Only Killers and Thieves

by Paul Howarth

  In the blue gums Tommy dismounted and led Beau by the reins, picking a route through the trees. These same trees in which they’d once chased a dingo or emu—they’d never been sure. What if they hadn’t? What if they’d gone south to hunt instead? Would all this still have happened? Would anything have changed?

  In the trees he heard the rustle of creatures moving through the branches, possums or flying foxes going about their lives, utterly indifferent to his. They didn’t notice his suffering. They didn’t care. After all that had happened, life carried on. Tommy was realizing this now. He had lost everything. So many people had died. It was nothing. The world watched on impassively. It barely even blinked.

  When Tommy mounted up again, Beau seemed to sense they were on McBride land, and quickened his pace for home. Tommy gave him the reins and let him carry him, and they were almost at a gallop as they crossed the final fields. The dark husks of the buildings came into view and Tommy let out a deep moan. He had not been back here since the burial. The pitch of the house roof, the outline of the stables and sheds, the empty skeleton of the stockyard rails. As they neared, he mapped the scrubland behind the house, searching out the two mounds of broken earth and the little white markers at their heads. He believed he could see them. Even in this darkness, from so far away. He watched and he watched, his attention so fixed on finding those graves that he missed the little campfire burning outside the bunkhouse door.

  He was alongside the stockyard when he saw it: he slowed Beau to walking and moved cautiously across the patch of open ground, before halting at the edge of the yard. A small fire. Little more than a single flame and its surrounding glow. One log, maybe. The kind of fire meant to go unseen. The bunkhouse doors were open but there was no one around. Must have heard Tommy coming and hid. He checked the other buildings. They stood silent and empty in the gloom. The house with its verandah, the stables, the sheds: these makings of a life he recognized but no longer owned. He pulled himself back out of it. Someone else was here. He had no weapon but it didn’t matter—with one kick of Beau’s flank he could be gone.

  “Show yourself or I start shooting. That’s my barn you’re hiding in.”

  There was movement in the bunkhouse doorway. Tommy braced himself, ready to flee. A figure stepped into the fireside glow. Tall and lean, wild-haired and bearded—Tommy’s breath caught in his throat, his chest tightened, he scrambled down from the saddle and ran across the yard and threw himself into Arthur’s embrace, the old man’s body warm against his, enveloping him, his hand cradling the back of Tommy’s head, stroking him gently, and Tommy was weeping, weeping, so hard he could barely stand, pouring it all out of him, everything that had happened, everything he had, and all the while Arthur whispering, “I’ve got you now, Tommy. I’ve got you now.”

  Gippsland, Victoria

  1904

  38

  After lunch he sits alone on the verandah, looking over the leafy gully, drinking his coffee and having a smoke, his hat beside him on the bench. Still in his work clothes, the shirtsleeves rolled, his stockinged feet crossed before him on the deck, and his blue eyes narrowed in a squint that never leaves, even in the shade. Fair-haired and stubbled, the stubble gray and gold, hints of red when it’s long. Beside his outstretched feet a black-and-white sheepdog lies sleeping; her ears twitch as he draws on the cigarette, then the eyes open irritably when he sighs out an exhale.

  “That’s me told,” he says, smiling. “But it’s my bloody deck you’re on.”

  The dog closes her eyes again, and he laughs and shakes his head, gazes out over the gully, over his land. The selection is spread across a meandering hillside, cut only by the east-west track running close to the house, then continuing all the way down to the creek far below. Once, he’d worried that the creek was too far away, that he’d have to find a means of pumping his water uphill, but in fact the hillside is riddled with trickling streams, either on the surface or just beneath, and he’s never been short of water here. It has taken some getting used to—the seasons running backward, not pining for the next rainfall. Still gets dry in the summer, but the fodder is generally lush and plentiful, and by rotating the paddocks his cattle hardly know the taste of grain. Free to roam, bellowing happily, no idea how it feels to starve. Only after the fires of ninety-eight was there ever any trouble, but the grass recovered quickly enough. He’d only just arrived here and it had seemed so arbitrary that he was spared. Not everyone had been as lucky. Closer to town whole houses had been razed, cattle burned, yet the worst of it had missed him by a mile.

