Arthur Upfield - No footprints in the bush

Again he fired and the man who had edged close skipped out of range without loss of time.

In this somewhat unorthodox manner the unusual pair of strangely met men moved out of the foothills and began crossing the plain. As they progressed so the vegetation covering the land changed. At first the road crossed exceptionally wide clay-pans which if joined together would have provided a super speed-track for racing cars. Once across the pans the road “flowed” over slight undulation covered with annual saltbush. The mirage lay heavily, and presently the hills became vast mountains, with water stretching far back along their valleys.

The Illprinka men appeared to be walking on stilts, and the occasional old-man saltbush, ten feet high, seemed to be fifty feet in height. Now and then the road passed close to one of these giant shrubs, forcing Bony and his companion on the march to make a detour of it.

What further astonished Bonaparte this astonishing day was the persistency of the Illprinka men. Their purpose was apparently to obtain possession of the attache case, and although only nine in number they showed no nervousness of being attacked by the people of the Wantella. Chief Burning Water walked beside him, carrying the swag as though it were a feather. His eyes were shining and his full lips were expanded in a broad smile. He knew at any given second the approximate position of every Illprinka man, and sometimes he advised that a bullet be “pumped” into this or that bush. “Are those trees ahead?” Bony asked.

“Yes, oaks. But farther on is a belt of old-man saltbush we’ll have to pass through because there is no way round.”

“Then let us reach and pass through the belt as soon as possible. Come on, the sun’s westering.”

They presently entered small and separate belts of oak, and, leaving the road, were able to proceed by skirting these belts. Beyond them the road crossed a further vast area of annual salt-bush, and an hour later there grew above the mirage what looked like stately blood-woods a hundred feet high, but which were the old-man saltbush. Into this belt the forms of nine naked black men dissolved.

“There we shall meet their spears,” predicted Burning Water. He was quite placid. He seemed to be waiting for Bony to reveal signs of nervousness, or even plain funk.

“How far are we from the homestead?” inquired Bony.

“Two miles.”

“And how far through is this belt of old-man saltbush?”

“About half a mile. We must pass through it.”

“You appear to be amused at something,” Bony softly said, yet abruptly stiff.

“I am waiting to see how wisewas Chief Illawalli when he made you one of the great ones among us.”

“You are in no position to doubt Illawalli’s wisdom,” Bony said, icily. “Remember, you advised retreat back in the cabbage-tree camp.”

Burning Water became instantly contrite. Bonaparte’s blue eyes gleamed and his lips pressed into a thin straight line. Without speaking further, he walked on, Burning Water stalking at his rear a smile once again in his eyes.

Five minutes later they entered the belt of giant shrubs, growing atop small mounds of red sand each had collected. They could provide shelter for an army, yet so spaced were they that a truck could be driven among them without touching a leaf.

“Come on!” Bony cried.

He broke into a steady trotting run, heading to the west for a quarter of a mile, then turning northward andzig-zagging. Following as though hewere a trailer attached to a truck, Burning Water ran close and constantly looked back.

Camethe first spear. Burning Water shouted: “Look left!” Bony saw the sunlight reflected by the facets of quartz with which the spear was tipped. He saw the weapon turning on its long axis whilst in flight and speeding towards him to intercept him. He checked and the spear passed within a foot of his chest.

He saw the second spear before Burning Water, and the man who launched it from his spear thrower. Bony fired as he ran, but missed: excessive practice is necessary to hit a target with a pistol whilst running. Continuing tozig-zag, sometimes running back over his, own tracks, at times making circles, he led Burning Water ever nearer McPherson’s Station homestead.

“Down!” shouted Burning Water.

Bony instantly fell forward on his hands, and a spear silently passed over his prostrate body. Up again, he turned and ran fast in the direction from which the weapon had been thrown. His nostrils were quivering. His blood glowed with exquisite fire, for circumstances had temporarily removed the chains of civilized restraint from a nature in which hereditary influences constantly stirred.

He came upon the man who had thrown the last spear in the act of fitting the haft of another into the socket of his wooden thrower. He came upon him suddenly, and so uppermost in him now was his aborigine ancestry, that he forgot the correct use of his automatic pistol. With his left hand he grasped the man’s spear, and with the pistol in his right hand smashed the spearman into soggy unconsciousness.

Now with the spear in his free hand, he ran on. It was, perhaps, as well that he did not observe the grin of approbation in the face of the regal man who followed him, like a father following a loved son on a first hunting trip.

Twice Bony fired at vanishing forms. He reloaded the pistol even as he ran, the spear tucked under an arm-pit. His blood was tingling although his breathing rasped from the unaccustomed exertion. No longer was he the hunted; and not long after the first personal encounter he came face to face with the fat and skinny-legged leader.

They almost collided. Bony yelled. The leader shouted. His spear was raised and hurled in action almost as quick as a lightning stroke. Bony thrust his spear as he leaped aside to avoid the other. He yelled again as Skinny-legs took the weapon in his chest.

Suddenly there arose shouts and yells, and sounds of a general conflict all about them. Aborigines appeared on all sides. Nine! They appeared to number ninety, and Bony rushed at the nearest. Then a big hand reached across his right shoulder and bore down the pistol. Another hand reached round his waist and the arm to which it was attached became a gripping vice. There was laughter in the voice of Chief Burning Water when he shouted:

“It is finished. These are my people. They were coming to see what had made the big smoke from the burning car. Oh, my brother, my son, and my father! You are now to me like The McPherson himself.”

The rage went from Bonaparte like water leaking from a cracked glass.

“Old Illawalli was wise, wasn’t he?” he asked.

“The McPherson”

THE homestead of McPherson’s Station was situated on a shoulder of the higher land bordering the northern edge of the plain on which Bonaparte and his aboriginal companion had met such serious obstruction. Between it and another shoulder westward of it flood-water from the high land had gouged a steep-sided gully, and this deep gully provided an excellent foundation for the massive concrete wall, damming back a practically inexhaustible supply of water.

The homestead itself presented a picture of rugged solidity seldom found in the Interior. The house, surrounded by exceptionally wide verandas, was the centre of a veritable oasis of citrus-trees, grass lawns, rose beds, and a sub-tropical vegetable garden, proving the astounding fertility of the soil-given an abundance of water. The men’s quarters, the outhouses and the stockyards, in combination with the house, gave a clear impression of thoroughness in construction.

Sitting at his table desk placed before the window of the station office, the man himself exuded solidity. Seated, he could be mistaken for a big man, for his head was big, his shoulders were thick, and his hands were short-fingered and powerful. Slightly more than fifty years old, his hair was grey as was his moustache. His eyes, made small by fierce sunlight, were grey, too, strength lurking in their depths. The heraldry of his caste lay exhibited on a plain-backed chair-a felt hat with a five-inch brim and a stock-whip having a silver-mounted handle.