Only Killers and Thieves(67)

Steadily the riders closed. Two men: one white, one black, both dressed neatly in trousers and shirts. The white man was waving, swinging his hand wildly in the air.

“Look at this fucking fruitcake,” Sullivan muttered. “Who does he think he is?”

Noone motioned for quiet, walked his horse a few paces ahead. He leaned forward in his saddle and waited for the men trotting merrily on.

“Hello, neighbors! Hello there!”

He spoke with a plum English accent, no slippage, no slurs. He dismounted and led his horse by the reins; Noone remained in the saddle, peering down. The man was slight, auburn-haired, the hair combed primly to the side; his freckled face had burned until it peeled. He grinned stupidly at Noone, like the two of them were old friends. But the closer he came, the more his eyes roamed the assembled company of men, a wild and hellish mob, filthy and part-clothed, armed with all manner of things, an easy malevolence in their stares, and by the time he reached Noone he wasn’t grinning anymore.

His accomplice followed closely behind, sense at least to stay on his horse.

“Good day to you, gentlemen,” the white man said, shielding his eyes from the sun.

Noone nodded at him. “Good day.”

“It’s so unusual to encounter anyone out here . . . we thought perhaps you might be lost, or that we might be able to assist in some small way.”

Noone glanced over his shoulder. “Do we look like we need your assistance?”

“Well, no, I don’t suppose you do,” the man said, chuckling. “But you can’t blame me for trying. Better to be the Samaritan than the Levite or the Priest.”

“Ah, a missionary,” Noone said. “A man of God.”

He nodded proudly. “Yes, sir, I am. Reverend Francis Bean, pleased to make your acquaintance.” There was a silence. The reverend asked, “And your name, sir?”

“Noone.”

“You are . . . explorers? Surveyors of some kind?”

“What brings you out this way, Reverend?”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, we have been traveling a long, long time. Doing God’s work. Spreading His word amongst the people of this land.”

“And how goes it? Are they converted?”

The reverend laughed. “If only it were so simple. It will take many years.”

“Long is the way, and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.”

“Yes, quite. Milton. Not that I’d call this Hell exactly but—”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Noone interrupted. “Perhaps you just haven’t been here long enough. But your boy there looks a convert. You’ve enchanted him, I see.”

“This is Matthew, my loyal friend. Might I inquire as to your associates, sir?”

Noone stared at him for a very long time. “Tell me something, Reverend, when was the last congregation you held?”

“I wouldn’t presume to call anything I’ve ministered a congregation, but—”

“Sermon, then. When was the last time you preached?”

“Recently, I suppose . . . but, why do you ask?”

“Well, you see, I’m wondering whether you’ve visited a native camp hereabouts. In the last day or two, let’s say.”

“Why would you be wondering that?”

“Because I too have work to attend to. You might even call it the work of God.”

The reverend shook back his shoulders, bristled. “I can guess the kind of work you do, Mr. Noone, and it is certainly not the work of God.”

“Allow me to enlighten you. Behind me here you’ll see two white boys. They are orphans, their parents have been brutally killed. Murdered by the natives once in their employ, and aided by members of the Kurrong tribe. God’s first law, broken. So now we are charged with bringing those responsible to justice, charged to do so by the Crown, by the authority of Queen Victoria herself, the head of the church in this land. If that is not God’s work, Reverend, then I don’t know what is.”

The reverend stood stiff-backed and square, the fire of righteousness still in his eyes.

“I doubt His justice is the same as yours. You are Native Police, then. What is your business with the girl?”

“Tragically lost and abandoned after the dust storm. We are caring for her, until we are able to return her to her people, assuming we can find them, that is. She is also Kurrong, and unfortunately they have a somewhat nomadic urge. Will you not help her, Reverend? Allow the poor girl to go home?”

“I’d be more than happy to take her myself. Lighten your load.”

“But you’re headed east, are you not?”

The reverend brushed back his hair with his hand. “It’s true, we’re in need of supplies, but we’ve enough to provide for the girl.”

“As do we. And we are headed west.”

“Yes, well . . .”

Noone squinted off into the scrubs. “The camp, please, Reverend Bean.”

“It’s not that I doubt you personally, you understand, but the reputation of the Native Police rather precedes you. The stories I’ve heard . . .”

“Are probably all true. I have asked nicely. There are other ways I could ask.”

The reverend’s accomplice slid his hand toward his saddle pack. Jarrah raised his rifle and pointed it at the man. The hand slid back onto his lap.