Only Killers and Thieves

by Paul Howarth

  Father dismounted, his carbine raised. His boots hit the ground and he started walking. “Joseph, with me,” he said quietly. “You lot stay here.”

  This time Joseph obeyed. He dismounted and Arthur handed him a pistol, an old open-frame, five-shot, percussion revolver that was missing half its grip. Joseph took it from him dumbly, held it flat in his palm. Father called from the trees and Joseph went after him, the revolver swinging in his hand. Together they ducked beneath the low branches and were gone, the dogs following them in, kicking through the deadfall and splashing through the creek.

  “We should go with them,” Billy said. “We should go too.”

  Arthur hushed him. They waited. Watching, listening, glimpsing their shadows rising up the far bank and passing into the clearing beyond, onto Sullivan’s land. Dead silence. Not a sound. Tommy was holding his breath, waiting for a gunshot, an ambush, some indication of what they’d found, and yet the noise that broke the silence was somehow even worse: Father’s voice, flat and wary, saying, “Boys, don’t come over here. Don’t come over, understand?”

  Billy slid down from his horse. Tommy did the same. Arthur protested but he was also dismounting, following them into the trees. Rifles raised, they crossed the shallow creek, through columns of sunlight falling between the leaves. The dogs were on the far bank, waiting. They whimpered and sniffed the air. Tommy and Billy came up the slope and into the clearing, and Tommy caught a breath of the odor, rank and unwell. Father and Joseph were standing about twenty yards away, weapons lowered, arms limp at their sides. Neither was moving. They both had their heads bowed. Father looked up and saw his sons and his face sagged in sudden grief. They moved closer. Neither boy looking at him now. Their eyes were on the large red gum behind him, alone in the clearing, like a sentry in the scrub.

  From its branches, ropes creaking, two bodies hung.

  Both had been mutilated, both had been burned. Two knotty, dark medallions, dangling. Carrion birds hunched in the branches above their heads and flies crawled over their charred skin. Gently they swung in the wind. Ticking back and forth, back and forth again. Beside them on the trunk a word had been carved: NOONE read the engraving, in letters a foot tall.

  4

  Tommy stared at the bodies. Couldn’t look away. Watching how they tilted, pirouetting slowly, the branches sagging, the feet only just clearing the ground, lumps of flesh that were once feet, legs that were once legs, men that were once men, turning, turning, the rope knots ticking, flies rippling on their skin, crawling in and out of cavities, a steady and hungry hum, the air alive with it, scent of char and rot, foul and sweet, drawing bird after bird into the canopy above, squatting there and waiting for the chance to feed on these men whom Tommy had no doubt he knew. He had seen them yesterday. He had seen them dragged in neck chains behind that trooper’s horse. He had seen their friend shot. Then he and Billy had gone home and eaten supper, kept their silence, and slept.

  Now Billy was beside him, no longer watching the tree, gazing casually around the clearing and scuffing at the dirt with his boot. Arthur brushed between them and went to where Father and Joseph stood, Joseph agitated, wringing the revolver like a rag in his hands. Father had not moved since Tommy got there, his jaw working minutely up and down, clenching and unclenching, his eyes fixed on Joseph all the while.

  “Best get that off him,” Father said, and Arthur laid a hand on Joseph’s shoulder and eased the revolver from his grip. He slipped it into his belt, then spoke with Joseph in a low murmur none of the whites could understand.

  “He’s asking what that word is. That one written there.”

  “Noone,” Father said, his voice flat, resigned. “He’s Black Police, new to the district, John’ll have brought him in.”

  Arthur relayed the information. Joseph’s eyes flared. He spun away and walked to the tree, turned, and came back again.

  “He alright?” Father said warily. “He knows this wasn’t us?”

  “Is bad for him, Boss.”

  “It’s bad for us too.”

  “They’re Kurrong, his old mob.”

  Father waved his carbine toward the bodies. “How in hell can he know that?”

  “The markings,” Arthur said. He touched his chest. “Is same, see?”

