Only Killers and Thieves(11)

From its branches, ropes creaking, two bodies hung.

Both had been mutilated, both had been burned. Two knotty, dark medallions, dangling. Carrion birds hunched in the branches above their heads and flies crawled over their charred skin. Gently they swung in the wind. Ticking back and forth, back and forth again. Beside them on the trunk a word had been carved: NOONE read the engraving, in letters a foot tall.





4



Tommy stared at the bodies. Couldn’t look away. Watching how they tilted, pirouetting slowly, the branches sagging, the feet only just clearing the ground, lumps of flesh that were once feet, legs that were once legs, men that were once men, turning, turning, the rope knots ticking, flies rippling on their skin, crawling in and out of cavities, a steady and hungry hum, the air alive with it, scent of char and rot, foul and sweet, drawing bird after bird into the canopy above, squatting there and waiting for the chance to feed on these men whom Tommy had no doubt he knew. He had seen them yesterday. He had seen them dragged in neck chains behind that trooper’s horse. He had seen their friend shot. Then he and Billy had gone home and eaten supper, kept their silence, and slept.

Now Billy was beside him, no longer watching the tree, gazing casually around the clearing and scuffing at the dirt with his boot. Arthur brushed between them and went to where Father and Joseph stood, Joseph agitated, wringing the revolver like a rag in his hands. Father had not moved since Tommy got there, his jaw working minutely up and down, clenching and unclenching, his eyes fixed on Joseph all the while.

“Best get that off him,” Father said, and Arthur laid a hand on Joseph’s shoulder and eased the revolver from his grip. He slipped it into his belt, then spoke with Joseph in a low murmur none of the whites could understand.

“He’s asking what that word is. That one written there.”

“Noone,” Father said, his voice flat, resigned. “He’s Black Police, new to the district, John’ll have brought him in.”

Arthur relayed the information. Joseph’s eyes flared. He spun away and walked to the tree, turned, and came back again.

“He alright?” Father said warily. “He knows this wasn’t us?”

“Is bad for him, Boss.”

“It’s bad for us too.”

“They’re Kurrong, his old mob.”

Father waved his carbine toward the bodies. “How in hell can he know that?”

“The markings,” Arthur said. He touched his chest. “Is same, see?”

Father closed his eyes, wiped a hand slowly over his face, then made a fist with the hand and tapped it against his lips.

“You never told me he was Kurrong when I agreed to set him on.”

Arthur shrugged. Father stood a moment, then sniffed and snapped into motion like something had been decided; he walked a few paces, then paused.

“Look, there’s nothing can be done about this now. We leave it alone. It ain’t none of our business. Hell, this ain’t even my land.”

He set off walking again, past Tommy and Billy, toward the creek.

“Boss!” Arthur called. Father stopped and turned. Joseph had his eyes down, his arms locked tightly at his sides. “He wants to stay. Here. With them.”

“What’s that now?”

“To see to ’em,” Arthur said. “Get ’em down, take ’em back, do it right.”

“Take them back where?”

“Their people, their land. Send ’em on the proper way.”

Father took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair, gazed up at the sky. “I know, alright. I understand. But this is John’s business; I can’t afford to get involved. The answer’s no. We’re going home.”

“You won’t do anything?” Tommy said.

“Look at them, Tommy. Look. What am I supposed to do about that?”

“He says he won’t go, Boss,” Arthur called. “Says he’s staying here.”

“Stay,” Joseph echoed, nodding.

“Only take him a week,” Arthur continued. “Maybe less, I don’t know. Ride ’em out, ride straight back, be here in time for mustering, no problem.”

Father sighed. “What if we just buried them?”

“That’s not how they do it, Boss.”

He threw up his arms. “So I’m meant to lose a stockman and risk a horse in a drought so two dead blacks can get their bloody funeral dance? Have you heard yourself, Arthur? Have you heard what you’re asking from me here?”

“No ask,” Joseph said. “Tell.”

Father cocked his head and stepped toward him, hefting the carbine in his hand. “What did you just say to me, boy?”

Joseph squared his shoulders and returned Father’s stare. Arthur stepped between them, his hand raised for calm.

“His words aren’t so good,” he said.

“Well, you can tell the cunt in whatever words he understands that if he doesn’t cross this creek with us right now, I don’t want him back. Not ever. He makes his choice. And he’s not getting a bloody horse neither. He can drag them by their nooses if he’s that bloody keen. You’ve five minutes, Arthur, then we’re setting out for home.”

Father spun and walked away, calling for Tommy and Billy to come. Billy hurried after him; they collected the dogs, and together went sliding into the creek bed and disappeared behind the trees, leaving Tommy alone with Joseph and Arthur and the two bodies hanging there, all of them watching him, men and bodies both, it seemed. He scoured the ground, trying to think of what to say. Arthur and Joseph waited. Father shouted Tommy’s name across the creek and he went to leave but hesitated, half turned, forced himself to meet Joseph’s eye.