Only Killers and Thieves

by Paul Howarth

  22

  The gunshot woke him into a mad scramble of men fighting off their bedrolls and lunging for their weapons, as the booming pistol report caromed around the chamber walls. Tommy went for his rifle but it wasn’t there. He hadn’t slept with it to hand. On his knees he crawled through a chaos of shouting to where it lay beneath his pack, and had only just reached the stock when he felt the tension in camp subside. He glanced over his shoulder and saw weapons slowly coming down.

  “Christ in hell, Raymond,” Sullivan said. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

  Locke was standing over the two male prisoners, his back to the group, pistol raised, and seemingly oblivious to the panic he had caused. Overnight the men had been rechained back-to-back and reseated by the wall. Now one was rocking and moaning, his face crumpled, his eyes clenched, while behind him the other slumped forward, a deadweight held in place by the chains. Locke had shot him through the head. The plum-sized hole steamed. A smell of burned powder in the air.

  Locke turned and surveyed the group as if surprised to find them there. His face was sickly white, his eyes red, his skin lathered in sweat. He flexed his wounded shoulder and stretched out his neck until it clicked, then scratched his cheek bashfully with the pistol end.

  “Well, I told you. Told that bastard too. Didn’t mean to scare no one.”

  A grumble rippled through the group. Hesitantly Locke returned to his bedroll and began packing up his things. Noone was glaring at him. Locke kept his head down. “There any breakfast?” he asked. “I’m hungry as a horse without teeth.”

  The camp settled. No one paid the dead man any more attention than when he was alive. Tommy looked for the girl and found her huddled against the wall, knees to her chin, alone. Noone wasn’t with her, and the woman wasn’t there; Tommy waited for Kala to notice him but she did not. She stared only at the dead man; Tommy looked at him anew. He’d been someone to her, he reminded himself. A brother, a friend. Like he’d seen Billy executed just now. And yet around them the camp was rousing as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Men rolling up their swags, pulling on their boots, shaking off the cold of the night. The fire was rekindled. Tea was boiled. Like any other morning on earth.

  “Some cockcrow that,” Billy said, appearing at Tommy’s side. He was tying his own bedroll, fiddling with the knot, trying to appear casual but he did not look well. Eyes like mad cattle, his complexion watery and gray.

  “It’s like he ain’t nothing,” Tommy said. “No better than a dog.”

  Billy glanced to where the two men were chained. One holding up the other, fighting his deadweight pull. Billy spat on the ground.

  “Worse than dogs, both of them. Murdering bastards, that’s what they are.”

  “How’s that now?”

  “They confessed.”

  “Confessed to what?”

  “What d’you reckon? Gave up Joseph and all them other cunts.”

  “There were no other cunts, Billy. You made the other cunts up.”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  “You’ve swallowed your own bloody lie!”

  “There might have been others, we don’t know there weren’t. Anyway, they confessed, I just told you. Only a day or so’s ride, Noone says.”

  Tommy watched his brother doubtfully. Billy went on fumbling with his pack.

  “And when did he tell you all this?”

  “Last night. After you turned in. I’d have woken you but . . .”

  Billy waved his hand, indicating the nature of things between them after he’d returned to camp, more reticent and flush-faced than anyone checking on horses ought to have been. Seeing him, Rabbit had hauled up the girl and taken her back to the ledge, and if Billy had noticed the goodwill between the three of them, he was too preoccupied to care. He sat down by the fire and took a slug of rum and ignored Tommy’s glaring.

  “You did it,” Tommy had said finally. “You did it, I know.”

  Billy wouldn’t answer him. Wouldn’t look anywhere but the flames. Soon Sullivan returned also, dragging the woman along. She was limp and walked unsteadily and held a hand to her face. She’d been crying.

  “Sure I can’t tempt you?” Sullivan had said with a grin.

  He’d spoken to Tommy, and Tommy alone. Billy’s head hung. Tommy turned away from both of them and lay down on his bedroll. At one point he’d heard Noone returning with the men, then Jarrah and Mallee taking the woman away for themselves; at another he must have, mercifully, fallen asleep.

