man.

  “That can be easily explained,” Brett said. “Nora was tribally married to an Aborigine called N’gobi; promised to him when she was born, taken by him when she was about thirteen years old. She sometimes ran away from N’gobi and my mother would become her protectress. She also educated her in domestic science and taught her to read. After a bit, N’gobi would become tired of living alone and take Nora away again, my mother having no power to keep her, even though Nora feared and hated N’gobi, and wanted to stay.

  “Then, in a fight, N’gobi killed a rival for your Miss Hazit’s hand, and they put him in gaol at Kalgoorlie where he will be for a long time. After that Nora came and stayed here with my mother for two years. My mother thought a lot of her and she of my mother, and, as I said, she learned to read.

  “Just before my mother died she decided to go with Ned who was born on Bowgada and has always lived here. He had the same chances as Nora, but was never her mental equal. Plays poker till the cows come home, and was the best draught player of all the hands. And now he borrows American novels from Fred Ellis and gets Nora to read them to him. Fred’s a great fan of American literature.”

  “Both Ned and Nora are exceptional,” Tremayne said.

  “Yes and yet it’s odd you know. It’s not necessary for her and Ned to live as they do. They could have a hut of their own here at the homestead, but refuse it in preference for an old tent or a bough humpy.”

  Tremayne described his last meeting with this couple and the method he adopted to arm Ned against all rivals.

  “The stuff I gave them didn’t amount to thirty shillings,” he said. “But two days later Ned sent, per Hool-’em-up Dick, the three fox scalps worth six pounds in bonus.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  AT THE MYME HOTEL

  “HO! You going to Myme today?” Soddy Jackson asked when Tremayne appeared dressed for the trip.

  “You bet,” Tremayne replied carelessly. “But you’re stopping here.”

  “I ain’t arguing. You can bring me back a couple of bottles of brandy. I’ll get the money.”

  “Oh no, I can’t cook.”

  “I didn’t say you could. I ain’t talkin’ about cooking. I’m talkin’ about brandy,” Jackson explained patiently, an expression of strain on his chalk-white face.

  “And I’m talking about my inability to cook,” Tremayne countered seriously. “If you drink two bottles of brandy, how can you cook? And if you can’t cook and I can’t cook, how do we get on for tucker tomorrow?”

  “The drunker I gets the better I cooks,” Jackson stated warmly.

  “Good! Then I’ll bring you back six bottles of brandy so that you can become properly drunk and can properly cook – if you obtain a permit in writing from the boss.”

  “That’s fair,” cried the white-haired, bow-legged stockman called Old Humpy.

  “Course you’ve got to bring the blasted boss into it,” complained the cook, aggrieved when reminded of Brett Filson’s iron rule concerning liquor on his station. “The capitalists can swill their booze; but no, no, no, to the down-trodden slaves wot produces their wealth. Thank Gawd, the day of our freedom ain’t far orf! When that does come I’m gonna get drunk proper so’s I can ’ang the blighters more slowly. I got a letter from the executive of the movement in Sydney the other day appointing me chief executioner-to-be.”

  “What’s the screw, Soddy?” inquired Charlie English, Millie’s husband, a big, powerful man whose disposition made him popular with everyone.

  “Five pounds a ’ead,” the cook promptly informed them. “I reckon to make a ’undred quid a day.”

  “You won’t be making it for long, Soddy, old top,” drawled Tremayne. “For why? Because when you and your hunch have done all the rough work cleaning up the capitalists, the F.S.S. will start operations. We members of the F.S.S. are only waiting for you Bolshies to do all the spade-work.”

  “What’s the F.S.S.?” demanded Jackson.

  His features immobile, his eyes almost invisible beneath the lowered lids, the ex-policeman replied in soft sinister tones: “The F.S.S.,” he began in explanation, “stands for the Fire-Stick Society. There are nearly forty million members scattered throughout the world. Very little is known about us because we’re a real secret society. We aim to wait calmly until the Bolsheviks have overthrown the capitalists. Then we’re going to start on the Bolsheviks. We’re going to put a fire-stick into every person’s house, and into every public building. We don’t believe in law and order, in houses and buildings. We don’t believe in anything but the universal application of the fire-stick to the world.”

  “But the people gotta live,” gasped Soddy Jackson, a dull flush indicating rising indignation. “The people…”

  “We’re not going to hang Bolsheviks or shoot them,” Tremayne continued. “No. None of those la-di-da women’s ways for us. When we get busy, millions of saw-edged knives are going to slide back and across Bolshie throats. For why? Because we’re not going to have Bolsheviks ordering us about like the capitalists are doing.”

  “Well, of all the bloodthirsty…”

  Old Humpy roared with laughter; English
’s white teeth were flashing in a smile. Soddy Jackson glared at Tremayne, both hands gripping the edge of the pastry table. Tremayne, with grave seriousness, departed whistling Rule Britannia.

  The “overseer” drove to Myme in Filson’s powerful-engined car, following a track which now and then skirted the apex of breakaway bays, where one momentarily glimpsed purple-shaded views. Presently the road gradually turned to the north-east and for several miles passed through dense mulga.

  Ten miles from the homestead the mulga began to thin. Here and there were little clearings carpeted with white and yellow everlasting flowers, among which the buttercups formed sheets of gold, and the daisies nodded modestly. Another two miles, and from the scrub-top ahead slowly rose a knob of gold which magically grew as the car drew closer. Eventually Tremayne was facing a three-hundred foot hill smothered in buttercups, appearing like a nugget of pure gold undreamed of by the most optimistic of prospectors or company promoters.

  “Ye gods!” he breathed, stopping the car to examine something which, even he, with his wide experience, had never before seen the like.

  It was more wonderful than a dying gold-seeker’s hallucination. Not a mark, not a blemish, not a square foot of vacancy marred this huge mound of gold that sent, even against the zephyr wind, a perfume which haunts a man for years. It stood to the east of the track. The sun shone full down on it. It dazzled – nature’s effort to dwarf the seven wonders of the world.

  “Some nugget!” commented Tremayne, and drove on with reckless speed, as a man might who had once looked deeply into dewy violet eyes and smelled violets.

  While yet three miles distant, thousands of ugly mulga stumps thrust upward from natural flowerbeds, mute evidence of the mine’s ravenous hunger for furnace wood. Further on, even the stumps had been dragged out to feed the fires, and here the beauty of the flower carpets was unmarred.