Only Killers and Thieves(99)

“You won’t let me do it? What if I gave you my word?”

Noone inclined his head and considered him proudly. “Well now, look at you, Tommy. Look how much you’ve grown.”

He tied Beau to a railing and followed Noone into camp, watched by men leaning in doorways or slouched on the bare ground. Some were armed, here and there a pistol sticking out of their belts or a knife hilt protruding from their boots. Noone strode on, oblivious; Tommy hurried along behind. Marching between the huts and into the very center of the camp, where a group of men sat around a fire. Tommy scanned their faces as he neared. Locke wasn’t with them but he saw the watchman, Jessop, drinking from a bottle with his lank side hair hanging over his face. It occurred to Tommy that they might kill him also, and maybe Weeks if he was around, anyone who’d been involved, and nothing about that impulse felt wrong.

“Yeah? Fuck d’you want?” one of the stockmen asked.

“Good evening, gentlemen. I am looking for Raymond Locke.”

There was a titter of laughter when Noone spoke.

“Who’s asking?” the same stockman replied.

“Noone.”

A tremor went through them. All eyes on the ground. The stockman swallowed nervously, then pointed at a candlelit slab hut across the little yard. “He’s sleeping,” he said.

“Excellent.”

“He done something, like?” another man asked.

“Oh, yes,” Noone said, turning a smile upon the group. “Indeed he has. Seems he and Mr. Sullivan had a disagreement earlier tonight. Locke was demanding more pay. For himself, you understand. John wouldn’t give it, wouldn’t cut all your wages to benefit just one man. Well, Locke wasn’t happy. He considered himself a special case. He threatened John—as you will know, Locke just loves his threats—but John is not a man easily moved. Locke shot him. Shot him sitting in his chair. So unfortunately, gentlemen, thanks to your own headman, it seems you’re all probably soon to be out of work.”

“Fucking hell.”

“That stupid bald cunt.”

“Kill the bastard for all I fucking care.”

Chatter broke out between them. Noone left them talking around the fire. Tommy followed him across the empty yard. When he glanced back at the men they were all watching, some standing, though none had made a move to come.

The hut was small. It had a railing and a narrow front deck and two windows either side of the door. Two rooms: one in darkness, the other flickering in candlelight. As they neared, Noone held out a hand in warning, then stepped quietly onto the decking and peered in through each window. He turned to Tommy and smiled. The smile was full and very wide. Noone nodded for Tommy to come closer, then he eased open the front door. Through the gap Tommy saw into the lit room, the soles of Locke’s boots and his legs splayed apart on the bed. He was sleeping. Noone opened the door fully and rested it against the wall. Tommy stepped onto the porch behind him. A clear view of Locke now, slumped sideways, his piebald head hanging, his mouth open, his breathing thick and loud. Noone stood there appraising him. He drew his bowie knife slowly from his belt, then walked into the room. At the sound of him coming, Locke stirred. His eyes flickered, then snapped open and he jerked himself awake. Too late. Noone was upon him. He thrust the knife hilt-deep into Locke’s side. Locke gasped and sat upright, an endless intake of air. “Hello, monkey man,” Noone said, then he withdrew the knife and Locke collapsed back onto the bed. He lay there panting. His hand groped for Noone’s face. Noone took his wrist and wiped his blade clean on Locke’s sleeve. Locke watched the knife wide-eyed, blood pumping from his side.

“If you have questions, you should ask them. I doubt he’ll last very long.”

Tommy came forward, into the room, inching to the bedside. Locke’s eyes rolled toward him. “Fuck,” the overseer was slurring. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Who was it?” Tommy said. “You or Sullivan? Who killed them?”

Locke frowned at Tommy like he could hardly see him there.

“You went to the house to kill them, you bastard. You had—”

“No,” Locke said. “Talk. Come out . . . carbine . . . full of grog.”

“Who shot him? You?”

Locke shook his head. “John.”

“And you just fucking stood there.”

“I only . . . I only did the dogs.”

Noone erupted in laughter. “You and your dogs, Raymond!”

“John give back the revolver, said one ball left but . . . had to use me sword.”

“So there you have it,” Noone said, speaking to Tommy but staring at Locke. “The great McBride mystery has finally been solved, though I think you already knew. So long, then, Tommy. It’s time for you to go now. Raymond and I are going to have a little fun before he takes his final leave.”

Tommy didn’t move. Locke gazed at him desperately. Noone perched on the side of the bed and muttered, “On you go, Tommy. Remember our terms.”

Locke blinked slowly and looked away. Hopeless. Resigned. Tommy turned and left the room. He paused in the front doorway and saw Noone hunched over Locke’s body, toying with the knife in his hand. He was talking to him gently, as if comforting an old friend. Locke groaned pitifully. Tommy came out of the hut and set off walking across the yard, toward the men still gathered around the fire. Locke screamed. Tommy stalled and the watching men flinched and one cupped his mouth with his hand. Tommy walked on. He rounded the campfire and felt the men’s stares as he passed, until Locke screamed again and they recoiled and averted their eyes.