  From his verandah the view stretches over the tops of the trees and across to the other side of the gully, the land undulating all around, rarely ever flat. White parakeets are squabbling in the treetops, hopping between the branches, screeching at each other—talking, he supposes—before one will take flight and another will follow and they’ll circle around and land again, and the argument will start up anew.

  “Worse than us two,” he tells the dog. “Least you and me don’t fight over a seat.”

  She doesn’t acknowledge him. Tess, he has named her, after the woman in the book. He watches her sleeping, or pretending to sleep, then turns his attention to the parakeets again. He never tires of them, the birds; on a morning the bush is alive with their singing, kookaburras and lyrebirds, whipbirds and bowerbirds, all of them at it, performing almost, competing to be heard.

  He exhales one last draw, then crushes the cigarette in the soil bucket at the side of the bench, sips the coffee in his left hand. A skewed grip on the handle, thumb and forefingers only, but well practiced and firm. He swallows and sighs. He is never happier than sitting out here, looking over his land, listening to the birds and the distant cattle, his work done, a drink in his hand. This is his entertainment; this is his life. On an evening he’ll do the same, red wine instead of coffee, brandy maybe, sometimes a whiskey but not often; he’s never been able to stomach the taste of rum. He’ll sit through the twilight, watching the sun go down, watching the flying foxes, then stay on into the darkness, his face lit by the glow of a cigarette, Tess with her head in his lap or snoozing at his feet. When he’s finished he’ll go back inside and read a book before bed, filling his head with stories to keep away the dreams. That’s when the memories get him. They come for him still. Some nights he wakes sweating and horror-filled and gasping at the air, whirling on the room like the walls are closing in. He daren’t sleep again after that. So it’s back to the verandah, wait for the dawn.

  Now he groans as he stands and shuffles to the rail. He has his father’s body, broad and tall, that same stiffness in his gait. He leans against the railing, drinks his coffee, scanning the gully east to west. Beside him, Tess stirs, lifts her head from the boards and pushes herself to her feet, stiff as him just about. She squeezes between his shins and the balustrades and restlessly circles his legs, then pauses looking west and snatches a couple of warning barks.

  “You hear something?” he asks her, and Tess gives another volley in reply. “Alright, that’ll do. Don’t worry yourself. If it’s anyone it’ll only be Alf.”

  He looks to the west but can’t see anything, no sign of Alf’s wagon behind the bushes and trees. No jangling sound, either, but the mail coach is two days overdue, and no one else ever comes.

  Might have brought his Queenslanders. News from up north.

  He drains the coffee and goes inside, leaving Tess standing guard at the rail. Through the little living room and into the kitchen, where he puts a pot of fresh water on the stove to boil, then digs around the sparse pantry and comes up with a crust of bread and a couple of slices of salted beef. He combines them in a sandwich and weighs the offering in his hand. It’s all there is—he’s never been much of a host. The store this afternoon, then. Get some supper in.

  When the coffee is made he carries the two cups in his hands and the towel-wrapped sandwich wedged under his arm, and goes out onto the verandah again. Now the mail coach is visible, the old Cobb & Co.
wagon coming slowly along the track, big wheels turning, a four-team of horses and Alf floating above the hedgerow, hunched on his box. No passengers today, no luggage on the roof—means he might stop and talk. Tess barks again and though he scowls at her, he knows why she’s upset.

  “Ah, quit your whining. I’m not so bad these days. Besides, Alf’s the only bloody visitor we get.”

  He hobbles down the steps and along the narrow footpath that leads through the long grass to the road, Tess right beside him, tight to his legs. There are gateposts, but no gate—he always intended hanging one, but found he had no need. He leans on one of the posts and watches Alf come. The coachman sees him and waves. With the coffees in his hands, he can only respond with a nod.

