Arthur Upfield - Winds of Evil

The girl nodded, normal composure not yet regained. Fisher gave her time, and presently she said:

“Yes, I can give you a little meat. But… but… Nogga Creek… in this weather!” Again her eyes grew big. “You wouldn’t camp there, would you? Not on a night that this is going to be?”

“The wind will not bring rain,” he pointed out.

“I know. But… but are you a stranger in these parts?”

“Yes.”

“Then you don’t know about the Strangler?”

“Well, I have heard of him.”

It was, perhaps, his easy smile that brought her from the tank to stand closer to him. Fear still lurked deep in her eyes. Despite the day, she appeared fresh andcool in a house-frock of brown linen. There was character in the moulding of her mouth and chin and grace in the outlines of her body.

“Wait here and I will fetch you some meat,” she requested abruptly.

From inside the house a woman called:

“Mabel, who’s that?”

“Only a swagman, mother. He wants meat,” replied the girl, and now more composed she flashed Joe Fisher a half-smile and then hurried across to thecanegrass meat-house.

The man’s critical eyes took inthe out-houses, noting their condition and neat preservation. It was obvious that Storrie’s Selection prospered. The girl returned carrying meat wrapped in newspaper, and when she gave it him she again attempted to advise him not to camp beside Catfish Hole.

“Oh, I’ll be all right,” she was assured. “I’ve camped often enough in wild country, and to be forewarned is to be forearmed. Besides, the last attack made by this mysterious strangler was last March, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. And this time last year, too. You want to be very careful. No one walks about, or camps in the open anywhere along these creeks. I’m going to the dance at Carie tonight, but my brother is taking me on the truck.”

“Late in the year for a dance, isn’t it?” he questioned.

“Yes, it is so, but then, you see, we haven’t any other amusement in Carie.”

Again Joe Fisher smiled.

“Well, thank you for the meat. I hope you will enjoy the dance. Do you think I would have a chance of work on Wirragatta Station?”

“It might be worth trying. TheBorradales are good people to work for.”

“Then I’ll try them tomorrow. Good-bye and thank you.”

Having raised his hat, Fisher adjusted his swag, picked up the water-bag and continued his tramp to Nogga Creek, now to be seen dusty-green below the red canopy of whirling sand. All the way across the half-mile flat between the two creeks the wind roaring through the trees provided the overture for the coming night of dark terror.

The day was nearly done when Fisher reached Nogga Creek, crossed it, and then strode up along its far bank, hoping to see Carie and not greatly disappointed when all he did see was the netted fence and its barrier ofbuckbush disappearing into the menacing murk.

Thereafter, he followed the creek eastward for a quarter of a mile, when he arrived at the lower end of Catfish Hole, a long and narrow lagoon of sparkling water lying in the creek-bed. The tip of this waterhole touched a sand-bar, fine and white and dry, and here Fisher decided to make camp for the night.

Now, when the sun must be setting, and the high-flying sand, indeed the very air, was not transmuted for a few moments into the rich colour of blood, Fisher knew that the wind and the dust would be even worse on the morrow. When the rack overhead was tinged with dark grey, when it seemed that the very tree-tops supported this evil sky, he sat on his swag before the fire he had made and ate grilled mutton chops and stale damper, and now and then sipped hot black tea heavily laced with sugar.

With the coming of night the wind dropped to a moaning breeze. The leaden sky came still lower like a material weight threatening to crush the suffocating world. The fire-light painted the near trees against an even black when, an hourlater, he unrolled his swag, bunched the blankets into the form of a sleeping man, and then stole away beyond the fire-light to seat himself against a tree-trunk and watch.

He heard the whirr of wings preceding the splash of hydroplaning ducks. After a long time a curlew vented a long screaming cry as it passed above him. There was something almost human in that.

As he carried no watch he had no means of telling the time. He guessed that it was eight o’clock when he heard a car or truck cross the creek on its way to Carie, and he guessed again that it was taking the Storrie girl and her brother to the dance.

After that Fisher dozed fitfully. Some time during the night he heard the curlew scream again, now towards the track by the fence. Quite an hour afterwards the car or truck returned from the township.

It was altogether a most uncomfortable night spent by this swagman, with his back pressing against a tree-trunk. Hence he slept long after the new day dawned. He was eating breakfast when another car reached Nogga Creek from the south. The rising wind prevented Fisher from hearing it. He did not know that it stopped for several minutes when it gained the northern bank of the creek.

The RulerOf Carie

NELSON’S HOTEL STOOD at the southern extremity of the township of Carie. It was the only two-storied building in the town, and from its upper veranda it was possible to enjoy a wide if, perhaps, not always interesting, view.

Southward from the hotel the track to Broken Hill wound like a snake towards the bluebush covering the town Common, then disappeared among it towards Nogga Creek. A bare quarter-mile distant it passed through the left of two gates set in the Common fence, thence skirted the east boundary-fence of Wirragatta Station for fourteen miles. It was the fence now familiar to Joe Fisher. Just before the Common fence was reached a branch track took the right-hand gate and led one to the homestead of Wirragatta.

Beyond, far beyond the Common fence, the arc of the level horizon of the bluebush plain extended from the eastern tip of Nogga Creek’s box-trees round to the north, where lay the distant township of Allambee, and thence farther round to the line of mulga forest, and so to the south and the tall red gums of the river. Here and there over this great plain were low, sprawling sand-dunes which had not been there when Mrs. Nelson was in her teens.

Opposite the hotel was the bakery, and along that side of the straight, wide and solitary street the eye passed the store, the police station, the hall-used as the court house-and then an irregularly spaced row of iron-built houses. Returning along the hotel side of the street, one’s eye passed over several more small houses, the doctor’s house, the post office. Every building in Carie was skirted by vacant allotments. There was no great house shortage, and the town had ample room for expansion should the shortage ever exist.

The people of Carie were free of class distinctions, and the general happiness stood at a high level. One only among them was the leader, and, in consequence, there was a delightful absence of snobbery.

In any community outside the bush proper, Dr. Mulray would have stood at the apex of the human pyramid. Next to him would have come the bank manager, had there been one, then the postmaster, followed by the senior policeofficer. But Dr. Mulray cared nothing for society. His interests lay entirely among his patients and in his chess-board. The postmaster had been relegated to a back seat by his considerable family, whilst Mounted-Constable Lee desired only peace and leisure to read novels. As for the storekeeper and the baker and the butcher-well, they knew that to rebel against the leader would preface their examination in bankruptcy.

To dispute with the leader of Carie was to ask for trouble, for the leader held a mortgage over the store, the bakery and the hall. The leader owned Dr. Mulray’s house and furniture, the butcher’s shop and the majority of the none-too-numerous dwellings. In fact, save for the government buildings, the leader owned almost the whole of Carie, and partly owned several out-lying pastoral properties.