The Colonel permitted himself to smile. Then he added: “Being unaware of just how much you know, my dear Mr Tremayne, I have followed my practice over many years of telling you everything in order that you may be so dangerous to us that to kill you will be an absolute necessity.”
CHAPTER XXVIX
AN OUTRAGED HUSBAND
BRETT FILSON’S party at Bowgada that Sunday was not a success, a state of affairs owing entirely to the absence of Harry Tremayne.
Violet Winters became strangely silent after Frances’s avowal that Tremayne loved her and was to marry her. And as each long minute passed, the Breakaway House girl became more and more uneasy when Tremayne still failed to appear. It seemed so odd that having convened the party, and having promised to be present, he did not return. Surely he would have sent a reason for his absence, had he been able. Brett decided that if he did not turn up before dinner was cleared away, he would himself enter this dangerous game. Matters had gone far enough.
Talk was desultory during the meal, despite the host’s valiant efforts to keep the conversation running smoothly, and despite his able backing by Ann Sayers who shrewdly guessed his worry. When the cloth had been removed by Millie she was asked to send in her husband and Jackson.
When they had arrived Brett said: “No doubt you’ll both remember N’gobi who was imprisoned for killing an Aborigine. And of course you know that he’s escaped from prison and is almost certainly making for Bowgada. According to Ned’s brother, Wombera, he’ll reach here sometime tonight, and he’ll be bringing with him some of his friends to take it out of Ned.
“Nora swears she will not go back to N’gobi, and I’ve sworn that I’ll protect her and Ned. So, Charlie, I want your wife and Nora to occupy a room in the house tonight, and I want you to look after Ned and bring him into the house when N’gobi gets here. You understand, I don’t want any fighting. You and I, Jackson, will effect the arrest of N’gobi, and we’ll keep him here until the Myme policeman takes him over tomorrow morning.”
“Why not get the policeman here now and let him do the arresting?” asked Jackson.
“Yes, why not, Mr Filson?” echoed Ann, regarding the squatter with troubled eyes.
“That’s a question which I shall not answer,” Brett said grimly, presenting to Ann a facet of his character she had not even suspected. “Now where’s Mug Williams?”
“Across at the men’s hut,” English answered.
“Send him back to the kitchen and tell him to wait there until I call for him. You have a rifle, Jackson?”
“Too right! And a Mauser pistol. And a shotgun – double-barrel.”
“Have them where you can get at them quickly. Should you hear a car approaching, or see a horseman coming, tell me at once. That will be all now.”
“Wot about Mr Tremayne? Shall I keep his dinner hot? He said he would be here for dinner for certain,” demanded the cook.
“Evidently he has been delayed by something, Jackson,” Brett pointed out quietly. “Keep his dinner warm, by all means.”
When the cook and the boss stockman had withdrawn, Brett turned to his interested guests and came straight to the point without preamble. “I think that we’re all interested in Harry Tremayne and that we all like him,” he said. “His non-appearance this afternoon is perturbing in view of his mission to the Murchison, and, too, in view of certain happenings. I’m going to take you into my confidence for several reasons, one of which is that I want to learn what Harry hoped to learn this afternoon. It was he who suggested this party, and, frankly, one of his reasons for doing so was to seek certain information from you, Miss Winters. Might I assume that had he been here you would have given him the information he sought?”
Violet was sitting bolt upright on the extreme edge of her chair. Her rugged face was red despite the powder, her small nose shone defiantly, and her eyes were mere pin points of dark brown. Her mouth was set in a long, thin, straight line.
“You can assume that, Mr Filson,” she said grimly. “I’d made up my mind to tell him certain things when I learned what he was and what he’s doing here.” Her eyes closed for a moment and her face softened.
When she went on her voice was less hard, and certainly not bitter. “I’m getting old and I forgot that. I’ve had silly thoughts for a woman of my age but they’ll be memories now. Yes, I’m in love with Mr Tremayne, even though I’ve wakened up; and even though he’s a policeman.”