  “Thought you’d forgotten us,” he says as the coach pulls up on the track.

  “Had to do a run to Bendigo. Never like going out there.”

  Alf ties off the reins, swivels on the box, clambers down. The horses are panting and covered in dust, and now that it’s stationary, the coach creaks like it breathes. Alf brushes himself down, removes his hat, scrubs his face, and comes up smiling. An old-looking man, if not exactly old. Long, graying hair and sunburned skin, lines around the eyes, but the eyes themselves still keen.

  “Howya, young Robert?” he says warmly.

  “Howya, Alf?” He holds up the coffees. “Time for a stop?”

  “Glad of it. Been out since dawn. That trough got anything in?”

  “Help yourself. Filled it yesterday. Just in case.”

  “Ah, you’re a good man, a good man.”

  While Alf unshackles the horses from the harness, Tess darts about excitedly, her tongue hanging, snapping the odd bark at their guest.

  “He’s not brought you anything. Something for me, though, maybe?”

  “Aye, there is,” Alf says, leading the horses to the trough. “Got a bundle of them Queenslanders for you in the back there. Still don’t know what you’re doing reading some other bugger’s news.”

  Alf comes back from the trough, accepts the coffee, raises the cup in salute, and takes a tentative sip, blowing on the surface to cool it down.

  “Thanks for this, Bobby—much obliged.”

  The coachman flops onto the wagon steps and lets out a sigh from his bones. He notices the sandwich and his eyebrows raise hopefully, then when it’s offered he grabs it, unwraps the towel, takes a bite, and closes his eyes as he chews.

  “You’re no bloody baker, but by, she must have been a pretty cow.”

  “Prettier than you’re used to, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Alf says, laughing. “Ain’t that the bloody truth.”

  He stands by the gatepost with his coffee, watching Alf eat.

  “I already told you, anyway. It’s the cattle prices I get them for.”

  Alf squints up at him. “What that now?”

  “The Queenslanders. For the market reports.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about it, Bobby. I’m only having you on.”

  He nods and sips his coffee and bends to tickle Tess behind her ear. When Alf has finished his sandwich he dabs his mouth with the towel and hands it back.

  “First-class that. First-class. So, then, what news from Sleepy Gully here?”

  “No news. You know us. Working. Same as always.”

  “Stock keeping well?”

  “Aye, they’ll be right. Can’t but help it round here.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Alf says. He takes another drink. “Been out much?”

  “Such as?”

  “Anywhere, Bobby. You seen anyone else since last I came by?”

  “Course I have. Heading to town this very afternoon.”

  “Good. It ain’t healthy a man living out here on his own.”

  “I ain’t on my own.”

  Alf looks at Tess. “A woman, I’m talking about. Hell, beef like that, I’d marry you. Better yet, might trade the missus for one of them pretty cows.”

  “That keen to be rid of you, is she?”

  “Good-looking fella like you, she’d be keener than the cow!” Alf starts laughing, a phlegmy rattle that catches in his throat. He clears it, spits, drains the coffee, and passes back the cup. “Right then,” he says, standing. “Let’s see about them papers.”

  “No rush, Alf.”

  “Aye well, some of us have work to do.”

  “You mean sitting on your arse, telling them horses to pull?”

  Alf feigns outrage. “Thirty miles I’ve done since sunup. Anyway, all I ever see you doing’s waiting on that porch.”

  “Lunchtime.”

  Alf is smiling at him. “It’s always bloody lunchtime round here.” He opens the coach door, leans inside, rummages through the boxes and bundles of papers, then straightens, holding a small parcel of Queenslander journals, bound in brown string. “There y’are. Bloody northerners. Wouldn’t welcome but one of the bastards down here.”

  He takes the journals from Alf and tucks them under his arm. “That’s your own countrymen you’re talking about. We’re all under the same flag now.”

