Only Killers and Thieves(60)

“Think on it,” Noone told the boys softly. “Perhaps in the morning, if you’d prefer.”

Billy frowned like he was still catching up with what had been proposed.

“You mean for us to shoot them?” Tommy said.

“Yes.”

“Just like that? For no reason?”

“For every reason. The reason we are all here. Wait and hear their confession, see if that won’t change your mind.”

At which Sullivan snorted in laughter like a joke had just been told.

Through the smoke and flames Tommy watched the two chained men. They didn’t look much like killers. Naked and filthy and bloodstained, caked in their own piss and mess, they looked miserable and hungry and scared. Their faces were gaunt, ribs visible under the skin. They were still only young, Tommy thought. Be lucky if they were out of their teens. Yes, one had put his spear into Locke, but in his position Tommy would probably have done the same. As would Billy, Sullivan, and no doubt Locke himself. As would any man.

There was a squeal, and Tommy turned. Locke had begun molesting the woman with his one good hand. She wriggled and squirmed on the ledge. Locke cooed at her and mimicked a mouth with his hand, like it was a puppet, a bird. In a childish high-pitched voice he made the creature talk, telling her where it would nibble next, then he plunged the hand downward, grabbing for her breasts, between her legs. The troopers scowled at his performance and spoke between themselves.

“Best control him, John,” Noone said. “The men are not amused.”

“They can please themselves. It ain’t none of their business what he does.”

“He’s insulting them. They covet her, consider her theirs.”

“Horseshit, theirs. They should learn their fucking place.”

“Well, I won’t discipline them. Not for him. The man’s a buffoon.”

“They’ve no bloody respect. You’re too soft on ’em, that’s what you are.”

“You haven’t the faintest idea what I am.”

Locke was now grabbing his crotch and humping his own hand. “Raymond,” Sullivan called. “Leave the gin alone.”

“Oh, but she’s a shy one. I’m only warming her up.”

Behind him Jarrah rose slowly to his feet, stepped over Pope’s outstretched legs, and walked toward Locke, squinting at him, his lazy, half-closed eye. He was unarmed but his hands hung heavy at his sides, the fingers curled almost to fists.

Locke caught sight of him and chuckled. “Wait your turn, darkie. Whites before blacks is how it goes.”

Jarrah didn’t answer him. Advancing carefully, one step at a time. Locke turned to face him front on, only six feet between them now.

“Oh, aye? And what’s this?”

“Call back your boy,” Sullivan told Noone. “The hell’s he think he is?”

Noone was tamping tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. His eyebrows lifted and he smiled at Sullivan. But he didn’t call Jarrah off.

They fronted each other. Shadowy figures in the firelight, Locke’s pale head glistening. Physically they were even, similar height and build. Locke placed the bottle of rum carefully on the ground, then stood with his chin tucked and his good fist raised in an uncertain boxing pose. Jarrah waited. Locke rocked on his heels and ducked his head from side to side, weighing up his move, but comically, as if putting on a show. He paused, began laughing, then pulled back his fist and swung.

The punch looped wildly toward the trooper’s face; Jarrah parried it and coiled Locke’s arm inside his own, pinning it behind his back. He stepped forward, tightened his grip, and Locke arched his back and cried out, his injured arm twitching lamely at his side. Jarrah held him there awhile. Their faces were very close. Jarrah said something, but quietly, his voice a low rumble in the white man’s ear. He raised his free hand and held it above Locke’s face, the fingers clawed. Locke watched the hand fearfully. Jarrah lowered it toward the spear. He took hold of the broken shaft and rotated it slowly around. Locke’s eyes widened. He groaned in muted pain. Jarrah began inching out the spear, teasing it from the wound.

“Fucking—” Locke slurred, but no other words came.

As the spear left his body his mouth gaped, his legs buckled, his eyes rolled. Jarrah laid him on the ground. He tossed the spear stub aside. It tinkled on the stone and the sound echoed around the walls. The woman slid from the ledge and began begging him, her bound hands raised. Jarrah shoved her backward. She shuffled back onto the ledge. Jarrah returned to his place and sat down, took a turn on the pipe the troopers shared. They were struggling to hide their amusement, like some great mischief had just been performed.

Sullivan shook his head. “And you’ll stand for that, will you?”

“I’m not obliged to him, John. He hasn’t the temperament for this kind of work. Treats it like a sport, which it is not. It is not. I warned you both the last time. You should have left him on the farm.”

Noone pulled contemplatively on his pipe. Tommy watched Locke’s prone body and in the firelight could just make out the rise and fall of his chest, and a small pool of fresh blood collecting beneath him on the ground.

“You rub him up wrong,” Sullivan mumbled. “That’s all it is. But you let them treat a whitefella like that and there’ll be a mutiny next. Mark my words there will.”