Only Killers and Thieves(54)

“Still ripe,” Noone said, sniffing them. “Yesterday, you think?”

Pope nodded. “Wind carry ’em. Been hiding last night them too.”

“In the ranges?”

“Nah, them buggers too long way still. Blackfella got no horse.”

He said the word like hoss, watching the ranges as he spoke. Noone looked toward those same hills, then turned to Sullivan and smiled. Pope remounted. Noone clicked his horse forward and dropped the dilly bag on the ground and each hoof trampled it deeper into the dirt.

There wasn’t a trail to follow, the earth blown clean by yesterday’s storm, yet still Pope knew the direction they would have taken: the pickers of the berries, the carriers of the bag. He led the group into increasingly rocky terrain, undulating in hummocks and dips, the scrub thinner on open ground now, concentrated instead around the base of giant boulders or in the clefts of sandstone mounds that rose like totems all over the land. Bizarre rock formations, improbable to the naked eye: house-sized boulders, as smooth and round as red marbles, balanced on the tip of a slab; others piled together as unstable as eggs; longer stones stacked in triangular amber cairns, dark caves at their heart, as if laid according to design. They couldn’t have been. To move just one of those rocks would have taken twenty horses and just as many men. Yet there was no explanation for them: they couldn’t have rolled from the ranges, no other source around. Tommy wondered what story the old people must have had for this place; to him it looked like the kind of thing children would have built, giant children playing giant games a long time ago. But then it didn’t feel much like a playground. Nothing joyful here. It reminded him more of a graveyard, each cairn a marker, each rock a protruding bone. That seemed more fitting. Dozens of buried giants, hundreds, too many for Tommy to count.

A cluster of gum trees gave away the waterhole: Pope pointed and led them in. A leafy stand shielding a chain of little pools, fed by an underground spring, miraculous in this barren wasteland. Since crossing Sullivan’s boundary they had only refilled their flasks from the bladder-bag reserves, and by now all that was left was tepid and dirty and stale. They dismounted and lunged for the water, men and horses both, even the troopers this time, even Noone. They drank and refilled their flasks and bladder bags and washed off the dust from the storm. Tommy sank his head into the pool and let the water cocoon him awhile. He could hear the others through it. Sounds of them drinking, talking, splashing with their hands. He came up breathless and shivered as the water dripped inside his shirt. A rare thing to shiver—he smiled and twisted as it wriggled down his spine.

He and Billy found a spot in the leaf-dappled sun and sat leaning their backs against a rock. Eyes closed, hair damp, faces dripping: Tommy had memories of having done this many times, and inevitably of Wallabys, that day only a week ago, when they had lain drying in the sunshine while at the house, at the house . . .

He opened his eyes again. Billy was watching Noone and Pope circling the waterhole, stepping between the pools, talking and studying the ground. Everyone else was resting: Sullivan smoked a cigarette, Locke lay by the water, the troopers idled in the sun.

“You reckon he’s some sort of witch?” Billy said, nodding.

“Who? Pope?”

“Since when did you know their bloody names?”

“They do have them, Billy.”

“Well, yeah, that old one, I meant. He knows just about everything, it seems.”

“He knew the waterhole on account of the trees. It ain’t that hard.”

Billy frowned at him. “What about the bag, then? How’d he read the storm? And how does he know where they’re headed when there’s not even any tracks?”

Tommy shrugged. He didn’t care.

“Exactly. Blackfella magic. I’m telling you, he’s some sort of bloody witch.”

“It’s not magic to read the land. Or spot a bag in a bush.”

Billy spat on his hand. “I’ll wager you.”

“And what? You’ll ask him? Hey, Pope! You a witch or not?”

“No, we’ll just . . . there’ll be proof come along one way or the other.”

Tommy scoffed. He didn’t take Billy’s bet. They sat watching the men until Tommy said, “You ever think about Mary? Reckon she’s on the mend?”

“Should be. Shanklin’ll be there.”

“What if she’s not? You think about that?”

“Why would I? What’s the use?”

“She’s on her own, is all I mean.”

“I just said, Shanklin’s with her. Better be anyway. It’s been long enough.”

Tommy reckoned it up. “It’s only been four days.”

Billy looked at him. “Horseshit, four days.”

“Means she’s been lying in that bed a week.”

Billy was shaking his head. “Feels more like a bloody month.”

They lapsed into silence. Tommy pushed himself to his feet and went to his saddlebag and returned with the packet of lemon sweets.

“What you got there?”

Tommy dropped a lolly into Billy’s hand. His eyes widened; he popped it into his mouth and, as he sucked, his eyes squeezed tight and a smile came to his lips.

“Where in hell did you get these?”

Tommy took one for himself and hid the bag behind his back. “Mrs. Sullivan gave them. Don’t tell anyone else.”