Only Killers and Thieves

by Paul Howarth

  “Jesus Christ, Tommy, how many bloody times? Keep on their outside, don’t let the buggers turn! Arthur, get over there and sort him out! The hell you doing, Billy—come around, come around!”

  They were a sickly-looking lot. Not the cattle of musters past. Drawn across the haunches, bellies sagging, ribs poking through the skin, they moved in an agitated, jerking shamble and with drought-mad eyes watched for an opportunity to bolt. Which they did, often, and somehow it was always Tommy or Billy to blame. Father hounded them, all of them, including Arthur, the horses, the dogs. Just the manner of his riding set the cattle off, darting about the mob and heavy with the whip, the opposite of everything he’d taught his boys. He watched the scrubs constantly. Always the north and west. When Tommy asked what he was looking for he shook his head and told him to get back to work.

  “Hold them, Tommy, fucking hold them! Do you want us to bloody starve?”

  They camped in the scrubs every night that week, sleeping close by the mob. No holding yards out there, nothing but the natural arrangement of trees and scrub to pen the cattle in. They took turns watching them. A couple of hours each shift. Easy at first, but as the numbers swelled and tiredness bit, it became harder to keep things straight. Tommy sat with his rifle, flinching at every sound. Wild blacks and dingos Father thought the biggest threat. Maybe they were lucky. Though they heard plenty of dingos, none came, and at night the mob mostly behaved. Probably too hungry to stampede. The fodder became thinner the farther east they went, and water was scarce everywhere. The men had their bladder bags and Father had brought rum; every night after supper he would pass it around. They all took a nip, even Arthur and the boys, for warmth more than anything, plus it helped them sleep. Evenings they would sit around the campfire eating dry stores or whatever Arthur had managed to catch that day, rabbit or possum; there were no kangaroos. The four of them huddled in the firelight, the men maybe sharing a memory or singing a ballad, but there was little heart in those stories, not like Tommy had heard them told. Mostly there was silence. Long stretches of time in which they all stared into the campfire, the wood crackling, tossing sparks into the night, as the darkness loomed around them and distant creatures howled.

  * * *

  The cattle limped over the final paddocks and into the holding yards, Father droving from behind and the others corralling them into the pens. Familiar work for Tommy and Billy, but they were exhausted. Their bodies hung off their bones. Their clothes were stiff with sweat and the cycle of sun and cold. And still there was no respite. No shade in the yards. First glimpse of the house, Tommy had started dreaming of a bath, his mother’s food, a lie-down in his own bed. No matter that Billy would be in it. He’d trade an hour with Billy’s kicking for a whole night out there alone.

  “Hands in the air, you dog fuckers! We’re bailing you up!”

  They all stopped and turned in the direction of the shout. Two men with horses were walking over from the house: Sullivan and his offsider, Locke. Tommy glanced across the yard at Billy, who only frowned and shrugged, but Arthur slunk toward the back of the pen. Father simply ignored them. He went on with the cattle until the last was in, Sullivan by now watching, his elbows on the rails, then Father handed off the horses to Arthur and sent him on his way. As Arthur passed by the squatter he kept his eyes on the ground and didn’t look up. Locke mumbled something and both he and Sullivan laughed.

  “You two as well,” Father whispered, closing the final gate. “Wait at the house, see the girls are alright. I’ll be over in a minute. Shouldn’t take long.”

  “What’s he want?” Billy asked.

  “I don’t know. Suppose I’m about to find out.”

  He walked toward them along the railing. Tommy and Billy peeled away.

  “Not sure which looks worse, Ned,” Sullivan called as Father neared. “You or these mangy cows.”

  “Been a tough year, John. Or have you not noticed the drought up your way?”

  “Oh, we’ve had it, we’ve had it—hold up there, boys. Come and say hello.”

