Arthur Upfield - No footprints in the bush

“How comes it that they are on your land and so far from their own country?” asked Bonaparte.

“I don’t know, but I think many things. Perhaps The McPherson might tell you.”

“The McPherson is a long way away,” Bony said grimly, looking upward from the task of re-strapping his swag after having placed inside it the recovered attache case. “That being so, I will myself ask these Illprinka men what they are doing here on your land.”

Burning Water stared into the abruptly cold blue eyes.

“They are nine,” he pointed out. “They are enemies of the Wantella Nation. As you can see, they are well armed. You are a stranger to the Land of Burning Water. It would be wise for us to go, and to go fast.”

To be discreet in the face of adverse odds is to be wise, not fearful. The present certainly was not opportune for questioning or probing into problems presented within the last hour, for a situation was developing demanding preparation to meet it.

For the third time at this temporary camp, he unrolled his swag and this time took from it an automatic pistol and two boxes of cartridges containing twenty-five.

“Where did you learn to speak English so well?” he asked whilst loading the pistol.

“I am The McPherson’s tribal brother. He is my father and my son.”

This physical impossibility was due to the intricate relationship accepted by any white man sealed into an aboriginal tribe. Bony offered no comment. In fact, he was feeling himself out of depth, as though he was in a strange country, when he was actually in his own. The prefix “the” before McPherson’s surname was, indeed, odd.

“The McPherson taught me to speak his language properly, to add numbers, to read from books. The McPherson and I were young together. When Myerloo, the chief of the Wantella Nation, was killed, it was The McPherson who had me become chief in his stead. When that was done I discarded the white man’s clothes which I wore for many years.”

“The McPherson must be a great man,” Bony said, pocketing the pistol and cartridges.

“He is both great and just. He owns four thousand square miles of land, and something like seven thousand head of cattle.”

“Oh! Well, the enemy, I see, have discovered my tracks beside the wrecked car.”

The aborigines below in the gully were running about like hounds on the scent. One pointed up the hillside with his spear. They were not unlike dogs unleashed in a course as they ran up the slope, shouting each to the others, moving with fascinating relentlessness of purpose. Bony could see that they were not following the marks made by the rolling car but those made by his boots.

Reaching the road, they ran straight to the place where he had discovered and retrieved the attache case. Without doubt they saw the mark on the ground made by the case when it fell from the car.

Bony squatted on his heels just outside the tree shadow. He motioned to Burning Water to draw farther into the shade, and it was noteworthy that Burning Water obeyed. Bony placed the automatic beside his right boot, and he picked up a twig and began idly to draw pictures on the sandy ground. Not for a moment did he cease to watch the party of aborigines advancing along the road.

When distant a full hundred yards from Bony they saw him and abruptly stopped. Excitedly they pointed at him and talked, a plump fellow with extraordinarily skinny legs evidently being the leader.

Native etiquette demanded that, on seeing a man in his camp, they must stick their spears into the ground as a sign of peace, and then squat beside their weapons until invited to enter the camp. These fellows ignored etiquette. They continued to advance, albeit at a walking pace.

Bony took up the pistol, aimed with care and fired. The bullet raised a spurt of dust at the edge of the road to the left of the party. Another bullet raised a spurt of dust to the right. The men halted. Bony shouted, using the Worcair dialect:

“Whatd’youwant?”

There followed a conference at which the leader advised one thing and the majority another, resulting in the leader winning his point. He now advanced, leaving the others to retreat a little way and sit down facing the camp. The leader came without his weapons. Bony pretended to be gravely interested in his drawing on the canvas of the ground, the pistol lying beside his right boot. The Illprinka man came to squat on his heels twenty feet from Bony, and Bony continued with his artistic efforts for a full three minutes. Then he asked, casually:

“What do you in the Land of Burning Water, you men of the Illprinka?”

“We were hunting kangaroos, and so keen was the chase that we forgot we had passed out of our own land.”

From a similarity of several words with those of the Worcair dialect Bonaparte understood this statement. Without heat, he said:

“One needs to be clever to tell lies with success.”

The Illprinka man was ill-formed for an aborigine, but there was power in his wide brow, evil in his black eyes, deepset beneath the frontal bone.

“We saw the white man’s horse-car burning in the gully and came to look-see,” he said, sullenly. “We saw the burned man inside. We saw your tracks down there. We saw where you picked up something fallen from the white man’s horse-car. Yougivit that thing, eh?”

Slowly Bony shook his head.

“You would be wise to depart to your own country, and go soon and fast,” he said. “What I find I keep. It isn’t yours. What I have seen I talk about. Who was the white feller in the great bird?”

“I do not know. I saw no great bird.”

“Liar! The white man in the great bird came from your country. He told you to watch for white man’s horse-car. He told you he would burn it. You all come look-see to pick anything you find, eh? The big bird can’t set down white man around here. You see, man of Illprinka, I know. Now go back to your own country.”

“You shall come with us,” the fellow said

“I should not be happy with you,” Bony told him calmly.

“You will come with us, or you will be killed.”

Bony laughed.

“You talk like a lubra. I shall remember you.”

The Illprinka man stood up, distorting his face to an even further degree of ugliness. He had walked to the camp in sprightly defiance. Now he went back to his companions running, yelling to them, and they brandished their weapons and came to meet him. Bony stood up.

“Carry my swag, Burning Water,” he cried. “I wish to fire without hindrance, and we must be on our way to the McPherson Station. Walk behind me, and keep your eyes on these gentlemen.”

Almost at casual pace Bony left the camp and took the road to the plain. The aborigines on seeing him advancing towards them irresolutely packed together, harangued by the leader. Bony fired, and the bullet kicked dust close to their feet. They retreated down the road. Bony, with Burning Water walking behind him, continued. The small crowd ahead appeared not to walk fast enough to please, and another bullet whined uncomfortably overhead and scattered them. With the enemy wide on both flanks, Bony advised the chief of the Wantella Nation who was not too proud to carrya swag. “It was the secret of my illustrious namesake’s great military success. Had we attempted to escape from those people they would have attacked.”

Not a little to Bony’s surprise, Burning Water chuckled.

“They will be able to choose their battleground before we reach the homestead of The McPherson,” he said. “Half way across the plain they will be favoured with plenty of cover. What will you do then?”

“I will decide when we reach the cover you speak of. Meanwhile… Ah, not quite so close.” In excellent imitation of a tram conductor, he added: “Hurry along, please!”