Biggles In Australia

by W E Johns

  Bill’s expression had changed. ‘I never looked at it like that,’ he admitted soberly.

  ‘Well, it might be worth your while if you bore it in mind and kept an ear to the ground for rumours of agitators. You told me yourself that this fellow Adamsen, in Perth, was known to be one.’

  ‘He’s left Perth, they say.’

  ‘Oh he has, has he. I wonder what he’s up to. And what about Roth, of Tarracooma Creek — wherever that might be.’

  ‘I’ve found out where that is.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It’s an old sheep run on the edge of the desert, south-east from here.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Roughly, between a hundred and a hundred and fifty miles.’

  ‘Would Hopkins be in that direction?’

  ‘More or less. He’s not so far out, of course — mebbe forty miles.’

  ‘Would I be likely to fly over him if I went to Tarracooma?’

  ‘Not unless you made a bit of a dog’s leg.’

  ‘Might I see him from the air?’

  ‘I should think so. He’s got a mine — or rather, a digging — with a home made crusher. He lives in a wurlie, that’s a bough shelter, near what we call a soak, to provide him with water. He scratches enough gold dust to keep him going.’

  ‘Do you know exactly where this place is?’

  ‘Sure. I’ve called on him there. It’s at the foot of the MacLaren Hills.’

  ‘This soak, as you call it. Would that be the only water supply in the district?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would the natives use it?’

  ‘I expect so.’

  ‘Then it might be a good thing if someone had a look to see if Hopkins is all right.’

  ‘He can take care of himself.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it, because if Tarracooma is a prospective trouble spot, and being on my list it may be, the natives in that area may be some of the first to get restless.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ replied Bill slowly.

  Biggles glanced at his watch. ‘While I’m down here I think I’ll run out and have a look at this place Tarracooma. I could take in Joe’s workings on the way. Would you care to come along?’

  ‘I would, very much.’

  ‘Okay. By the way, whether Joe is all right or not, I wouldn’t say anything about my suspicions to anyone just yet. There may be nothing to it. But when a fire is smouldering it only needs one spark to set it alight. That’s why I’m hoping you’re right about Joe being able to take care of himself; because if he isn’t that may be the spark.’

  ‘If he isn’t, don’t worry; I’ll catch the man who did the mischief,’ said Bill grimly.

  ‘Exactly,’ returned Biggles drily. ‘The result of that would be more trouble by way of a reprisal — and up goes the balloon. But let’s not talk about that until we have to. Let’s go.’

  They all walked briskly to the garage where Bill kept his car.

  ‘If you’ll keep low I shall be able to pick up my landmarks as we go along,’ he averred.

  Presently the Halifax, at a few hundred feet, was heading out over the inhospitable terrain that lies behind so much of Western Australia’s coast. At the worst it was stark desert, with ribbed sand dunes and tawny hills; at the best, spiky spinifex and salt bush. Salt lakes, as round as saucers, dotted the landscape, reflecting the clear blue of the sky. There was not a living creature in sight. This, brooded Ginger, was the true Australia, still the same as it had been for countless years before the white man came.

  ‘Take a line on the dip between those two humps on the horizon — a bit to your right,’ requested Bill, and as Biggles altered course a trifle he resumed his scrutiny of the wilderness for the missing prospector.

  The objective took on a more distinct outline as the machine droned on towards it; but of the missing man there was no sign. The scene remained as lifeless as a picture.

  ‘Make for the bottom of the gulley in that hill on your right,’ said Bill. ‘There’s a clump of mulga near it. It’s just this side of it that Joe has his wurlie. You’ll see the mine. He should be there, or not far away.’

  ‘He isn’t there — unless he’s deaf,’ said Biggles evenly. ‘If he was about he’d be looking at us by now.’

  The Halifax roared over the mine. Biggles circled it twice, losing height. A hole in the ground, the primitive bough-shelter, a billy-can hanging over a dead fire and some implements lying about, were all that could be seen.

  ‘He should be there,’ muttered Bill. ‘He hasn’t started for home. If he had he would have taken his billy with him.’

  ‘What do you suggest we do?’

  ‘I’d like to go down and have a look. Can you land?’

  ‘It ought to be possible on that bare flat area. Let’s see.’

  Biggles flew on to the area of desert he had indicated. ‘Seems to be all right,’ he decided. ‘We’ll try it. But don’t blame me if we have to walk home.’

  Actually, the ground was level and devoid of vegetation, and Biggles put the aircraft down without much risk, finishing his run about three hundred yards from the prospector’s lonely workings.

  ‘The machine can’t take any harm where it is,’ remarked Biggles, as they got out, and began walking towards the mine.

  The sun was flaying the earth with bars of white heat that made the air quiver and the distant skylines shake; but everything else was still. There was no sound; no song of a bird, no whisper of a breeze. As they drew near the wurlie the silence seemed to take on a sinister quality; for it must have been evident to all that the miner was not there or he would certainly have shown himself by now. Maybe that was why Bill lengthened his stride so that he was the first to reach the shelter.

  He took one glance inside, and the face that he turned to the others had lost its colour. ‘He’s dead,’ was all he said.

