Arthur Upfield - No footprints in the bush

For a full two seconds Burning Water stared into the blue eyes of the lesser man, and then he repeated the question. Bony said: “I feel like a dingo when danger threatens from down wind, a danger he can’t smell or see. I am uneasy. It is like the quiet of evening when the thunder clouds are gathering in the west.”

Only now did the black eyes of the chief reveal concern now that possible danger was communicated to him by another. Bony could see his mind at work searching for this possible danger as the dingo’s nose will work in similar effort.

“Tell me,” Bony said, quietly, “what view can be gained from the tank stands?”

“Only the plain to the south. They are not high enough to let a man see over the scrub on the high land. But there’s a tree at the head of this gully which gives a view all round. It’s less than half a mile away.”

“Ah! Let us walk to that tree and see how the world looks.”

Together they walked along the gully bed to avoid the deep water gutters bringing flood-water into the main stream.

“Is Itcheroo in camp?” asked Bony.

“Yes.”

“He will bear watching. However, we may find a use for him in certain eventualities. During the Great War, so I understand, the British authorities purposely left spies at large so that the spies could transmit false information. No doubt shortly after The McPherson left the homestead in his car this morning Itcheroo conveyed the fact to an Illprinka man who, in turn conveyed it to Rex McPherson waiting for news of the smoke signal, announcing his father’s capitulation. That we have not a spy in Rex McPherson’s camp is a distinct disadvantage, isn’t it?”

Burning Water grunted assent, and, when he offered no comment, Bony spoke again.

“A living Itcheroo would be of greater value to us than a dead Itcheroo. Therefore, because The McPherson is absent, kindly refrain from sending him back into a tree or a stone or whatever it was he came from. Whilst you have been lying down in the shade and thinking of pleasant things, I have been thinking of nasty things and of nasty men whom you and I together will have to fight.”

“Without The McPherson I am like a man bushed,” growled Chief Burning Water. “He is my chief and him only do I obey. I wait for him to say: Do this or do that. I suppose it has become a habit, like the bad habits the old McPherson’s wife used to tell about.”

“I understand,” Bony said. “Is this the tree?”

This tree, a magnificent white gum, had long been used as a lookout by the Wantella tribe. Steps had been cut into trunk and branches where difficulty in climbing had been met, whilst in the fork of the topmost branch a platform had been constructed, looking like an eagle hawk’s nest.

Bony first gazed to the west and the north, and there was no need to look elsewhere. Beyond the edge of the carpet of scrub extending to the horizon rose columns of dark-brown smoke, columns separated into sections, section following section upward to merge into mushroom-shaped clouds tinted with gold by the westering sun.

“Now, what do you make of that?” asked Bony, a hint of triumph in his voice, that hint betrayed in the voice of those who delight in saying ‘I told you so.’ “I can make nothing of them. Can you?”

“Yes. I can read,” replied Burning Water. “You see that signal far beyond the others to the north-west? That says come to big corroboree. All the others are saying they will.”

“Oh, is that so? When there are men like Itcheroo over there one would think that sending up smoke signals was unnecessary.”

“There are few Itcheroo,” Burning Water pointed out, truthfully. “The number of answering signals would say that the Illprinka tribe is much scattered.”

“So they would,” agreed Bony. “So they would. On the sand map you drew for me you placed a waterhole far to the north-west. That sending smoke would be in line with that waterhole, eh?”

“Yes. It’s probably a pick-up signal from the one at the waterhole which is a hundred and forty miles from here.”

“Oh! What’s the waterhole like, the country round it?”

“It’s a small lake filled quickly by two creeks, and when it is full it is very deep. It’s a place for water-birds and all round itlie big sand-dunes. The waterhole southward of it on my map is a hundred miles farther to the west and not so good. There is a chain of deep holes on a creek which begins and ends in about six miles.”

“Ah! And the waterhole at the westward end of the plain?”

“That is closer to us-about a hundred miles away. Water lies in deep channels along the edge of a big cane-grass swamp. I have been to that waterhole. The cane-grassswamp-dry, of course in ordinary seasons-covers’ land almost as much as McPherson’s Station.”

“Good hiding place, evidently.”

“All the people in the world could walk into that cane-grass swamp and be hidden for ever,” answered Burning Water, whose knowledge of the world’s population could be nothing but vague.

Standing on the swaying platform of boughs and supporting himself by holding to one of the two natural supports, Bony turned to gaze eastward, when he saw almost below the tree a large clearing in the scrub, in the middle of which tiny black figures moved about a low bush humpy.

“That is the Wantella ceremonial ground,” Burning Water explained. “Those down there are of the White-ant Totem. They are going to have the ceremony of the White-ant tomorrow. I am glad it is the White-ant ceremony, because it will not take longer than a few hours. The ceremonies in series taking days and nights to perform often weary me.”

Bony’s interest in those about the humpy in the clearing swiftly passed, and returned to the smoke signals, which portended a period of quiet in the Illprinka country. The Wantella man waited on him, alert now like a most suspicious dingo, apt to see danger where danger did not actually exist.

“Can The McPherson read those smoke signals?” Bony asked.

“As I can,”came the answer.

“Tell me. Before those raids on The McPherson’s cattle, Rex McPherson sent a letter to his father telling him to retire and give the station to him, or he would steal the cattle. Do you remember how long after the letters were received that Rex McPherson did steal the cattle?”

“Three or four days at the longest. The McPherson told me that it appeared Rex McPherson made all his plans before writing the letters.”

“And don’tyou think that having sent The McPherson a letter last night he will strike again in a day or two?”

“Yes. The McPherson swears he won’t hand the station over to his son. I expect it is why The McPherson hasn’t come home yet. He’s planning to keep his cattle from being stolen.”

“You may be right-that the cattle will again be Rex McPherson’s objective, Burning Water, but it may not be this time. It may be some other: for instance, it may be the abduction of Miss McPherson.”

Burning Water caught Bony by an arm, pulled him so that he came to stand chest to chest and looked up into black eyes now large and angry.

“I had not thought of that,” he said. “I see now why you feel like a dingo in danger from down wind. You are like The McPherson. You look into the days that are to come and plan for them.”

“And I try to look into the minds of distant men and read them as you read those smoke signals,” Bony added. “Listen. The McPherson goes outback in his car after breakfast this morning. Itcheroo sees him go and he sends a mulga wire to an Illprinka man, who tells Rex McPherson that, instead of sending up the smoke signal saying he will give his son the station, The McPherson has gone outback in his car. This afternoon the leaders of the Illprinka tribe send up smoke signals calling all the tribe to a waterhole a hundred and forty miles away. They wouldn’t be doing that if Rex was going to make another raid on The McPherson’s cattle, would they?”