Man of Two Tribes. Arthur W. Upfield
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William Black. “The lawyer said I had to bring in everything belonging to my uncle.”
“Not worth the trouble and time,” stressed the younger man. “Still, if you want it that way . . .” Sliding off the rails, he walked away to the house, his body upright, his legs straight. The elder Weatherby said:
“Old Patsy pottered about this country for years. Where he set his traps no one bothered to ask. If you must go looking for traps, Black, just to satisfy a lawyer, then you’d better make for the Splinter and pick up the camel tracks from there—if you can, because it rained seventy points since Tommy was out there.”
“Where’s this Splinter, Mr. Weatherby?”
“You take the Rawlinna track out by the blacks’ camp for about three miles. At the three-mile there’s a branch track out to a bore, six miles on. There’s no track beyond the bore, but keep on for another twelve miles when you’ll come to an upthrust of rock we call the Splinter. No water except in shallow rock-holes. You’ll have to take what you can and go easy on what you take. Claypan water is too salt for men, but the camels can exist on it.” Weatherby slid to the ground. “Anyway, complete that inventory and we’ll fix it before you leave. You take my tip and forget the traps.”
Bony remained on the rails like a man confronted by a problem. Lucy came and slipped under the bottom rail and pranced daintily about the camels in the yard, passing between their large flat pads with the familiarity of established comradeship.
The request for the inventory of Lonergan’s property was reasonable. There wasn’t much to it, and it was not intended to include the contents of a small and battered suitcase found under the bunk.
The willingness to have the camels yarded was also reasonable, as was the recitation of the difficulties surrounding the location of the dead man’s traps. The attitude to him, William Black, of the Weatherbys was normal. The entire atmosphere of this homestead was normal, too.
There was, however, one oddity. The previous day the head stockman said that the wild dogs were working north of the homestead. This morning the head stockman had supported Weatherby’s contention that the dogs were working over the salt-pan country to the west.
Returning to the old trapper’s hut, Bony completed the inventory and checked the tinned foodstuffs and other items Lonergan had left within the saddle-bags and the tucker-box. Then, taking the stout calico ration bags, he crossed to the rear of the house to purchase what he needed.
An aborigine maid told him to go to the store where Mrs. Weatherby would serve him, and he had waited minutes when the younger woman appeared and led him inside. The questing eyes gazed upon him without interest, and her expression gave him the feeling that she never really smiled.
“Now what is it you want?” she asked sharply, and so began the business of buying flour, sugar, tea, tinned meats and jam, salt and sauces, tobacco in plugs and cigarette papers and matches.
“P’raps Mr. Weatherby would set the bill against what’s owed to my uncle,” suggested William Black, and the woman nodded agreement and pushed forward the docket for him to sign. “I’ve fixed up the list, too.”
“Then I’ll make it out in duplicate. Wait.”
She typed with professional speed whilst Bony leaned against a stack of cases and wondered if he had actually seen her before coming to Mount Singular. Her husband, the younger Weatherby, intruded into his mind and rang a tiny bell which produced no answer to its demand. The machine spilled the papers and the carbon, and Mrs. Weatherby dipped a pen into ink and proffered it, saying:
“You write very well, Black.”
That was a slip, a small slip, in the building of the character of an itinerant half-caste, a faint flaw in otherwise perfect work, and he experienced annoyance added to that occasioned by the failure of the bell.
“Liked writing at school,” he said. “Not much good at anything else.” He signed both typed sheets, and regained his hand-written list. “Mr. Weatherby’ll sign, too,” he said. “The lawyer . . .”
“Don’t bother with them, Black.” Her large eyes were mere pools of brown and expressed nothing, and Bony wondered at the utter lack of entity. “I’ll have Mr. Weatherby sign right now, and you can take a copy before you leave. All lawyers are fussy persons, and you needn’t take much notice of what they say.”
He managed a shame-faced smile at his own stubbornness, thanked her in a casual manner and carried the rations back to the hut, where he proceeded to set out the gear ready for packing on the camels. Lucy ran to meet him on his arrival at the yards.
The noseline, a light line to which a loop of twine was attached, was expertly tossed over Millie’s head which was drawn down to slip the twine loop about her nose-plug. She wanted then to chew Bony’s right ear, but there was no viciousness. The free end of the noseline was dropped to the ground while Curley was being attended to, and, to Bony’s amusement, the dog daintily took hold of the line and led Millie to the yard gate.
Curley had to be dealt with differently. He held his great head high, and his eyes flashed with sudden rebellion as Bony approached him. As a youngster he had been cruelly treated, when the plug through the nostril had been torn out in his effort to avoid blows to his head. Like the cat, the camel can never be wholly conquered, and like the elephant, its memory is everlasting.
Bony managed to grip the end of the short rope dangling from the halter, and he pulled on this to bring the beast’s head low enough to couple the halter line. The dog, leaving Millie at the gate, came and barked at Bony, and he dropped the line, which Lucy gripped by her teeth and, docilely, Curley followed her to join Millie.
She couldn’t lead both camels at the same time, and so Bony took them to the hut where he ‘hooshed’ Millie to her knees beside the riding saddle she was to carry. She didn’t go down with any sign of happiness. In fact, she was playing a game and any intelligent student of camel psychology could follow it.
Now and then she pretended to make the attempt to rise. The saddle was lifted over her hump, and she pretended that it hurt. She moaned protests as the saddle was being strapped under her chest and down under her snakelike neck. One would think she was being subjected to gross indignity, and the act was put on solely for Curley’s benefit. Curley was the bad boy who had to be roused so that when his turn came he would be in a tantrum and perform to anger this biped who was putting her to work. Horses cannot think like that. Beside the camel, the horse is brainless.
As planned, Curley was ready for the fray when his turn came. He pranced and bellowed when the halter line was hauled down and he was ordered to ‘hoosh’. He fell on one knee, and up again, to kneel on the other. He roared and danced; and Millie looked on, and her eyes plainly said to Bony: ‘How are you liking that?’
Bony unhurriedly took up a loading rope and tossed one end behind Curley’s legs, and Curley knew that to rebel any longer would mean being tied down. So, without being ordered, he fell to his knees, grunted, and settled himself beside his pack-saddle. The game was over, and Millie sneered her contempt. A lion! Baa! Just another lamb.
The pack load must be accurately balanced. To each side of the straw-stuffed pack were hooked the saddle-bags and water-drums. On top were piled the spare rations, the swag, and the tent, the load then being roped. Through the rope was thrust the axe, and, to counter-balance the weight, the dozen iron tent pegs and telescopic pole. The riding saddle of iron was furnished with a bag cushion to sit behind the hump, and in the fore-part was strapped the tucker-box carrying food and eating utensils in current use. Another bag containing a fry-pan and billy-cans was fastened to this saddle and balanced by the rifle slung from the opposite side.
All this took a little time. The gear was in fairly good condition, but the rifle was a jewel, and had been the pride of old Lonergan’s heart. A Savage, point 25, a high-powered weapon, it was kept and carried in a soft leather case.
“Seems that you know how to work these brutes,” remarked the elder Weatherby, who had approached from Bony’s rear. “Here’s your signed copy of the