The Barrakee Mystery

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Passing of Clair

FRANK DUGDALE removed the bridle from his horse with deft fingers, patted its sleek neck and allowed it to walk away to a sandy place for a roll before drinking. Midway between the little harness-horse and his hut he scanned the sky with hopeful expectancy. From north to south, across the meridian of the sky lay a knife-like edge of dark clouds moving slowly eastward. They massed from the meridian to the western horizon and promised rain.

It was about four o’clock when the new owner of Daly’s Yard paddock, now called Eucla Station, entered his house. It was a spacious single-roomed hut with logged sides and iron roof. The inside was spotlessly clean. A camp stretcher-bed was placed in one corner. A table with a sheet-iron top stood in the centre. At one side was a stack of rations set upon petrol cases.

A bushman’s home indeed, yet possessing much more comfort than the average. Over the table lay spread a blue cover. On the centre of this stood a brass oil-lamp. A single curtain cut in two guarded the window by day, whilst a roller blind excluded the night. Above the bed Dugdale had made several shelves, which carried many books, not all of which werenovels, whilst on the floor lay an exquisite dark-green carpet.

In the wide, cavernous fireplace the occupier made a fire and set thereon the tea-billy. The several minutes whilst it came to the boil were spent in bringing in the evening’s supply of wood, and that job completed and the tea made Dugdale lit his pipe and lounged in his home-made easy-chair for a quiet half-hour’s thinking, whilst the fire burned down sufficiently to produce cooking coals.

At last Dugdale found himself a settled pastoralist. He owned the leasehold of twenty-five thousand acres of first-class country, each two hundred and fifty acres equal to one English acre. He owned two thousand splendid breeding ewes and two fine presentation hacks. He had plenty of money in the bank, plenty of feed and water, and unlimited scope to exercise his organizing abilities. Of the solitude he took no account. He was the odd man in a thousand who could live in solitude contentedly; nevertheless Dugdale was sad at heart.

Of what benefit to him was luck, the luck of drawing the land, the luck of winning the sweep, the luck of being befriended by a man of Thornton’s stamp? What was the use to him of a good living here alone, when his heart ached for the unattainable?

His pipe went out, and moodily he stared into the subsiding embers. The ambition of his life had been attained, and after all it was but ashes. For ahead lay all the years, empty years, when work would be mechanical, without object.

He was aroused suddenly by the first few drops of rain pinging on the corrugated-iron roof, and, since it was coming dusk, he arose and lit the lamp. While he prepared the oven and mixed the dough for a baking-powder loaf, the raindrops increased slowly, until when he sat down to dinner of grilled mutton chops and potatoes a steady downpour had begun.

The meal eaten, he washed the utensils, looked in the camp-oven, shovelled a few additional live coals on the lid. It was now quite dark. The rain had become a continuous roar on the roof; he could hear the water running down the rain-gutter outside.

He lowered the blind, and, donning a gum-coat went out and chained up his two sheep-dogs. And when he returned he found that his cat had come back from hunting and was drying herself before the fire. The cat had to have her saucer of condensed milk, the loaf had to be taken out of the tin and stood on one side to allow the steam to escape, and fresh water put in the billy to boil for eight o’clock coffee.

Such was Dugdale’s home life, similar in every detail to the home life of hundreds ofbushmen.

For an hour he read a novel. For another hour he played musical selections on his portable gramophone and drank his coffee and smoked. And then he went to bed.

Still the rain fell. Lying in thefirelit darkness he estimated the fall to have totalled already fifty points. He was on the point of falling asleep when therecame a squelchy footstep from outside. The uneasy dogs barked. The door was flung inward, and into the hutlurched a tall, gaunt man.

Dugdale was out of bed in a flash. From his side of the table he stared into the deathly white face of William Clair, the wanted man, the hunted man. Clair rocked to and fro on his feet. The firelight revealed his blue eyes burning with strange brilliance. He was hatless. He carried no swag. His coat was open. The dirty-white shirt was smeared with blood.

For several seconds the two men remained thus, and, when Clair coughed significantly, Dugdale remembered the lamp and lit it.

“Good evening!” was what Clair first said, a smile, a pitiful smile, breaking over his bloodless features.

“You are hurt, Bill,” Dugdale said in reply. “Sit down in that chair. I’ll get you a drink of coffee.”

The home-made chair threatened to collapse when the gaunt man fell into it. With shaking hands he greedily snatched the proffered cup of coffee, still steaming hot. The giver crossed to the door and closed it. Then he placed a bucket of water over the fire and added fresh logs.

“How did you get hurt, Clair?” he asked kindly.

The gaunt man, looking up, smiled wanly, the smile that of a philosopher who scorns pessimism:

“I met Sergeant Knowles,” he said, with difficulty. “We had a word or two. The gentle sergeant shot me because I could not agree to accompany him to the hangman.” Suddenly his bantering tone changed to one of entreaty. “He plugged me through the left lung, just above my heart, I think. I woodened him with a waddy but he’ll come-to presently and is bound to make for this hut. And before he gets here I must write a letter for you to take to Mrs Thornton.”

“Very well, Clair. But first we must have that shirt off and the wound at least washed.”

“That can wait. We have no time now,” Clair insisted. “Get me paper and things quickly; I must write while I am able.”

