Winds of Evil. Arthur W. Upfield
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Mrs. Nelson was again devoting attention to her breakfast, and the girl continued to stand patiently to await dismissal.
“What dress did you wear?” was the next question.
“I wore my black crêpe de Chine, ma’am.”
“Hum! You were wise there, my girl. Colours don’t suit you. How was Mabel dressed?”
“Oh, she wore blue ninon, and her shoes were of blue satin. She looked just lovely, ma’am. I wish—I wish——”
“Well, what do you wish? Out with it.”
Tilly faltered and again blushed. Then:
“Nothing, ma’am. Only I wish I was like Mabel Storrie. She looked lovely last night—just lovely.”
For the second time since she had sat down, Mrs. Nelson stared hard at the girl.
“Don’t indulge in vain regrets, child,” she said softly. “You have got one beautiful feature—your eyes. Be careful of them; use them well but sparingly. Now be off. Be sure all the windows are shut and fastened, and that the blinds are lowered three-quarters. Slip down and ask James to come up. Stay in the bar until he gets back.”
“All right ma’am, and thank you,” Tilly said.
That brought Mrs. Nelson’s eyebrows almost together. “Whatever for, child?” she asked.
“For … telling me about my eyes, ma’am.”
“Rubbish!” snorted Mrs. Nelson. “Be sure you lie down in your room for two hours this afternoon, or you’ll go to sleep waiting at dinner.”
Tilly vanished. She was a month or so over twenty-two, compact and sturdy. She possessed the lithe grace given to almost every bushwoman who since girlhood has habitually ridden half-tamed horses. Her constant use of the word “ma’am” was due less—much less—to any sense of servility than to an affectionate respect for the leader of Carie. Like all great men and women, Mrs. Nelson commanded affection mixed with respect.
She now went on with her breakfast, to which, however, she gave less attention than she did to the point where the track to Broken Hill crossed Nogga Creek.
Like a drop of ink, a horse and rider slid over the brown stained carpet of bluebush from the south-east to reach the right of the two Common gates. Behind the horse rose a long finger of dust—dust which became quickly merged in the as yet low-flying tenuous dust-clouds raised by the freshening wind.
The rider opened, passed through and closed the gate without dismounting, then urged his horse into a gallop once again. On arriving at the township he turned down beside the hotel to the stables and yards at the rear. Mrs. Nelson knew him to be Fred Storrie.
It was now ten minutes to nine, and on to the veranda through the sitting-room stepped a white-faced man whose eyes were startlingly blue and whose jet-black hair was lowered over his high forehead in what is known in England as a quiff.
He was rotund, youthful, well under forty years of age. His trousers and open waistcoat were of dark tweed, his dress-shirt was without collar and tie, and on his feet were tan leather slippers. When he spoke London sprang out of his mouth.
“Mornin”, ma’am!”
“Good morning, James.”
Mrs. Nelson turned slightly in her chair, the better to examine her barman, and James hastily buttoned his waist-coat, then gently flapping in the wind, and endeavoured to hide his slippered feet under the table. James Spinks had been Mrs. Nelson’s barman for eight years, and he was, therefore, conversant with Mrs. Nelson’s passion for—among other things—sartorial neatness.
“Is the mail on time this morning, James?” he was sternly asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Five passengers. All men. All passengers going through to Allambee.”
“Of course everything is ready for them?”
“Too right, ma’am.”
“Any trouble last night from Constable Lee?”
“No. No trouble at all, ma’am. Live and let live is Constable Lee. He ain’t severe-like on dance nights and Christmas Eve.”
“Mr. Borradale—did he call in?”
“Yes, ma’am. He and the doctor slipped in just afore the dance started and then again about midnight.”
“Very well, James. After the coach has gone on, ask Fred Storrie to come up for a minute. That will be all.”
James accepted his dismissal with a vigorous nod, which made it apparent that the quiff was too heavily greased to come unstuck from his forehead, and he having vanished, as people always seemed to do when Mrs. Nelson had finished with them, that lady proceeded with her breakfast and her watching study of Nogga Creek.
For so many years had she seen, first Cobb and Co.’s coaches, and then the motor mail-cars appear and disappear at Nogga Creek that she knew exactly where the track disappeared among the bordering trees before crossing it. Visibility this morning was exceptionally bad and momentarily becoming worse, and her eyesight now was less good than formerly. Nevertheless, her interest was abruptly aroused by tiny flashes of reflected light at the place where the mail-car was due to appear.
With the agility of a much younger woman, Mrs. Nelson rose and passed into her sitting-room. On coming out again she was carrying a pair of expensive binoculars, and when she levelled them at the reflected lights the blue-veined, china-like hands were trembling.
The glasses permitted her to see the modern motor mail-car halted at the top of the nearer creek-bank. She could not perceive anyone in the car, nor could she see anyone standing beside it who could account for its unusual halt at that place.
It was a circumstance at once arousing the curiosity of a woman habitually in possession of all knowledge connected with Carie and with the mail-cars that passed through Carie. Curiosity so controlled Mrs. Nelson that she experienced no little difficulty in keeping the glasses directed at the motionless car.
At least one minute passed before she saw figures emerge from the box-trees beside the track. They moved together in a bunch to the side of the car, and Mrs. Nelson fancied she saw once a flash of light blue. Then, whilst she continued to watch, the men climbed into the car and it began to move towards the town.
That the halt had not been occasioned by a mechanical breakdown Mrs. Nelson was convinced. Something of an unusual nature had caused the driver to walk right off the track and in among the trees bordering the creek. When she lowered the glasses to the veranda rail her hands were still violently trembling. Her face was almost as white as her hair.
Again seated, she watched the oncoming mail-car seeming to swerve alternately eastward and then westward as it followed the winding track, its wheels and mudguards hidden from her by the low bluebush. A huge volume of dust rose behind the vehicle, to be rushed eastward in a long slant by the wind. Oddly enough, that dust reminded Mrs. Nelson this morning of the old oleograph in the bar parlour showing H.M.S. Majestic ploughing an angry Atlantic as great billows of black smoke poured from her two funnels set abreast.
An old man came forth from one of the houses to stand and peer along the track. The uniformed policeman emerged from the police station calmly to survey the township. The usual stray cow and two goats wandered into the single street. And then, beating the sound of the wind, came the rising hum of the mail-car.
As had the drivers of Cobb and Co.’s coaches, so did the youths driving these mail-cars always when arriving from Broken Hill pass the hotel to make first stop at the post office. Having dropped the mail, they then drove back to the hotel, where passengers and driver ate breakfast, and where, in the old days, the horses had been changed.
To the grave perturbation of Mrs. Nelson and to the astonishment of Mr. Smith, Constable Lee and “Grandfer” Littlejohn, this morning’s mail-car passed the post office to stop outside Dr. Mulray’s