  “Where’s she at, anyway?” Tommy asked Billy now. “The woman, where’s she gone?”

  “I ain’t seen her,” Billy said.

  “You seen her plenty last night.”

  “They never brought her back after. The blacks.”

  “Meaning you know exactly where she’s at, what they’ve done.”

  “Just quit, will you. She’s only a gin.”

  Tommy walked away, sat down by the fire, drank tea from a stained and flaking tin cup he cradled in his hands for warmth. Noone was giving a briefing. He stood beside the two chained men. Based on their information there was perhaps only one more day of hard riding, he said, gesturing at the men as if acknowledging the contribution they had made to the cause. The one still able did not look up. He slumped miserably with the body on his back. Noone finished talking, then came to sit with Tommy at the fireside. He called Billy over, then when both brothers were seated, offered them the chance to take the remaining man’s life.

  “What did they tell you?” Tommy asked. “Last night—what did they say?”

  “The evidence will show that both of these men know Joseph. And that they were in the group which came to your property and killed Mr. and Mrs. McBride.”

  Tommy glanced at the man sniveling by the wall. “He said that?”

  “It will be in the evidence. A matter of record. A proven fact.”

  “I don’t—is that what he said, or what you’re saying?”

  “You doubt me, Tommy?”

  “He just don’t look like much, that’s all.”

  “He ain’t,” Billy said. “I already told you that.”

  Noone leaned close, looking one to the other and back again. In his empty eyes Tommy saw the outline of a pupil, a deep, dark circle shrouded in fog.

  “Listen,” Noone said. “Listen to me now. I’m going to tell you what will happen if we were to let that man live. He will hate us. Not only you and I personally, but all white men. He will become like a tick on the back of a beautiful horse, biting and gnawing and burrowing into the very fabric of this country we are trying to build. He will hunt us, all of us, we will never be safe in our homes. Your families, should you have them, will not be safe. Your children, your grandchildren, will not be safe. Remember, he will breed also. He will produce a dozen heirs, all with his hatred in their blood. In the cities they talk of civilizing them, of whites and blacks living side by side. It is a noble ideal. It reads very well in a newspaper or book. But tell me, boys—you have seen it, the reality out here—do either of you think that can ever be done? Those people on the coast, they expect the black man to throw down his spear and integrate, like he realizes suddenly he’s been living all wrong. It is laughable, the ignorance of the educated classes, sitting in their parlors and their clubs. The blacks don’t want to integrate. They want for us to leave. So either we domesticate them, or we kill them; there really can be no other way. The truth is, it doesn’t matter whether this man killed your family or not. He would have done so if given half a chance, and he will do so again. We cannot release him, we cannot take him with us, so we must shoot him. The only question is whether you two will pull the trigger, and take your share of responsibility for what must be done?”

  “I will,” Billy said. “I’ll kill the cunt.”

  “Good lad, Billy,” Sullivan called. “Well said.”

  “And you?” Noone asked, as each of them stood.

  Billy answered for his brother: “He doesn’t hav
e to. I already said I would.”

  “You should both do it. Fire at the same time. No dissenters, remember.”

  “Just give him to Billy,” Sullivan said. “The other’s as green as a tree frog. He’s got his father’s spine. Ned had no stomach for this kind of thing.”

  “As I recall,” Noone said, “you once told me the opposite.”

  Sullivan laughed and shook his head. “Long time ago, that.”

  “You never were a good judge of a man, John. You underestimate this one. I don’t expect that you’ll listen to me, but you’re courting the wrong son.”

  Something in Tommy quickened at the praise and he hated himself for it. Billy cast about for a weapon, found his rifle, strode over to the chained man, and took aim. The man cowered behind his hands. From across the camp Kala began shouting, begging, and the man spoke to her through his fingers. His voice was broken but firm. Kala quietened. She held herself, sobbing gently, rocking back and forth.

  “Hold up, lad,” Sullivan said, grabbing Billy’s arm. “Not with the rifle, not in here.” He motioned to Locke, who gave his pistol, the same percussion revolver he had used on the other man. Sullivan inspected the chamber. “Loaded? Capped?”

