Only Killers and Thieves(7)

“I’ll just wait till I’m dry.”

He looked at Tommy queerly. “Dry?”

“It’s sweat,” he said, smiling. “It’s only sweat, that’s all.”

Father returned the smile, pulled open the curtain, and went into the bedroom. Tommy heard him staggering about, taking off his clothes, then the creak of the bed and low voices exchanging a few words. After a moment there was silence, nothing but the crackle of the bush outside, that constant rustling, and the faraway howls of dingos hunting in the night. Father began snoring and the silence in the house was broken, and Tommy was grateful that it was. Grateful for the distraction, for his family, for the warmth of the fire on his back.





3



After breakfast Tommy and Billy pulled on their boots and came out onto the verandah and found Arthur standing alone with the horses and dogs in the yard. The sun was not long up, the morning still cool, the sky fresh and clean and new. Tommy raised a hand against the glare as he came down the steps, and the old blackfella laughed his rattling laugh and called:

“Ah, look at ’em! Like two baby possums just crawled out the nest!”

Tommy had known Arthur all his life. He’d come with Father from Broken Ridge when Father first took on the selection, and these days was part of the family just about: other stockmen came and went but Arthur had always been there. When Tommy was a boy he’d seemed truly ancient, but after all these years he’d hardly aged. He wouldn’t say how old he was, claimed not to know himself. Other times he’d twirl a hand in the air like he was conjuring, then make some outlandish claim. He was a hundred, a thousand, as old as the trees; or he was still only seventeen, or twenty-one, immune to the passage of time.

The dogs ran toward them as the boys crossed the yard. Red and Blue were heelers, a kelpie-dingo cross bred for the scrubs, and excited to be working despite working every day. Tommy scratched Blue’s ear and patted his flank. Red circled Billy impatiently, hoping for the same.

“Where’s the others at?” Billy asked Arthur.

“Sheds,” he replied, nodding in that direction, flicking tangles of gray hair. The gray had crept into his beard too, but hadn’t taken it yet, the beard a thick black slab reaching down to his chest. He was still smiling, his laughter slow to fade, the skin creased in heavy folds around his nose and eyes. One of his front teeth was missing: Arthur had grown up the old way.

“Heard you youngfellas got lost yesterday. Best stay close out there, I reckon. Big old place them scrubs. Dangerous country for two lost boys.”

Tommy smirked, but Billy snapped, “We was hunting, not lost.”

“Well,” Arthur said, sorting through the various sets of reins and offering one to Billy, “your old man wants you on Jess anyhow, stop you wandering off.”

Billy scowled at the packhorse, heavily laden with supplies. Feed bags, water bags, lifting ropes, dog muzzles, even the billycan for their tea. Jess had a put-upon expression well suited to her trade, and for all the world seemed to return Billy’s scowl; the horse looked just as unenthusiastic about their pairing as he.

“Joseph can take her. I’ll ride Annie.”

“Boss says Joseph’s on Annie today.”

“Beau, then.”

Arthur began chuckling. He shook his head. “Your brother’s on Beau. It’s Jess or nothing for you, except maybe a bloody long walk.”

Tommy mounted up quickly, before Arthur changed his mind. Beau was a dun-gray gelding he preferred over all the rest. Other than Buck, the brumby Father broke and would let no one else ride, the horses were generally shared. But everyone had their favorite, and being the new boy Joseph was usually given Jess. Billy was still complaining as he took hold of her reins, the packhorse standing sullen as a mule. He mounted her roughly. Jess stepped and flicked her head but Billy brought her round hard and she settled soon enough. She wasn’t the type that needed romancing; small mercies at least.

Arthur mounted up too, and together they sat waiting, until Father and Joseph came out from the store shed, Joseph carrying the last of the supplies. As he secured them onto the pack saddle, Father stood between Tommy and Billy and held up the flask of strychnine powder for both of them to see.

“Don’t touch this,” he said, more to Tommy than Billy, it seemed.

“I know that,” Tommy said.

“Well, I’m telling you again: don’t touch it.”

“Alright, but I know.”

Father wedged the flask into his saddlebag, buckled the strap, mounted up, and they waited for Joseph to finish loading, all of them watching him, this new man in their little crew. He had short hair, no beard, and looked barely out of his teens. Tommy didn’t fully trust him yet, had hardly ever heard him speak. Three months he’d been at Glendale and he’d barely said a word, not to the family at least. Mother thought him surly, she’d said so more than once, and Father didn’t disagree—he’d only taken him on because Reg Guthrie quit for the diggings and he couldn’t afford another white man’s wage in a drought. Arthur’s opinion had swung it; he’d decided Joseph was alright. That was enough for Father. For all of them, in truth.

Joseph finished packing and mounted up. Father whistled for the dogs and they rode out, heading north and then west, empty country to the horizon, and for many miles beyond.