Only Killers and Thieves(58)

“Alright,” he said. “That’s enough from you.”

“I ain’t done with that bastard yet. Look what he did to my fucking arm.”

“It won’t kill you,” Noone said. He waded through the dogs, then stood towering over the natives, who gawped up at him in awe. He looked feral. His shirt was ragged and his hair was wild, his face dark with stubble and his empty eyes very wide. In his hand he carried an ornate silver revolver; it dangled casually at his side. He stood regarding the natives awhile. Two of the men still brandished their spears, the tips only yards from Noone’s face. Could have been through his skull before he’d even had time to blink, Tommy thought. Yet Noone stood there perfectly calm, a slight frown, as if reckoning something about the scene, while around him the others waited, Sullivan smoking his cigarette, Locke fiddling with the spear stub embedded in his shoulder. He glared at the man who’d thrown it.

“You’ll get yours,” he said.

Now Noone raised his left hand in greeting, fingers straight, palm flat. The natives watched the hand fearfully. The woman pulled the girl close. And she was a girl: while the woman was full in the hips, belly, and chest, the girl’s body was straight up and down, barely adolescent, little different than a boy.

“Please,” Noone said kindly, lowering his hand. “Drop the spears. Go on now. This isn’t a fight you are going to win.”

Their eyes wandered. To each other, the troopers, perhaps hoping they would translate but they did not. Noone waited. The young girl peeked out from the woman’s side and he smiled at her, the smile fading the longer the two men took to comply.

Noone tilted his head slightly, and in a low voice told them, “I won’t ask again. Drop the fucking spears.”

Neither man did so. Noone turned his eyes skyward and shook his head, let out a heavy breath. Then he raised his pistol and shot the nearest spear carrier square in his face.

The head burst in a spatter of tissue and bone, spraying Noone and the natives and some of the dogs. The body collapsed in stages—waist, knees, legs—then slumped awkwardly face-first on the ground. The spear seesawed before coming to rest in the dirt. The girl was screaming, a chaos of dogs leaped and howled, a cheer rippled through the group, and Sullivan shouted, “Now that’s how you bloody do it!” while Tommy leaned and retched at the side of his horse.

“Don’t,” Billy said. “Stop it. Sit up.”

Tommy felt hands on his shirt, Billy dragging him upright; he brushed him away and did it on his own, sat there coughing and gasping and finding nothing but irritation in his brother’s face, no upset, no concern. Tommy wiped his mouth and spat. Billy tapped his shoulder and gestured for him to watch.

Neither Noone nor the natives had moved. They stood dripping in the dead man’s gore. The girl cried into the woman’s side, the woman’s hand clamped over her mouth. All were trembling. The last remaining spear carrier placed his spear carefully on the ground and stepped back, and Noone nodded like a courtesy had been observed. He picked at his chest and shirtfront, flicking away deposits of bloodied flesh and bone.

“There there,” he said idly. “There there.”

When he’d finished his preening, Noone stepped over the body, parted the men, and stood before the woman and girl. Neither would look at him. Noone reached between them and tried peeling them apart, but they squealed like they’d been burned and only clung to each other all the more. Noone frowned, stuffed his revolver into his waistband, and held them each by the jaw, cheeks bunching, lips puckering; both had their eyes clamped shut, sobbing quietly as he turned their faces back and forth in the low sunlight.

“Look at me.”

They would not.

“Look at me.”

He let go of the girl, pulled his revolver again, and leveled it at one of the men. The muzzle butted against his temple: he flinched but otherwise didn’t move. Noone corkscrewed the barrel into the side of his head and the native grimaced and moaned. Now the women were looking. Watching Noone toy with their man.

“Thank you,” he said. He put away the revolver and took hold of the woman’s hand. She watched him raise it daintily above her head. Noone tried leading her but the girl had the other wrist and would not let go. Noone looked at her. The muscles on his jawline clenched. The older woman spoke and the girl hesitated, then released her wrist. Noone brought the woman out into the open and like some bloodied whoremaster began a ceremonial lap of the corral, to the grunts and calls and whistles of the watching men.

“She’ll do,” Sullivan mumbled, flicking away his cigarette. “Yep, she’ll do.”

Tommy tried not to watch. He turned away but saw Billy eyeing the woman up and down, and heard across the circle Jarrah and Mallee clapping and howling, telling the woman what they planned to do to her, what they planned for her to do.

“We don’t got time for all this,” Locke grumbled. He leaned in the saddle and with his rifle muzzle hooked his sword through its guard and lifted it from the ground. He sheathed it and poked idly at the spear. A fresh gout of blood bubbled from the wound. “I need this thing out my shoulder, get the hole properly packed.”

“You’d be at it worse than them if you’d not got yourself hurt,” Sullivan said.

“Good of you to bloody notice, I’m sure.”

“Ah, stop whining. You should have shot the bugger when you had the chance.”