  Tommy and Billy hesitated. Father pursed his lips, gave a tiny flick of the head. They walked over. Sullivan was smiling broadly, the smile fixed and full of teeth. He was dressed in a town suit, green fabric, white shirt underneath. His thin hair was neatly combed, and owing to the smile his chin had sunk into his neck. He hooked one elbow on the wooden railing like he was the selector and Father the guest. They hadn’t shaken hands. Father stood in front of him, taller by half a foot, and the boys drifted close to his side. Behind Sullivan, Locke stared at Father with hard, unblinking eyes. His sword hung against his thigh. He was hatless, and totally bald, his head lined with scars and discolored skin patches, like the shell of a no-good egg.

  “Well,” Sullivan said, “you’ve been busy. Just the four of you out there, Ned?”

  “We lost one. Joseph. Had to let him go.”

  “Native, was he? I don’t blame you. The good ones are bloody hard to find.” Finally he stopped smiling. He looked at each of the boys. “Now, I’m hoping these two lads of yours are men of their word. They tell you we met the other week?”

  Tommy’s innards squirmed. He stared at the ground.

  “Aye, they told me. Shouldn’t have been up there. It won’t happen again.”

  Sullivan was nodding. “They promised as much themselves. Did they mention Noone was with us? What went on? That I spared them from him?”

  Father swallowed thickly. He set his jaw. “Noone has no business with them and neither do you. There’s a problem, you can talk to me.”

  Sullivan held up his hands. “Only you never come and visit anymore. I have to ride all the way down here just to check how things are.”

  “We’re fine.”

  “Well, that remains to be seen.” Sullivan glanced doubtfully at the cattle. “What’ll you get for them, d’you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will it be enough?”

  “It’ll be what it’ll be.”

  Sullivan laughed dryly. “What are you now, a bloody philosopher?” He turned to Locke, still laughing. “It’ll be what it’ll be!”

  “There something you came for, John?” Father asked him. “Only we’re tired and hungry and stinking, and I’d like to be getting on.”

  “Right . . . you know, I’d have given you men for the muster, you only had to ask. Or perhaps we can drove them for you? You selling in Rockhampton?”

  “Lawton.”

  Sullivan’s eyes opened. “Christ Almighty—Lawton?”

  “Rocky’s too far.”

  “So let us take them. You can ride along. I won’t be there myself but . . .”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Why not?” Billy whispered, and Father shot him a glare. Tommy elbowed his brother’s side. Billy looked pleadingly about.

  “Now, there’s a lad with some sense between his ears,” Sullivan said, pointing. “Well, suit yourself, Ned, but there won’t be any allowances made.”

  “I’m not asking for any.”

  “And we’ll see you promptly after?”

  “Aye, you will.”

  “Good. So tell me, how was it out there? Any trouble with the blacks?”

  “Never had much ourselves.”

  “Well, lucky you. And why would that be, d’you reckon?”

  Father shrugged tightly. “I leave them be, they do the same.”

  “Horseshit. If it wasn’t for me this place would be overrun. Bloody Kurrong are back again, spearing the cattle, the sheep, then just last month we found a boundary rider with his face stoved, only way we knew him was his boots.” He paused and glanced at Tommy and Billy, then looked at Father again. “But Noone—you met him yet, Ned? I tell you, effective as a fucking plague. We’ve not found a single myall out here since he came around.”

  “One,” Locke corrected.

  “Alright, one. The point I’m making, though, is the whole bloody reason you can take your boys into the scrubs, muster this mise
rable mob, and come home to your lovely wife, is because I look after the district, take care of my own. It wouldn’t hurt you to acknowledge that. A bit of gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.”

  “I don’t want a war, John. There’ll be reprisals. There always is.”

  “So what would you rather do? Put up a fucking sign? No Darkies Allowed—you reckon that would work? Listen, the only thing they understand is the gun. You kill enough, they’ll get the message. You know all this anyway. You know how it’s done.”

  Father turned his head slowly, peeling his eyes away, looking at his sons. “Go on now. Back to the house.”

  “Good to see you, boys!” Sullivan shouted, raising a pudgy hand. Locke didn’t acknowledge them. Billy briefly waved. He and Tommy walked away, across the clearing, toward where Mother and Mary were waiting in front of the house. Mother held herself tightly. Mary was playing with the dogs. As they walked, Tommy looked back at Father and Sullivan still talking, Sullivan wagging his finger in front of Father’s face. Father stood there rigidly, arms braced at his sides.

