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      Bony Novels by Arthur W. Upfield:

      1 The Barrakee Mystery / The Lure of the Bush

      2 The Sands of Windee

      3 Wings Above the Diamantina

      4 Mr Jelly’s Business/ Murder Down Under

      5 Winds of Evil

      6 The Bone is Pointed

      7 The Mystery of Swordfish Reef

      8 Bushranger of the Skies / No Footprints in the Bush 9 Death of a Swagman

      10 The Devil’s Steps

      11 An Author Bites the Dust

      12 The Mountains Have a Secret

      13 The Widows of Broome

      14 The Bachelors of Broken Hill

      15 The New Shoe

      16 Venom House

      17 Murder Must Wait

      18 Death of a Lake

      19 Cake in the Hat Box / Sinister Stones

      20 The Battling Prophet

      21 Man of Two Tribes

      22 Bony Buys a Woman / The Bushman Who Came Back 23 Bony and the Mouse / Journey to the Hangman

      24 Bony and the Black Virgin / The Torn Branch

      25 Bony and the Kelly Gang / Valley of Smugglers

      26 Bony and the White Savage

      27 The Will of the Tribe

      28 Madman’s Bend /The Body at Madman's Bend

      29 The Lake Frome Monster

      This corrected edition published by ETT Imprint, Exile Bay in 2020.

      This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Inquiries should be addressed to the publishers.

      ETT IMPRINT & www.arthurupfield.com

      PO Box R1906,

      Royal Exchange

      NSW 1225 Australia

      First published 1937.

      First electronic edition published by ETT Imprint in 2013.

      Published by ETT Imprint in 2018. Reprinted 2019.

      Copyright William Upfield 1937, 2018

      ISBN 978-1-925416-97-8 (pbk)

      ISBN 978-1-922384-49-2 (ebk)

      Digital distribution by Ebook Alchemy

      Chapter One

      On The Road To Carie

      It was a wind-created hell in which the man who called himself Joe Fisher walked northward towards the small township of Carie, in the far west of New South Wales.

      Somewhere west of Central Australia was born the gale of wind this day lifting high the sand from Sturt’s country—that desert of sand ranges lying along the north-eastern frontier of South Australia—to carry it eastward into New South Wales, across the Gutter of Australia, even to the Blue Mountains, and then into the distant Pacific.

      Now and then the dark red-brown fog thinned sufficiently to reveal the sun as a huge orb of blood. That was when a trough passed between the waves of sand particles for ever rushing eastward. The wind was steady in its velocity. It was hot, too, but its heat constantly alternated, so that it was like standing before a continuously opened and closed oven door.

      It was not always possible for Fisher to keep his eyes open. Although he could not see it, he knew he was crossing a wide, treeless plain supporting only low annual salt-bush. The track he was following could be seen, on the average, for about six yards. On his left ran a boundary-fence, wire-netted and barbed-topped—a fence which had caught a rampart of wind-quickened dead buckbush, up and over which came charging like hunters the filigree balls of dead and brittle straw.

      Quite abruptly, and without warning, a large touring car appeared in the red murk. It stopped at the precise moment that Fisher saw it, and from it the driver clambered, bringing with him a four-gallon petrol-tin.

      “Let us hope we will have a good day tomorrow,” Fisher shouted back when he joined the driver. “How far are we from Carie?”

      “’Bout eight miles. What a day to be on the tramp! I’d sooner be me than you. You aim to get to Carie today?”

      “No. I intend going only as far as a place called Catfish Hole, on Nogga Creek.”

      The driver’s sand-charged brows rose a fraction. He was hefty and tough.

      He exclaimed with singular inflection of voice, “Well, I wouldn’t camp there if I were you—not for all the tea in China. Blast!”

      “What is the matter?”

      They were standing before the radiator, the tin of water at the driver’s feet.

      “Take off the cap, will you?” requested the driver.

      Suspecting that the radiator was very hot, Fisher gingerly extended a hand, and when his fingers were about an inch from the bright metal mascot, from it to each finger leapt a long blue spark. Beneath the force of the electric shock, Fisher gave a sharp cry.

      “There’s enough static electricity in that flamin’ bus to run a dozen house lights for a week,” shouted the grinning driver. “Strike a light! I’ve only had that happen to me twice before.”

      “But what is the cause?” inquired the astonished swagman. “I have felt the effect, and seen it, too, so now tell me the cause.”

      “I dunno exactly. Some say it’s the bombardment of the sand against the car’s metal-work what creates the electricity that can’t get away ’cos the rubber tyres are non-conductors. These wind-storms are fuller of electricity than a thunder-storm.”

      Not too happy about it, he again attempted to unscrew the cap, and to his fingers leapt the blue sparks.

      “What’s up out there?” shouted one of the three passengers.

      “Come out and try your strength on this radiator cap,” he was invited.

      The near-side rear door was opened, and a fat man came stiffly out, helping himself to the ground by holding to the metal hood support. Immediately his feet touched earth he uttered a yell of anguish and almost sat down on the track.

      “What did you want to let go for?” asked the amused driver. “Why didn’t you stay making contact so’s the electricity could run out of her?”

      “It’s a remarkable phenomenon,” observed Fisher.

      “Phenomenon! Two to one on that word. Reckon you’re right, dig. Phew! What a corker of a day. You’ll be meetin’ another swagman presently. We offered him a lift, but he was too independent to get up. He’s about a mile back.”

      “Well, do we stay here all day?” demanded the fat man. To which the driver replied with a show of impatience:

      “I’m not lookin’ for a seized engine, Jack. We’ll drain off the juice this way.”

      He tilted the tin of water against the bumper-bar, being careful to release it the moment before it touched the metal. At contact there was a brilliant blue flash. Nothing further happened, and when the driver extended his hand to remove the radiator cap he received no shock.

      “Mighty strange to me,” grumbled the fat man. “Wonder the car didn’t

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