  Father closed his eyes, wiped a hand slowly over his face, then made a fist with the hand and tapped it against his lips.

  “You never told me he was Kurrong when I agreed to set him on.”

  Arthur shrugged. Father stood a moment, then sniffed and snapped into motion like something had been decided; he walked a few paces, then paused.

  “Look, there’s nothing can be done about this now. We leave it alone. It ain’t none of our business. Hell, this ain’t even my land.”

  He set off walking again, past Tommy and Billy, toward the creek.

  “Boss!” Arthur called. Father stopped and turned. Joseph had his eyes down, his arms locked tightly at his sides. “He wants to stay. Here. With them.”

  “What’s that now?”

  “To see to ’em,” Arthur said. “Get ’em down, take ’em back, do it right.”

  “Take them back where?”

  “Their people, their land. Send ’em on the proper way.”

  Father took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair, gazed up at the sky. “I know, alright. I understand. But this is John’s business; I can’t afford to get involved. The answer’s no. We’re going home.”

  “You won’t do anything?” Tommy said.

  “Look at them, Tommy. Look. What am I supposed to do about that?”

  “He says he won’t go, Boss,” Arthur called. “Says he’s staying here.”

  “Stay,” Joseph echoed, nodding.

  “Only take him a week,” Arthur continued. “Maybe less, I don’t know. Ride ’em out, ride straight back, be here in time for mustering, no problem.”

  Father sighed. “What if we just buried them?”

  “That’s not how they do it, Boss.”

  He threw up his arms. “So I’m meant to lose a stockman and risk a horse in a drought so two dead blacks can get their bloody funeral dance? Have you heard yourself, Arthur? Have you heard what you’re asking from me here?”

  “No ask,” Joseph said. “Tell.”

  Father cocked his head and stepped toward him, hefting the carbine in his hand. “What did you just say to me, boy?”

  Joseph squared his shoulders and returned Father’s stare. Arthur stepped between them, his hand raised for calm.

  “His words aren’t so good,” he said.

  “Well, you can tell the cunt in whatever words he understands that if he doesn’t cross this creek with us right now, I don’t want him back. Not ever. He makes his choice. And he’s not getting a bloody horse neither. He can drag them by their nooses if he’s that bloody keen. You’ve five minutes, Arthur, then we’re setting out for home.”

  Father spun and walked away, calling for Tommy and Billy to come. Billy hurried after him; they collected the dogs, and together went sliding into the creek bed and disappeared behind the trees, leaving Tommy alone with Joseph and Arthur and the two bodies hanging there, all of them watching him, men and bodies both, it seemed. He scoured the ground, trying to think of what to say. Arthur and Joseph waited. Father shouted Tommy’s name across the creek and he went to leave but hesitated, half turned, forced himself to meet Joseph’s eye.

  “I’m sorry,” he said shyly. “We didn’t know they were your friends.”

  * * *

  They had rounded up the horses and remounted by the time Arthur came trudging through the trees. Billy was riding Annie now, the packhorse already tethered to Arthur’s saddle ring. They sat together watching him clear the tree line and cross the fringe of scrub, walking slowly, his shoulders stooped.

  “He ain’t coming, then?” Father called.

  Arthur shook his head.

  “Where’s that revolver? The old five-shot—you got it still?”

  Arthur s
quinted up at him. “I thought you might lend it.”

  “Lend means I’ll get it back.”

  “Give it, then.”

  “Bloody hell, Arthur. Most blokes would have shot the bastard, not given him a bloody gun.” He sighed and looked away. “Alright, suit yourself. That thing never fired straight anyway. Bring Jess. We’re going home.”

  Father tapped his horse and set off at a trot, the dogs at his side, Billy following quickly behind. A thin cloud of dust kicked up from their hooves. Tommy handed Arthur his reins, and he took them solemnly, head lowered, eyes down. Tommy waited until Arthur had climbed into the saddle, and for a moment the two of them sat there together, Tommy watching Arthur’s shadow in preference to watching the man, then he tapped Beau gently and walked him on, checking behind to see if Arthur would come. He didn’t. Not yet. He was staring at the tree line, at the creek. As Tommy rode away he heard him shout something, a single word, and faintly in the distance heard Joseph echo the same word in reply.

