Arthur Upfield - No footprints in the bush

“I’m glad you all agree,” Bony said, and, glancing at Burning Water, he noted the faint smile in the eyes of the Chief of the Wantella. “Your particular job after you have brought the oil supplies, Tom, will be to keep ever at hand a supply of horses and armed aborigines in case a rescue of the ground party is essential.

“Well, thereis the broad outlines of our reactions to Rex McPherson’s latest crime. I am going to leave you two to control The McPherson who might return and express other ideas. You will have to keep to the plan as closely as possible, because Burning Water and I will be expecting your co-operation according to its details and we will be acting accordingly. The dinner gong was sounded two minutes ago. We had better have it, and then prepare for the night’s work.”

At half past eight Whyte and Bony saw the trucks depart for Shaw’s Lagoon. At nine o’clock the flying doctor warmly badeaurevoir to Bony and Chief Burning Water, Bony dissolved into the darkness beyond the garden fence as quickly as did Burning Water, for he was wearing black trousers and one of Tom Nevin’s black shirts.

Again in the office, Dr Henry Whyte charged and lit a spare pipe and began the study of Bony’s sketch plan and his fully detailed plan of operations, together with a list of signs to be made from Loveacre’s plane and the ground party. Whyte’s mind now was calm and cold, and he was feeling vexed that he had been conquered by fierce emotion.

The plan called every man to his trade. It called an aborigine and a half-caste to the trade of bushcraft. It called Nevin to the close command of men he thoroughly understood, and it called him, Henry Whyte, not to the profession of healing but to that of organizing base operations upon the smooth success of which depended everything. The lives of two men, and that of the woman he loved, were in his hands. Well, he had organized a medical service for a country as large as Great Britain.

This Bonaparte fellow was, indeed, an extraordinary man. Come to think of it, it was remarkable that he, one-time major in the Royal Flying Corps, and now a flying doctor who was regarded as a leader by people whose independence is a byword, should so quickly and easilyhave accepted a kind of second-in-command job and recognize as commanding officer an Australian half-caste. Wherein lay the power of the man? Whyte knew it did not lie in Bony’s appearance, for Bony would not have been marked in a crowd of fellows. His voice was pleasing and perhaps a little pedantic, but the power did not originate in the voice. He was a puzzle defying the doctor.

Nevin was much more dynamic than Bonaparte but yet was commonplace when Bonaparte certainly was not. McPherson, as Whyte remembered him, was efficient but not outstanding.

Mrs Nevin sent across coffee and sandwiches, and the doctor ate and drank and smoked and waited. Shortly after one o’clock Nevin called from the township to say he had loaded the petrol and oil and was starting back to the homestead. The trucks arrived as day was breaking, and their loads were dumped beyond the stockyards among the scrub. At seven o’clock Whyte and the overseer emerged from the house after having breakfasted, and stood on the south veranda smoking and reading the weather signs.

The sunlight falling on the plain beyond the garden appeared this morning almost colourless, and already streamers of dust were passing across the claypan verge. The wind was teasing the water spray from the sprinklers on the lawn.

“Blast!” growled Nevin. “The wind’s going to come at last. When it shifts round to the west it’ll blow hard. Captain Loveacre will meet it all the way. How fard’youreckon we are from Brisbane in a straight line?”

“Slightly more than thirteen hundred miles,” replied the doctor.

“Comfortable day’s flying for a modern machine-in normal weather.”

“Well, it’s not going to be normal today.”

“That’s so, Nevin. I’ve been thinking that it might be a mistake to communicate with Shaw’s Lagoon. Remember what Bony said about Rex having a portable telephone instrument? Supposing he’s listening in waiting to hear what we’re doing?”

“Hum! You sent Captain Loveacre his flying instructions yesterday didn’t you?”

“Yesterday afternoon-to St Albans.”

“I’m betting he won’t get to St Albans today. The wind will be a howling gale by noon.”

“Then we’ll leave the telephone alone. If Loveacre sends a telegram no listener with a portable machine will get it. What about the hangar for the aeroplane? Know a good place?”

“The best. Let’s go and take a look at it.”

They crossed the garden, climbed over the fence and walked down the slope to the claypan verge, which they followed to the landing ground, where the flying doctor was met by naked men, women and children waving torches. Here and there along the slopes, rising to the high ground, were tree-lined gullies, and one of these was bordered by level ground, where it debouched to the plain.

“We could stretch wires from tree to tree and hang green branches on the wires to give a roof,” Nevin pointed out. “All that would have to be done then would be to shift that sandbar, when the plane could be pushed in under the trees and the joining roof of branches. Whatd’youthink?”

“Quite good.”

“All right! I’ll get the mob down here at once and fix things ready for the captain. We needn’t worry about him getting here tonight. He won’t reach St Albans. It won’t matter much, as far as I can see, because Bony and Burning Water will only cover about thirty miles up till daylight this morning, and I don’t think they’ll risk travelling in daylight.”

Captain Loveacre left Brisbane in a fast twin-enginedmono-plane on the morning of 16 October. He had had the glass structure enclosing the cabin removed and wind shields placed, and on a specially rigged foundation he had had the machine-gun mounted for use by his promised observer.

The loan of the machine-gun had been facilitated by Colonel Spendor, the Chief Commissioner, to whom Loveacre had gone to explain as much as he could the telegram received from Bony. Alterations to the machine and the loan of the gun and requisite ammunition from the Defence Department had been completed in six hours, but after all the haste had been unnecessary because Loveacre got only as far as Roma that first day on account of the head wind and dust.

The same flying conditions were experienced the next day, and it was late when Loveacre reached St Albans where he read and mastered the instructions given by Dr Whyte.

The following morning he landed at McPherson’s Station at seven-thirty, to be welcomed by a crowd of aborigines and two white men.

“Glad to see you, Captain Loveacre. I’m Dr Whyte,” the flying doctor greeted him as they shook hands.

Together, there was a certain similarity about these two men. They were of the same build although Loveacre was shorter. The actions of both were swift and yet not nervously so. Their eyes were keen and steady and bright, like the eyes of birds. Had it not been for the facial scars Dr Whyte would have been as strongly good looking as the man he welcomed.

“Glad to be here,” Loveacre returned. “Head winds kept me back. Why, what the devil’s the hurry?”

His plane was being rushed towards the trees by every aborigine directed by red-headed Nevin. Whyte indicated the skeleton remains of his own aeroplane. “That was my machine. We are opposed by a gentleman who bombs.”

“Ha! ha!” exclaimed Loveacre. “That sounds interesting. Where’s Bony?”

“He’s away on the job. Come along to the house to wash up and breakfast. I’ve a pretty long story to tell you.”

Captain Loveacre stepped out of his flying suit and flung it over a shoulder.