Breakaway House

by Arthur W. Upfield

  “I sent a young girl across to Fred Ellis with a note asking him to take great care of her. She had more than an hour’s start on Tonger’s men. Her name’s May. She rescued me just as I was thinking what a damn fool I was.”

  “I see. Looks as though the Colonel’s coming round.”

  IT transpired that Alec had not actually deserted Breakaway House until he had learned in some way of the death of Morris Tonger. The killing of the squatter had proved to be the breaking point on the strain produced by the earlier three deaths and the others had deserted with him, so when Buck Ross and his party reached the homestead, having made all haste on account of the burning shed, the Myme bully suddenly found himself to be alone.

  That somewhat damaged his nerve, and the sight of the plane burning beside the shed further affected his courage. Within the confines of the homestead, which he approached with cunning caution, the conflagration revealed no human being, not even the men’s cook who was not an active member of the gang. But at one corner of the office building he met the man whom he had pleasured to torture.

  John Tremayne was smiling when he later entered the hall of the house but his face was a dreadful grey colour and his awful clothes hung in shreds from his scarred and work-toughened body. Violet Winters, refreshing herself with beer, the wrench lying handy to her hand on her lap, cried out at the sight of him.

  “I feel better, now,” he told Harry with a beaming smile which made his face even more tragic. “I got Buck Ross. There’s only that Russian. He’ll keep. I’ll get him in the morning.” Pointing to the visible form of Colonel Lawton, he asked: “Is he dead, too? Is that a dead man under the cloth?”

  “They’re all right, John. They’re our prisoners. Mustn’t kill prisoners, you know. What about a bath and clean clothes? Afterwards you’ll feel as right as rain.”

  “You come with me,” urged Violet. “I’ll fix you up.”

  She smiled sadly at the gaunt figure, and slipped an arm round the filthy rags. John Tremayne smiled down at her like a child joining its nurse in a new game.

  JUST as the sun was about to rise into a sky streaked with blue, the two policemen arrived. They brought with them Whitbread and the two men they had found hanging about Bowgada. Before they left with their prisoners for Mount Magnet on Filson’s truck, they used the portable telephone to send reports to their district headquarters, since no one could find the batteries Ross had taken from the office telephone.

  The shed was a smouldering ruin, and, other than the engines, little remained of Colonel Lawton’s plane. Until the police reinforcements arrived, Harry Tremayne consented to remain in charge of Breakaway House, while Violet Winters volunteered to look after John Tremayne who required her strong will to master him. There appeared to be no reason why he should not completely recover, given time and attention.

  Having dictated a telegram to be dispatched to his mother by the policemen, Harry mooned about the smouldering mass of wool, from which he raked a number of iron boxes, until Violet suggested that since Mug Williams was staying, there was no reason why he should not slip across to Bowgada for an hour. There was nothing of great importance for him to do, and at the earliest the first draft of police and detectives would not reach Breakaway House until the evening. When she pointed out that May would be still at Acacia Well, and an embarrassment to Fred Ellis, Tremayne consented to leave Williams in charge.

  Of course, he should have stayed to write reports and gather evidence, but instead he drove off in Tonger’s car with a heart full of anxiety, wanting to reach Bowgada and see his wounded friend. On reaching, Acacia Well he was welcomed by the stockman and the still wild-eyed girl who wanted to sob her relief at the news he brought. She was quite willing to go on to Bowgada and assist Millie English. Tremayne then sauntered across to the clump of acacia trees where Ned and Nora had made a temporary camp.

  He carried a sack containing a heavy object and was watched by two pairs of keen eyes set in two strained and frightened faces. In front of the roughly and hastily constructed bough shelter the couple had built a fire, and, when standing beside this fire, Tremayne silently withdrew the Leonile club from the bag.

  “All right, boss. I go with you,” Ned said.

  Sternly, Harry Tremayne looked at him, and Ned’s eyes never wavered from his.

  “Take me, too, Mr Tremayne. It was my fault. It’s always been my fault. Old Mrs Filson said I was a bad girl, and she spoke true,” whimpered Nora.

  They watched with increasing amazement as he buried the club in the heart of the fire and then waited in silence as the weapon was slowly consumed by the flames.

  Finally Tremayne spoke: “What are you two talking about?” he asked them, still without a smile.

  “You know, boss,” replied Ned wonderingly.

  “I know this much, Ned. If I have any more trouble with either you or Nora, I’ll take a stockwhip to you.”

  “You can beat me now if you want to,” wailed Nora.

  “I’ve a good mind to. Now you pack up, get some tucker from Fred, and clear out on walkabout. You make camp in some cave and have a long shut-eye. You get me? And keep your mouths shut.”

  These two had become used to obeying the white man’s laws and never receiving justice from them. Now Harry Tremayne gave them a justice they understood.

  Ned seized his hands. His eyes were shining when he cried: “You good fella, Mr Tremayne. I tell Nora next time she behave like that I bump ’er off.”

  “If you bump anyone off, Ned, the police will bump you off, remember. So long, Ned! So long, Nora!”

  And Nora this time did not attempt to “make eyes” at him.

  Half an hour later he reached Bowgada with May beside him, and having explained her presence to Millie, he devoted five minutes to Frances. Then he passed into Filson’s room, where he found the doctor seated on one side of the bed drinking the patient’s whisky, and Ann Sayers seated on the other holding the patient’s hand.

  Brett was conscious but looked pale and was very still beneath the bedclothes. The doctor was smiling, which was not wholly due to the whisky, and Ann looked wistfully happy, which indicated that Brett’s chances of recovery were excellent.

  When Tremayne grinned at the patient, he looked not older than twenty-one. “Just dropped in, Brett, old man, to tell you that the double wedding will take place on Christmas Eve,” he said. “I’ve a lot of work to do cleaning up the mess, but I’ll be free on that day. Have you proposed to Ann, or must I do it for you?”

  “I wish you would take the doctor outside for a little while,” Brett said quietly. “I want to talk to Ann.”

  “No talking,” ordered the doctor. “I won’t have you talking. You can say what you want to say with your eyes as well as I said it to my wife eighteen years ago.”

  “You can come and talk to me that way, too,” commanded Frances from the doorway. “Not you, doctor dear – Harry.”