Only Killers and Thieves(25)

They didn’t see him off. Tommy went on with his chores, then caught sight of Arthur riding past the cattle yards, a solitary figure heading out into the scrub. He didn’t look back. Tommy watched until he was no more than a speck on the sun-drenched plain, then swung the ax and splintered the next log and set the two halves on the pile.

By suppertime they all knew, sitting around the table, eating the last of the mutton and questioning Father in much the same way as Tommy had Arthur: Where was he going? How long for? Would he be back? Had he gone to find Joseph, maybe?

“I’m not his bloody keeper,” Father said, waving his fork around. “Arthur’s a free man. Anyhow, I’m sick of his bloody whining. Bloke’s had a face on him like a chook’s arse. Do him good to get away.”

“Why?” Tommy asked. “What went on at the yards?”

Father shrugged and picked the mutton off his fork, sat chewing it around and around. “Same as always happens at the yards. Blokes get talking. He didn’t like what was said. I can’t blame him, neither. Not so soon after them two buggers in that tree. It was all blacks this and blacks that, who’s done what to them, what they plan to do. And there’s Arthur, listening to it all, no one minding their tongue, like he’s not a real blackfella, least not from how he acts. You can see why they’d think it. He can’t have it both ways.”

“Will he be safe?” Mother said quietly. “All on his own out there?”

“Ah, don’t worry about Arthur. The bush is in his blood. I don’t know what you’re all being such sooks about, anyway—him going saves us another wage!”

He broke into a hoarse laugh, took a drink, then laughed again. He reached over and slapped Billy on the chest, and they all sat in silence, watching him, as he speared another chunk of mutton and chewed it openmouthed.

*

When the dogs started barking and Tommy saw a horse coming down through the northern paddocks, he thought it might be Arthur returned. He’d been gone over a week, though it felt much longer, but as Tommy drifted to join the others gathering in the yard, he saw that the rider was white and scrawny, a boy, no resemblance to Arthur at all.

“You lot stay behind me,” Father said, pushing between them. “And if I say to get inside, I mean bloody get inside.”

Father had his carbine with him. He kept it pointed at the ground. The boy rode in cautiously, slowing his horse past the cattle yards, then walking it to where the family stood. The horse jittered as it came. The boy steadied it with his hand. He was wearing a dirty shirt and trousers that would have fit a man twice his size. The hems were double-rolled, the waist pinched tight by a rope belt. He took off his hat and scuffed his blond hair; his eyes found the carbine and darted between the assembled faces and the weapon Father held.

“A message from Mr. Sullivan,” the boy announced.

Father jutted his chin. “What message?”

“It’s wrote down—here.”

He shoved his hand into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, offered it to Father, but Father didn’t move. The boy jabbed the paper in his direction and Father took the note without unfolding it. “Did you read it?” he asked.

The boy shook his head. “I just brung it.”

“But you didn’t read it?”

“I can’t. I don’t know how.”

Father weighed the boy carefully. The boy squirmed under his gaze. Father still held the note unopened; without taking his eyes from the boy, he scrunched it into a ball and tossed it on the ground.

“You ain’t going to read it neither?” the boy said.

“I don’t have to. I already know what it says.”

“But how can you, when you ain’t read it?”

“Go on now. You did your job.”

“You ain’t got no message for the boss in reply?”

“No,” Father told him. “On your way.”

The boy sat there puzzling the exchange, staring at the note for which he’d ridden all that distance. Father waved the carbine and the boy flinched, turned his horse around. Nobody moved until he was clear of the yard, then without saying anything Father walked past his family and on toward the sheds.

Mary was nearest the paper. She snatched it up, unraveled it, and they all crowded round to see. The ink was smudged, the letters bleeding, but it was legible enough to read. There were only three words written: I’m waiting Ned, they said.





10



It began in a sudden skittering across the shingle roof. The noise woke Tommy with a start. He lay there listening. An irregular thudding sound, maybe insects, or the claws of flying foxes scrabbling to find grip. He could see nothing. Still fully dark outside. No moon, no stars, no movement in the shingle cracks. Tommy tried placing the sound. A faint hissing now, settling into a regular and steady din. Locusts, he figured, or a plague of some other kind . . . until something landed on his forehead and dribbled down his cheek and he bolted upright in bed and shouted the other two awake, and both Mary and Billy came grumbling from their dreams.

“You hear that? The noise?”

“What’s happening?” Mary asked groggily. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Listen. It’s raining. It’s bloody raining outside!”