Only Killers and Thieves(61)
“Their problem’s not with me.”
“All I’m saying is they’d better know their place. I shouldn’t have to watch my back against my own bloody men.”
“My men.”
“Last time I checked I was the one paying for all this.”
“Actually, Her Majesty’s government is footing the bill.”
“So what the hell am I buying, then?”
“You are paying me, not them. Buying my cooperation in your little charade, plus passage for yourself and your boys. You are buying my attention, John. The frontier is a big place. There are plenty other errands I could run.”
“Still. A bit of fucking respect wouldn’t hurt.”
“You’d be a fool not to be wary of them,” Noone said, smoking, staring into the fire. “All that money of yours, all that cattle, that land, even the color of your skin carries little weight out here. What do you think they care for all that? For your wealth, your authority back home? Don’t equate them to your houseboys; the two are not remotely alike. Truth is, my men only tolerate you in deference to me, your monkey man even less so. They are not civilized, they are not tame. If we did that to them, they’d be about as useful a gelded bull. The point is, John, the problem doesn’t lie with them but with you and Raymond and maybe even these two boys.”
He withdrew his pipe and gestured to the canyon, the sky, the country beyond.
“Look where we are. This isn’t your station anymore, isn’t even part of the colony, whatever the map says. You need to recognize that fact. Your so-called laws and principles, they do not apply here. White men come this far out and think they’re still in Queensland, but they’re not. This is blackfella country. We’re in their territory now.”
When the meal was over, Pope came and knelt at Locke’s side, peeled back his shirt collar, and cleaned his injured shoulder with rum. On a flat boulder top, he emptied a handful of leaves and berries and other bush pickings from a pigskin pouch, and began tearing and grinding them into a mixture that he moistened with saliva until it became a coarse yellow paste. He cupped the paste in his hands, warming it, kneading it, tossing it gently back and forth like a baker working dough, then knelt again and packed the putty into Locke’s wound. He pressed with his thumbs and then his palm, building the plug piece by piece, and through all of this Locke did not so much as flinch. A full half hour now he’d been out. Pope unraveled the bandage Locke wore on his hand and used it to dress the shoulder wound. He examined the injured hand, held it up to the firelight, and turned it around. The flesh was raw and mottled and not yet healed. Two well-spaced bite marks had punctured deep into the skin. He called over to Noone and asked what had bit him.
“Snake, so he said.”
“Bloody big snake with dog tooth that bugger,” Pope replied, letting the hand fall. He pushed himself to his feet and stood looking down on Locke. In the firelight Pope’s face was haggard and very old, and there was no emotion in his eyes. As indifferent to the creature beneath him as if it were a lame mule.
Wearily Noone rose too. He tapped his pipe into the fire and the dead tobacco hissed. “Bring the men,” he said. “Rabbit, watch the girl. And don’t let that fire go out, though I doubt this will take very long.”
He looked pointedly at Sullivan, who nodded and said, “Right you are,” rubbing his hands together like a feast had been proposed.
And with that Noone was gone, striding past the troopers and disappearing along the dark ravine. Jarrah and Mallee fetched the two men and dragged them up to their feet. They could hardly stand. Their chains were unlocked and unwound and they fell to the ground with a clang. Rabbit stooped and gathered the chains in his hands, and the captives were led into the ravine. Pope followed them out of camp. One by one they vanished into the cleft of the rocks, until all that remained was the sound of footsteps on bare stone and the whimpering pleas of the men.
Sullivan clapped his hands. He stumbled to his feet. He went to where the woman and girl were sitting and took hold of the woman by her wrists. Briefly she fought him, then complied, sliding off the ledge. Sullivan slapped her anyway. Backhanded across the face. Her head twisted and she stared at the girl, then she turned toward Sullivan again. Dead-eyed. Resigned. Sullivan smiled. He led her past the fire, pausing to collect his revolver, which he showed to the woman, then pushed inside his belt. He looked down at Tommy and Billy, asked them, “Don’t suppose either of you two wants a go on her when I’m done?”
Tommy felt himself flushing. A rush of panic and blood. Billy sat there blinking like he hadn’t even heard. Tommy couldn’t look at the woman, or at the girl. By now Rabbit had finished coiling the chains; he dumped them on the ground and nodded at Tommy. Tommy lurched to his feet and, for want of anything else to do, fetched fresh firewood from the pile.
“You’ve never done it before, have you?” Sullivan asked Billy.
“It ain’t that.”
“What then? Don’t be scared, son. They’re all the same down below.”
Tommy threw the wood on the fire and sat down. A shower of sparks rose.
“I ain’t scared. It’s just—”
“Look, I’m not going to force you,” Sullivan told him. “But you do this and shoot that other black like he said and you’ll be a man by morning, simple as that. It’s up to you. But think on it too long and Locke’ll have killed both them cunts and Noone’s boys’ll have had their way with the gin, and she won’t be no good to you then.”