Only Killers and Thieves

by Paul Howarth

  Around midday Pope halted and the column bunched behind his horse. The old man spoke briefly with Noone, then dismounted and wandered out into the scrub, unhurriedly weaving his way through. The group sat watching him. Tommy heard Locke curse and spit violently on the ground.

  Pope stopped to examine a particular clutch of bush. Nothing untoward about it. Nothing that Tommy could see. Pope bent, then squatted to sit on his heels. He was still shirtless, they all were; that morning none of the troopers had bothered to re-dress. Pope’s skin pulled tight against his ribs. His concave stomach creased. “He taking a fucking shit?” Locke scoffed. Nobody answered him. Pope reached into the bush and tugged something free from the branches, then carried it back to the group, a square of fabric flapping in his hand. The same measured walk he’d taken out there. Face as placid as stone.

  What he’d found was a handmade dilly bag, woven from grass, feathers, and bark; an expert, intricate weave. Pope dipped his hand inside and removed it in a fist, letting a stream of dirt dribble out before opening his palm to reveal berries, seeds, and other pickings, which he fingered carefully like runes. Pope passed up the bag and the findings for Noone to inspect, and while he did so, Pope scanned the country to the west.

  “Still ripe,” Noone said, sniffing them. “Yesterday, you think?”

  Pope nodded. “Wind carry ’em. Been hiding last night them too.”

  “In the ranges?”

  “Nah, them buggers too long way still. Blackfella got no horse.”

  He said the word like hoss, watching the ranges as he spoke. Noone looked toward those same hills, then turned to Sullivan and smiled. Pope remounted. Noone clicked his horse forward and dropped the dilly bag on the ground and each hoof trampled it deeper into the dirt.

  There wasn’t a trail to follow, the earth blown clean by yesterday’s storm, yet still Pope knew the direction they would have taken: the pickers of the berries, the carriers of the bag. He led the group into increasingly rocky terrain, undulating in hummocks and dips, the scrub thinner on open ground now, concentrated instead around the base of giant boulders or in the clefts of sandstone mounds that rose like totems all over the land. Bizarre rock formations, improbable to the naked eye: house-sized boulders, as smooth and round as red marbles, balanced on the tip of a slab; others piled together as unstable as eggs; longer stones stacked in triangular amber cairns, dark caves at their heart, as if laid according to design. They couldn’t have been. To move just one of those rocks would have taken twenty horses and just as many men. Yet there was no explanation for them: they couldn’t have rolled from the ranges, no other source around. Tommy wondered what story the old people must have had for this place; to him it looked like the kind of thing children would have built, giant children playing giant games a long time ago. But then it didn’t feel much like a playground. Nothing joyful here. It reminded him more of a graveyard, each cairn a marker, each rock a protruding bone. That seemed more fitting. Dozens of buried giants, hundreds, too many for Tommy to count.

  A cluster of gum trees gave away the waterhole: Pope pointed and led them in. A leafy stand shielding a chain of little pools, fed by an underground spring, miraculous in this barren wasteland. Since crossing Sullivan’s boundary they had only refilled their flasks from the bladder-bag reserves, and by now all that was left was tepid and dirty and stale. They dismounted and lunged for the water, men and horses both, even the troopers this time, even Noone. They drank and refilled their flasks and bladder bags and washed off the dust from the storm. Tommy sank his head into the pool and let the water cocoon him awhile. He could hear the others through it. Sounds of them drinking, talking, splashing with their hands. He came up breathless and shivered as the water dripped inside his shirt. A rare thing to shiver—he smiled and twisted as it wriggled down his spine.

  He and Billy found a spot in the leaf-dappled sun and sat leaning their backs against a rock. Eyes closed, hair damp, faces dripping: Tommy had memories of having done this many times, and inevitably of Wallabys, that day only a week ago, when they had lain drying in the sunshine while at the house, at the house . . .

  He opened his eyes again. Billy was watching Noone and Pope circling the waterhole, stepping between the pools, talking and studying the ground. Everyone else was resting: Sullivan smoked a cigarette, Locke lay by the water, the troopers idled in the sun.

  “You reckon he’s some sort of witch?” Billy said, nodding.

