Arthur Upfield - The Mountains have a Secret

He breakfasted on grilled rabbit and a crust of damper, and there would be no more bread, because there remained no more flour. There was no more tobacco, either, but he did have a store of cigarette-ends and about twenty matches, a fistful of tea and a little sugar.

He slept through the day till shortly before five o’clock, when leisurely he brewed a pot of tea and ate the remainder of the rabbit. He planned that night to investigate the homestead and those who lived there, and he was with deliberateunhaste drawing at a cigarette when he heard the sound of shooting. There were four reports, to him being no louder than a cork drawn from a bottle.

Within the space of five seconds he was high in the niche near the summit of the tallest boulder and directing his gaze towards the homestead. He could see the golden discs of oranges, but nothing that moved in the vicinity of the house and observatory. He could actually see the blue smoke rising lazily from one of the three chimneys. Then again he heard the shooting, a fraction more distinctly, but not nearer, and coming from the range at his back.

Several minutes edged by him, and then he heard two further reports, followed after a short interval by one. When no additional reports reached him he decided to investigate what were obviously the reports of a rifle or rifles.

Then he heard the aeroplane.

It was high up and approaching from the west, a pencil of gold which grew wings prior to circling the homestead. A machine of medium size, it landed in a paddock skirted by the creek and taxied towards the homestead like a cicada first trying its wings. A man appeared outside the garden hedge and walked forward to greet three people who alighted from the machine.

It was evident to Bony that the people at the homestead had not heard the shooting, and the shooting submerged the interest aroused by the advent of the visitors to Baden Park. He considered it probable that the shots had been fired in Shannon’s private war, because it was most unlikely that sportsmen would be shooting kangaroos or wallabies or wild dogs. Damn Shannon, if he were the cause of the firing, and thus almost certain to stir up a hornets’ nest when it was vital that the hornets should remain quiescent.

He began the long ascent of the mountain back, which ended in the precipice overlooking Baden Park Hotel, feeling annoyance, yet doubly cautious.

On reaching the crest, he moved slowly parallel with it for a quarter of a mile before going down the slope almost at right angles. Half-way down, a flash of colour sent him to earth. It kept him there for some time. The colour had been light brown, and he was puzzled because the birds in the vicinity were not alarmed. On again, in action not unlike a goanna, he had proceeded only a dozen yards when he saw a saddled horse anchored to the ground by its trailing reins. Several minutes lapsed before he crawled a little nearer, to be halted once more by the sight of the rider.

If the man was “foxing” he was doing it remarkably well, so well, in fact, that the birds were not taking the slightest interest in him and giving all their attention to Bony. The man lay upon his back several yards from his horse, one hand clutching a rifle, the other resting high up on his chest.

Assured now that the man was dead, Bony went forward, foot by foot, the horse now facing him with its ears pricked. Then Bony sighed with the resignation of the martyr, for buried in the rider’s throat was a throwing knife.

Tragedy was written clearly on this page of the Book of the Bush, and Bony could have read it easily enough had not caution demanded the harder way. Instead of going directly forward he had to encircle the man and horse, still on hands and knees, until finally he read a paragraph.

Two riders had been travelling together from the east, from the road to Dunkeld, from which they might have set out. One had drawn his rifle from its scabbard and had received a knife in his throat, and the other had ridden down the slope and not towards the Station gate.

Bony followed the tracks of the second horse, relying on the birds and his eyesight to warn him of a waiting enemy, often halting to sniff the breeze and to listen, although the wind was coming from behind and of little assistance.

Then he saw the second horse. It was gazing down the slope, curiosity its master. The reins had been slipped from its head, the loop tossed over the broken limb of a low tree. A brown fantail was dancing on the pommel of the saddle.

Determining the point at which the horse was seeing or hearing something invisible to him, Bony began a wide detour, hoping that the animal would not betray his presence by whinnying. Five minutes later he saw the second man. He was lying on his chest, as though sighting his rifle round the bulge of a boulder, and, like the first, he was dressed as a stockman.

The stalking Bonaparte cut Shannon’s tracks, and the tracks revealed that the American had been running in zigzag fashion when the second rider went to earth. That he had died whilst sighting along the rifle was proven by the red bar of colour joining his face to the ground, but Bony could not decide how, whether by knife or bullet, as he dared not approach too close.

Now, on Shannon’s tracks, he saw that the American had been racing for the cover provided by a lone granite monolith poised so acutely that it was astonishing the wind didn’t topple it over. Distance from the second dead man, as well as the position of the dead man, told that Shannon had killed him from the cover of this column of granite, and Bony could not be confident that the American was not still behind it and still full of sting, engrossed by his private war to the extent of shooting at sight. The silly thought flared through Bony’s mind that it would be just damned stupid for a married man with responsibilities to be shot dead by an ally.

Further detouring was, therefore, clearly indicated. He found Shannon seated on the ground and with his back resting against the monolith. His eyes were closed and he could have been asleep, were it not for the narrow rivulet of congealed blood giving his right temple and cheek the appearance of being split open. Resting on his lap and grasped by his right hand was the pistol with the silencer attachment.

Slowly Bony crept towards him, intent on possessing himself of the pistol and undecided whether Shannon was sleeping or unconscious.

Shannon was neither unconscious nor asleep. He was feeling sick. The ache of his head was something to remember for many years, and he had to be still and keep his eyes closed. He heard no sound, but instinct warned him. He opened one eye with an effort and then the other. He stared into blazing blue eyes in a dark face less than six inches beyond his feet. A dark hand was thrust forward towards his pistol. Bony said politely:

“Good evening!”

Bony’s Dispatch

GLEN SHANNON touched his head wound, looked at his fingers, and registered slight disappointment that red blood was not smeared on them. His eyes held pain, but his voice was as whimsical as usual.

“Had the idea I was cracked by a bullet,” he drawled. “Certainly had that idea. Musta been a meteor.”

“Bullet all right,” snapped Bony, sitting back on his heels and resting against the monolith beside the American. “It creased the right side of your head. Howd’you feel?”

“Pretty wild, Bony, old pal. I knew there was something I forgot to buy me at Dunkeld. Now I know. I forgot to include aspirin when I laid in them stores. How come?”

“Tell me what happened,” commanded Bony, and Shannon’sunderlip was thrust outward rebelliously, then was sucked back. The voice, the intensity of the blue eyes which he encountered quelled him when guns had failed. “How many horsemen were there?”