  The old prospector lay in a crumpled heap. He had obviously been dead for some days. There were some ugly black marks on the sand, on which the flies were busy.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ said Bill, in a flat voice. ‘I’d better attend to this.’

  Biggles lit a cigarette and surveyed the sterile landscape.

  ‘He was murdered,’ reported Bill, when he had finished his inspection. ‘Aborigines. He was clubbed, and stabbed to death with spears. Couldn’t have had a chance to defend himself. Came on him in the night, mebbe. Where’s his rifle? I don’t see it. I know he had one. Kept it in case he got a chance for a shot at a kangaroo. It was an old service .303. Had his initials on the butt, I remember. No cartridges, either. Queer.’

  ‘I see nothing queer about it,’ said Biggles. ‘When this sort of thing starts that’s how it goes. They probably killed him for his rifle. Now, perhaps, you see what I mean,’ he concluded, significantly.

  Bill tipped his hat on the back of his head. ‘I still can’t believe it. This sort of thing was common enough years ago but it doesn’t often happen now — not in these parts, anyway. Poor old Joe. And to think how many times he’s shared his water and tucker with them. We shall have to bury him. It’s usual here to bury a perish, as we say, where he’s found. We’ve tools. Then I’ll fetch my tracker and see what he has to say about it.’

  ‘You mean, you’ll follow up the murderers?’

  ‘To hell and back if necessary. We don’t let anybody, black or white, get away with murder – not even here. Don’t tread on more ground than you can help.’

  All taking a hand they dug a shallow grave. The body of the old digger was laid in it, after which the earth was replaced and stones piled on it. Bill recited the Lord’s Prayer, stuck the spade in the ground at the head of the grave and started to collect the dead man’s few simple belongings, putting them in his ‘swag’ – a coarse canvas holdall. After searching about for a little while in the wurlie he said: ‘There’s something else missing.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘His dust – gold dust. He wouldn’t have
stayed here had his claim been worked out. He always managed to get a few ounces. Kept it in a little kangaroo-hide bag he made. I’ve seen it scores of times.’

  ‘He might have hidden it.’

  ‘Not he. Why should he? He wouldn’t be expecting trouble.’

  ‘Seeing the natives—’

  ‘He had no time to hide it, even if he thought of it, which isn’t likely. From the way he was killed he hadn’t time to do anything.’

  ‘Then if it isn’t here the murderer must have taken it.’

  Bill nodded. ‘That’s the only answer.’ He fastened the swag and picked it up. ‘That’s the lot,’ he said, and turned to go, only to stop dead, leaning forward, like a dog pointing game.

  Ginger did not have to look far for the reason. A hundred yards away a score of naked aborigines were standing in a group, watching them. All carried spears. To say that he was astonished would be to put it mildly. How, and from where, the natives had appeared in a scene that he would have sworn was lifeless, was a mystery.

  ‘Now what?’ murmured Biggles.

  ‘I’ll have a word with ‘em. It may be the mob that murdered Joe.’

  ‘You know more about it than I do, but I’d say not,’ replied Biggles. ‘The mob that killed Joe, knowing what was bound to follow, would surely make themselves scarce.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ Bill started walking purposefully towards the aborigines, who remained as rigid as if they had been carved in stone. ‘If they didn’t do the killing they’ll know all about it.’

  ‘Have you got a gun?’ queried Biggles.

  ‘I don’t need one.’

  Biggles shrugged. To Ginger he said quietly: ‘There are times when fearlessness can be foolishness.’

  Bill stopped at a distance of about twenty yards. ‘What name?’ he shouted.

  There was no answer, no movement.

  ‘Which way country belong you?’ demanded Bill.

  No answer.

  ‘What yabber-yabber belong you,’ persisted Bill. ‘You been savvy what happen longa here.’

  The aborigines remained like graven images, their black eyes, unwinking, on the policeman.

  ‘Listen, Ginger,’ said Biggles tersely. ‘He’s not going to do anything with that lot, and if he tries there’s going to be trouble. Make for the machine. Start up. You may be able to bring it nearer. Behave as if nothing is happening. Above all, don’t look scared.’

  ‘Okay.’ Ginger started off for the machine, which was not directly behind them but at an angle between the two parties, so that he was able to watch events out of the corner of his eye.

  Biggles, with his hands in his pockets, was strolling nearer to Bill as if nothing unusual was going on. Coming within earshot he said: ‘I don’t think that’s your lot, Bill. I don’t see a rifle.’

  ‘They won’t talk.’

  ‘If they’ve decided to take that line you won’t make ‘em. Push them too hard and we’re going to have casualties. We don’t want that at this stage.’

  ‘I’ve never seen ‘em in this mood before,’ came back Bill, in a voice tense with chagrin.

  Biggles realized the position Bill was in. To retire now would look like weakness, loss of face. To go on was to invite open hostility. ‘You please yourself what you do; it’s your country and you know best,’ he said, and lit another cigarette.

  The Halifax’s engines came to life and the big machine moved slowly and ponderously towards the opposing parties.

