Only Killers and Thieves(28)

“Make you a good wife, anyhow,” Billy said, “if she’s skilled with a broom.”

Tommy’s scowl cracked. He smirked and Billy saw it, and both were laughing now. Together they came trudging back out of the water and each went to the same rock he’d used before; they lay down to dry off, and both were soon asleep.

*

Tommy was first to wake. He lifted his head into a swarm of mosquitoes and leaped to his feet, flapping at the air. The waterhole was in near-darkness. Shadow covered the pool. Outside the crater the sun still shone, but little light made it this far down. A deep shiver ran through him. Like standing in the bottom of a well. The crater rim was fringed with brightness, and between the pillowy clouds the sky was a brilliant blue, but the walls were so sheer and tall, and down here was so dark, that Tommy felt a shock of abandonment, as if they had fallen from that world without knowing how or when they might return.

He went over to Billy and kicked him awake. “Time to go,” he said.

They pulled on their shirts quickly, collected their things, and went back to where the horses were tied. Tommy walked Beau out into the sunshine, and even when the warmth hit his back it took a long time to reach his bones. Billy was already mounted. He sat waiting at the bottom of the rise; when finally Tommy joined him he frowned and asked what was wrong.

“Nothing. Just got a chill from that rock.”

They moved on. Back onto the flat, then northeast toward home. The first strains of dusk falling over the plains, shadows lengthening on the ground. A soft sunset tonight. Fiery wisps of crimson in a cotton-ball sky. The colors swirled and deepened the farther they rode, and by the time they glimpsed the house and its outbuildings the sun had begun to pool and spread in the west. Glendale glowed warm on the vast horizon, that lonely shipwreck of little slab huts the boys called their home. Both smiled when they saw it. Tommy glanced at Billy and caught a strong look of Father in him just then. Steady brown eyes, stubble on his jaw, that same crooked grin.

“Beat you to the stables!” Billy shouted, and took off at a sprint.

Tommy was caught dreaming. He couldn’t close the gap. He ran Beau as hard as he could but Annie was just as eager, and he was beaten by a couple of lengths, Billy whooping and shouting as he drew up to the stables; he dismounted and pulled Annie around, pointing and laughing as Tommy rode in.

“It wasn’t even,” Tommy told him, sliding down. “You got a start.”

“It wasn’t even to begin with—yours is the bigger horse.”

They led them around the back of the stables to the doors. The horses whinnied and shied, their blood up from racing, reluctant to go in. Billy went to open the doors. Tommy stood by with the reins. The yard sloping away from him, down toward the house, its long shadow tapering up the hill. Peaceful, but still the horses wouldn’t calm; Beau reared when Billy opened the first stable door and a waft of warm air escaped.

“Christ,” Billy said. “Hot as hell in here. Stinks like it as well.”

The horses inside began neighing. Sounds of stomping, of hoof striking wall. Billy dragged open the second door and came back for Annie, and they led them inside. The air was choking. It reeked of piss, shit, and sweat. Tommy began with Beau’s saddle strap but watched the other stalls. Buck pacing. Jess cowering against the wall.

“They’ve not been out,” he told Billy. “Look at them—they’re heat mad.”

“Daddy’ll have forgot. Too worried about ditches, or milking, or rum.”

They stabled their own horses, a struggle to get them into the stalls, then came gasping into the outside air, snorting and spitting dryly on the ground. They left both doors open, cool the place down—no doubt they’d be back up here after supper, cleaning and feeding and filling the water troughs. Tommy wondered if Father might have even left them like that on purpose. With Arthur gone, the horses were his and Billy’s responsibility. A lesson in neglecting their chores.

Tommy spread the saddle blankets on the railing and collected up his bags, and when he came to Billy’s side, Billy said, “Quiet, ain’t it,” staring across the yard.

“They’ll be sat down for supper. Better have left us some.”

He took a step forward. Billy gripped his arm.

“Where’s the dogs at even? They never barked when we came in.”

They stood listening to the silence. Little swirls of dust played across the yard. Down at the house the front door was open but there was no movement and no sound from inside. Clothes still hung on the drying line. An uncut log balanced on the chopping block, the ax beside it in the dirt.

“Something ain’t right,” Billy said.

“It’ll be nothing.”

Billy unslung his rifle. Tommy brought his own around. It was so quiet. Not a sound save the horses and the windmill creaking in the breeze. Tommy’s breathing quickened, surged through his nose, quivering as his body began to shake. His gaze was fixed entirely on the house, a thing of total blackness haloed by the sunset, and in the middle of the dark verandah the faintest sliver of daylight through the open door.

Billy started walking. Tommy followed at his side. Edging into the long shadow that swallowed most of the yard, rifles braced, boots scuffing the dirt.

The silence. The silence. The silence.

They found the dogs first, in the clearing between the house and the well. Both had been run through. Lying together, one beside the other, tongues lolling, paws crossed; like they only slept. Around them a churn of bloody dirt, imprints of the scuffle, of boot marks and paw marks: a slow, unclean death. The brothers stood over them, incomprehension in their young eyes, then Billy walked around the bodies, toward the well, bent and collected something from the ground. He rose again. His back to Tommy, his head bowed, examining whatever he had found. He turned. Something metallic in his hands. He came forward. Tommy stared. He saw but did not see, not until Billy was right beside him, the thing in his outstretched hand like an offering, which Tommy would not take.