Brett noticed how Frances’s eyes shone and then became clouded as she continued to listen to Violet. They all felt for Violet, all sensed what she was going through. Little real affection had swayed her rough life before she met “the boy” who took her to a dance.
Brett’s voice then filled the ensuing silence, every one of his listeners magnetised. He told of Harry Tremayne’s mission to the Murchison, all that Tremayne had learned, all that he suspected, and of the determined attacks on his life. He concluded by asking Violet another direct question. “Miss Winters, will you tell us what you know of those gold-stealers?”
“Yes,” she assented without hesitation. “I know for a start that Morris Tonger is not in with them unless he joined them this year.”
“Oh…I am glad!” Frances exclaimed.
“I don’t mean to say that Morris Tonger may not be mixed up with something much worse,” Violet said swiftly, her show of feminine tenderness replaced by the habitual hardness she turned to the world. “What that is I don’t know, but it must be something bad, else why should young Tremayne disappear near his house? Why should he twice plan to kill Mr Tremayne? It seems certain that, like his brother, Mr Tremayne has stumbled on something that bad that Tonger would commit murder to keep it hidden.
“You see, when I first went to Myme, I kept house for my brother. Buck Ross was there two or three nights a week, and there were times when some of his pals came with him. I got to know their business and Tom’s, and, because on the goldfields stealing is not reckoned much of a crime among the miners, I didn’t try hard to persuade Tom to give it up.
“When he was killed, Ross and his friends sort of made me hate policemen. They were afraid I might talk, knowing so much, and Ross wanted to marry me to make even more sure of keeping me silent. I refused, and he threatened to kill me if I said things. That was in the Myme kitchen.” Violet’s eyes suddenly blazed. “He had to go to the doctor when I’d finished with him!”
“Tonger never associated with your brother and Ross?” questioned the squatter.
“Never.”
“Where is Ross’s secret treatment plant?”
“About seventeen miles north of Breakaway House, up near Telfer Range.”
“Oh! Not near the balancing rock about three miles south of the homestead?”
Violet shook her head.
“You don’t think you are, or could be, mistaken?”
“I do not,” she replied emphatically. “I know just where it is because I once went there.”
“How do you account – forgive me for cross-examining you – how do you account for Buck Ross being associated with Morris Tonger?”
“I can’t. I don’t understand that. The only reason I can think of is that Tonger joined Ross and his gang some time this year. They weren’t associated last year, that I know.”
“Well, they are associated now, Miss Winters. It appears probable that, as Ross is joined to Tonger, Ross’s gang are joined too.”
The door to the kitchen was opened and round its edge peered Mug Williams. “Car coming from Myme,” he said meaningfully, absent from his face the usual smile.
Brett looked at the clock to see that it was twenty-seven minutes after seven. “Tell Jackson to show you to his bedroom,” he said sharply. “And tell Jackson I want him.”
The round face vanished, and, just as they heard the sound of the car, Jackson came in.
“If this car stops, don’t go beyond the kitchen door,” Brett ordered. “And no matter who it is, if one of these ladies or I is asked for, tell
me who it is before you admit them here.”
Jackson nodded.
“And,” Brett said further, “be in a vile temper and stress your undying hatred of capitalists.”
Again Jackson nodded, into his eyes leaping a gleam of dry humour as he returned to the kitchen.
With complaining brakes the car pulled up at the side of the house. The horn was sounded peremptorily and the murmur of men’s voices reached them.
Then a man called out: “You there, Jackson?”
When Jackson made no answer the lowered voices again drifted through the open windows.
Then there was a short silence, followed by a man’s voice at the kitchen door. “Pity you can’t come out when you’re wanted.”
“If you think I’m gonna run round money-grabbing capitalists, you’re mistaken,” Jackson snarled. “I only got one taskmaster, and don’t you forget it. Slavin’ ’ere orl day, Sunday, too. What do you take me for? The day ain’t far off…”
“Cut it out. Where’s Miss Winters?”
