Arthur Upfield - The bushman who came back

“Better for Meena to be my woman than belong to old Canute,” Bony said. “What for you promise little Meena baby to him?”

“Long time ago Canute say he tell policeman about Yorky and me, I not promise him baby. I promise him baby then he still say tell policeman. Yorky little feller. He fight Canute. Canute no more tell policeman.”

“But he stuck to the promised baby?”

“Yair. She grow up and he try for her. We beat him, we always beat him. We try beat you, too.”

“You may, but not Meena,” he said, smiling to rouse her. “Meena, she marry me, big-feller policeman. She go away with big-feller policeman. You no see Meena no more.”

The large black eyes blazed, and the fire was extinguished by the blue ice of his own. She began to emit long-drawn sobs, and down her large face tears fell, reminding him of her daughter. Her voice now wailed:

“What for Ole Fren Yorky shoot Mrs Bell and run away with Linda? What for he do that? What for you come and take my Meena away? What for… what for… what for…”

“How do you know Ole Fren Yorky killed Mrs Bell?” he demanded. “You say Ole Fren Yorky run away and Yorky surely killed Mrs Bell. Other fellerp’raps kill Mrs Bell, and kill Linda and Yorky, too.”

Hope was born like a star and extinguished like a slush lamp. Sarah’s fear and despondency swept back over her.

“They found Yorky’s tracks,” she fought back.

“Did you see those tracks?”

“No. Bill Harte did, and Arnold, and Constable Pierce.”

“They ought to know.”

“Yair. Meena and me was put to cooking and housework. The men went tracking Ole Fren Yorky. They find where Ole Fren Yorky went to, and wouldn’t say anything. Me and Meena tried to find out.”

“Does Charlie know?”

“Don’t think.”

“Did Charlie see Yorky’s tracks behind the meat-house?”

“What for he see them? He was put tracking. They all was that day, soon’s the men had their breakfast.”

“Now you listen, Sarah,” he said slowly. “I tell you something, you promise to keep it secret?”

Slight hesitation, and then surrender. He said:

“Yorky was here last night.”

The statement rocked her before freezing her to immobility.

“You come with me,” he commanded. “I show you.”

She ambled after him through the back door, along the rear of the house, round to the side veranda on to which his bedroom opened. Opposite his room, steps broke the long veranda railing, and at the bottom of the steps were the imprints of a man who walked on the soles of his feet. The woman halted as though meeting a wall in the dark. She bent low, moved to one side and then the other of the three distinct imprints.

On straightening up, her eyes expressed bafflement, and her voice conviction.

“Them’snot Yorky’s tracks,” she said.

“Look again.”

She obeyed, shaking her head as again she squinted at the prints from several angles.

“Go fetch Meena. Tell her I want to see her here. Don’t tell her about the tracks.”

Meena came in shorts and bath towel. As with her mother, Bony hadn’t to indicate the tracks. Like her mother, she stooped and squinted at the prints from different angles. And, like her mother, at first she thought they were Yorky’s tracks, and finally decided they were not.

“Yorky here last night?” suggested Bony, and she denied it resolutely. “All right. Fetch Charlie. Bring him but don’t tell him why. You understand?”

“Yes. Someone make believe they are Yorky’s tracks?”

“Let us hear what Charlie says.”

Meena dropped the towel and ran like a moorhen to the quarters.

“What for, Mr Bonaparte, what for someone do this?” demanded Sarah, glints in her eyes. “What for someone make like Yorky came last night?”

“Wait till Charlie’s seen them. Even then I mightn’t be able to tell you.”

They could see Meena dragging the sleepy Charlie by the hand. She acted fairly when she pushed him forward on reaching the veranda, and Charlie continued under the impetus until he saw the tracks. It was comical how those tracks dashed sleep from his eyes.

“Feller like Yorky,” he said, summing up. “Walk like Yorky. Don’t know that feller.”

They waited upon Bony, and Bony was smiling triumphantly.

“We won’t say anything about these tracks being crook ones, eh?”

“If you say so,” agreed Meena. “But why, who made them?”

“I did. Charlie, could you make them?”

“I’ll try.”

“Not now. Back to the kitchen, Sarah, and you, Meena. You’re both under the ban of silence. I’ll explain to Charlie what I think, and he can tell you. Come on, Charlie.”

They went up the slope, the aborigine in shorts, Bony in flapping dressing-gown. Bony lit a small fire, as blackfellers for centuries have arranged the kindling wood, and motioned Charlie to squat over it with him. With the supreme patience of his race, the aborigine waited while Bony made two cigarettes, and then it wasn’t of strange tracks that Bony spoke.

“Meena tell you I traded Canute for her?”

“Yair. Why the hell you do that? You said you’d work on Canute for me.”

“So I did, Charlie. I bought Meena from him. And some time or other I am going to sell her to you.”

For the second time this morning hope was born like a star, but this time it wasn’t extinguished.

“I paid forty plugs of tobacco for Meena,” Bony said.

“I pay you more. I got money on the station books.”

“I think Meena is worth five hundred plugs, even a thousand.”

“Tough guy, eh?” charged Charlie, heavily frowning.

“Well, suppose I give you Meena, what would you give me?”

“Anything I got.”

“True answers to my questions?”

“What you want to know?”

“I’m asking would you give true answers to my questions if I give you Meena?”

Charlie nodded, and slowly a smile spread over his expressive face.

“It’s a deal,” Bony said, and they shook hands over the tiny fire. “You answer all my questions, I give you Meena. You and Meena go off to the Missioner and be married properly when I say so. Okee?”

“Okee, tough guy.”

“I shall be tough, too. Where is the tribe’s treasure house?”

“What! No!”

“All right! No Meena for you.”

Agony filled the black eyes. Sweat broke in great globules on the prominent forehead.

“I can’t tell that,” cried Charlie. “You know I can’t tell that.”

“I know where the treasure house is, but I am testing you to be sure you give true answers,” flagrantly lied Bony, and was given the information that the tribe’s cherished churinga stones, the magic pointing bones, and all the other relics which chained this tribe of the Orrabunna Nation to the generations of those who had lived and died before them, were in the keeping of a certain tree in a certain place.

“All right, Charlie. Now I know you speak true. Forget about the treasure house. I am your friend; you are my friend. D’you know what plaster of Paris is?” Charlie shook his head.

“Well, do you know what plasticine is?”

“Yair, we worked with that at the Mission.”

“Good! Plaster of Paris is in powder form, and when a little water is mixed with it, it turns to a paste, which dries hard pretty quickly.” Bony made a print of his hand on the ground and illustrated the process of taking casts. “That day Mrs Bell was shot, Constable Pierce made a plaster cast of the tracks behind the meat-house. I have that plaster cast and from it made the tracks below the veranda steps. So, Charlie, the tracks I made are exactly the same as those which were behind the meat-house. Get me?”

“Yair. Then Yorky’s tracks behind the meat-house weren’t left by Yorky?”