What the Eagles Knew
ONLEAVINGTHEBreen homestead, Irwin was told to drive north, it being Bony’s intention to pass round the northern extremity of Black Range and return by the Wyndham road. Neither was inclined to talk, although Irwin was curious as to why Bony had not interrogated theBreens ’ stockmen.
This track was much easier, and when two miles had been measured they proceeded to cross a series of low ridges separated by wide flats bearing tall sugar grass. The ridges gave place to open country and, when nine miles from the homestead, they came to a large set of stockyards which had been in recent use.
Irwin was invited to sit with Bony on the top rail and admire the Range, which wore with distinction its crown of table-tops and pinnacles of dark-red rock, bared to the clear winter sky and the lightning strokes of summer storms.
“On the far side of the Range would be the place whereStenhouse was found, don’t you think?” surmised Bony, and Irwin agreed.
“This, obviously, is the place where theBreens brought their muster to cut out the fats for market. Any name for it?”
“The Nine Mile Yards.”
“That operation was delayed a week by something or other, Irwin. They notifiedStenhouse they would be leaving on the 7th, and it must have been the 14th or 15th.”
“A large bunch of cattle could have broken away from the riders,” Irwin pointed out.
“Yes. Anything like that could have happened. Extraordinary girl.”
Irwin chuckled. Bony slewed his body to take in all this world of space bounded by the remains of a once high plateau.
“No smokes,” he observed. “It’s like the hush before the storm. Those blacks at the homestead remind me of chickens clustered about the mother hen when a hawk is approaching. It was why I didn’t question them. Yes, an extraordinarily lovely girl in an extraordinary setting.”
Irwin offered no comment. This slim, keen-featured, blue-eyed man was foreign to his long experience of those who stem from the aboriginal, and now, after several days of close association with Napoleon Bonaparte, Irwin was beginning to feel conscious of inferiority.
“About forty stockmen are employed by theBreens,” Bony said. “That number was given us by Kimberley Breen. She said there were very few about the homestead, four we know being with the cattle, and most of the others being with Silas on a crocodile-shooting expedition. And yet, Irwin, I counted thirty-eight aboriginal men capable of doing stock work. When Kimberley said there were forty working for her brothers, I think she spoke the truth. When she said most of them were away, she lied. You noticed, I’m sure, that wonderful black opal she was wearing?”
“If I had ten like it, I’d retire from the Department and buy a schooner and sail round the world,” Irwin declared.
“I’d go after the swordfish,” Bony said emphatically. “That opal would seem to have belonged to her mother, for she was wearing an opal when the picture was taken; but on looking closely I discovered that it was a moonstone and someone had darkened it with black crayon and added a smear of crimson. The photograph of Mrs Breen was taken in 1902. It bears that date as well as the photographer’s signature. In 1902, Irwin, black opals hadn’t been found in Australia and, so far as I know, nowhere else in the world.”
Association of ideas produced a suggestion from Irwin.
“Perhaps Kimberley crayoned the moonstone into an opal,” he said. “I didn’t notice it.”
“Perhaps she did,” Bony agreed… and added, “But why, unless she wanted to share something with the mother she but faintly remembers? The other picture… the picture of Kimberley herself is all wrong. That dress she wore. To me it looked like an evening dress. And that very expensive tea-set kept in an expensive hat box. That wrist-watch, the opal, the dress, the jewelled shoes, those things cost money, Irwin, a lot of money. And theBreens manage to send away only four hundred marketable cattle every year.”
“Inherited money from an uncle down in Melbourne, I was told,” Irwin said. “As for wearing the wrong dress and the wrong shoes… you know more about that than I do… well, Kimberley could send down to Perth for the clothes. Probably saw the pictures in catalogues and wanted to be a beautiful lady. She could buy them from her share of the profits on the sale of four hundred fats every year.”
Bony nodded. “Well, perhaps she could. I see a faint track running towards the Range. Know where it goes?”
“Yes, to a well hard against the Range itself. They call it Black Well, after the Range. About three miles from here.”
Bony regarded the RangeWith eyes contracted behind narrowed lids. He could see eagles wheeling at a height lower than the summits. There were five of them, and when five are working together they must be prospecting a feast. Having lit a cigarette, Bony dropped from the yard rail and sauntered past the truck to explore the branch track to Black Well. Irwin entered the utility, thoughtful concerning Bony’s remarks about Kimberley Breen, her opal, her dress and tea-set. TheseBreens were certainly not short of money, hadn’t been since they had inherited it from the uncle. But had they? Damn it! A policeman oughtn’t to accept anything without proof.
Bony returned and took his seat beside Irwin.
“As it’s growing late, and there isn’t much wood about here, we’ll take that track to Black Well and camp there for the night,” he said, and Irwin drove the vehicle across the cattle-churned ground to reach the track, saying nothing until they had covered a mile.
“D’youreckonthe Musgrave blacks will give trouble up this way?”
“Plenty… to the man who killed Jacky Musgrave,” Bony replied. “An aborigine must have witnessed the murder of Jacky Musgrave, and passed on the information. If that black hadn’t been killed there would have been no signs indicating that his tribal fellows are coming to investigate. Had Jacky killedStenhouse, not a black fellow in the country would have raised a smoke about it. The fact that the Musgrave blacks are stirred up by the signals relayed to them is to my mind proof that the man who murderedStenhouse also murdered the tracker. You don’t know what the blacks are saying. They are saying that Jacky Musgrave turned into a horse. Whatd’you make of that?”
“Search me. I do know that the blacks believe when a man dies his spirit enters a tree or a stone near where he dies. You could say that Jacky Musgrave was turned into a stone, or into a tree. But into a horse! Horses don’t come into their folklore and beliefs. There weren’t any horses until the white man brought them to Australia.”
