Only Killers and Thieves(30)

“Too slow. The track’s not clear. Get the saddles on.”

“Me and Ma managed.”

“The saddles, Tommy.”

He stood there numb. Billy fetched the blankets from the rail and shoved one into Tommy’s arms. The blanket still warm and sweat-damp, the horses still unsettled in their stalls.

“If we hadn’t slept at Wallabys, if we’d come back after lunch . . .”

“That’s enough.”

“We might have stopped him, though.”

“Or we might be dead. Get your bloody saddle on.”

When it was done, Billy hoisted Mary onto the front of Tommy’s saddle, her legs skewed together at one side. Billy tied a rope into a harness that Tommy looped under her armpits then wore like a cartridge belt across his own shoulders and chest. He had his arms around her also, and he gripped tight on the reins. Her hair brushed his face, through it the soft shell of her ear. He put his lips there and told her she’d be alright, they would make it, they’d be in Bewley in a couple of hours.

“We’re not going to Bewley,” Billy said, mounting up, both of them walking their horses clear of the barn.

“Shanklin’s in Bewley—who else is there?”

In the leeching twilight Tommy saw his brother’s head turn.

“Sullivan’s got a medic up at Broken Ridge.”

Billy didn’t wait for an answer. He set out across the yard, yelling for Tommy to follow; Tommy pulled Mary against him and did so, leaving the house behind, everything within, riding for the northern scrublands, into the darkness they held.





11



Through the trees, across the border, onto Sullivan’s land, past the bushes from where they’d once watched a man killed. A low moon rising, the light slippery and faint, objects rearing from the shadows and making the horses flinch. Already they were wary, of the scree underfoot, of how the boys rode, of this strange nighttime mission, of the darkness, of the cold.

In the valley the terrain plateaued and they found a trail leading northeast, through swaying grass meadows, undulating like the sea; beneath trees whose tall branches spread spidery against the gloom. Neither brother speaking. Sounds only of hoof fall, occasionally a rustle in the treetops, the downbeat of wings, the pained catlike screech of flying foxes overhead.

And all the while Tommy cradled Mary against him, held her body tight to his. She wasn’t waking. Was hardly even breathing, so far as he could tell. Her head lolled forward and hung there; her body was cool and limp. He felt for a pulse but couldn’t find one, clumsily fingering her neck. Difficult enough to keep her upright, to keep Beau steady on the track, to follow Billy’s outline, the shape of him, pale shirt flapping in the moonlight, the glint of their two rifles strapped across his back.

The track opened into a clearing ringed by trees. Billy slowed, and when Tommy drew alongside him he saw the reason why: a candle flame quivering in the darkness, hovering across the clearing as if magically conjured there.

“Alright, far enough. You the McBride boys?”

They stood the horses and peered into the gloom. The outline of the watchman was only just visible behind his lantern flame. Thin body, ragged clothes; a sickly, hoary face. He held the lantern above his head and in the other hand, braced against his hip, was a twin-barreled shotgun, pointed their way.

“We need help,” Billy said. “Blacks got us.”

The watchman tilted his head. “Got you how?”

“How d’you think—please, she’s hurt bad.”

“Her sleeping there?”

“She’s not sleeping,” Tommy said. “She’s shot.”

The watchman sniffed and looked about. “I wasn’t told about no girl.”

Billy said, “I heard there was a medic?”

“Aye, there’s a medic.”

“Come on, then. We need to bloody go.”

“Touchy bugger, ain’t ya? Alright. Toss down them guns.”

“We’re not here for any trouble,” Tommy said. “We’re asking for help.”

“I heard you. But the boss says get their guns, so I got to get your guns.”

Billy unstrapped the rifles and threw them on the ground. The man juggled the lantern and the shotgun and stooped to pick them up, his eyes upturned, the pale oval of his crown as he bent, then he was backing away again, fumbling the rifles in his arms.

“Yous lot stay put while I get my horse out.”

The lantern mapped the clearing as he retreated: a smoldering fire, kicked over in haste, outside a windowless hut. The hut was walled with thin slats, no door, barely wide enough to lie down. The watchman went around the back, into the trees, and emerged with a scraggy-looking mare. He slung the two rifles onto his shoulder, then climbed into the saddle and brought the mare to where Tommy and Billy waited. He held the lantern to his face, grinned a toothless grin, and blew out the candle flame.

“On you go, then,” he told them, his shotgun wagging. “And don’t get no funny ideas—there’s a fistful of shot for both of yous in here.”

Single file, they followed the trail out of the clearing and on toward the station compound. Billy leading, then Tommy, the watchman close behind. He wouldn’t let them gallop. A steady trot the most he’d allow. As they rode, he started whistling an old Irish ditty Tommy had heard his mother sing, something about a girl left behind. The song filled his eyes immediately and though tears dribbled down his cheeks, he did not wipe them and did not sob. The watchman finished his tune and moved on to the next, and Tommy held tight to his sister and blinked his eyes dry.