  “Who? Pope?”

  “Since when did you know their bloody names?”

  “They do have them, Billy.”

  “Well, yeah, that old one, I meant. He knows just about everything, it seems.”

  “He knew the waterhole on account of the trees. It ain’t that hard.”

  Billy frowned at him. “What about the bag, then? How’d he read the storm? And how does he know where they’re headed when there’s not even any tracks?”

  Tommy shrugged. He didn’t care.

  “Exactly. Blackfella magic. I’m telling you, he’s some sort of bloody witch.”

  “It’s not magic to read the land. Or spot a bag in a bush.”

  Billy spat on his hand. “I’ll wager you.”

  “And what? You’ll ask him? Hey, Pope! You a witch or not?”

  “No, we’ll just . . . there’ll be proof come along one way or the other.”

  Tommy scoffed. He didn’t take Billy’s bet. They sat watching the men until Tommy said, “You ever think about Mary? Reckon she’s on the mend?”

  “Should be. Shanklin’ll be there.”

  “What if she’s not? You think about that?”

  “Why would I? What’s the use?”

  “She’s on her own, is all I mean.”

  “I just said, Shanklin’s with her. Better be anyway. It’s been long enough.”

  Tommy reckoned it up. “It’s only been four days.”

  Billy looked at him. “Horseshit, four days.”

  “Means she’s been lying in that bed a week.”

  Billy was shaking his head. “Feels more like a bloody month.”

  They lapsed into silence. Tommy pushed himself to his feet and went to his saddlebag and returned with the packet of lemon sweets.

  “What you got there?”

  Tommy dropped a lolly into Billy’s hand. His eyes widened; he popped it into his mouth and, as he sucked, his eyes squeezed tight and a smile came to his lips.

  “Where in hell did you get these?”

  Tommy took one for himself and hid the bag behind his back. “Mrs. Sullivan gave them. Don’t tell anyone else.”

  “How many you got?”

  He fished out the bag again and showed him.

  “Bloody hell, Tommy!”

  “Shut up, will you. Keep your voice down.”

  “Here, give us some for my pocket.”

  Billy reached for the bag but Tommy snatched it away. He counted two of the lollies into Billy’s lap. Billy started to argue but didn’t, pocketed the lollies instead. He rested his head against the rock; Tommy watched him a moment, then did the same. Smiling and sucking their sweets, faces upturned to the sun.

  Tommy felt the shadow sliding over him, opened his eyes, and found Noone standing there, smoking his pipe, gazing across the waterhole. Tommy elbowed Billy gently and he jerked upright, then fell still when he saw they weren’t alone.

  “Lovely day for it,” Noone said, smiling. “Having fun, boys?”

  “Just resting,” Billy said. “Same as them.”

  Noone nodded and drew hard on the mouthpiece, his hollow cheeks hollowing farther still, then he blew out the smoke and lowered himself down next to Tommy, the brothers shuffling to make room. Noone leaned against the rock and sighed. He was close enough that Tommy could feel the heat of the man, could smell his smoke and sweat. He had his shirt unbuttoned to the middle of his chest—the dark hairs damp and matted—and his sleeves rolled elbow-high. He sat there smoking. The smoke drifted over both of them, sitting awkwardly alongside.
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  “I’d ask for one of those lollies but I think the tobacco would spoil the taste.”

  Tommy scrambled for the packet behind his back. “You’re welcome to—”

  “Put them away, lad, or Locke will take the lot. They’re from that garish tree John has at his place, I assume, all whored up in tinsel and balls?”

  “Yessir. A Christmas tree, she said.”

  “Quite. Even more ridiculous. Still, if it keeps Mrs. Sullivan happy . . . she can’t have too much to smile about.” He exhaled heavily through his nose. “So, how are the pair of you enjoying your little adventure so far?”

  Tommy glanced at his brother. Billy said, “We’re . . . it’s fine.”

  “You’re both keeping well? Food, water, supplies?”

  Hesitantly Tommy nodded. Trick questions, it seemed.

  “Good, good, it’s not to everyone’s taste, of course, traveling in this manner, being out here, but there are moments of enjoyment, I believe, moments of peace.”