  5

  Tommy rode alone through the empty scrub. Father and Billy were not slowing for him, two dark outlines flickering in the haze, and Arthur trailed even farther behind. The sun was low and glaring, slicing beneath his hat brim; pain bloomed inside his head. Tommy closed his eyes, rode blind for a while. The sun tormented him still. Painting shadows on his eyelids, oily figures morphing between branches and bodies and birds flocking in the trees . . . he snatched open his eyes. Emptiness all around him: empty sky, empty land, on and on. Father and Billy had disappeared now, swallowed by the horizon, gone. In three hours the sun would be down, fully dark within four, they would all be home, and Joseph would still be out here, cutting down those two bodies and dragging them through the bush, west presumably, toward the ranges, to where the lines ran out. Moonlit in the darkness, hauling on the ropes, the bodies scraping through the dirt and snagging on clutches of scrub. The idea sickened him. Tommy felt responsible, like he shared part of the blame. He had known about those men and done nothing . . . but then what could he have changed? Noone was police and police were the law—what’s to say those natives weren’t criminals, killers themselves? It happened all the time out here, Tommy had heard plenty of tales. Reg Guthrie once told him a story about a selector up near Emerald, got speared while squatting in the long grass for a shit. The spear had passed right through him, pinned him where he sat; he’d still been crouching like that, britches round his ankles, when the body was eventually found.

  Tommy swallowed grimly. The saliva caught in his throat. He coughed and spat and cleared it, shortened Beau’s reins, and rode him hard for home.

  * * *

  The yard was quiet when Tommy rode in, but by the time he’d stabled Beau and was crossing back toward the house, Billy and Mary were sitting together on the verandah steps. Mary was tiny beside her brother, hands cradled in her lap, picking at the folds of her housedress, and when she lifted her eyes fearfully Tommy knew what Billy had done.

  “You mongrel,” he said, standing over him. “You told her?”

  “It’s only two dead blacks—so what?”

  “She’s eleven, Billy.”

  He shrugged. “She wanted to know.”

  “Is it true they’d had their pizzles lopped?” Mary asked, at which Billy let out a braying laugh.

  “He’s only trying to scare you. There wasn’t no way to tell.”

  “Yes there was. I saw them. All trunk, no branch.”

  Again Billy laughed, as from inside the house Father shouted, “Noone is the bloody police, Liza!” before his voice fell away again.

  “We need to tell him,” Tommy said. “About yesterday, what we saw.”

  Billy’s smile slipped. “Why do we? What would that change?”

  “I don’t know. Neither do you. That’s why we’re telling him now.”

  “Telling him what?” Mary asked. “What happened yesterday?”

  Tommy stepped past them, onto the verandah. Billy jumped to his feet and grabbed Tommy’s arm, but Tommy shook him off and opened the door. Father was sitting at the head of the table, leaning on his elbows, his forehead resting on his hands as if in prayer. Mother was pacing the room; she halted midstride when she saw him, and said, “Tommy? What is it? You’re paler than whey.”

  Billy and Mary had followed him in. Father mumbled, “I told you two to stay outside. That meant your brother n’all.”

  “We saw them. Yesterday. When we were out hunting we went past the trees and saw Sullivan and Noone, them Black Police as well. They had three natives in chains. One they shot and the others they kept, same two that was in the tree. We were meant to tell you but didn’t. We both gave our word.”

  Father lowered his hands and sucked his lips so tight the cheeks hollowed. “Your word about what?”

  “Telling you. And that we wouldn’t go up there again.”

  Silence save their breathing. Father’s gaze slid to Billy and back again.

  “Sit down, the both of you. Mary, get back outside.”

  “Me? What for? Billy already said what you lot found.”

  “Ned,” Mother said gently. “She’ll only hear it after.”

