Arthur Upfield - The Mountains have a Secret

Simpson was perfectly justified in getting rid of an employee who had gained entry to the spirit store and drunk himself insensible. The fact that old Simpson averred that O’Brien was too honest to do such a thing counted for very little in view of his mental condition, but that little could not be discarded, and O’Brien’s subsequent movements would have to be established.

And old Simpson’s confidence would have to be further strengthened.

On crossing the little bridge, Bony saw the splendid Buick outside the garage being washed by a tall young man arrayed in blue overalls. Nearing the car cleaner, he greeted him and was regarded by wide-spaced hazel eyes beneath a shock of unruly brown hair.

“Mornin’, sir. Beentakin ’ the air?”

The voice raised the straight dark brows of the man who seldom exhibited astonishment.

“American, eh?” he exclaimed.

“Yes, sir, I’m from the United States. I’m Glen Shannon, the yardman here.”

“And from the South?”

“Texas, and I got a little bit of home right here under my hands.”

“It’s certainly a beautiful car,” Bony agreed. “Have you been working here long?”

The man from Texas wrung out a cloth and continued drying the mirror-like surface.

“Since just after Christmas,” he replied with that pleasing drawl which creates for foreigners visions of sunlight and galloping horses and two-gun men. “Good job. Nothing much to do and plenty of time to do it.”

“You like Australia, do you?”

“I like this place, sir. Reminds me of home. Back home us kids never saw a stranger once in a month. My pa had a ranch, and somehow we were mighty interested in things around. You know, horses and cattle and the usual chores. Guess it was the war that made a difference. I joined the Army and my kid brothers went into the Navy. Then, after the war was over and I went back home, it didn’t seem the same. It was me who had changed. So-here I am.”

“You’ll go back some day, I suppose?”

“Oh, sure! Some day. Pa said: ‘Roll around, son. Roll the moss off you. UsShannons never yet had moss attached to us for long.’ ” The hazel eyes gleamed good-humouredly when directed to Bony, and Shannon laughed softly before adding: “Pa never had any moss on him that I can recall. He was as bald as a billiard ball. What part of Australia do you come from?”

The trick he had of tossing his hair back from his forehead and the swift smile which seemed to leap into his eyes Bony found very engaging. His chin was firm and his body looked hard. That he was yet thirty was to be doubted.

“I own a small place in New South Wales,” he said. “It’s about three hundred and fifty miles north. I run sheep.”

“A sheepherder, eh? That’s interesting. We never hadnuthin ’ to do with sheep. You got many?”

“Something like ten thousand,” replied Bony.

“Ten thousand! Say, that’s a lot. How many acres on your ranch?”

“A hundred thousand. As I told you, it’s only a small run.”

Shannon turned to face Bony.

“A hundred- You’re notkiddin ’? What’s a big place?”

“Farther outback-well, anything from three-quarters to a million acres.”

Bony described his mythical small place, its lay-out, the type of country. Having digested this information, Shannon said:

“Mustacost you a lot of money to build a boundary fence around all them hundred thousand acres.”

“Before the war it was roughly about twenty-two pounds a mile.”

“That all! How many barb wires?”

“None. My fences contain only five plain wires.”

Shannon frowned and turned back to his work. Then:

“Don’t they have higher fences than that in your part of the country?” he persisted.

“No. There’s no necessity.”

Shannon rubbed hard upon a fender, and without straightening up he said:

“What would they keep inside a fence eight feet high with a barb wire every six inches up from the ground, and an outward over-arm lay of five barb wires?”

“TheJaps, I should think,” replied Bony, laughing. “Where is there such a fence?”

“I don’t recall. Afellastayin ’ here a couple weeks back wastellin ’ me. You got good roads where you ranch?”

“Fairish. We have difficulty in getting about in motors after heavy rain. Our roads are earth tracks, you know.”

“How would I get along in wet weather on a motor-cycle?”

“Quite well. D’you own a motor-bike?”

“Yes. It’s inside the garage. What’s the best time to see your part of Australia?”

Shannon was avid for information. When in the Army he had visited Melbourne and Sydney, and it appeared now that the only brake to his desire to travel about the continent was the petrol rationing. He questioned the necessity for it, and Bony agreed that it was being maintained merely to keep a lot of people in quite unnecessary jobs. He gave his quick and open friendly smile as a reward for Bony’s information, and Bony went into the hotel for breakfast.

Bony had often felt the urge to visit America, and the desire was strong as he breakfasted alone in the dining-room, waited on by Mrs. Simpson. No one knew Australia better than he-its powerful allure, its pervading aura of antiquity. There were two things he wanted to see in America: Death Valley and the Grand Canyon. There were three things he wanted to do: to be the guest of an Indian chief, to fish for marlin off the California coast, and to meet the Chief of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

He spent the day on the hotel veranda dreaming of these things and how he might wangle four months’ leave to make the dreams come true. Late in the afternoon he strolled along the track on which had come that magnificent Rolls-Royce. The sun was striking full upon the face of granite towering towards the zenith, and up that face most experienced mountaineers might have climbed. The granite was warmly coloured from dark grey to brilliant rouge.

The track he followed in meditative mood took him past the hotel and its rear buildings, past a ten-acre grass paddock, on the far side of which were stables and hen-houses and a piggery, and then past an extensive vineyard which had been permitted to return to a wilderness. Beyond the vineyard the track turned right to skirt the foot of the tree-and-scrub-massed slope of the range rising to the sheer granite face. The skirting creek also turned right, and shortly afterwards the track began gently to rise diagonally up the slope, proceeding to a white-painted set of gates barring the way.

The gates were netted and of tubular steel. They were locked by a heavy padlock and chain, and beyond them the track went on up the slope and could be seen continuing along the foot of the rock face. Standing at the gates, Bony could see that the netted and barb-topped five-foot fence extended to the left as far as the granite cliff. To the right it dipped downward in the direction of the creek, and because a line had been cleared through the scrub to build and maintain it, he followed it downward and with no little astonishment saw that it ended at the creek. It was merely a wing and could serve no purpose excepting that the creek itself was a barrier.

Instead of returning along the fence to the track, he made his way down the creek bank, at first having considerable difficulty in progressing. Now and then he could see the vineyard fence beyond the track he had followed, and when almost opposite the divisional fence between vineyard and open grass paddock he came to a path which skirted the creek and gave easy walking.

As always, the ground interested him. On this narrow, winding path beside the creek he observed the imprints of birds’ feet, wallabies, a fox, at least two dogs, and, presently, the footmarks of a large man. They were the imprints of Glen Shannon’s boots.