Only Killers and Thieves(65)

Tommy glanced at the man sniveling by the wall. “He said that?”

“It will be in the evidence. A matter of record. A proven fact.”

“I don’t—is that what he said, or what you’re saying?”

“You doubt me, Tommy?”

“He just don’t look like much, that’s all.”

“He ain’t,” Billy said. “I already told you that.”

Noone leaned close, looking one to the other and back again. In his empty eyes Tommy saw the outline of a pupil, a deep, dark circle shrouded in fog.

“Listen,” Noone said. “Listen to me now. I’m going to tell you what will happen if we were to let that man live. He will hate us. Not only you and I personally, but all white men. He will become like a tick on the back of a beautiful horse, biting and gnawing and burrowing into the very fabric of this country we are trying to build. He will hunt us, all of us, we will never be safe in our homes. Your families, should you have them, will not be safe. Your children, your grandchildren, will not be safe. Remember, he will breed also. He will produce a dozen heirs, all with his hatred in their blood. In the cities they talk of civilizing them, of whites and blacks living side by side. It is a noble ideal. It reads very well in a newspaper or book. But tell me, boys—you have seen it, the reality out here—do either of you think that can ever be done? Those people on the coast, they expect the black man to throw down his spear and integrate, like he realizes suddenly he’s been living all wrong. It is laughable, the ignorance of the educated classes, sitting in their parlors and their clubs. The blacks don’t want to integrate. They want for us to leave. So either we domesticate them, or we kill them; there really can be no other way. The truth is, it doesn’t matter whether this man killed your family or not. He would have done so if given half a chance, and he will do so again. We cannot release him, we cannot take him with us, so we must shoot him. The only question is whether you two will pull the trigger, and take your share of responsibility for what must be done?”

“I will,” Billy said. “I’ll kill the cunt.”

“Good lad, Billy,” Sullivan called. “Well said.”

“And you?” Noone asked, as each of them stood.

Billy answered for his brother: “He doesn’t have to. I already said I would.”

“You should both do it. Fire at the same time. No dissenters, remember.”

“Just give him to Billy,” Sullivan said. “The other’s as green as a tree frog. He’s got his father’s spine. Ned had no stomach for this kind of thing.”

“As I recall,” Noone said, “you once told me the opposite.”

Sullivan laughed and shook his head. “Long time ago, that.”

“You never were a good judge of a man, John. You underestimate this one. I don’t expect that you’ll listen to me, but you’re courting the wrong son.”

Something in Tommy quickened at the praise and he hated himself for it. Billy cast about for a weapon, found his rifle, strode over to the chained man, and took aim. The man cowered behind his hands. From across the camp Kala began shouting, begging, and the man spoke to her through his fingers. His voice was broken but firm. Kala quietened. She held herself, sobbing gently, rocking back and forth.

“Hold up, lad,” Sullivan said, grabbing Billy’s arm. “Not with the rifle, not in here.” He motioned to Locke, who gave his pistol, the same percussion revolver he had used on the other man. Sullivan inspected the chamber. “Loaded? Capped?”

“I put two shots in,” Locke said, shrugging. “Just in case.”

Billy took the revolver and weighed it in his hand. All eyes on him now. Noone leaned and whispered to Tommy, “You should be part of this. It’s more important than you think.” He nudged him. Tommy looked down. Noone was offering his pistol. A gleaming silver Colt self-cocking revolver, ornately patterned on the barrel and grip. Tommy kept his hands at his sides, as Billy cranked back the hammer and pointed Locke’s pistol at the native’s head. He stood with his legs wide, arms straight, but couldn’t halt the tremor in his hands. The native watched through his fingertips, damp lips moving, a faint plea or prayer, as all the while Noone whispered in Tommy’s ear:

“I heard your father was more efficient. John once spoke highly of his skills. Of course, this was before you knew him, but then you can never truly know. The men on John’s station used to hunt them for pay. Same as you would a dingo, a shilling per scalp, though perhaps it was more or less, I’m not sure. For some it proved very lucrative. Helped them get ahead.”

He was still offering the revolver. Tommy only half understood. His eyes were fixed on Billy, though he couldn’t see his brother’s face. From behind it didn’t even look like him. Everything was wrong. That wasn’t Billy’s shooting stance. He never shot square on.

Billy shook his head. A tiny birdlike movement, twitching side to side. A flush crept up his neck, and into his hairline. His arms slackened. The pistol sagged.

“They killed your family, son,” Sullivan said.

Billy fell deathly still. His trembling stopped. He raised the pistol and fired and Tommy saw the gun smoke puff into the air. The native convulsed and smacked against the wall, only to rebound into place, righting himself like a bucket in a well, anchored by the body on his back. His eyes closed briefly, then opened in an unfocused stare. His head flopped sideways and wouldn’t straighten. His mouth gaped, his bent arms rose, the hands floating in front of him until they very slowly found his body and felt their way up his chest. Like they weren’t his hands at all. Like it was not his own chest. The fingers crawled over the scars and lumps and bones until they reached the base of his neck. There was a hole in it. Billy had blown out a chunk where the neck and shoulder met. Blood poured from the wound. The raw flesh pulsed. Frowning, the man fingered the hole and his eyes rolled toward Billy. A sound gargled in his throat. One of his legs began twitching. Billy cocked and pulled the trigger once, twice, but the hammer only clicked. He whirled around desperately, and Locke searched his pockets for powder and balls, impeded by his lame arm. Billy kept glancing at the man pawing meekly at the air. Finally Sullivan came up with some ammunition and handed it to Billy, but he spilled the powder, dropped the caps and balls. Sullivan knelt to help him. Kala began screaming and a sickening rattle sounded in the wounded man’s throat. Rabbit muffled Kala’s screams. She tried to fight the trooper off. Her eyes found Tommy and his found hers, and he saw rage in her stare, hatred, then a sudden softening as tears came. They welled in her eyes and dripped over Rabbit’s fingers, over her cheeks. And still Billy fumbled to reload the gun.