Pinned Like A Specimen
HAVINGRESTEDfor almost an hour, chiefly on account of Linda, Bony led the party on to the mud, the pad clearly marked by the impressions of the boards worn by the retreating ambusher. It was then one o’clock, and Bony pointed out the advisability of reaching land before five, after which hour the westering sun would blind them, but not the man who might decide to stage a battle from the cover of a sand dune.
The child was subdued, but walked a full two miles before complaining. Then Yorky demonstrated that little men are often physically stronger than larger men. He passed his rifle to Meena, took Linda astride his shoulders and carried her as though her weight was identical with that of the weapon. The afternoon was exceedingly hot, completely still, and the surrounding mirage dazzled the eyes and limited shooting visibility to eighty yards.
Having insisted on a lead of two hundred yards from Yorky and the girls, Bony constantly peered ahead, worried by the fact that, as time passed, the sun would place him at increasing disadvantage. The crows had refused to follow the party, preferring no doubt to take shade among the foot-high grass, and now to look to the sky for the eagles was torture to sweat-rimmed eyes. Above and about there was nothing but colourless light.
On reaching an area of hard ground, he waited for Yorky and Meena, and eventually they appeared, first as tufted masts, and then walking on stilts, and became normal only when within yards. Yorky was still carrying Linda, and on setting her to ground, he stumbled to his knees and sprawled forward, wiping his sweat-drenched face on a bare forearm.
Meena poured water over the back of his head, and he told her to stop it, as they had yet five or six miles to reach land. Thereafter they all drank sparingly, and the men smoked little, the terrific heat pressing in from all sides equally with the direct rays of the cosmic sun. Yorky did spare water to saturate the towel which Linda wore for head covering.
“That’ll be better, sweetheart,” he told her gently. “It isn’t far to go now, and when we get to the hut we’ll pour buckets-full of water over each other.” To Bony he said: “On a bit there’s another dog-rest. It’s small and only a couple of miles from the shore. It’ll be there that bloke will be waiting again. After that there’s the shore dunes for him and open spaces for us. Then thefun’ll start. It’ll be all his way with the sun behind him.”
“Maybe not,” Bony said. “I’ll get along. Give me time. I’ll wait on that dog-rest if he isn’t there.”
Yorky brought his wandering eyes to focus on Bony. They were inflamed, and like agates set in beef.
“You forget you’re a copper. Just remember you got a Savage what’ll out-range a Winchester, and remember that we got to get off thisstinkin ’ mud before it bogs us. Thisain’t no time for the ruddy Law and gentlemen policemen.”
“Correct, Yorky.” Bony smiled grimly. “The water under the mud is the boss from here. I’ll be waiting at the next rest.”
The man and the woman and the small child watched the mirage shape grotesquely the departing Bonaparte, and Meena said angrily:
“You shouldn’t of said that. You got us all in this mess, and he knows what he’s doing without you telling him.”
“Had to chiack him,” retorted Yorky, glaring at his daughter. “Me, I can look aftermeself. But we got our little Linda sweetheart. Well, up we come and off we go.”
The heat was relentless and Bony was dismayed by experiencing a slight attack of giddiness. He thought perhaps he had been moving too fast, and slackened his pace a little to recover. He did, until minutes later, when he had another attack that almost sent him down.
It was then he saw it, the slow passing of a mud wave. It caught stronger light along its forward face than along its summit and rear, bringing foreboding of disaster. Half an hour later another mud wave tended to upset equilibrium, and then soon after that a wasp buzzed, and he heard the report which sent him chest-down into the mud, and his eye peering across the sights of his rifle.
“You’ve said it, Yorky. This is no time to be a gentleman,” he remarked. “Let me see this murderous swine that I may prove it.”
The frustrating light was much worse at mud level. He could not determine where the mud horizon met the scintillating atmosphere. Again the wasp fled by, and again came the report loud and sharp. He aimed at the point of the sound and fired, and the report of his rifle seemed to be blanketed about his own ears. It was worse than being blinded by fog. Irritation gave place to dull anger, and anger banished all veneers, leaving a man no longer a gentlemanly copper.
There arose, in this man of two races, emotion he rarely permitted to surface. It was like a heatless fire deep behind his eyes, and he swore at the blinding sun and the frustrating mirage. Pinned like a moth to a specimen board, he and those behind him were being vitally delayed for the mud to engulf them.
Ah! There was movement of a sort, a shape impossible to identify. Swiftly it grew to monstrous size, swiftly to diminish to vanishing point. The sniper was retreating.
Bony made to leap to his feet, and was brought to reality by the mud shoes. He wanted to run, but again the boards restrained him. In a semi-crouching attitude, Bony hurried after him, with the nightmare sensation of leaden feet.
He came to the dingo-rest where the sniper had staged his last hold-up, and instead of waiting for the others he pressed on, determined to nail the enemy before he could gain cover behind the shore dunes. Now how far to the blessed land, the clean, the beautiful land? How much farther over this filthy mud? What had Yorky said? Ah, yes, two miles. A long way, and yet not so long when clean red sand and a hut near water waited.
An hour later he saw the red sand, sand rising in billows as of red spray suddenly suspended, great red cliffs of it, gouged and gullied by the shadow drifts of graphite powder. And he saw, without distortion, a man run from the mud and race up the beach. Without expending time sprawling, Bony halted, sighted and fired. He heard himself shout when the running figure staggered. He heard himself curse when the running figure recovered, to run on between two cliffs of red spray.