  “I put two shots in,” Locke said, shrugging. “Just in case.”

  Billy took the revolver and weighed it in his hand. All eyes on him now. Noone leaned and whispered to Tommy, “You should be part of this. It’s more important than you think.” He nudged him. Tommy looked down. Noone was offering his pistol. A gleaming silver Colt self-cocking revolver, ornately patterned on the barrel and grip. Tommy kept his hands at his sides, as Billy cranked back the hammer and pointed Locke’s pistol at the native’s head. He stood with his legs wide, arms straight, but couldn’t halt the tremor in his hands. The native watched through his fingertips, damp lips moving, a faint plea or prayer, as all the while Noone whispered in Tommy’s ear:

  “I heard your father was more efficient. John once spoke highly of his skills. Of course, this was before you knew him, but then you can never truly know. The men on John’s station used to hunt them for pay. Same as you would a dingo, a shilling per scalp, though perhaps it was more or less, I’m not sure. For some it proved very lucrative. Helped them get ahead.”

  He was still offering the revolver. Tommy only half understood. His eyes were fixed on Billy, though he couldn’t see his brother’s face. From behind it didn’t even look like him. Everything was wrong. That wasn’t Billy’s shooting stance. He never shot square on.

  Billy shook his head. A tiny birdlike movement, twitching side to side. A flush crept up his neck, and into his hairline. His arms slackened. The pistol sagged.

  “They killed your family, son,” Sullivan said.

  Billy fell deathly still. His trembling stopped. He raised the pistol and fired and Tommy saw the gun smoke puff into the air. The native convulsed and smacked against the wall, only to rebound into place, righting himself like a bucket in a well, anchored by the body on his back. His eyes closed briefly, then opened in an unfocused stare. His head flopped sideways and wouldn’t straighten. His mouth gaped, his bent arms rose, the hands floating in front of him until they very slowly found his body and felt their way up his chest. Like they weren’t his hands at all. Like it was not his own chest. The fingers crawled over the scars and lumps and bones until they reached the base of his neck. There was a hole in it. Billy had blown out a chunk where the neck and shoulder met. Blood poured from the wound. The raw flesh pulsed. Frowning, the man fingered the hole and his eyes rolled toward Billy. A sound gargled in his throat. One of his legs began twitching. Billy cocked and pulled the trigger once, twice, but the hammer only clicked. He whirled around desperately, and Locke searched his pockets for powder and balls, impeded by his lame arm. Billy kept glancing at the man pawing meekly at the air. Finally Sullivan came up with some ammunition and handed it to Billy, but he spilled the powder, dropped the caps and balls. Sullivan knelt to help him. Kala began screaming and a sickening rattle sounded in the wounded man’s throat. Rabbit muffled Kala’s screams. She tried to fight the trooper off. Her eyes found Tommy and his found hers, and he saw rage in her stare, hatred, then a sudden softening as tears came. They welled in her eyes and dripped over Rabbit’s fingers, over her cheeks. And still Billy fumbled to reload the gun.

  “He’ll thank you for it,” Noone said. “As will your brother. As will the girl.”

  The revolver was still there in his outstretched hand. Tommy stared at the glinting metal for what felt a very long time. The injured man wheezed dully, his eyes searching the canyon and the sky like he knew not where he was. Again Kala screamed. Tommy snatched up the revolver, marched across camp, shoved his brother aside, and fired a single cartridge cleanly into the man’s failing heart.

  23

  Silence followed the gunshot. Sounds of breathing and boots scuffing the dirt and Kala sniffing back her tears. Tommy lowered the revolver. His own breathing came quick and hard through his nose. His chest heaved. The man lay dead against the wall, steadily bleeding out. Nobody moving, all of them watching Tommy, as if waiting for something more. Billy weakly pushed him. Tommy slammed the revolver into Noone’s hand, then grabbed his saddle pack and bedroll and walked out of camp, back along the ravine and down through the sloping tree cover to where the horses were tied. Beau was standing in the rocky glade, lips slopping as he chewed, his wise and kindly face, and at the sight of him Tommy sank to the ground and clutched his head in his hands, fingers gripping his hair so hard the tips were white, his eyes filling with tears. He had killed a man. He had taken a life. He didn’t believe the native had killed his parents, and he didn’t believe in Noone’s notion of any black will do. How was that justice? Where would it ever end?

