Madman's Bend. Arthur W. Upfield
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rather than inherent tendencies had made Mrs Cosgrove a hard business woman, and she could be generous. Now in her late forties, and a widow, she took a close interest in her pastoral property, Mira.
It was Thursday when the mail car made its return run from White Bend to Bourke, leaving the township at eight and collecting the mail at the Mira-Madden boxes at nine in the morning. Immediately after breakfast, taken punctually at seven, Mrs Cosgrove and her manager proceeded to complete the outward mail to be sealed into a blue bag and taken to the roadside box.
Today, her son Raymond carried the outward bag to the box, and naturally he was interested to find Lush’s utility still there. He had walked this morning, following the right bank of the dry river to the sharp angle above Mira where he could see the vehicle on the cliff above the great hole filled with water.
Skirting the edge of the waterhole, he climbed the far bank and circled the abandoned machine in search of tracks that would show whether Lush had recently returned to it. The wind had played havoc with the tracks left by Lucas and Bony, and there were none more distinct.
The previous day, when he had taken the down bag from the red-headed driver, they had agreed that Lush must be suffering a hangover; today they agreed that he must have cleared out with a supply of grog and be holed up in bliss.
Raymond Cosgrove was an easy-going young man not addicted to hating people. He had, however, a strong aversion to William Lush for particularly private reasons. Where Lush was this scintillating morning didn’t bother him, and he returned to the homestead unperturbed by the thought that the man might have fallen over the cliff-like bank above the waterhole and drowned. He reported the still abandoned utility to his mother.
“I know,” Mrs Cosgrove said. “Lucas has just rung asking about that utility. He found it there yesterday on his way to Bourke and saw it again last night on his way down. He wants to know if it’s still there. Ring him.”
Watching her son standing at the wall telephone, she again experienced a little pride in his lean, hard body and handsome, boyish profile—a pride which always overcame her disappointment at his refusal to take up any career but that of a sheepman.
“Sounds like the old demon,” Ray was saying. “How’s things? The ute? Yes, still there by the boxes. Signs of him? No. No, no booze or anything. Must have gone bush to tank up on his own. Be in trouble! The bastard’s always in trouble.” The crude word caused Mrs Cosgrove to frown. “All right, Sherlock. Yes, I’ll do that and contact you again later.”
Turning to his mother after replacing the instrument, he said Lucas wanted them to raise Mrs Lush and check on her husband.
“I’ll speak to her, Ray.”
To save Madden expense, Mrs Cosgrove’s husband had consented to the telephone line being brought over the river direct to his office, where the switchboard was installed to permit outlet to the White Bend exchange. Now the son made the connection, and Mrs Cosgrove heard Jill Madden’s voice.
“Hullo, Jill. Is your stepfather home? Ray has just come from the box and found his utility still abandoned.”
“We haven’t seen him since he left for town,” Jill said, betraying slight agitation. “Yesterday Mr Lucas called about seeing the ute. It seems that Lush went off to drink alone and is still at it. He’ll come home when he’s ready. I’d have gone for the ute, but mother’s ill. She wasn’t well yesterday and got up and fell, and she’s hurt herself.”
“How badly, Jill?” Mrs Cosgrove asked sharply.
“Well, she hurt her face when she fell on a low stool, and her ribs are hurt, too. I’ve done what I can, Mrs Cosgrove; liniment and bandages—all that. She’s sleeping just now.”
“Now that is bad,” agreed the elder woman. “You must ring if your mother isn’t rested after sleeping. I’ll leave the line open. Meanwhile I’ll send all the hands out to locate your stepfather—that is, the men available.” Hanging up, she spoke to her son. “Lush isn’t home, and Mrs Lush has had a fall and hurt herself badly. Take the men on hand and look for the drunken sot. You go too, Mac. Do you good to get on a horse. You’re putting on too much weight.”
Ian MacCurdle, sandy of hair and moustache, tall and rugged, inwardly groaned and followed young Cosgrove from the office. He had come to Mira when Cosgrove was alive, and now was like a piece of the furniture.
Mrs Cosgrove heard her son shouting men’s names, and from the narrow veranda of the office-store building she watched him and four others riding down-river to the easier crossing below the shearing-shed; she knew their objective was to beat through Madman’s Bend, a huge wasteland of billabongs and arid flats, and so out to the mail-box and the utility.
They had not returned when the house cook gonged for lunch, and before leaving Mrs Cosgrove rang through to Madden’s Selection.
“Mother is still asleep, Mrs Cosgrove,” was Jill’s report. “I’m getting worried. I think ... I don’t know what to think.”
Never hesitant in making a decision, Mrs Cosgrove said she would leave immediately and, calling for the housemaid, told her to delay lunch and then station herself at the office telephone till she returned or Mr Mac came back. Following the faint path along the river bank, made by her son and others who had gone for the mail, she could hear men shouting on the far side in Madman’s Bend, and eventually saw two of them at the utility. She crossed the dry bed of the river opposite the Madden house and so came to the front door. Jill Madden let her in.
“Oh, thank you for coming, Mrs Cosgrove,” Jill said. “Mother seems to be worse.”
Bill Lush’s victim was unconscious. Her face, from which some of the bandages had been removed, shocked Mrs Cosgrove, and, having examined the woman’s right side and abdomen, she blamed herself for not having come much earlier.
“I’ll call the doctor,” she said crisply, fearing the girl would lose self-control. “It would be silly to take your mother to Bourke. I’ll get through to Superintendent Macey. He’ll fix the doctor.”
She had to direct her maid in her office to work the board, and then had to wait while someone in the Superintendent’s office went and found him. She felt relief when she heard his deep voice.
“We’re in trouble, Jim,” she said. “My neighbour, Mrs Lush, has had a very bad fall and needs the doctor. She’s unconscious, and her breathing is irregular. Now you know what Dr Leveska is, but he must come down as quickly as possible. Will you get him into the air at once?”
“Yes, of course, Betsy. That is, if he isn’t away. Just a minute.”
She heard another voice say, “I could hear the name Lush. Ask if Lush is still absent.” Then: “All right, Betsy, we’ll get the doctor on his way. Is Lush not there?”
“My men are out searching for him.” Her voice was raised when she added, “You should have him put on the Blackfellers’ Act.”
“We might try at that, after what I’ve heard from Constable Lucas. Can I tell the doctor you’ll have the wind indicator out on your strip? Save time, you know.”
Mrs Cosgrove said she would have it done, and then asked Jill for a cup of tea and whatever there was in the larder. Alone with the unconscious woman, she did what she thought prudent for her, thinking that it must have been an involved accident to have brought Jill’s mother to this.
“When did it happen?” she asked Jill later at lunch.
“The night before last, Mrs Cosgrove.” The girl’s dark eyes met steadily the grey eyes of her guest. “In spite of what mother has said so often about not saying anything because of scandal, I’ll have to let it out now. She mightn’t recover. She might die, mightn’t she?”
“It’s a chance. How did it happen?”
Jill told of what she had found on her return after Lush’s departure for town, and what her mother had told her about the assault. Mrs Cosgrove listened