“The logical corollary is that when Jacky Musgrave was killed his spirit entered a horse. The horse, Irwin, probably died long before Jacky Musgrave was killed.”
“Probably a thousand dead horses lying around theseKimberleys.”
“We should be interested only in dead horses within a day’s travel ofStenhouse’s abandoned jeep.”
Irwin chuckled, and his laughter did not deceive Bony.
“Must be a bit dense,” he said. “Suppose we find a dead horse, how are we going to tell the dead horse was once upon a time a black fellow known as Jacky Musgrave?”
“I’ll inform you when the time comes… if it should.”
Black Range rose higher and higher. The track was so faintly marked that Irwin was obliged to drive with care not to lose it. Had it not been recently traversed by a motor vehicle, his difficulties would have been vastly increased when crossing belts of sugar grass rising level with the cabin top. They passed over a miniature range of rocky splinters protruding above golden sand, and saw ahead the windmill over the well. It was not in action.
Beyond the well, the Range rose sheer from a base of rock rubble for a thousand feet, presenting a massive light-red wall. On the left extremity a great rocky splash of purple streaked with black betrayed the entrance to a gorge or gully. Irwin stopped the truck beside the mill-stand over the low coping of the well, and now the evidence was plain that the mill had not been operated for some considerable time. The drinking troughs extending outward from the squat reservoir tank were dry. There were four vanes missing from the mill itself. And, to clinch all this evidence of disuse, the ground about was clean of cattle tracks.
There was a windlass and chain and bucket over the well and, standing within the legs of the mill, they lowered the bucket, bringing up water, clear and cold.
“We could camp over in that belt of scrub,” Irwin said, and, Bony assenting, he brought the water tins from the truck and filled them. They moved the truck to the trees, where lay a plentiful supply of dead wood, and made a fire, the wood being so dry that but little smoke rose after the kindling of leaves and twigs had burned out.
It was then half past six, and whilst Irwin attended to the billy to make the inevitable tea, Bony strolled back to the well, circled it, and continued onwards to a roughly-built shelter roofed with grass laid upon light poles. The site of a fire was near by, and the mound of ash told of many fires having burned there.
These little stories interested Bony… automatically and without actual reference to the investigation on hand. The untouched grass about the well and the troughs told him that cattle had not watered there for at least twelve months, and the fire-site near the shelter told him that someone had camped under its grass roof within recent weeks, certainly since the last rain had fallen.
Having always felt the urge to see what lay beyond the mirage, beyond the sand-dune, what invited from beyond the mountain, Bony wanted to see what lay at the extremity of the great rock wall. A crow defied him, and looking upward, he saw, the five eagles still circling and so low that he could distinguish their golden eyes.
Arriving at the end of the rock wall, he found a gully rising steeply into the heart of the range, a gully having a wide mouth leading into a defile between slopes massed with trees and shrubs andspinifex, and floored by the narrow dry bed of a storm-water creek. The creek bed was of coarse grey sand, and should one wish to climb the gully it offered the best pathway.
Bony turned away, not wanting to explore it, yet with interest observing how storm water had rushed out from the gully’s mouth to cut a channel yards wide and feet deep in the soft soil of the little plain.
Then he saw the fox. It was coming along the channel towards him, and the reflected colour from the rock wall deepened its golden coat and darkened its white chest and tail tip with a tint of red. The fox came on, not seeing the statue which was a living man. The eagles came lower, and when one swooped, the fox crouched against the bank of the channel. Bony clapped his hands and the fox executed an almost perfect somersault, and fled into the tall grass.
The laughing Bony prospected the water channel to see how many foxes used it to pass from the waving grass belt across the open space to the shelter of the gully, and having proceeded less than a hundred yards he found a dead horse.
Here, then, was the reason for the gathered eagles, here the reason for the visit of the fox. Bony looked down at it and wondered, because the animal had been dead a long time, so long, in fact, that nothing remained but the hide stretched over the top side of the skeleton. The birds and wild dogs had eaten into the belly, like termites working from within, and Bony managed to lift the skeleton, then dropped it and walked back to the temporary camp.
“Every successful investigator owes much to Lady Luck,” he told Irwin. “No investigator ever begins to be successful unless driven by curiosity. Luck, curiosity, plus a little inductive reasoning into the behaviour of foxes andeagles, will raise any police recruit to the top of his department. Come with me.”
“Found something important?” asked Irwin.
“I think so. First I noted those five eagles, when at the cattle yard. Then I saw this old track had been recently used by a motor vehicle. Then I discovered that although this well hadn’t been used for many months, someone had been here and made a fire beside that old shed. There was a fox that ought not to have been abroad so early. And then I found the horse.”
“The horse!” echoed Irwin and chuckled. “Not the horse that was once Jacky Musgrave?”
“If an old man, blind and decrepit, tells you that Jacky Musgrave was turned into a horse, you could laugh at him and prove yourself a fool. Only fools laugh at what their puny brains cannot accept, Irwin, and even wise men are too apt to sneer at things they cannot see and touch and measure and weigh.
“How was it that an old and blind aborigine creeping about the blacks’ camp down at Leroy Downs, a hundred and fifty miles away, was able to tell Bob Lang that Jacky Musgrave had been turned into a horse? You may answer that, having been informed by smoke signals that something of grave import had occurred, that old and blind semi-savage
… semi-savage, mind you… learned by telepathy that Jacky Musgrave had been turned into a horse. I would accept your answer with neither hilarity nor contempt. Look! Look at Jacky Musgrave turned into a horse.”
Swiftly Bony stopped and lifted the foreleg of the dead horse, and beneath the skeleton frame covered with hidelay the body of an aboriginal dressed in army greatcoat and heavy military boots.