Only Killers and Thieves(3)
“Keep quiet,” Billy whispered. “Don’t move.”
On the horses came. The ground rumbled with their hooves. Billy was edging backward and was almost out of the bush when Tommy realized he was gone. He pawed at his brother’s collar; Billy brushed him off and warned him again not to move. “Don’t!” Tommy was saying. “Don’t!” But Billy was almost out now, shuffling himself clear, the shock in his face like a man falling, clutching at the air.
Through the branches Tommy watched him rise slowly to his feet and lift his rifle above his head, barely the strength to manage it, his whole body wilting as the horses bore down, full gallop still, and not fifty yards away. Billy stepped into the clearing, everything trembling, his legs jagging back and forth, stumbling backward as the riders reined their horses so late they were almost upon him, turning his head against the dust cloud that washed over him on the wind.
Two riders came out of the line, walking their horses slowly on. Tommy recognized both of them—John Sullivan and his offsider, Locke—but the troopers were like no kind of police he’d ever seen. They were black. Three uniformed natives, rifles in their hands, cartridge belts slung across their chests. The tall man in the longcoat was white and very slim; he kept back from the group and began with the makings of a pipe, as Sullivan and Locke drew up directly in front of where Billy stood. Sullivan was plump and red-faced and wore a stained and sodden shirt carved by braces digging into his chest. Thinning hair sprouted wildly from his scalp, and his little eyes pinned Billy in a glare. Beside him, Locke chewed on his tobacco like a cow at her cud, his face in shadow beneath the brim of his hat, stubbled jaw working up and down. A short-blade sword hung at his side; it glinted as he leaned in the saddle and spat a thick string of brown saliva onto the ground by Billy’s boots. Billy lowered his rifle. He lifted his eyes toward the men.
“You would be one of Ned’s boys, I take it?” Sullivan said.
“Yessir, Billy McBride.”
“And the other one? I forget now, which of you’s which?”
Tommy’s innards quickened. Billy glanced across but didn’t answer. Sullivan said, “Either he comes out himself or we’ll fetch him—however you prefer.”
Tommy’s head hung. He blinked into the dust. Dryly he swallowed, then with his rifle in his hand he shuffled out of the bush and walked meekly in front of the group, eyes down, couldn’t meet their stares. When he reached Billy’s side he stood so close to his brother that their arms and shoulders touched. Fingers brushing fingers; neither pulled away.
“Well, it’s been a while,” Sullivan said. “You’re almost fully grown.”
Father kept the children hidden whenever Sullivan came to the house, sent them to the stables, the barn, the sheds. It hadn’t always been like that—Tommy remembered the squatter once giving him a small wooden horse, which only years later had Father taken from him and burned.
“So,” Sullivan said, dropping the reins and folding his arms, “you want to tell me what you’re doing with them rifles on my land? Your old man send you up here? Not duffing my cattle, were you, boys?”
“No, sir,” Billy said. “We was hunting rabbits and got lost, that’s all.”
“Got lost? Missed the tree line when you crossed it, did you?”
“There was a dingo,” Billy said hopefully. “Or an emu, we wasn’t sure. We chased it and forgot where we was. We wasn’t duffing, I swear.”
Sullivan sniffed and looked about, as if searching for proof.
“Thing is, son, whether it’s a dingo or emu or bloody kangaroo, once it’s this side of the trees it’s mine to hunt, not yours. Didn’t your father teach you where the boundary between us lies?”
“Yessir,” Billy said quietly. “But ain’t them things everyone’s? On account of they’re wild?”
“Sounds just like a nigger,” Locke said. He twisted around to look at the two distant captives and the trooper holding their chains, and spat.
“No, son,” Sullivan said. “No, they’re not.”
In the silence that followed, Tommy glanced at the tall man, sitting at the back of the group. He was smoking his pipe and gazing disinterestedly into the scrubs, smoke dribbling from under his mustache and drifting over his face like a caul. His skin was stretched tightly over his cheekbones, and his eyes were soft and milky, no color in them at all, fogged like a lantern whose wick has burned out.
Sullivan said, “You’re wondering about my associates here . . . well, the man at the back there is Inspector Edmund Noone of the Native Mounted Police. These are his troopers. As I’m sure you know, their business is the dispersal of those who don’t belong. Chiefly that means myalls, but Mr. Noone’s talents aren’t particular to the color of a man’s skin: boys, he knew you were hiding in those bushes probably before you even got there yourselves.”
Noone turned his gaze on them. Tommy looked immediately at the ground.
“Now usually,” Sullivan continued, “Mr. Noone will punish trespassers to the fullest extent of the law. To disperse them, as it were, as you have just seen. But since he’s here on my account, and since this is my land, I suppose I have a say. So, here are the terms: first, that I never catch you past them trees again . . .”
He paused and looked at Billy, who nodded eagerly in reply.