  “Bloke was dying anyway,” he mumbled, and this was surely true. If Tommy hadn’t finished him, then Billy would have, or any of the others up there. Would have taken their time about it too, maybe toyed with him awhile first. It was a mercy he had performed and that was all, and to hell with bloody Noone. He’d been smiling when Tommy gave back the revolver, like he’d proved himself or some horseshit. Fuck him. Fuck Billy too. Fuck all of them and their—

  Footsteps scraped through the scree and dry leaves above, coming down the hill. Tommy rose and wiped his eyes and face, spat, went to where Beau was tethered. The horse watched him. Tommy stroked his nose, let him nuzzle his hand.

  “Don’t suppose you saw our Billy down here last night?”

  Beau sniffed his palm.

  “No,” Tommy said quietly. “I didn’t think you had.”

  The group arrived and readied their horses in silence, the atmosphere oddly downcast, like something had been lost up there. Rabbit clapped Tommy warmly on the shoulder and as Noone helped her into the saddle Kala’s eyes were on him too.

  Billy sulked alone. He untied Annie and stood waiting at the edge of the trees, and when all were ready they walked their horses out of the cover and onto a narrow track leading across the hillside and around the ravine in which they’d camped. Bulging headland on their right, rubbled downslopes below. A little way above him, Tommy saw the cave Sullivan had likely used. A dark and shadowy slit in the rock, and the woman still up there, he assumed. But then as they walked he noticed two wedgetails circling high overhead and he examined the country to the east. A beautiful country, bathed in golden dawn. He read the wedgetails’ position. They were over the foot of the same downslope the group now traversed, where boulders lay piled and mulga trees grew. And there, part-hidden among them, the woman lay broken on the rocks. Marks in the scree showed where she had rolled, must have been tossed from the cave. He looked to see if Kala had noticed, but she had not. She rode naked before him, prized and protected and favored by Noone, carried like a princess on his horse, and Tommy only feared for her all the more.

  * * *

  White clouds blew overhead as the party rode through the shadow of the ranges and into the sunshine of the western plains, the nothin
gness that lay there, as empty and unyielding as all they’d crossed before. The ranges hadn’t changed anything, hadn’t signaled a frontier or marked a shift in the terrain. They were their own anomaly. A knot in a vast sheet of lumbered wood. They were there, then they were not there, and the land went on and on.

  Late morning the two riders hove into view and Noone brought the party to a halt. They sat watching the two small figures shimmering on the horizon and the dust rising from their hooves. The wind blew gently. The sun warmed their backs. The riders had been heading southeast; now they turned and rode directly to where the party stood. Noone clucked with displeasure. Glaring at the horses advancing across the open plain. He looked at his men with eyebrows raised, then shook his head and sighed. There was muffled laughter. Locke spat a string of brown saliva onto the ground, and though Noone addressed the group, he stared directly at him: “Don’t anyone shoot these bastards unless I give the word.”

  On they came. Noone called for Jarrah to help Kala from his horse.

  “Put her with the oldfella—Pope, keep your hands off.” He caught Tommy’s eye and corrected himself: “Actually, give her to the youngblood there. He’s more than capable of taking care of her, I’m sure.”

  Jarrah lifted the girl onto Tommy’s saddle and he inched himself forward to make space. Beau stepped uneasily at the extra weight but settled under Tommy’s hand. He felt the warmth of Kala behind him, the heat coming off her skin. She didn’t touch him that he could tell, but kept herself back on the horse. He glanced once over his shoulder, then quickly away, no clear look at her face, saw only the presence of her there. Her bare legs dangled behind his legs. Dark feet dusted in a fine red dirt.