“How do I know?” again snarled the cook. “Am I looking at ’er? She was in the dining room ten minutes ago with the blinded boss, but I wouldn’t bet a razoo she’s there now.”
“Well, you just tell her I want to speak to her. And keep that gun off me. I don’t like even empty guns pointing at my stomach.”
“I’ll do wot I like with me guns in me own kitchen,” roared Jackson. “You don’t come ’ere giving me orders on me own parade ground.” Then the living-room door was pushed open and Jackson entered back first in order not to remove his gaze from the man at the kitchen door. “Stay where you are,” he ordered. “I don’t aim for you to pinch me new frypan.” Over his shoulder, he added with heavy sarcasm: “Mr Buck Ross wants to speak private like with Miss Violet Winters.”
Violet took a step towards the door, but Brett restrained her. “Show Mr Ross in here,” he said.
“Come in here,” Soddy snarled.
“Can’t stop. I’m in a hurry,” Ross said from the doorway. “Ask her to come out here.”
Brett pushed Jackson out into the kitchen before him. The cook sat down at the table and continued to clean and oil the double-barrelled shotgun.
When in the centre of the kitchen, Brett said: “You here again, Ross!”
“Yes, Mr Filson. I just stopped, wanting a word with Miss Winters.”
Brett, indicating the room at his back, invited the big man to enter.
“I haven’t got…”
“Come in,” Brett repeated, ice now in his voice.
“I tell you I haven’t got time,” Ross said angrily. “I want a word or two with Miss Winters in private.”
“I think you’d better get on your way, Ross,” said Brett in a low voice. “Leave your most private interview till tomorrow. Later this evening I shall be taking Miss Sayers and Miss Winters back to Myme, and it might interest you to know that I’ve insured my guests and myself against accident with the police.”
“Wot do you mean by that?”
“I will leave you to guess my meaning, Ross. Now, will you come in, or shall we say ‘good night’?”
“I can’t stop, I tell you. I’ll be gettin’ on.”
“Very well. If you’re not off Bowgada in half an hour…”
“I’m on a public road,” Ross objected heatedly.
“Half an hour, Ross. No more than half an hour.”
The man’s fury whitened his face.
As an accompaniment to the dialogue between him and Brett, Jackson hummed tunelessly. Seated at the kitchen table facing the caller, he handled the oiled shotgun carelessly, whilst within reach of either hand lay the Mauser pistol.
From behind the curtains in Brett’s bedroom he and his guests watched the car pass along the road to Breakaway House. They saw that Ross was at the wheel and that the two passengers were careful to keep their faces turned away from them.
“I think, after all, that you and Miss Winters had better stay tonight, Miss Sayers,” the squatter said thoughtfully. “We can ring up your people and allay their anxiety. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go out on to the breakaway where I can observe Ross and his friends.”
“We’ll all go, if we may,” suggested Ann, her face a trifle pale.
“Yes, please, Mr Filson,” Frances seconded.
“By all means. Come along.”
At the garden gate Brett asked for silence to listen. The roar of the departing car could still be heard, and Brett judged that it was then down on the valley speeding towards Acacia Well.
A man shouted from the back of the house. He shouted again from within the house. Then Ned appeared at the front door, and ran to them. Nora followed, and behind her was English.
“They’re coming!” Nora panted. “N’gobi and all his relations are coming! Give me a gun, Mr Filson. Soddy won’t give me one of his. Give me a gun. I shoot – I shoot that N’gobi!”
CHAPTER XXX
THE BATTLE
FOLLOWING Nora’s demand for a gun, the little party at the Bowgada front gate were stilled as if it were a tragedy accomplished rather than a tragedy impending. Everyone appeared to wait on Brett Filson’s leadership, and he, sensing their attitude, accepted leadership less by right than by silent election.