  Tommy was still nodding. Wondering what the hell Noone was about. Sullivan and Locke were watching them curiously from the water’s edge.

  “Sadly, they are all too brief, these periods of respite. A sweet or a smoke in the sunshine, then we must move on again. Always moving, always moving. Of course, it is tempting to stay here, to camp here tonight, but there are hours yet until sunset and it would be a shame to waste the light. Not to mention the risk that the trail will be dead come dawn.”

  Billy leaned forward. “You found something?”

  “Indeed. Natives were here just this morning. Seems they camped after the storm, probably sheltered in those rock caves we passed back there. We might have only missed them by a couple of hours.”

  “Was it Joseph? Him and the rest?”

  Noone inclined his head and looked at Billy indulgently, eyebrows raised, a knowing half smile. “No, I don’t believe so. Barefoot, it appears, plus a couple of gins and some dogs . . . hardly your murderous mob. Tommy—what do you say?”

  He looked up, startled. “What about?”

  “Well, how should we proceed?”

  He could feel himself flushing. He shrugged. “Leave them, if they’re not him.”

  “Really? You’re not keen to get out after them? Find out who they are?”

  “Be a waste of the horses. Might be in the ranges by now anyway.”

  “Doubtful. Even on horseback we’d only just make the ranges ourselves. But remember, they’ll be Kurrong, they would know where Joseph is. Still not keen?”

  “There’s women with them, you said.”

  “And?”

  “Well, there weren’t no women involved.”

  “True. But that didn’t spare your mother. Or your little sister.”

  Billy was stirring, rising to his feet. “We should leave,” he said. “Catch ’em before dark.”

  “Tommy,” Noone said, pouting, “I’m disappointed. I thought you were with us. After all, we are here on your behalf. On your word, no less.”

  “I am with you, it’s just—”

  “You see, we can’t have any dissenters. Even my blacks are fully committed to the cause. And yet I worry about you, Tommy. I worry you see too much. There is a little dissent in you, I think. I do not like dissent. It is a wound that festers and slowly eats away at a man, then next thing you know he has turned. That is not good for me. Or for him, in fact. Best thing with a wound that looks like it will turn is to cut off the limb before it takes. If that is not possible, kill the man altogether. It is kinder all round, more effective, saves everyone a lot of trouble and pain.” He pushed himself to his feet, groaning as he rose, then stood over Tommy, staring down. “I do hope I’m wrong about that, Tommy. I think maybe I am. More likely you’re upset about your family still, perhaps a little afraid?”

  “He is,” Billy said quickly. “Has been since we left.”

  Noone looked at him coldly. “Better afraid than a fool, Billy. At least your brother has some sense. Oh, don’t worry, I have the measure of you too. Had it the moment I saw you crawling out of that bush.”

  Noone clapped his hands as he walked away, gathering the others around him. The troopers drifted in from where they’d been sitting, and Sullivan and Locke came close, Sullivan watching the brothers as they joined the back of the group, Tommy the last to arrive.

  “Good news!” Noone announced. He was a head taller than all of them, even Locke, Jarrah, Mallee. “It seems that our native friends who dropped their little bag camped at this waterhole last night. They’ll be headed for the ranges, no doubt, but depending on the time of their leaving we might still catch them before sundown. They are on foot, women with them, won’t be in a rush. They don’t know we’re coming, so we have the added advantage of surprise.”

  Locke rubbed his hands greedily. Nodding up and down.

  “How many?” Sullivan asked.

  “We think five. Three men, two gins, a small pack of dogs.”

  “Always fucking dogs,” Locke said.

  “The horses are well rested, so we ride hard until we lose the sun. And for God’s sake, don’t shoot them. These ones need questioning first. Don’t anyone fire without my say-so. John, Raymond—that includes the pair of you.”

  “Aye, aye,” Sullivan said, and the group parted. They each went to their horses and began checking their weapons and tightening their straps. Tommy dropped the packet of lollies into his saddlebag, Billy spun the barrel of his revolver and snapped it into place, opened it up, snapped it again.

  “About as useful as your pizzle, that thing,” Locke said, walking his horse by.

