Only Killers and Thieves(17)
After breakfast Tommy and Billy went to the stables, where Arthur was saddling and loading the horses in flickering lantern light. Gruffly they exchanged their greetings, then went silently to work, too early for idle chat. When they were done they led the horses—all five of them, including Jess—by their reins down to the house, past the dogs roaming loose in the yard. Father was waiting on the verandah. He sipped the last of his tea. Mother came out behind him, wearing her nightgown still, and Father tossed the tea dregs over the rail and handed her the mug. She kissed him as she took it, set it on the bench. The food parcels were piled there; she came down the steps and handed them out, one for each man. There wasn’t a week’s worth. Only enough to start them off. She kissed Tommy and Billy and touched Arthur on the arm, then went back up the steps onto the porch. The four of them mounted up. She bid them good luck and they all said good-bye, then in the pale light of daybreak rode out of the yard.
“That’s you there, Tommy! Get your bloody head out your arse! After him now, after him!”
It was nothing like he’d expected, nothing like the musters he remembered from his childhood, when he and Billy would climb high into the gum trees and watch for signs of the mob coming in. The swirling dust cloud, the bellows on the air, a trembling rumble of hooves. Then they would see them, a long train of cattle snaking through the scrub, stockmen casually patrolling its flanks, little signals between them, a raised hand, a flicked whip, and sometimes even laughter, piss-taking back and forth. As they neared, the two brothers would race to the cattle yards, open the gates and climb the railings, and balance there, breathless, hearts pounding, waiting for them to arrive. The press of their bodies coming in through the gates, the noise, the heat, the shit, the sweat, was like nothing else Tommy had known. Father directing it all, high on his horse, and when he saw them clinging to the rails he would smile and call a greeting, or even just tip his hat, and something in Tommy swelled. In those moments all he wanted in his life was to become that same man.
“Jesus Christ, Tommy, how many bloody times? Keep on their outside, don’t let the buggers turn! Arthur, get over there and sort him out! The hell you doing, Billy—come around, come around!”
They were a sickly-looking lot. Not the cattle of musters past. Drawn across the haunches, bellies sagging, ribs poking through the skin, they moved in an agitated, jerking shamble and with drought-mad eyes watched for an opportunity to bolt. Which they did, often, and somehow it was always Tommy or Billy to blame. Father hounded them, all of them, including Arthur, the horses, the dogs. Just the manner of his riding set the cattle off, darting about the mob and heavy with the whip, the opposite of everything he’d taught his boys. He watched the scrubs constantly. Always the north and west. When Tommy asked what he was looking for he shook his head and told him to get back to work.
“Hold them, Tommy, fucking hold them! Do you want us to bloody starve?”
They camped in the scrubs every night that week, sleeping close by the mob. No holding yards out there, nothing but the natural arrangement of trees and scrub to pen the cattle in. They took turns watching them. A couple of hours each shift. Easy at first, but as the numbers swelled and tiredness bit, it became harder to keep things straight. Tommy sat with his rifle, flinching at every sound. Wild blacks and dingos Father thought the biggest threat. Maybe they were lucky. Though they heard plenty of dingos, none came, and at night the mob mostly behaved. Probably too hungry to stampede. The fodder became thinner the farther east they went, and water was scarce everywhere. The men had their bladder bags and Father had brought rum; every night after supper he would pass it around. They all took a nip, even Arthur and the boys, for warmth more than anything, plus it helped them sleep. Evenings they would sit around the campfire eating dry stores or whatever Arthur had managed to catch that day, rabbit or possum; there were no kangaroos. The four of them huddled in the firelight, the men maybe sharing a memory or singing a ballad, but there was little heart in those stories, not like Tommy had heard them told. Mostly there was silence. Long stretches of time in which they all stared into the campfire, the wood crackling, tossing sparks into the night, as the darkness loomed around them and distant creatures howled.
*
The cattle limped over the final paddocks and into the holding yards, Father droving from behind and the others corralling them into the pens. Familiar work for Tommy and Billy, but they were exhausted. Their bodies hung off their bones. Their clothes were stiff with sweat and the cycle of sun and cold. And still there was no respite. No shade in the yards. First glimpse of the house, Tommy had started dreaming of a bath, his mother’s food, a lie-down in his own bed. No matter that Billy would be in it. He’d trade an hour with Billy’s kicking for a whole night out there alone.
“Hands in the air, you dog fuckers! We’re bailing you up!”
They all stopped and turned in the direction of the shout. Two men with horses were walking over from the house: Sullivan and his offsider, Locke. Tommy glanced across the yard at Billy, who only frowned and shrugged, but Arthur slunk toward the back of the pen. Father simply ignored them. He went on with the cattle until the last was in, Sullivan by now watching, his elbows on the rails, then Father handed off the horses to Arthur and sent him on his way. As Arthur passed by the squatter he kept his eyes on the ground and didn’t look up. Locke mumbled something and both he and Sullivan laughed.
“You two as well,” Father whispered, closing the final gate. “Wait at the house, see the girls are alright. I’ll be over in a minute. Shouldn’t take long.”