Lurching to his feet, he stumbled to a cane-bottomed chair and dragged it and himself to the table. Dugdale hesitated for a moment, then got a writing-block, pen and ink, and envelopes. Clair began instantly to write, careless of the drops of rain falling from his hair to the paper. The younger man stirred the embers, and, going to a chest, brought out a pair of blankets which he laid out near the blaze.

The suddenness and the circumstances of Clair’s appearance had partially stunned him. His first thoughts were of Clair’s wound, his second of Sergeant Knowles lying somewhere out in the rain, knocked senseless. And, whilst his first duty to Clair was clear, he was undecided what his duty was to himself and to the State. For even Dugdale, orthodox and precise, regarded the killing of a black fellow as of little account.

The scratching of the pen continued rapidly for five minutes, then stopped. Dugdale heard the sheets being ripped from the pad, and again the scratching of the pen, addressing an envelope.

“Dugdale!”

“Well, Clair?”

Dugdale went to the table beside the gaunt man. Clair, who was supporting himself with one hand and one wrist from falling forward, stared into the younger man’s face with bloodshot eyes. Nodding to the letter, he said with difficult slowness:

“You would render a service to the Little Lady, wouldn’t you?”

“Certainly I would,” Dugdale agreed.

“She has been very kind to you, as she has been very kind to dozens of men and one or two women,” Clair went on. “She was very, very kind to my poor sister, and, because of her kindness, I am going to pay the price. You pay your debt, too, Dugdale, by taking that letter to her directly it is daylight. The flood is coming down, but let neither water nor policeman stop you getting that letter into her hands as quickly as possible. You understand?”

“I understand about the urgency of the delivery, but don’t understand what is behind it, Clair. Anyway, that is none of my business. If it is necessary for the Little Lady to have your letter, as you say, she shall have it.”

Clair pushed himself upright and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. There was blood on his hand when again it was used to support him. Dugdale took the letter and placed it under his pillow. Clair began again to write, but this time what he wrote was short and needed no envelope.

“Read that, and give it to Knowles when he comes,” urged Clair, and began to cough alarmingly. Dugdale gave him a towel before bending over the writing-pad, on which was written, in a shaking, spidery hand:

August 12th, 19-.

I killed an aboriginal named King Henry at Barrakee on the night of Saturday, March 5th, with a boomerang. I threw the boomerang and missed the throw in the dark. The boomerang returned to my feet. Him and me both dived for it. I got it, and while he was stooping hit him once on the head.

William Sinclair

“Sinclair?” Dugdale echoed.

“Yes. My name is Sinclair, not Clair. Get me a drink of coffee, please. Let-me-lie-down. I’m-crook-”

“Just a second, Bill,” the younger man entreated. “You are soaking wet. Let us get your clothes off first. Come now, old man. Hold on.”

Sinclair, as he had named himself, had gone limp. Dugdale found it necessary to hold him with one hand whilst he removed the sodden coat. Somehow he managed to get the gaunt man down on the blankets, when he cut away the blood-soaked shirt with a table-knife.

As Sinclair had said, he had been shot through the left lung, dangerously near his heart. The wound had ceased to bleed outwardly, and the young man washed it gently and wrapped about it a sheet snatched from his bed. His bed blankets he laid over the dying man.

Above the roar of the rain on the roof the alarm clock ticked as loudly as a grandfather clock, and the falling embers rattled in the fire. There was nothing more that he could do till day came: little, then, since it would be impossible to run the truck over the now soft track. And out there in the rain, in the pitchy darkness, another man, probably hurt, was either lying senseless or wandering about aimlessly searching for the hut and succour. Entirely on this latter account Dugdale drew aside the curtains and raised the blind. The lamplight might serve as a guide.

For nearly an hour Clair was unconscious. His coat and trousers, which Dugdale had set close to the fire, were then dry, and for something to do he folded them neatly and placed them on the table. It was then that Sinclair opened his eyes, in which at first was a vacant stare; but quickly understanding and memory came into them.

“Promise to deliver the letter, Dugdale,” he struggled to whisper.

“I promise.”

“And, Dugdale, in my coat-pocket is a wallet. Take that to the Little Lady as well. Promise!”

“I promise, Bill. Can I get you anything?”

“Coffee.”

Dugdale filled the cup, and, kneeling, slid an arm beneath the gaunt man’s head, which he slightly raised. But Sinclair had forgotten his need. He was murmuring:

“Grandfather Sinclair was a commander of a King’s ship. Father Sinclair was a magistrate. Present Sinclair andsister Mary were orphaned, young and penniless. But weSinclairs had our honour. For twenty years-the stain-was there. Present Sinclair goes out-without stain.”

Since the dying man refused to drink, Dugdale put aside the cup, laid him down again, and wiped his blood-stained lips. He seemed to sleep. The chest rose and fell, but slowly. Dugdale, seated beside him, watched and waited. He had never before seen the coming of death; but he knew he would face it soon.

Seemingly far away a horse neighed. It was his own horse; he recognized the note. The dogs barked furiously. Two minutes later slow thudding hoofs sounded from without. Clair opened his eyes.

“The-sergeant-comes,” he whispered. “Apologize-to-him-for me-Dugdale. Must have-head-no-bad head.”

The door was opened suddenly. A tattered uniformed figure stood within the frame. Clair sat up, and in a loud voice cried:

“Thank you, Little Lady! You are safe.”

And, when Dugdale caught him, William Sinclair was dead.