  “I can shoot.”

  Locke dropped his reins and came to stand between them, close to Tommy’s side. He peered down over his shoulder. “What about you? What you ever killed?”

  Tommy kept his head lowered. Fiddling with his strap.

  Billy said, “We’ve both shot plenty. Rabbit, possum, roo.”

  “What about a nigger?”

  “Not yet,” Billy said.

  Locke smiled at that. A smile stained brown with chew. He cupped Tommy’s chin and turned him around, tilted back his head, his face in Tommy’s face, the foul tang of his breath, the rough grip of his fingers squeezing Tommy’s jaw.

  “How come you never speak, boy? You missing a fucking tongue?”

  Tommy’s teeth were clenched. “I don’t have nothing to say.”

  Locke dug his finger into Tommy’s mouth. It wriggled thick and wormlike between his teeth and gum, prying the teeth apart. Tommy gagged. The finger tasted of shit. Same taste as the smell. Now Locke’s thumb was in there too, groping for Tommy’s tongue; he writhed and shook his head but Locke’s grip on his jaw was too strong. “Hey!” Billy was saying. “Let him go!” Locke pinched the tongue with his nails and the pain made Tommy’s eyes fill. He stopped fighting and let him have it. “There you go now,” Locke said, his eyebrows rising on the bald mound of his head as he pulled out the tongue. “There you go—ah, look at the size of it, no wonder you never speak. Smaller than a baby leech, that thing. Christ help you, boy. Your pizzle that small n’all?”

  He brushed his hands and walked off laughing. Tommy retched and spat, and when he straightened Locke had picked up his reins, ready to lead his horse away.

  “Keep the hammers down on them rifles, and that bloody revolver, else you’ll get yourselves all excited and fire off too soon. I don’t want one of you little cunts shooting me in the back.”

  Don’t tempt me, Tommy thought, rinsing his mouth clean.

  20

  They led the horses around the waterhole and out through the last of the trees, then mounted up and rode west through the same terrain of stone-riddled soil, those uncanny rock mounds, a sparse smattering of bushes and scrub. Pope leading them, reading the trail, but even Tommy could make out the markings in the soil. Only faint, but there was no question: a series of human footprints, heel, arch, and toe; a scattering of paw tracks from the dogs. Tommy couldn’t look a
t them, kept his eyes on the back of Billy’s shirt. Someone had made those footprints. Someone with feet, legs, arms, heart. One looked as small as Mary’s, just about. He exhaled shakily. He hadn’t been expecting it, this sudden call to arms. And now there were footprints. These people they chased were real. Somehow being out here, surviving each day, had become an end in itself. Easy to forget it had only ever been the means.

  Out of the trees meant out of the shade, into the blazing sun. It seared the ground before them and raised a haze upon the empty plains, no sign of the natives out there, they were beyond the horizon at least. In the distance the ranges loomed more clearly than Tommy had ever seen them, within reach by nightfall maybe. Not quite mountains, more substantial than hills, with rounded peaks and smooth hollows like something molded from a vast putty of dirty red clay. The base was fringed with trees and brush and the downslopes were scarred by a network of what looked to be canyons and caves. Plenty of places to hide in, plenty of routes to take. A slim hope sprang in him: if the natives reached the ranges, they might yet manage to escape.

  It could never have been so simple: within two hours they had run them down, tiny ant-like shadows appearing on the trembling plain. Noone gave a cry and all spurred their horses and drove them mercilessly across that broken ground, riding high in the saddle and keen with the whip, Billy waving his revolver above his head while Tommy struggled to keep pace with the stampede, clinging to the reins and to Beau’s body with his knees, eyes blurring, gasping at the air, a confusion of wind and glare and dust. He dipped his head against it and saw Billy’s face peeled open in a joyful howl. Billy shouted something, whooped, pumped his revolver in the air, as all the while the figures grew closer on the plain. Their arms flailing, heads twisting, glancing behind them as they fled: five desperate natives and a scattered pack of dogs. The posse roared in unison and sent their calling on the wind. A calling of hatred and of bloodlust, and of thirty-six hooves pounding the red earth, which shook like the skin of a drum.