Arthur Upfield - Sands of Windee

Then it was he forced himself to look up, and between blinking eyelids he saw a scattered clump of dwarfed scrub-trees a hundred yards ahead, and the forms of two horses tethered each to a tree. Grey Cloud tried to whinny again, but it was an imitation of water being sucked out of a sink. Now he was level with his master, now he pulled on the reins, now he was attempting to run forward; for among the trees lay a wide slab of rock, at whose foot aboriginals had laboriously widened a long crack in the rock that supported the slab.

Whilst partly controlling his horse, Bony untied one end of the long neck-rope brought for the purpose to tether him to a tree, and during the last frantic dash the animal made towards the rock-hole, Bony managed to whip his end of the rope round a tree and secure him.

“So they sent you, Bony?”

Bony in a dazed way heard Dash speaking. He saw Dash as though he looked at him through slightly frosted glass. He tried to speak, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and, knowing he would be unable to speak unless aided by water, he struggled with the frantic gelding till he loosed the canvas bag, whereupon he drank some of the contents and spat out the remainder.

“Give horse a drink, Dash,” he managed to force through cracked and bleeding lips.“In your hat. Two hatfuls only.”

“Righto! But mind how you tread. The place is alive with snakes. Dot was bitten.”

“Dot was bitten! Dot was bitten!” The phrase kept repeating, the consonants striking his brain with hammer blows. As through the frosted glass he saw a tree just out of reach of Grey Cloud’s hoofs, and, lurching to it, sat down with his back to the trunk; and only by long practice, for he could not see what he was doing, he rolled a cigarette. Slowly he smoked, his head resting against the tree, his eyes closed. Two minutes later Dash gave him a pannikin of cold tea, slightly sweetened. He managed a smile.

“You and Dot are my prisoners,” he said.

“I may be, but Dot has escaped you,” Dash said with his chin out-thrust. “We got here early this morning. It was just as dawn was breaking. Dot trod on a tiny snake not more than six inches in length. It struck him above his boot, and he died in less than ten minutes. I did all I could, but he went out.”

When Bony again spoke his voice was nearly normal, but Dash thought he was delirious.

“I am glad of that, Dash. It was best for him and for me, although it was not a nice death. If the law had taken its course he would have been hanged, and in other circumstances you would be hanged also.”

“I think not. Dot would have spoken,” Dash rejoined harshly.

“Well, well! We’ll talk of it later,” Bony murmured. “I’m all in. Bring mc a little more tea, and give Grey Cloud another hatful of water. No more.” And, when the tea had been brought him: “Don’t run away, Dash, my dear man! I’d only have to run after you, and I’m leg-weary.”

• • • • •

Four days later, when the sun was westering, Bony and his prisoner arrived at Carr’s Tank Hut. There was no one in occupation. The two men dismounted, and, after tying the horses to the hitching-posts close by, Bony with his head invited Dash to follow him inside.

There Dash proceeded to make a fire, and was aware that Bony went at once to the telephone and gave one long ring, which was the call for the Windee office. The prisoner knew that to get through to Mount Lion police-station, Bony would first have to ring up Windee. Then Bony was speaking.

“Yes, this is Bony. Yes, I have him here with me. Oh no, he has given no trouble. Does there happen to be a car or a truck available?”

A long pause. Then: “Oh, then please send him out for us, will you? You’ll come too? Very well. All right. Yes, everything is all right.”

Dash watched Bony replace the receiver. Then he heard: “Quick! Off-saddle! We must wash and shave and get into something clean. Miss Stanton is coming to claim my-yes, my dear Dash-you!”

The Infallible Bony

ON BEHALF of several politicians and more than one general it has been claimed that each was solely responsible for winning the Great War. All of which argument, of course, is absurd. The generals played their part equally and no more thoroughly than the privates in the trenches and the nurses in the hospitals. If any people did not win the war it was the politicians. Not because of, but in spite of the politicians, was the war won for the Allies.

Father Ryan’s part in the war with the Fire Demon was equal to that of every individual man who wielded a bag and a fire-stick. Victory found him no less exhausted than any of them, and it was with a sigh of contentment that he sank into an easy-chair in his study after a hot bath and an excellent dinner provided by Mrs Morris.

In the little priest’s world everything was well. Jeff Stanton was giving all his hands a holiday and a dinner the following day which would be talked about for many a year. The good Father had found on his return to Windee homestead that which delighted and astonished and perplexed him, for Sergeant Morris could be induced to make no explanation. Not only had he seen Marion regard her lover with shining eyes, but he had been informed by her that she was to be married to Dash as soon as a special licence could be procured. And lastly, to his infinite relief, Sergeant Morris had informed him that he had “moved on” Mrs Thomas.

Whilst he sat and smoked a cigar, seated in the great armchair facing the window, with the red-shaded standard lamp behind and the excitable moths trying to come into the room and frustrated by the wire gauze screen, Father Ryan felt the luxury of eased limbs as well as that of an easy mind after a period of doubt and worry. On the table lay a few letters and several bundles of newspapers and magazines, but he was far too comfortable, physically and mentally, to deal with them just then. He heard someone, a man, talking with Sergeant Morris in the policeman’s office farther along the veranda, but this called for no remark, since the sergeant was often busy late into the night. The voice came to him in a low murmur for quite a little time. Then suddenly it ceased. The office door was closed, steps sounded on the veranda. His study door, which opened on the same veranda, was opened quietly, and as quietly closed, and when he lazily turned his head he beheld Mr Napoleon Bonaparte.

“Good evening, Father Ryan!” Bony said in greeting. “I have called because I am in trouble, mental trouble. Will you render me help?”

On his feet at once, the little priest smiled benevolently, and indicated a chair. He remained standing until Bony had seated himself.

“Try one of my cigars,” he said in his clear voice. “They are a fine medicine for trouble.”

“Thank you, but cigarettes of my own make are not so strong. Permit me to be busy for a moment.” Then, when the cigarette had been lit and Bony had inhaled deeply: “Whilst not of your particular faith, Father, the practice of confession interests me. I want to confess certain matters to you, and hope to receive from you absolution for what I have done. I am a weak man and a vain man, but I wish you to judge if my weakness was a sin or a virtue. You are not too tired?”

“I am never too tired to receive confidences or confessions. Nor am I ever too tired to help a distressed soul. Speak on, my son! Francis Bacon has it that ‘the light that a manreceiveth by counsel from another is drier and purer than that which cometh from his own understanding and judgment’.”

Bony did not speak for a little while, and Father Ryan surveyed him with interest, noting his grey lounge suit, the dark grey tie beneath a spotless collar, and the black shoes. He wondered at Bony’s taste in clothes and the absence of striking colours. There seemed nothing odd, therefore, when the half-caste produced a card and, leaning forward, placed it in the little priest’s hand. For fully a minute Father Ryan read and re-read what was printed on this card. Then with knit brows he said: