Arthur Upfield - Winds of Evil

After the passing of another hour the moon’s enormous disk, lustreless brown in colour, strove bravely to rise above the dead-black sand waves endlessly leaping upward to snatch it down into their inky depths. These waves appeared like lava and as solid, before they passed beneath the moon, when they becameredly diaphanous and made the moon’s light more terrible than the featureless darkness had been.

Another sound not of the wind appeared to originate above Bony’s head. Fear, like icy water, poured through his veins. Slowly he turned his head to look up and behind. He quite expected to see an awful face looking down upon him, but there on the top of the post perched a night bird, its white owl-like face and big fathomless eyes presented to the moon.

For some few minutes it remained there before taking to wing with an abruptness Bony was sure was not due to his presence. Another minute passed, and then the fence wires unmistakably tightened. Something was telegraphing its presence along them-something was climbing through or over them.

Bony’s eyes were never still. All physical and mental powers had become concentrated on the effort to probe the gloom. Across his skyline ran a shapeless form, so grotesque, so indistinct, that to name it was impossible. One moment did Bony see it: the next moment it hadvanished. Whatever it was it had either climbed through or over the fence. Its action had appeared too quick for it to be a man, but it had not the graceful movement of a wild dog or a kangaroo. Tensed, wondering, every nerve screaming protest, Bony waited.

The wind came in a mighty gust, a roaring, hissing, triumphant clamour, and in it or under it there reached Bony a long-drawn-out gurgling scream of human terror. It came from somewhere up along the creek-bank, and, figuratively, it kicked Bony to his feet, automatic pistol in hand. Muffled by the wind as it was, there was no mistaking the direction from which the cry had come. Then, likewise muffled by the wind, a revolver of large calibre cracked like a child’s toy pop-gun.

Bony began a wild semi-blind race. He was roared at by the trees, jeered at by the wind, blinded by the dust, hobbled by the unevenness of the ground. He raced up the incline to the creek’s bank, and then towards the camp obsessed by the necessity of reaching Barry Elson.

Ahead of him the revolver spoke thrice in rapid succession. He shouted to stop the firing, for in this ghostly darkness, friend might well receive the bullet intended for the enemy. A man cried out exultantly. To Bony’s left, another shouted. He could now see the pin-prick of fire marking the camp-site. Still ahead, but closer, he heard Elson’s hysterical crying, and a moment later he saw him, a white-clad figure, lying on the ground.

“Barry! Barry! Are you hurt?”

“No, not much! Down in the creek! Smithson’s got him! Go on! Never mind me!”

Recklessly Bony leapt down to the invisible bed of the creek. He was directed by the sounds of a severe scuffle. He heard the sergeant shout:

“Take that!”

“Ease up, blast you!” shouted a second man, his voice muffled by another terrific gust of wind.

Bony could see them now-two men struggling. Now one fell, and the other stooped menacingly over him. As the detective was about to charge, not knowing who the stooping man was, he heard the sharp click of handcuffs.

“You have him?” pantingly asked Bony.

“Too right!” replied the triumphant sergeant. “I only happened to see him getting away from Elson. He fired once at me, and I fired three times at him, but don’t think I hit him. He’s tough all right. I had to bash him with my gun-butt. Let’s have a look at his face.”

Lee came rushing to them like one of the wind gusts. They bent over the still form on the creek’s gravel bed, and Smithson managed to strike a match and keep the tiny flame alight for a half-second.

It was Hang-dog Jack!

The Brand

“I’VE TACKLED A few strong men in my time,” growled Sergeant Smithson, “but never a manso strong as this one. He’s an expert grappler, and he very nearly got a strangle hold on me. What beats me is that a gun will never jam when used in practice, but nearly always does when in action. How is young Elson?”

“Not severely damaged, I believe,” replied Bony. “You take this man up to the camp, and I will go across to Elson. By the way, sergeant, where was Hang-dog Jack when you first saw him?”

Smithson paused, with his hands under the cook’s arms.

“When Elson shouted, I headed for him at once. I saw him fall, and I saw this man jump off the creek-bank. From the creek he fired twice, and I shouted to him to stop or I would shoot. When I reached the creek-bed he was running away down the creek, and I again ordered him to stop before I fired at him. That stopped him, and he came at me like a bull.”

“Well, the trap succeeded,” Bony said slowly. “I am a little disappointed, because, after all, Lee guessed right. It has been a baffling case all through. Yesterday I was sure who our man would be. Today I was sure it would certainly not be Hang-dog Jack. My congratulations, Lee.”

Bony left the policeman to carry the inert form of the Wirragatta cook to the camp, whilst he scrambled up the creek-bank to reach Barry Elson. The young man was seated on the ground.

“Are you badly hurt, Barry?” he said.

“Not much, Mr. Bonaparte. He got his hands round my collar all right, and I… I couldn’t help screaming. I couldn’t, I tell you. Then he lifted me right off the ground and threw me down hard. My arm hurts, that’s all. Did you get him?”

“We have him well entangled in handcuffs, Barry,” Bony said soothingly. “Now we must be careful of the acid preparation on the collar. Come, let me help you back to the camp.”

Elson laughed hysterically.

“Who is he, Mr. Bonaparte?”

“Hang-dog Jack.”

“I thought so. All my muscles are trembling and I can’t stop them. Hang-dog Jack is it? I tell you I couldn’t help yelling when he gripped me round the neck.”

“It’s all right, my dear Barry,” Bony said. “It’s all right now. Come, take my arm and we will get back to the camp and boil the billy. The job has been done magnificently and you did just the right thing by shouting when you did. Here is Constable Lee. Take his other arm, Lee. Barry is not much hurt, but he’s a bit shaken.”

Thus supporting the nerve-racked Elson, they reached the camp, where they made him sit on a case within the light of the replenished fire.

“I’ve gota bottle -of rum in my swag and this is a good time to open it,” Smithson announced. “You get it, Lee, while I remove Elson’s collar. It’s a good fit, but a trifle weighty, isn’t it, Barry, old man?”

With care, the sergeant unlocked the iron band, when its two hinged sections opened wide to permit removal. The collar was deposited in the fire, and, with his knife, the sergeant cut away the protecting high collar of the blouse. Elson was shaking as though with fever.

“Here, Barry! Have a stiffener,” Lee said kindly, proffering a tin pannikin.

“Thanks. I feel bad, but better than I did. Gad, that was terrible. I’m a bit of a coward, after all.”

“Cowardbe hanged!” Smithson growled. “It took the grit of a regiment of soldiers to do what you done. You come and lie down on your bunk. We’ll make a drink of tea, and we will take an aspirin or two with it.”

Bony sat on the vacated seat and rolled a cigarette whilst the sergeant took Elson to the tent and Lee made the tea.

“ ’Bouttime Hang-dog Jack came round,” suggested the constable.

“Yes, Lee. We must look him over. It has been a good job well done, but I still feel the disappointment. I thought up till now that I was a good judge of men. Hang-dog Jack was too obvious to be true.”