LITMIR.BIZ

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whined; here it bellowed and roared. With quickened pace he crossed the flat, shallow and dry bed of the creek to gain its far bank, when he saw the pine-walled, iron-roofed house standing some two hundred yards back and east of the track. Here the air was clearer, the wind almost conquered by the trees. They circled beyond the house as though purposely planted to keep at bay the vast stretch of open country across which Fisher had been tramping all day.

      Despite his statement that never before had he been this way, the man who called himself Joe Fisher knew that when he crossed Thunder Creek he would see the homestead of Fred Storrie’s Selection. Dimly in the distance he saw the box-trees bordering Nogga Creek. These two creeks came from the east to join in Wirragatta River less than a mile westward of the fence. And half a mile down the river below the junction of the creeks stood the homestead of the great Wirragatta Station.

      In the swagman’s tortured blue eyes leapt strange exultation as he strode along the branch track to the selector’s house flanked by windmill and reservoir tanks on one side and by sheepyards on the other.

      There was that about the front of the house plainly indicating that the door on this side was never used, and, as any swagman would, Fisher passed round the side of the house to its back door. Just beyond this door was a round iron water-tank before which stood a girl gazing vacantly at the terrible sky while water from the tap filled a bucket.

      “Good afternoon!” the swagman said, pitching his voice to master the howl of the wind about the roof.

      The meeting produced a remarkable result. The girl cried out, sprang about, and then pressing back against the tank stared with undoubted fear shining from her dark-brown eyes. The water continued to gush into the bucket and began to overflow and run to waste along the short brick drain.

      “The tap,” said the swagman, regarding the running water with a slight frown of disapproval.

      Without removing her gaze from his face, the girl permitted herself to sink on bending knees until her groping hand found the tap and so shut off the water.

      “You seem to be fearful of something,” Fisher said. “I hope you are not afraid of me.”

      The friendliness in his eyes and the flash of his well-kept teeth had its effect. The ice of her fear began quickly to melt, and it was with evident relief that she asked him what he wanted.

      “If you could spare me a little meat,” he replied. “I am on my way north and I intend to camp beside the waterhole on Nogga Creek. Catfish Hole, isn’t it?”

      The girl nodded, normal composure not yet regained.

      Fisher gave her time, and presently she said:

      “Yes, I can give you a little meat. But … but … Nogga Creek … in this weather!” Again her eyes grew big. “You wouldn’t camp there, would you? Not on a night that this is going to be?”

      “The wind will not bring rain,” he pointed out.

      “I know. But … but are you a stranger in these parts?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then you don’t know about the Strangler?”

      “Well, I have heard of him.”

      It was, perhaps, his easy smile that brought her from the tank to stand closer to him. Fear still lurked deep in her eyes. Despite the day, she appeared fresh and cool in a house-frock of brown linen. There was character in the moulding of her mouth and chin and grace in the outlines of her body.

      “Wait here and I will fetch you some meat,” she requested abruptly.

      From inside the house a woman called: “Mabel, who’s that?”

      “Only a swagman, mother. He wants meat,” replied the girl, and now more composed she flashed Joe Fisher a half-smile and then hurried across to the canegrass meat-house.

      The man’s critical eyes took in the out-houses, noting their condition and neat preservation. It was obvious that Storrie’s Selection prospered. The girl returned carrying meat wrapped in newspaper, and when she gave it him she again attempted to advise him not to camp beside Catfish Hole.

      “Oh, I’ll be all right,” she was assured. “I’ve camped often enough in wild country, and to be forewarned is to be forearmed. Besides, the last attack made by this mysterious strangler was last March, wasn’t it?”

      “Yes. And this time last year, too. You want to be very careful. No one walks about, or camps in the open anywhere along these creeks. I’m going to the dance at Carie tonight, but my brother is taking me on the truck.”

      “Late in the year for a dance, isn’t it?” he questioned.

      “Yes, it is so, but then, you see, we haven’t any other amusement in Carie.”

      Again Joe Fisher smiled.

      “Well, thank you for the meat. I hope you will enjoy the dance. Do you think I would have a chance of work on Wirragatta Station?”

      “It might be worth trying. The Borradales are good people to work for.”

      “Then I’ll try them tomorrow. Good-bye and thank you.”

      Having raised his hat, Fisher adjusted his swag, picked up the water-bag and continued his tramp to Nogga Creek, now to be seen dusty-green below the red canopy of whirling sand. All the way across the half-mile flat between the two creeks the wind roaring through the trees provided the overture for the coming night of dark terror.

      The day was nearly done when Fisher reached Nogga Creek, crossed it, and then strode up along its far bank, hoping to see Carie and not greatly disappointed when all he did see was the netted fence and its barrier of buckbush disappearing into the menacing murk.

      Thereafter, he followed the creek eastward for a quarter of a mile, when he arrived at the lower end of Catfish Hole, a long and narrow lagoon of sparkling water lying in the creek-bed. The tip of this waterhole touched a sand-bar, fine and white and dry, and here Fisher decided to make camp for the night.

      Now, when the sun must be setting, and the high-flying sand, indeed the very air, was not transmuted for a few moments into the rich colour of blood, Fisher knew that the wind and the dust would be even worse on the morrow. When the rack overhead was tinged with dark grey, when it seemed that the very tree-tops supported this evil sky, he sat on his swag before the fire he had made and ate grilled mutton chops and stale damper, and now and then sipped hot black tea heavily laced with sugar.

      With the coming of night the wind dropped to a moaning breeze. The leaden sky came still lower like a material weight threatening to crush the suffocating world. The fire-light painted the near trees against an even black when, an hour later, he unrolled his swag, bunched the blankets into the form of a sleeping man, and then stole away beyond the fire-light to seat himself against a tree-trunk and watch.

      He heard the whirr of wings preceding the splash of hydroplaning ducks. After a long time a curlew vented a long screaming cry as it passed above him. There was something almost human in that.

      As he carried no watch he had no means of telling the time. He guessed that it was eight o’clock when he heard a car or truck cross the creek on its way to Carie, and he guessed again that it was taking the Storrie girl and her brother to the dance.

      After that Fisher dozed fitfully. Some time during the night he heard the curlew scream again, now towards the track by the fence. Quite an hour afterwards the car or truck returned from the township.

      It was altogether a most uncomfortable night spent by this swagman, with his back pressing against a tree-trunk. Hence he slept long after the new day dawned. He was eating breakfast when another car reached Nogga Creek from the south. The rising wind prevented Fisher from hearing it. He did not know that it stopped for several minutes when it gained the northern bank of the creek.

      Chapter Two

      The Ruler Of Carie

      Nelson’s Hotel stood

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