  “What’s he come for really?” Tommy wondered aloud.

  “To help, was what it sounded like,” Billy said. “Wasting his bloody time.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ll take his side.”

  “His side’s our side, or would be, if Daddy wasn’t so set against him.”

  When they reached the house Mother hugged them, looked them over, cradled their cheeks in her palm. As if they’d been away forever, not a week on their own land.

  “Well? How was it? You have fun?”

  “Yeah, fine,” Billy answered. “Same as always. Drought’s got ’em, though.”

  “Tommy? You okay?”

  He nodded. “How long’s he been here?”

  She stepped back and fussed a little with her apron, her hair. “An hour. I wasn’t expecting him. Don’t think your father will have been either.”

  “That other one gives me the jips,” Mary called, throwing up her hand to try and make Red jump.

  “He do anything?” Tommy asked.

  “No, no, nothing,” Mother said. “John just talks and talks, and Raymond hardly ever speaks. Now, I’ve got a bath drawn. Which of you wants the first turn?”

  Billy ran straight around the back of the house, to where the bath was kept. Mother tilted her head sympathetically at Tommy, but he shrugged and went over to the steps and sat down. He was used to going second. That had been the order all his life. Mother followed Billy, and Mary came and sat beside Tommy on the steps, as the dogs slouched away toward the kennels and the chance of water and food.

  “You stink,” Mary said, sniffing him. “I mean really, really stink.”

  “You should smell my bloody boots.”

  He made as if to remove them, but she squealed and grappled his arm. They settled and both watched Sullivan and Father still talking by the yards.

  “Did he say much about anything? While they were waiting?”

  “Not really. I kept out the way. Ma gave him lunch, the best of what we had.”

  “Nothing about Daddy, or the cattle, the sales?”

  “Nope.”

  “Or what happened with me and Billy? Those blackfellas? Noone?”

  “I was waiting for it but he never did. It was all proper kind of talk.”

  The conversation was winding up. Locke was already mounted, and Sullivan was backing away, still talking, though too distant for Tommy to hear.

  Tommy said, “I never knew his name was Raymond.”

  “I know. I’d have thought something harder. And dumber. Like Dirk, or Rock.”

  “Rock Locke,” Tommy said, and they fell against each other laughing again. Mary recoiled at the smell, laughing all the harder, while in the distance Father stood alone beside the cattle yards, watching the dust trails of two horses peel into the scrub.

  8

  Father and Arthur would be gone a week, droving the cattle to the saleyards in Lawton, and behind them they left a lightness like the aftermath of a storm. Everyone was happier. The children shared chores without fuss or complaint, Mother hummed and sang songs while she worked. Before meals she gave thanks instead of prayers filled with want, and as they ate their potatoes and the last scrapings of beef they talked excitedly about life after the sales. They’d all seen the cattle but were each just as bad: planning and plotting like a make-believe game. The new stock they’d invest in, the repairs they could do, the men they’d put on and the luxuries they would be able to afford, if only for a little while. After three days of such talk Mother’s mind was made up: she would take the dray to Bewley, she announced, fill the pantry before Father returned. Give him some reward for all his hard work.

  “I’ll come with you,” Billy told her. “Help load it all, drive the dray.”

  She shook her head. “I need you here with Mary.”

  “But I’m the oldest.”

  “Which is why I need you to stay.”

  So Tommy squeezed himself into the suit he and Billy shared, once owned by a dead uncle neither of them had met, and waited with Jess and the dray in the yard by the steps, Billy and Mary waiting with him, chirping about Bewley and the favors they wanted bringing back. A new hat for Mary. Lollies from the store. A rubber band from Song’s Hardware, so Billy could make a shanghai.

  They quit when Mother came through the door. She was wearing her blue-and-white church dress, pinched at the waist with a ruffle of ankle-length skirts. She had pinned up her hair and powdered her cheeks, and none of them had seen her so pretty in a long time. A little gasp escaped Mary, and both boys stared, until Billy asked, “Is it proper, going out like that with Daddy away?”