  “Well, I never agreed to it. Flag or no bloody flag. It’s all boongs and chinks up there is what I heard. Be giving ’em the bloody vote next. Back in the old days they had the right idea about it, used to shoot the buggers on sight, none of this Protector of Aborigines bull crap. Anyway, these new laws’ll sort ’em out. Send ’em back where they came from, I say—hold up now, what’s bit your arse?”

  He is still standing with the journals under his arm, the mugs dangling from his fingers, but all trace of a smile is gone. He attempts one now but fails.

  “Nothing. Thanks for these. Anyway, best be getting on.”

  “Bloody hell, Bobby. You’ve not taken offense?”

  “Course not. Too much coffee, need a piss. You manage with the team?”

  “Aye, I’ll manage with the team . . . just, I didn’t mean nothing.”

  “I know. I need a piss, that’s all it is. Come on, Tess. Come on, girl.”

  He hurries away, Tess running ahead of him, uphill along the path, but forces himself to turn and wave at Alf, now rehitching his horses to the coach. Alf returns the wave slowly, sadly, and he continues on to the house, doesn’t look back again. Not sure he can keep it hidden, the guilt and grief stirred up by Alf’s words and these bloody news journals he cannot bring himself to quit. He closes the front door behind him, tosses the Queenslanders on the coffee table, slumps down into the armchair, and holds his head in both hands. He should have said something, spoken up against Alf, but then Alf’s his only visitor, his only means of news from home. He stares at the topmost journal, that word Queenslander, and hates himself for it, his need to know, his inability to leave the past where it belongs, his fear that he’ll open those pages and find a story about himself, his family’s murder, the massacre that followed; his fear that the lies he has spent a lifetime telling will one day be untold.

  39

  The ride into town only takes half an hour, less if he pushes Lady any quicker than a walk. Which he rarely does; she can move when she has to, whether in the paddocks or on the road, but both prefer not to hurry, they’re well suited that way. It isn’t always so. Before Lady he had a gelding that reminded him of Beau, but there was none of Beau’s temperament in that horse. Made him realize he hadn’t appreciated how special Beau was. But then Beau was his first, he wasn’t to know. So he’d sold off the gelding and bought Lady instead, hazel-colored coat, a gentle way about her. “A proper lady this one,” the trader had told him. The name stuck. That was four years ago. He doesn’t like to think about a time when she’ll be gone.

  The road twists through hilly bushland, then drops into town, giving a view of the whole place as he rides in. It’s not much, really. One of everything just about. Baker, butcher, general store. There’s a pub and some tearooms and an iron-walled shed they call a town hall. All on the one street, houses scattered around, spreading up into the hills
. The same creek that flows through his selection also winds through the town; they’ve tried to make a feature of it, built a hump-backed bridge, a bandstand, there’s a park with flower beds and a paved walking path. It’s nice here, he supposes. He’s lived in worse places since leaving Glendale.

  Although, can he really claim to live here? That he belongs? Certainly he’s at home on his own land, but even after six years he’s something of an outsider in town. Not that he’s unwelcome—the fires of ninety-eight had seen to that. From his hillside he’d seen the smoke cloud coming, read its movement, read the wind, knew it was headed for town. He’d ridden like a madman to warn them, come tearing in along the road to find plenty still oblivious, going about their business, no clue what was coming their way. He’d carried water from the creek, stood with them shoulder to shoulder in the face of the fire. Then afterward, the bulk of the town mercifully spared, others not so lucky, he had done what he could to help. They’d all been grateful. He wasn’t a stranger anymore. Despite the lingering suspicion and disapproval at how he lived, this man Robert Thompson—a name he’d taken from a headstone in a town called St. George—was an alright bloke after all. Gently, he pulled away again. Kept to himself on his farm. He has a story all worked out but doesn’t like to tell it. It’s easier not to have to. Easier on his own.