Читать книгу Bony and the Black Virgin - Arthur W. Upfield - Страница 8
Оглавление1
To every man his own problems to stir him to effort. Sergeant Mawby and his assistant, Constable Sefton, had their official problem to deal with in addition to any private ones, and, taken together, the Downers had their problem of surviving the drought. The policemen were one when tackling their problem of finding Carl Brandt, but unfortunately the Downers were not united in their approach to the problem of survival.
The long rainless period had so reduced the areas of grazing, relative to the dwindling water supplies, that the last of the Downers’ sheep had to be based on Rudder’s Well. Already the grazing had been cleaned out for upward of three miles from the water, compelling the sheep to walk that distance there and back to feed.
Thus before the Downers went off to Mindee on their Annual Bender normal routine had been changed. Every morning Eric ran out to the Well in the truck, as there wasn’t a horse fit to ride, and he would find several of the weakest sheep unable to stand after filling with water and so become the victims of the vicious foxes and the devilish crows. These casualties he would kill in mercy and skin for the wool.
It had been Carl Brandt’s chore to go to Rudder’s Well every morning, riding his bike, to follow this same routine. Now Eric was returned to it. And every morning he killed half a dozen lingering victims, and every morning therefore the Downers’ flock was further reduced. Meanwhile John did the cooking and the house chores, and pottered about the homestead.
On the third morning following the return home, Eric drove at speed less than normal, sitting forward over the steering wheel to maintain careful scrutiny of the winding track just in front of the radiator. This track bore only the marks of his truck ... until he saw the trail of a snake crossing it.
He was driving so slowly that he was able to stop the truck when athwart that cross track, and, switching off the ignition, he stepped to the ground and listened, hearing nothing but the noise of the wind, a low hissing noise as it passed through the compact branches of the belt of tea tree at this place.
He followed the snake’s trail into the tea tree, a shrub-like bush, here eight or nine feet high, small of leaf and untouched by the drought. The snake’s trail led in among the tea tree, the ground being clear of vegetation and having a thin coating of salmon-pink sand.
For an hour he was hidden among the tea tree, and when he emerged he was trailing behind him a branch of this robust bush, and thus swept clean his own tracks, and the track of the snake. In his free hand he carried a paper bag.
He used the branch to erase the footprints to the very edge of the track when standing on the truck step, and, tossing the branch into the cabin, manœuvred himself behind the steering-wheel, and drove on towards Rudder’s Well.
His next stop was beside a wide clear space about two magnificent sandalwood trees.
Taking the branch and the paper bag with him he walked to the centre of the clear space, where he gathered a few completely dry sticks and twigs, and of them made a fire. Then, with care, he dropped from the paper bag a quantity of long black hair.
The hair smoked but lightly. When it was consumed, he burned the paper bag, and stood awhile until the fire died down, when he scraped a hole with the heel of his boot, enlarged it with his hands, and finally with a twig teased all the fire embers into it, and covered the mass with sand.
Sweeping the fire-site with the branch, he used this again on retreating to the truck, and there tossed the branch aside, and drove on to the well.
2
This morning he had eight sheep to kill and skin, and rack the skins to dry in the sun. From a gay young sheepman he was becoming a mere butcher, taciturn and introspective. The problem facing both him and his father was not being tackled with unity of direction, owing to lack of experience in himself and half a century of wisdom gathered by the old man. At rock bottom Eric Downer was too imaginative, too idealistic, too sensitive, to play the role of a pastoralist when the wolf of adversity had him by the throat.
He had never found hard work an enemy. Erecting a fence or building a shed or repairing a mill or pump were tasks for eager hands to do, things to create. But now, when financial resources were strained and improvement work was out of the question, there was left only the normal working chores, such as going out for a load of firewood.
Homing with such a load, he saw a strange utility near the empty hen-yard and Robin Pointer emerge from the house to meet him.
Robin Pointer was good to look at and merited any man’s approving smile. She was of medium height and small-boned, and there ended any hint of fragility. She could ride with the best, with or without a saddle, and her narrow long-fingered hands, which could hold a palette and paint brush, and paint rather well, could also check a bad-tempered horse. Today she was wearing a flecked tweed skirt and a lime-green overblouse. Her jet-black hair was hatless.
Eric stepped from the truck to greet her. From his higher level he looked down into large dark eyes flecked with gold, and the windows of a mind he had never fathomed.
The contours of her oval face were soft, save about the small chin.
“What brought you?” he asked, as their eyes held in meeting, and even now he found himself trying to read her mind.
“You. I came to see you,” she replied. “And at the same time I brought a crate of chooks for you to restock with, and a mutual friend, Constable Sefton.”
He was unable to prevent the flash of surprise in his eyes, although his voice was controlled, and he made no attempt to be casual.
“What did he come for? Where is he?”
“Inside, talking with your father. The utility is his, and the chooks are on the back. I’ll help you with the crate. And I want to talk to you.”
“Why not? I’m easy.”
They transferred the birds to the hen-yard, admired the Orpington rooster, and returned the crate to the utility. He brought water from the well to fill the drinking trough, for the fowls would have to remain in the yard for a few days, rinsed his hands, dried them on an oily handkerchief, and said earnestly:
“That was very nice of you, and of your mum and dad, to think of us. How come Sefton brought you?”
“Oh, he arrived this morning, and I just made use of him.” The girl regarded Eric seriously, noted the old but serviceable clothes, the cut on a forearm caused by a jagged log end, and also the clean-shaven face and the well-tended hair.
“Sef came to get measurements, so he said. They’ve found out who the dead man was.”
“Who?”
“Name’s Dickson. Paul Dickson, plus a few aliases. He was arrested at Hungerford for sheep-stealing, and he broke out of jail a week before you found him in your shed.”
“What about Brandt?” Eric asked.
“Seems they haven’t caught up with him yet. Sef says it might take time, but they surely will. Make me a cigarette, please.”
Eric produced a tin of tobacco and papers and thoughtfully rolled a cigarette and licked the paper for her before tamping the end with a match. Having struck a match, he teased:
“You’re becoming pally with Constable Sefton.”
“Pally! Don’t be silly. Oh, you mean by calling him Sef. Caught that from Dad. Nice enough man.” Her eyes grew large as they examined his, seeking the mind behind them. She said:
“Where did you bury that Paul Dickson?”
“Back of the shearing-shed. Why?”
“Show me.”
“Show you where they buried him?” he echoed. She nodded, and he shrugged and obeyed.
From inside the rear doorway old John watched them, and wondered, hopefully. From a corner of the machinery shed Constable Sefton smiled, winking at himself, believing that he knew much about both. They continued to the shearing-shed, passed by it, disappeared. And when they were out of sight, Robin halted, causing Eric to confront her.
“This will do. Kiss me, hard. Hold me in your arms and kiss me.”
Eric hesitated. Waiting, her face registered passivity, but in her eyes were expectancy and what might be calculation. Of the two, she was now the stronger, and with the fleeting seconds of his indecision, it became visibly obvious.
“I don’t think we can go on, Robin,” he said miserably. “The drought’s ruining us slowly but surely. I have nothing, no prospects. Dad and I are going to finish up by walking off this place dead broke. It’s useless to go on.”
“Rubbish. I mean your excuses.” The natural rose-pink of her face waned to leave it white and strained. “You love me. Take me in your arms and kiss me.” Her voice was low, pleading.
“I don’t know,” he told her. “I really don’t know.” He reached for her, and she was in his arms and being kissed, and he was crying: “Oh, Robin, Robin! I don’t know! I truly don’t know.”
