Only Killers and Thieves(12)

“I’m sorry,” he said shyly. “We didn’t know they were your friends.”

*

They had rounded up the horses and remounted by the time Arthur came trudging through the trees. Billy was riding Annie now, the packhorse already tethered to Arthur’s saddle ring. They sat together watching him clear the tree line and cross the fringe of scrub, walking slowly, his shoulders stooped.

“He ain’t coming, then?” Father called.

Arthur shook his head.

“Where’s that revolver? The old five-shot—you got it still?”

Arthur squinted up at him. “I thought you might lend it.”

“Lend means I’ll get it back.”

“Give it, then.”

“Bloody hell, Arthur. Most blokes would have shot the bastard, not given him a bloody gun.” He sighed and looked away. “Alright, suit yourself. That thing never fired straight anyway. Bring Jess. We’re going home.”

Father tapped his horse and set off at a trot, the dogs at his side, Billy following quickly behind. A thin cloud of dust kicked up from their hooves. Tommy handed Arthur his reins, and he took them solemnly, head lowered, eyes down. Tommy waited until Arthur had climbed into the saddle, and for a moment the two of them sat there together, Tommy watching Arthur’s shadow in preference to watching the man, then he tapped Beau gently and walked him on, checking behind to see if Arthur would come. He didn’t. Not yet. He was staring at the tree line, at the creek. As Tommy rode away he heard him shout something, a single word, and faintly in the distance heard Joseph echo the same word in reply.





5



Tommy rode alone through the empty scrub. Father and Billy were not slowing for him, two dark outlines flickering in the haze, and Arthur trailed even farther behind. The sun was low and glaring, slicing beneath his hat brim; pain bloomed inside his head. Tommy closed his eyes, rode blind for a while. The sun tormented him still. Painting shadows on his eyelids, oily figures morphing between branches and bodies and birds flocking in the trees . . . he snatched open his eyes. Emptiness all around him: empty sky, empty land, on and on. Father and Billy had disappeared now, swallowed by the horizon, gone. In three hours the sun would be down, fully dark within four, they would all be home, and Joseph would still be out here, cutting down those two bodies and dragging them through the bush, west presumably, toward the ranges, to where the lines ran out. Moonlit in the darkness, hauling on the ropes, the bodies scraping through the dirt and snagging on clutches of scrub. The idea sickened him. Tommy felt responsible, like he shared part of the blame. He had known about those men and done nothing . . . but then what could he have changed? Noone was police and police were the law—what’s to say those natives weren’t criminals, killers themselves? It happened all the time out here, Tommy had heard plenty of tales. Reg Guthrie once told him a story about a selector up near Emerald, got speared while squatting in the long grass for a shit. The spear had passed right through him, pinned him where he sat; he’d still been crouching like that, britches round his ankles, when the body was eventually found.

Tommy swallowed grimly. The saliva caught in his throat. He coughed and spat and cleared it, shortened Beau’s reins, and rode him hard for home.

*

The yard was quiet when Tommy rode in, but by the time he’d stabled Beau and was crossing back toward the house, Billy and Mary were sitting together on the verandah steps. Mary was tiny beside her brother, hands cradled in her lap, picking at the folds of her housedress, and when she lifted her eyes fearfully Tommy knew what Billy had done.

“You mongrel,” he said, standing over him. “You told her?”

“It’s only two dead blacks—so what?”

“She’s eleven, Billy.”

He shrugged. “She wanted to know.”

“Is it true they’d had their pizzles lopped?” Mary asked, at which Billy let out a braying laugh.

“He’s only trying to scare you. There wasn’t no way to tell.”

“Yes there was. I saw them. All trunk, no branch.”

Again Billy laughed, as from inside the house Father shouted, “Noone is the bloody police, Liza!” before his voice fell away again.

“We need to tell him,” Tommy said. “About yesterday, what we saw.”

Billy’s smile slipped. “Why do we? What would that change?”

“I don’t know. Neither do you. That’s why we’re telling him now.”

“Telling him what?” Mary asked. “What happened yesterday?”

Tommy stepped past them, onto the verandah. Billy jumped to his feet and grabbed Tommy’s arm, but Tommy shook him off and opened the door. Father was sitting at the head of the table, leaning on his elbows, his forehead resting on his hands as if in prayer. Mother was pacing the room; she halted midstride when she saw him, and said, “Tommy? What is it? You’re paler than whey.”

Billy and Mary had followed him in. Father mumbled, “I told you two to stay outside. That meant your brother n’all.”

“We saw them. Yesterday. When we were out hunting we went past the trees and saw Sullivan and Noone, them Black Police as well. They had three natives in chains. One they shot and the others they kept, same two that was in the tree. We were meant to tell you but didn’t. We both gave our word.”