Arthur Upfield - No footprints in the bush

“You dirty renegade!” shouted the squatter.“You rotten murderer! What are you doing on my land? Are there no limits to your effrontery, you blackguard? You yourself murdered Sergeant Errey, if you didn’t actually kill my stockmen. Why, you-”

“Now, now, father, calm yourself,” Rex urged, suavely polite, a smile on his face, cold hate in his eyes. “Did you get my note in the treacle tin? I aimed to drop it on the front lawn, but it was dark, you remember.”

“I got it all right,” ground out McPherson. “What of it?”

“What of it, my ancient parent? Why I expected to see your surrender smoke this morning. Did you forget about it?”

“You know I didn’t forget about it,” shouted McPherson. “You must be mad if you’ve any hope of getting my property. I may be ancient, but, by heck, I’m still a man. And anyway, youfool, you wouldn’t have the station five minutes before you’d be hauled off for trial and execution.”

“Tuttut, father!” Rex implored, and there was insult in the word father. “I will have to continue the campaign I see. You haven’t tasted sufficiently my growing power. When I have the station, as well as the Illprinka country, and then all the blacks at my call, I’ll defy a regiment of soldiers to capture me. I know what I’m doing, and what I am going to do. Age is always so stubborn, father, and you are growing old.”

Before McPherson could again shout his rage, his son spoke an order and the Illprinka men rushed the squatter and proceeded, despite his struggles, to bind his arms to his sides with common white man’s rope. Panting from exertion, McPherson saw Rex vanish beyond the sand-core, to reappear a moment later carrying a portable telephone. He was pushed towards the half-caste who sat on the ground with the machine by his legs, and he was cuffed behind the knees to force him to sit beside the machine. Then one of the blacks brought to Rex the homestead end of the severed line and this end was attached to the portable telephone.

“Now, father, I am going to call up Flora for you. You are going to tell her that your car has broken down and you want her to drive out here for you.”

“Oh quit your father-ing, you mealy-mouthed devil. What’s your idea? Tell me that. Talk like a man-if you can.”

“Nownow, father, don’t be impatient. All in good time. The idea, as you call it, is this. I ring the telephone. You call for Flora. You tell Flora your car has broken down and to come out here for you. You see, you are so stubborn. I want you to retire from business and hand the station over to me. All you have to do is to arrange about the deed of gift and sign it. In the present circumstances, of course, you could not do that, but you will transact the business if you know Flora is with me and will becomemyer -wife if you unduly delay in the transfer of the property.”

“Bah, you rat! I’ll call Flora all right.”

“Should you alarm her, should you raise her suspicions that all is not quite as it should be, I shall deal with you severely. Such hostile action taken by you won’t stop me eventually getting my own way.”

McPherson’s mind raced.

“Of course, father,” continued Rex inexorably, “that detective you have staying with you might want to accompany Flora, but he won’t really be in the way. However, you could tell Flora in a casual tone that you think the little trip would do her good, and that you are not keen for the detective to accompany her as you don’t like the fellow.”

McPherson glowered and his lips creased in contempt.

“Go to the devil,” he said wearily.

Cane-Grass Splinters

FLORA met Bony on the veranda after his visit to the blacks’ camp, and she was quick to note the frown of perplexity furrowing his brow.

“Hullo!” she cried, cheerfully. “I’ve been waiting for you. Dinner will be ready almost at once, and I do like a tiny cocktail before dinner. Where have you been with your magnifying glass and litmus papers?”

“I have been looking at smoke signals sent up by the Illprinka people. They are going to hold a corroboree at a place called Duck Lake. Your uncle has not yet returned?”

“No. He’ll be home some time, though. Now please come along and join me at the bar.”

“Indeed! But what of all these ancestors? Are they not sufficiently convivial forbar company?”

It was his pretendednaivete that delighted her most in him.

“Uncle says they look terribly jealous and spoil the drink,” she explained. “I agree with him. Just imagine the situation they are in, frozen there on the canvas and unable to step down and taste good ‘wuskey’. The poor dears can’t even smell it. Now please make me a corpse reviver.”

“Ah-alas!” murmured Bony. “How constantly am I reminded of the deficiencies in myeducation! How does one make a corpse reviver?”

“Don’t you know? I’ll show you. Will you have one, too?”

“I beg to be excused. You see, I suffer from an awkward social disability. Spirits-and spirits appear to be the ingredients of a corpse reviver-have on me an effect of deep depression. Perhaps, in the circumstances, you will not mind if I choose a small glass of lager. Shall I do the shaking for you? Yes, I fear I’m a common man having common tastes.”

“Now you are being sarcastic,” she told him, brightly.

“I deny it. Has any one called up from Shaw’s Lagoon?”

“No. Were you expecting a call?”

“From Doctor Whyte.”

“Oh!”

“Is your uncle often detained out on the run? He said this morning he would be home for lunch.”

“Yes, quite often,” she replied. “You see, uncle never goes away without food and camp gear in case he is forced to stay out. Generally, however, if he’s staying on at the out-station he rings and tells me so. You’re not worrying about him?”

“No-oh no, Miss McPherson. An hour or so ago I tried to get through to the out-station on the telephone, but the line was dead. I wanted to get in touch with your uncle.”

“Did you try again before you came in?”

“No.”

“It’s annoying, isn’t it? Something often happens to the line, even to the line to Shaw’s Lagoon. A tree branch will break and fall on it, or a mob of galahs will perch on it and break it-why, there’s the telephone bell ringing now!”

“It is probably the reply telegram from Doctor Whyte,” Bony surmised. “Excuse me.”

“Certainly. I must see about dinner. Come and tell me at once if it is about Doctor Whyte.”

“I will-with all speed.”

A minute later Bony was hearing a strange voice.

“Hullo! That you, Mr McPherson?”

“Mr McPherson has not yet returned home,” Bony said. “I am a guest staying here. Who are you?”

“I’m Nevin, the overseer at the out-station. I’ve been trying to raise the homestead for the last couple of hours. D’youknow when the boss is expected home?”

“Haven’t you seen him today?”

“No. I’ve been away. But he’s been here. He had lunch with the wife and he left about one o’clock for Watson’s Bore. Are you the detective the boss was telling me about?”

“I am. Why?”

“Blast! I don’t know what to say or do,” said the gruff voice. “The telephone going bung and then coming right again makes me think things.”

“When did you last ring up?” asked Bony.

“Half an hour ago.”

“Then Mr McPherson must have discovered and mended the break during the last thirty minutes. Why are you so uneasy about him?”

Nevin did not reply and Bony waited before saying:

“If you are doubtful about anything, if you think anything is wrong, please tell me. Mr McPherson left this morning with the intention of returning at lunch time. He didn’t say he was going as far as the out-station.”