  He hesitated, then nodded at the chairs; they took the same places as for a meal. Father folded his arms and glowered at the two boys, eyes ticking between them, until they came to rest on Tommy, and Father said, “Right, then, let’s hear it. Everything that happened. Every word said.”

  Billy answered, “We was hunting like we told you, but—”

  “Not you,” Father said sharply. “Tommy, on you go.”

  He could feel the others staring. Billy huffed in his chair. Tommy traced a finger around the knots in the table, the lines of the grain, cleared his throat, and began: “It’s like Billy said, we were hunting, chasing something through the trees, might have been a dingo or emu we thought but . . .”

  He told them everything. The troopers, Noone, the warnings Sullivan gave. Hesitant and faltering in the telling, stumbling on the words, a struggle to tell it right somehow, to convey all they had seen, but nobody interrupted or tried to hurry him on. They sat in total silence, Father listening gravely, his chin resting on his chest, breathing through his nose. When Tommy told of how the captive had been put down, Mother clicked her tongue and shook her head; beside her, Mary leaned eagerly on the table, lost in the tale, her gaze distant, watching it all somewhere. Billy wasn’t so attentive. He nibbled the skin on the side of his thumb and held himself tightly with the other arm, and hardly seemed to be listening at all.

  Silence followed the confession. They all waited for Father to speak. He unfolded his arms and laid his hands on the table and stared at them a long time. He turned to Billy. “And you didn’t think any of this was something I should know?”

  “I figured Mr. Sullivan was only stirring the pot.”

  “So you’re protecting me now, is that it? Sparing my feelings, Billy?”

  “Spare you the trouble, is all.”

  Father jabbed his thick finger into the table like a gavel. “Let me make one thing clear. John Sullivan is mine to worry about. Not yours. Or yours. Any of you so much as hears that bastard sneeze, you tell me about it, understand? Same goes for this Noone or anyone else. They’re rounding up natives yon side of our run and you stupid buggers don’t tell me? The hell’s wrong with you two?”

  “What would you have done anyway?” Billy asked. “You always say to leave that sort of thing alone.”

  “Aye, but that’s for me to decide, not you.”

  “I just thought since they was police there must have been a proper cause.”

  “Proper cause?” Mother said. “Come on now—have we raised you so dumb?”

  “What kind of police has blacks in?” Tommy asked.

  “No kind,” Mother said. “They’re killers, that’s all they are. Using blacks to hunt other blacks, it’s disgraceful. They should have been done with all that years ago. We’ve no need for them here.”

  “So they’d not
even done anything? Them natives?” Tommy said.

  “Must have,” Billy answered. “Or why else was Noone there? Duffing or trespass, wasn’t that what Mr. Sullivan said?”

  “And then it’s justified?” Mother asked him. “A man’s life for a cow, Billy?”

  “Might be. If it was ours they were duffing we’d feel the same.”

  “This ain’t about the cattle,” Father said. He slid his hands over the table and folded his arms again. “Fact is, John hunts blacks for sport. Hates them, the Kurrong especially—he’s been chasing them off his station since before you were born. Sees them no different than a crop farmer does rats. This Noone, it’s his job, it’s what they do. John’s been wanting more Native Police out this way for years. So fine, now he’s got them, but the last thing we want is to get ourselves caught up in some bloody black war.”

  “Ned,” Mother scolded. “You can’t mean to let all this stand?”

  “No, I’ll talk to him. John. We can’t be having bodies strung up by our creek.”

  “Or anywhere, surely.”

  “Black Police is still police, Liza. They aren’t going to stop for me.”

  Billy said, “There wouldn’t be any trouble if they stayed on their own land.”

  “The natives aren’t to blame, Billy,” Mother said.

  “They were proper police, though,” Tommy said. “Had on real uniforms, even. Must have had some cause to do what they did.”

  “Are you not listening?” Mother asked him. “What have we just told you?”

  “Daddy?” Mary’s voice was like a needle, puncturing the room. “Why wouldn’t you let Joseph take them home? Why not lend him a horse?”

  Father inclined his head and tried to smile. “Because then I’d be down a horse as well as a man, which would be even worse.”