Arthur Upfield - Death of a Swagman

Question: Was the bait dropped by one of the station men to destroy a dingo, or had it been dropped by the man to prevent the dog with one toenail missing from following him and thus probably drawing attention to his own tracks so carefully smoothed out by a flail made with strips of sacking? The answer could be established by inquiries made at Wattle Creek homestead.

The answer was in favour of the poisoning having been done by the man who wore sacking on his feet. Was that man the owner of the dog? That was possible but not probable, for Bony had himself seen the same dog following Mr Jason, Constable Gleeson, two stockmen, and Fanning, the butcher.

When Bony continued with his work it was tobacktrack not only the man’s faint impressions but also to backtrack the perfectly plain tracks of the dog. He was led to the eastern side of the Walls, their leeward side, and here the flank of the sand range abruptly fell more sheerly than the slope of a house roof down to hard whiteclaypans.

Beyond theclaypans, many covering unbrokenly an acre or more, lay a strip of wire-grass country varying in width from half to a full mile away to the edge of thick mulga scrub.

Bony pursed his lips. Had he been a profane man, he would have sworn, for it was useless to attempt to track across that dense growth of wire grass growing to a height of eighteen inches, grass so springy that beneath the tread of a rhinoceros it would rise again within the hour.

The man and dog had obviously come up from those clay-pans and, most probably, from across that wire grass, which would bend but never break and then stand up again within the hour. They could have traversed either theclaypans footing the Walls or the wire-grass country for miles from the south or from the north, and now to continue backtracking them would be time ill spent. Where man and animal had climbed up the steep face of the sand cliff, huge dislodgments had scarred the perfectly symmetrical face.

Having established from which point the man had travelled to the hut at Sandy Flat, it remained for him to ascertain in which direction the man had left. Even that was less important than other work to be done. And after all, with all his minute care to avoid discovery, the man had failed to frustrate Napoleon Bonaparte, failed in his attempt to lead justice to believe that the unfortunate man within the hut had committed suicide, if, indeed, he had been hanged.

Bony walked southward slowly, rolling the inevitable cigarette now that the tenseness of the chase was relaxed. The great cores of sandstone were not found on this side of the Walls. He stood looking downward upon a huge claypan containing water two inches deep, and down he went in a flurry of sand to reach its edge and follow it round to see if the dog had taken a drink there. The tracks of sheep were left on the softer edge of the pan against the water, and there, too, were the tracks made by two dingoes and many birds and several horses. There were no tracks of the dog having a toenail missing from its forepaw.

Once again up on the Walls, he continued walking southward, and then, approximately a mile south of the tracks made by man and dog across the roof, he found the tracks of the man returning from the westward side, alone.

Looking upward at a crow winging softly towards those now far-distant blots on paper, he said:

“Some people hate you and your kind. I don’t hate you. How often have you black devils led me to a clue of great importance? Well, you to your carcass, and me to my little brain teaser. A man takes extraordinary pains to leave no trace of his walkabout over these beautiful Walls of China at a time when a man is hanging from a crossbeam of a lonely stockman’s hut. Interesting… most. As Charles would have said, it’s amonty that that poor devil was hanged and did not hang himself. But if I had not discerned those faint straight lines where there are only curved lines, it is probable that the death would have been recorded as suicide.”

He began the walk to the north-west which would take him directly above Sandy Flat well.

It was as deserted as when he had left it. There was no sign of the returning police sergeant’s car on the track he could see running from the left-angle turn up to the township. He sat down on a ledge at the base of a sandstone pillar and rolled another cigarette. And two minutes later he vented another long-drawn “Ah!”

Riding towards him at an easy canter was a woman on a grey horse. She was coming from the south, and so clear was the air he could see the tracks made by her horse on the slope of a whaleback more than half a mile away. She and her horse disappeared in a declivity, to reappear three minutes later much nearer to him. She was, apparently, riding towards the homestead of Wattle Creek.

“Good morning!” he said, adding hastily: “Or is it good afternoon?” He sighted his own shadow, and then noted the position of the sun. “Why, it is twenty minutes past two.”

“Why itis twenty minutes past two o’clock!” she exclaimed. “Oh! Good afternoon! You made a remarkably good guess.”

Bony smiled broadly. The smile lay deep in his blue eyes and lingered about his mouth, revealing his perfect teeth. Then, before the smile had quite departed, he said boastfully:

“I never guess… when I am serious. Have you ridden far today?”

The impertinence of his question went unnoticed. She sat still, looking down at him, whilst telling him that she had ridden out from the homestead thatmorning to make sure that a mob of horses were getting water. Although he had boasted that he never essayed a guess, he guessed that this girl’s age was in the vicinity of twenty-eight or -nine. She was slight of figure, and she sat her horse as though long accustomed. Khaki jodhpurs and silk blouse, the absence of a hat revealing light blown hair drawn to a bun at the back of her head, showed modern Australian womanhood at its best. She was not actually good looking, but Bony had long reached an age when beauty of personality was more appreciated than skin beauty.

She appeared oblivious to his degree as stockman, as well as to the fact of his birth. That she should overlook these matters, he prided himself, was due to his own charm. He knew that he could be charming when he wished… She said, puzzlement leaping into her eyes:

“But what are you doing here? On foot and no swag! Have you lost your horse?”

“No. I got the day off, and so decided that I would tour these extraordinary sand walls.”

“They are certainly well worth a visit. Who are you working for?”

“His Majesty’s representative, the governor.”

“The governor!”

“You see, I insulted the police force over there in Merino, and the police force hauled me before Justice Jason, who ordered me to be held in durance vile for ten long days… and nights, by the way. Thereupon the police force suggested-suggested, mind you, not ordered-that were I to paint the police station fences a sickly yellow colour I would be given three meals a day by Mrs Marshall and two shillings a day for beer at knock-off time. Today, however, to celebrate the halfway period of my penal sentence, I asked for the day off, threatening that if I were not granted the holiday I would immediately go on strike. If the coal miners can go on strike over stupid and trivial things, why can’t I?”

The girl tossed back her head and laughed, and he noted how her nose wrinkled at its bridge and how her eyes seemed to dance in the light.

“The threat of leaving the police station only half painted was sufficient even for Sergeant Marshall,” he went on. “You would appreciate that could you see the new yellow paint over the old blue tints.”

“I have heard something about you,” she told him, abruptly serious. “Mr James, the minister, spoke to my brother about you. Asked my brother if he could find you a job after your release.”