  “Oh, give over, Billy,” she told him, coming down the steps. She kissed him and Mary, climbed into the dray, Tommy followed her up. They shuffled into position on the wooden bench, Tommy took up the reins, clicked Jess on, and the dust-clogged wheels turned. The dray juddered forward. The axle creaked. Mother gave a jaunty wave, and Billy and Mary stood watching as they rode toward the sunrise and the long dirt road heading east.

  * * *

  It was midday when the few low buildings that made up the township first appeared on the plain. All alone in that amber scrubland, trembling in the haze. The dray rattled along toward them, Mother holding her hat against the wind, Tommy squinting into the glare, both of them grimacing at the ride. There was no give in the axle. Every rock and divot jarred through the bench. Before them the road stretched straight and narrow, little more than a horse track beaten through the bush, but the only road Bewley had. It ran through the center of town and continued east for hundreds of miles, supposedly to the mountains, then the coast and an ocean so big it covered half the earth. Tommy could hardly imagine it. But then the same could be said of the interior, which no man had ever crossed; must have been the size of an ocean at least. The thought made him woozy: the scale of it all, what lay out there, the world. One day, maybe. One day he might see some of it, leave these scrubs behind. It didn’t seem possible. In his fourteen years, Bewley was the farthest from their boundary that Tommy had ever been.

  A mile out from town they passed the first of the native camps, a shanty of humped bark gunyahs built among the scrub, home to the displaced and the desperate, those caught between the old world and the new, and now stranded here, squatting on Bewley’s fringes, nowhere else to go. They carried out their chores, stood talking in groups, rested in the shade. All were naked. At most a woven necklace or adornment of some kind. Tommy watched them warily. They watched him in return. But they were doing the same things anyone did: a woman beat the dust from the front of her hut, a man crouched to skin the hide from his kill.

  “Poor devils, look at them,” Mother said. “There never used to be so many.”

  Occasionally there was shouting. A couple of words, nothing too hostile, some laughter, maybe piss-taking at their expense. Mother laid a hand on Tommy’s thigh, told him to ignore it; his rifle was behind him in the bed of the dray. A
clutch of grinning children ran alongside them on the road. Tommy held tight to the reins and resisted the urge to wave. In a clearing he saw a pair of girls, his age or thereabouts, near-naked, whispering to each other, smiling, looking at him; he felt himself beginning to stir. Quickly he fixed his eyes on Jess’s bridle, brushed Mother’s hand from his thigh. She removed it to her lap, and Tommy hunched awkwardly on the bench, shielding his crotch and hoping to God she didn’t ask him what was wrong.

  They reached the fringe of the town. A single street of low buildings ringed by a smattering of humpies and white canvas workers’ tents, and the frames of part-built houses standing gallows-like in the sunshine, as if a mass hanging were planned.

  Mother drew herself taller on the bench, instructed Tommy to do the same. She straightened her hat and dress and fixed a smile on her face. He glanced at her proudly. Easy to forget she had once lived here, working as a housemaid for the magistrate’s wife. She’d been in Bewley only two years before she and Father wed, but as they rode in, she met the stares of traders and townsfolk and spoke by name to those she knew.

  They drew up in front of the general store and climbed down from the dray; Tommy hitched Jess to the rail. As he tied off the rope he watched the crowd and scanned the buildings that lined the busy street, a mismatch of storefronts standing alone or grouped in narrow blocks linked by covered verandahs, their proprietors in the doorways or reclining outside on chairs, calling to each other and to passersby, multiple conversations taking place at once. A few stenciled windowpanes denoted the offices of solicitors, moneylenders, Dr. Shanklin’s surgery, while in the center of town the Bewley Hotel stood apart from all else, a grand double-story mansion house painted yellow and red, its upstairs drapes twitching and its front railing lined with men from the downstairs bar. One staggered down the steps into the road and wandered along the side alley, a bottle swinging loose in his hand. He unbuttoned himself and pissed against the wall.