“Millie, take Nora and Ned to your room,” was his first instruction. To his guests, he said: “You would render me great assistance by remaining in the house.”
“Why not ring the police, Mr Filson?” urged Ann Sayers.
He smiled, thrilled by the concern for him he saw in her wide eyes. For the first time since the war he forgot his disabilities and permitted himself to look Ann straight in the eye, physically sure of himself. “I was hoping that Harry Tremayne would come,” he said slowly. “Now it would be too late anyway so you may ring the police station at Myme, and tell the constable that N’gobi’s here and that we’ll detain him.”
“Who do you mean by ‘we’?” she asked anxiously.
“Why, English, Williams, Jackson and myself. There’s no reason to be uneasy about N’gobi. We won’t hurt him.”
Laughing gently at her and forgetting the others, Brett was glad of this chance providence offered. With all his heart he wanted to make her forget, if only for a little while, his crippled condition, and when he led the way into the house he barely used his stick.
When they were back in the living room, Ann at once crossed to the telephone to ring the Myme exchange. Brett went to his writing desk, took out a nickel-plated Smith and Wesson revolver and rapidly loaded it from a box of cartridges. Violet Winters sat down and eyed the heavy poker lying in the fender. Frances was watching Ann, now frantically ringing Myme.
“I expect Ross and his friends have cut the Myme wire,” Brett said, actually chuckling. “Now you three remain here. I’ll be back in a minute or two.”
He was at the door when Ann Sayers reached him, her face working with anguish. Her dark-blue eyes were wide, and she seemed to hold her breath; and, because he forgot his infirmities, he also forgot his resolutions concerning celibacy. Before the others he placed his hands on her shoulders, drew her to him, and kissed her. “Don’t worry, dear,” he said, holding her back to smile at her. “I’ll be quite all right.”
“Don’t go! Don’t go!” Ann pleaded. “Let Nora go back to N’gobi. Let Ned fight for her if he wants her. What does all this matter to us?”
The last pronoun was breathed rather than spoken; as though the word had become sanctified at long last; as though they two, to which it referred, were set apart.
When he shook his head she knew his resolve. “I’ve given my word, Ann. Nora wishes to remain with Ned. They belong to Bowgada. Now, I shan’t be long.”
When he had left, Frances went over to Ann and gently restrained her from following.
In the kitchen, Jackson, Williams and English stood bunched in front of the door waiting for Filson.
The light was failing, for the sun was setting and black clouds were sliding eastwards be
neath the grey haze. The outbuildings were brought out in sharp contrast to the dark green background of mulga in this strange twilight. Near the stockyards was a group of Aborigines in excited conversation with Ned’s brother, Wombera.
“English!” The three men at the door swung round at Brett’s approach.
“I want you and Williams to guard the house and at the same time cover Jackson and me. You take the rifle, English, and you, Williams, the shotgun. Cover us from the windows and don’t fire unless you know we’re in danger or the blacks rush the house. Don’t let them see you until they start something. You, Jackson, come with me.”
“Yes sir! But can’t you get the police? They got more right to be killed than we have.”
“No. I think Ross must have cut the telephone wire to Bowgada. We have to arrest N’gobi before the daylight goes. Once we’ve got him under lock and key those others will go away and camp quietly. They’re not that wild that they don’t appreciate what will follow if they start something, but there’s no knowing what they might do if we permit N’gobi to stir them up. Remember, you are not to produce that pistol you love so well until I say so.”
“Righto! Quite like old times, ain’t it? Wot about that night me and you went on that walkabout east of Corbie?” For the first time for many years, Soddy Jackson was smiling.
Together, ex-officer and ex-digger left the house to walk unhurriedly across the open space to the party at the stockyards. There were, Brett counted, fourteen Aborigines besides Wombera. The majority was dressed only in trousers and shirt, but two wore better clothes with boots and hat, proclaiming the fact that they were in employment as stockmen.
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