Man of Two Tribes. Arthur W. Upfield
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her happiness by trotting ahead. The sun shone warmly, the flies were less irritating, and thus all was well. Bony was able to ride, and Millie walked with a swing like a girl taking pleasure in swirling her skirt to best advantage. Curley swung along behind her, head high, eyes bright, hungry and no longer rebellious.
Toward four o’clock they reached open grassy spaces, and narrow belts of wattles, in late golden bloom, and a few minutes later Lucy sat down abruptly and smiled up at Bony. She sat on a narrow camel pad which the rain hadn’t entirely obliterated, and here Millie evinced desire to follow this pad to the homestead. He had to dismount to compel her to follow him to the north, and half an hour later, he sighted five sandalwood trees beyond which was nothing but the sky.
These five magnificent trees appeared to be guarded by great boulders, and amid these boulders Bony found evidence of a camelman’s camp.
The place was on the point of a promontory overlooking the Nullarbor. Here were the everlasting daisies, flannel bush, luscious waitabit and other delectable feed for camels, and Bony could not unload and hobble fast enough for Millie and Curley.
This was Sandalwood Camp, mentioned in the diary and the second camp out from the homestead. In a natural haven provided by three boulders was a heap of ashes proving the heat of many fires lit by lonely old Patsy Lonergan, and it was here that the character of the man first emerged for Bony.
He left it to the very end of the day before bringing the camels to neck-rope each to a tree. They were tired, replete, placid, prepared to camp for the night, and when it was dark he could see their pale shapes, and they could see him squatted about his fire as he kneaded baking-powder dough and finally placed it in a bed of hot ashes. It was then that first Curley and then Millie became restless, getting to their feet, lying down, rising again, and continuing thus to register growing emotion.
The ants could not be the cause. Hunger was certainly absent. They had been broken in to going without water for three days, so thirst wasn’t worrying them.
While the bread was baking, Bony opened a tin of meat for himself and the dog. He had placed the tucker-box to gain the firelight, and before the box had laid out Lonergan’s tablecloth, a yard square of canvas. Lucy now crouched close by watching him, and when offered the meat in the opened tin, she wrinkled her nose and looked offended.
Bony ate, and she continued to regard him with pleading eyes, until he thought he knew what troubled her. The meat had to be cut and served on a tin plate. She ate daintily, then asked for a crust of the bread loaf, and he was astonished when she carried it at once to Curley.
Curley’s moaning ceased. The dog returned to beg for another crust, and this she took to Millie. Thereafter, both animals laid themselves down and seldom moved until day broke.
So there was a facet of a dead man’s character. His dog had to eat from a plate, and his camels had to receive a crust of bread taken to them every night by the dog. Doubtless the old man would converse with his three animals. Assuredly it would be a one-way traffic, opinions and questions and answers all verbally expressed, but not necessarily a one-way traffic of thought.
These three animals were now at a place they knew, and now they demanded the attention which was customary at this place. The previous night, out in the salt-pan country, the dog hadn’t asked for a plate, and the camels hadn’t demanded bread crusts.
Having washed the limited utensils, Bony poked the ashes with a stick and raked out the now perfectly baked loaf. He could hear faintly the gurgle of cud when brought up the long neck to the throat. The stars were lamps, indeed. At a distance a fox barked, and on a branch of a sandalwood a mopoke ‘porked’.
As man has ever done, Bony squatted over the tiny fire, now and then pushing the burning ends of wood into the central glow. It is a time for cogitating, a time for mental relaxation into which often intrude vital thoughts and pictures. Questions were under the surface of his mind, and at odd moments these had stirred throughout the day.
Why had the attempt been made to ‘slew’ him away from this north country bordering the Nullarbor Plain? To all intents and purposes it was a no-man’s country. Uranium instead of gold might be the answer. But, were it a question of gold or uranium, why the necessity of employing an unregistered helicopter?
Was there a helicopter? Had imagination dictated Lonergan’s note on the helicopter by sheer coincidence with the night the woman vanished? It resolved to fact or imagination: it must be reduced to the minimum by establishing the state of Lonergan’s mind.
The reports he had seen on Lonergan, written by the dead man’s relatives, the Norseman policeman and the hotel-keeper, contributed to but one picture. Lonergan was old but still physically tough. After long abstemiousness once he broke himself in, he could out-drink men half his age and, no matter his condition, could speak intelligibly. The Norseman policeman had stated that Lonergan’s mental condition was that of an old man who had lived too long in solitude, that his mind wandered when asked questions, and that this wasn’t intended evasion.
This to Bony was the crux. The diary proved deliberate evasion of the facts of his travels, although this could well be the habit of many years. Still, there must be taken into account the manifestations of solitude, because solitude does produce extraordinary results, many of which the professional psychologist would decline to consider. These Bony had to contend with when taking his first step toward the authenticity or otherwise of that entry.
The next day was greeted by the camels and the dog with that absence of irritation ruling when routine is being followed. Millie sank to her knees without objection, to permit Bony to mount behind her hump. Curley gazed amiably about the night camp and decided to behave. Lucy regarded man and animals, and then actually led the way from camp—to the north. The family was harmoniously complete. The sun rose in the usual place, and the sky was cloudless.
For an hour they proceeded along this verdant strip overlooking the Plain, and then Lucy led down the slope to a blunt inlet, from which they moved on to the Plain and continued northward.
Bony now had to rely entirely on the dog and the camels to take him from camp to camp, made previously by Patsy Lonergan.
Lonergan had written: “Nothing in trap at She-Oak Rock.”
They came to a great rock which appeared as though it had tried to roll on a tree. The tree was a she-oak, and at the foot of the tree was a trap holding a golden dog fox. Lucy sniffed at the carcase, then lifted a lip at the rider. Again, as William Black who might still be followed, Bony slid down from the high saddle and removed the scalp, which was worth at this time, two pounds. The trap he hung in the tree.
Without bothering to settle Millie in order to mount, Bony hauled himself up to the saddle, and they went on. He did nothing to drive or guide. The animal followed the dog, and sometimes the dog followed Curley, and the way hugged this ‘coast’ of steep slopes with its promontories, bays and inlets and little islands off ‘shore’.
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