The Will of the Tribe. Arthur W. Upfield
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the main building were the kitchen and the usual day-house constructed with buffalo grass, both being connected with the house by a covered way. A wire-netted fence created about these buildings a roomy compound, where grew bean trees and several flowering gums.
The trade shops, the store and the men’s quarters, the horse and cattle yards, and the motor shed were situated to the west of the compound, and were dominated by reservoir water tanks on a high platform.
On the east veranda this afternoon of 7 August were Rose Brentner and her two children, Rosie and Hilda, with Tessa, who had been adopted by the Brentners. All were dressed in white and each was a component of a perfect tropical picture in the cool and dry season of winter.
Rose Brentner was in her early thirties, athletic still, inclined to leanness. Her hair was brown with golden tints. Her eyes were brown and apt to open wide when intensely interested. She was a tall woman, and when she spoke her voice betrayed the preciseness of business training. Rosie, aged seven, had her colouring. Hilda was like her father, fair with hazel eyes having the innocence of a baby of two, and she five years old.
“I wish Mr Howard and Inspector Bonaparte would come,” Rosie said with some impatience. “When people are coming they ought to come at once. Is the Inspector the son of the Emperor of France?”
“I don’t think so,” replied her mother. “I hope not. We’re not prepared to receive royalty. Try to remember your dates.”
“Captain said that Mr Howard and Inspector Bonaparte drove to Lucifer’s Couch before lunch. He saw their dust,” volunteered Hilda, who was standing at the veranda screen. “I can see dust too.”
The elder child ran to join her and a moment later agreed that Constable Howard’s jeep was approaching. The Aboriginal girl joined the children. Not beautiful, she was pleasing to look at now she was seventeen years old and at her best. Civilization in the persons of the Brentners had given her body robustness and poise to stand with the children without conscious inferiority. Her voice was soft and without accent. Little Hilda took her hand excitedly and pointed at the rising brown dust gilded by the sun.
“It will be they,” Tessa said. “They’re on the track from the Crater. Look! There’s Captain on the tank stand, and he’s signalling, too. Shall I call Kurt?”
“Yes do, Tessa,” assented Rose. “We’ll have afternoon tea in the day-house. Will you see to it?”
Tessa hurried into the house, and Rose Brentner, with the girls, left to cross the compound to the gate fronting the Creek. There, her husband joined them, a large man and rugged and tough, fair hair already thinning, hazel eyes made small by the sun. Like the men who alighted from the jeep he wore khaki drill slacks and open-neck shirt.
No one appeared to notice the distant semicircle of Aborigines beyond the jeep, or the Aborigine who had been on the tank stand and now was waving to the crowd to stand clear. Rose and her husband smiled at Howard, and swiftly focused attention on the second man advancing towards them with smiling blue eyes. Howard said, “Inspector Bonaparte, Mr Brentner and Mrs Brentner.”
Rose Brentner received a slight shock. She had heard of this man, and he wasn’t anything like the mental build-up she had done when she heard he was coming. The only trace of his Aboriginal ancestry was his colouring, a shade darker than that of her husband’s weathered features. He appeared slight as he shook hands with the cattleman, but then most men did so when near him. Then he was bending over her proffered hand and smiling.
“You must be sick and tired of policemen, Mrs Brentner. I shall try hard not to be a nuisance.”
“You are very welcome, Inspector,” Rose heard herself say. “People like us naturally welcome everyone.” She glanced at her small daughters. “We have been a little impatient too.”
“Ah!” Bonaparte bent low to greet the girls. “You’ll be Rosie, and you will be Hilda. How-d’you-do? Mrs Leroy was telling me of you, and she sent her love to you.”
“Mrs Leroy spoils both of ’em,” interjected Brentner.
“I find that hard to believe,” countered Bonaparte. “No one could ever spoil these young ladies. Mrs Leroy told me they both know beautiful Aboriginal legends, and I hope to hear them sometime.”
“You will,” Brentner said positively. “Did I see Tessa with afternoon tea?”
The visitors could not have been more warmly welcomed had they been close relatives. They were conducted to the dayhouse which offered surprises by its roominess and furnishing. It was circular in shape and contained easy chairs, racks of books, a large dining-table, and several floor rugs. The young Aborigine turned from setting out the tea things, and her large black eyes slowly found Bonaparte after smiling at Constable Howard.
“So you are Tessa! I am happy to meet you, Tessa.”
“You are very kind, Inspector. How-do-you-do?”
“Well, now we’re all here and comfortable, what about a cup of tea?” suggested Brentner, winking at Hilda. “Our friends must be as famished as I am, what with all the work I’ve done today.”
“You’ve done nothing all day but read the pastoral journals,” accused his wife, and Brentner grinned and wanted to know if Inspector Bonaparte was married.
Tessa poured the tea, and the children gravely conveyed it to the guests and their parents.
“Would you all grant a favour?” Bonaparte asked, and waited for their assurance. “Actually it’s two favours. The first is that you try to forget I am a policeman. You could never forget that Constable Howard is one because he cannot help looking like one. The second favour is that you call me Bony. My wife does. My three sons do. I hope I can persuade you. I did persuade Mrs Leroy.”
A small hand was rested on his knee, and Hilda said, “Can we call you Bony too, Inspector Bonaparte?”
“Of course, Inspector Bonaparte is a bit of a mouthful, isn’t it?”
Hilda gravely nodded agreement and joined her sister.
It was Kurt Brentner who suggested that the visitors might like to talk business and that his office would be relaxing. Bony expressed the hope that Mrs Brentner would join them later.
The office also provided a surprise, being a commodious room with two pairs of french windows. The radio transceiver, black-panelled with chromed fittings, first captured the attention. Apart from the roll-top American desk flanked by steel cabinets there was nothing of the office about this comfortably furnished apartment. Brentner invited his guests to sit and smoke and, having remarked that some cattlemen appeared to be most fortunate, Bony crossed to the french windows to gaze out over the desert to the gold brick lying on the horizon.
“Mrs Leroy told us Mrs Brentner named it Lucifer’s Couch,” he said, “so much more picturesque than the official Wolf Creek Meteor Crater. D’you mind if I close the windows?”
“Not at all. Chilly?”
“No. The veranda could be accommodating.” Having closed both pairs of windows, Bony accepted the easy chair drawn to the low occasional table, on which were cigarettes and tobacco. He was smiling when he said, “Cops and robbers, you know. Nasty suspicious policemen.”
“Stock in trade,” Brentner said good-humouredly.
“We were trained to be suspicious,” Bony said, laughing softly. “Before Mrs Brentner joins us, I would like to know something of this local scene and the people. I’ve glanced at the Police Summary of the crime at the Crater, but only glanced. I understand you have been in this part of the continent all your life. You would be au fait with the Aborigines, meaning as knowledgeable as most. Is there a legend about Lucifer’s Couch?”
“I haven’t heard of one,” replied Brentner. “Our Tessa could answer. She’s interested in legends.”
“I must ask her. By the way, do please treat our subject confidentially. We must start on the premise