He was down on the mud yet again, fighting for control of breathing and nerves. He struggled to sink yet lower into the mud, knowing that his adversary was calmly selecting his cover from behind which he could pin down a regiment. How far was he from the beach? It was impossible to assess distances in this shimmering colourless radiance.
His rifle was ranged to fire point-blank up to 350 yards. He could do nothing now but wait, hoping to see the spurt of flame before hearing that wasp, thus learning the position of the adversary. Vain hope, indeed, when the sun is directly before one, and a bare five hands’ width above the summits of low dunes.
He was thinking how to place himself beyond range of the Winchester and still keep the dunes within range of his own rifle, when a sound like a cork being withdrawn came from his left, followed about two seconds later by the report. To turn about and retreat in a manner dictated by mud and hampered feet was to ask for a bullet in the back from a man able to see clearly with the sun behind him.
The next bullet hit the mud several yards immediately in front of Bony. He saw the tiny spurt of mud so disturbed, and found consolation in the obvious fact that the marksman could not see where his bullets hit, and so correct his errors, for the impact raised no dust. The following bullet informed him that the marksman was immediately to his front, and probably behind a low declivity between two humps.
To his complete bewilderment, therefore, he witnessed the appearance of a dark figure at a point at least two hundred feet to the right of this place; and the figure was a man who was waving something white. Then in the shimmering light haze he saw that the man was moving in a crouching manner along the foot of the dunes, and towards the place where the rifleman should be. Bony aimed at this position and fired, and was rewarded by the miniature avalanche of sand marring the face of the dune.
Now there was distinct movement on the top of the ridge between the dunes, and two things happened. A bullet plopped into the mud on Bony’s left, and the man at the foot of the dunes began to run, still crouching, towards where the marksman must be. He was stalking the rifleman, and had taken advantage to cover ground when knowing that the marksman was concentrating on his shooting.
Good man! Bony proceeded to assist him further by now and then claiming the rifleman’s full attention. The stalker entered a shadow, disappeared. A bullet plopped into the mud eighteen inches in front of Bony’s rifle muzzle, and he realized that, fortunately, bullets did not ricochet off mud. Then he saw the white fabric being waved atop a sand ridge much nearer the marksman, and Bony tried to dig a furrow across the ridge.
Minutes passed. The sun sank lower still, even more effectively blinding Bony, who could now see only by shading his eyes. Shortly afterwards even that was useless. Lying there utterly helpless while the sun sank behind the sand ridge were moments suspended for ever. Now the distant land was sharply silhouetted against the light; for the first time the odds were in Bony’s favour. The shadows were gone, the light shimmer was banished. He could see clearly the scar of the avalanche made by his bullet on the virgin face of the dune behind which lurked his adversary.
Then he saw a movement directly over his sights, and settled to make this a victory shot, stilling his nerves, freezing his arms and neck muscles while beginning the slow pressure on the trigger. This was it. He could actually see the top of the fellow’s head over the smaller blob of rifle muzzle resting on the sharply etched red sand line against the saffron sky. He knew now that the range was well under two hundred yards, and in his hands was a superb weapon. Conditions were ideal. Now to dispatch a high-velocity bullet into the brain of the killer!
One fraction of increased pressure on the trigger and the bullet would have been sped, one fraction of a second more would have achieved finality. But the second passed and the pressure was stopped, for just beyond the marksman rose that waving white object. It rose above the ridge, revealing the head and body of the man waving as he mounted the opposite slope. The man lifted his arm, and his hand held a rifle or a waddy. Whichever it was, it was brought downward with severe force.
Then on the summit was an aborigine waving vigorously for Bony to come on.
Reaction almost caused Bony to sob from sheer frustration. He wanted to shout oaths and curses. Having waited all that time, having exposed himself to bullets all about him, having come to the moment of equalization, to be frustrated by a damnedabo!
Standing, he sloughed the mud from his clothes, and congratulated himself that there wasn’t a smear on the rifle. Turning about he saw Yorky and Meena still far out, the man continuing to carry the child, and when the storm of unreasoning anger subsided, he placed the rifle on the mud without a qualm and went back to meet them.
“He pinned me to the mud,” Bony said. “Just when I was able to let him have it, that blasted aborigine clouted him.”
Yorky, standing like Atlas, screwed his face into a peculiar expression, part admiration, part incredulity.
“You pinned him behind thatsandhill, too, for a full hour. I’d sooner be talking to Linda thanlyin ’ where you was. Better get going, Inspector. Thismud’ll turn to soup any minute.”
“Let me carry Linda. Edge round me and go first. That aborigine… I must admit… is our friend for life.”
“It’s Charlie,” Meena said, quietly, and with infinite pride. “He’s still waving.”
Yorky headed the short procession, swaying drunkenly with fatigue, and followed by Bony with Linda astride his shoulders. The mirage vanished into the miasma of nightmare, and the land of salmon-pink urged them off the rusty-iron Lake Eyre.
“I don’t want to see that ole lake again.”
“Neither do I, Linda. I like lakes with cool water, like your private lake out there. And when I reach a shower I’ll stay under it all night.”
“You can’t. Mr Wootton wouldn’t like you wasting all that water.”
“Wouldn’t he?”
“No. Mr Wootton is a careful man, my mother says.”
He set her down on the hard beach, and thankfully removed his mud shoes. Yorky and Meena were looking up at the laughing Charlie standing on the sand ridge, a white handkerchief about his neck.
Behind the ridge a white man sat with his knees hunched and his face resting on his arms. There was blood on the crown of his head. His rifle lay a dozen feet away, a Winchester.
“Is this the friend you were telling us about, Yorky?” asked Bony, and the little man looked vaguely about before nodding.