  Said Bill, reluctantly: ‘I suppose you’re right, but I hate letting ‘em get away with it.’ He half turned.

  The movement might have been the signal for which the aborigines were waiting. While Bill’s eyes were on them, like animals, they hesitated to do anything; but the instant he turned, they acted. With shrill whistles and strange cries they began to fan out.

  Bill stared. Not only was he obviously surprised by this behaviour but it was evident that he still had not grasped what was unpleasantly obvious to Biggles; that their lives were in danger. Familiarity with natives normally friendly, had, no doubt, bred contempt, as was understandable. He refused to be intimidated, and it was with reluctance that he moved unhurriedly with Biggles towards the machine.

  At the last minute a spear was thrown. It did no harm. But it so enraged Bill that Ginger, who was watching from the cockpit, thought that he was going for the thrower; a course that looked, and probably would have been, suicidal. Biggles had a pistol but he had not drawn it, presumably hoping to avoid hostilities. In any case it would not have been much use against the mob, had they charged.

  Ginger decided to take matters into his own hands. Advancing the throttle, as the machine responded he swung it round so that the tail pointed at the natives. The result can be imagined. On the tearing slipstream of the four powerful engines a wall of dust, sand and dead vegetation, struck them like a tidal wave, and for a moment engulfed them. The stuff may well have stung their exposed bodies. At all events, it was more than they could face, and presently vague figures, hands over eyes, could be seen staggering about as they sought to get out of the blast.

  Biggles and Bill took the opportunity to get aboard and the immediate danger was past. Ginger relinquished his seat to Biggles, who said, ‘Well done.’ He did not take off at once, but turning to Bill, asked: ‘Now what do you want to do? Do you want to go back to Broome or shall I go back to Tarracooma?’

  ‘I’d rather get back to Broome,’ answered Bill; ‘Whether it suits your book or not I shall have to report the murder of Joe Hopkins, and the behaviour of those lunatics outside. I can’t think what the deuce has come over them.’

  ‘I can,’ murmured Biggles. ‘I hate saying I told you so, but I did try to give you an idea of what we might expect. We’ve got to work fast, Bill, or Joe Hopkins won’t be the only man to perish. I’ll take you home.’

  Leaving the naked warriors watching from a distance the Halifax roared into the air.

  CHAPTER X

  Claws Out at Tarracooma

  They got back to Broome to find the Otter there, just in. Algy said they had spotted the Matilda about seventy miles out, on a course for the mouth of the Daly.

  ‘That’s what I expected, and all I want to know about it for the time being,’ said Biggles. He introduced Algy and Bertie to Bill, and then told them the result of their morning’s work. ‘I’m pretty certain now that whatever else von Stalhein’s associates are doing in Australia part of their job is to unsettle the aborigines. Aside from any material damage the natives may do it tends to focus attention on them, which, of course, by employing police and aircraft, makes things easier for the spy ring to operate. How many aborigines have you got in Australia, Bill?’

  ‘As near as can be judged, about fifty thousand. In addition, there are a lot of mixed race.’ Bill grimaced. ‘Enough to do a lot of mischief. Those we saw this morning were Peedongs; they wander about the open country,’ explained Bill. ‘They’re different from the jungle types you find in the Territory, called Myalls. They’re all pretty wild, btu the Arnhem Landers are the worst. Until recently it was almost certain death to go near them.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘If, as it seems, somebody has been working on the Peedongs to antagonize them, we can expect the same conditions in the Territory. In Western Australia the trouble may have started at Tarracooma. In the Territory, up the Daly.’ He looked at Bill seriously.

  ‘I realize that you’ll have to report the killing of Joe Hopkins, and try to find the murderer; but while you’re doing that the trouble may spread. I imagine Hopkins wasn’t the only lone prospector out in the wilds.’

  Not by a long chalk. Some fellows work alone, others in pairs. And there are homesteads right off the map.’

  ‘They ought to be warned. The question is how to do it without starting a scare — and being laughed at for alarmists. And while people are laughing, the propaganda agents, realizing that their racket has been rumbled, will work all the harder to set things alight. There’s no time to lose.
This ugly weed has got to be nipped in the bud. You can see how I’m fixed. I’ve no authority here to arrest anyone, even if I had a definite charge against him, which I haven’t — yet.’

  ‘I might get the fellow who killed Hopkins. I’ve a good tracker.’

  ‘And while you’re looking for him more murders may be committed. You might even be murdered yourself.’

  ‘What do you suggest I do?’

  ‘What do you suggest I do? Of course, I could go to Sydney and see one of your Security people whose name has been given me; but that would take time, and it would certainly be some time before anything was done. I should have to convince the man that I wasn’t talking through my hat, and he’d have to get instructions before he could take action. All the evidence I have would rest on my unsubstantiated word, and I feel that isn’t enough. What I really want to do is have a sight of this mystery man Smith, who I suspect is at the root of the trouble. But he’s outside your province.’ Biggles thought for a moment. ‘In view of what’s happened I feel inclined to take the bull by the horns and tackle this fellow Roth at Tarracooma. That might stop the rot in this area.’