Dust Off the Bones

by Paul Howarth

  He found the horse in the livery stables. Jones the stableman had spotted Buck wandering and brought him inside for the night: “I fed him and brushed him for you, made sure he slept. Ride all day if he has to. No worries about that.”

  Billy pulled a handful of coins from his pocket. “What do I owe you?”

  “Oh, no charge for you Billy-lad. Not with all what you done.”

  Grimly Billy looked at him. He swallowed, bit down hard. Grinning stupidly, Jones folded his hands into the bib of his overalls and shook his outsize head. Billy dropped the coins back into his pocket. “Appreciate it,” he said.

  A half mile out of town the native camps began: once a small smattering of humpies now almost a township in its own right. Makeshift tents and woven gunyahs, piles of salvaged scrap, people living among it, hundreds now it seemed, drifting out of the bush and settling here, arse-to-cheek with the town. They watched him pass, pausing in their chores, children breaking off their games; Billy couldn’t stand to look at them. He rested his hand on the butt of his revolver, kept his head down, and rode through open scrub country toward Broken Ridge cattle station, his home for the last five years. Really there was nowhere else out here. The drought had taken it all. Little family-run smallholdings like Glendale, his father’s old place, that had one by one folded or been abandoned or been swallowed by Broken Ridge. Families that for generations had tended the same patch of land had fled east without hardly a fight, and now lived in cities working in shops or on building sites or instead tended tiny hobby-farms, milking every morning, shearing the wool off a dozen dumb sheep.

  Softcocks, in Billy’s view. Should have stayed and ridden it out.

  In his hut on the workers’ compound, he stripped off his clothes and lay on the bed and slept off last night’s excess, then woke feeling fresher but slicked in a thin film of sweat. Early afternoon now, the hut burning up: Billy washed himself with soap and dressed in a clean shirt and slacks. He shaved in the little mirror, careful around his beard, and combed his dark hair, though only barely, the two had never really got along. His father’s sad eyes staring back at him. The lump where his brother Tommy had once broken his nose. Handsome, they generally called him, though he looked a long way older than his twenty-one years.

  The broad track led straight up the hillside through a moat of barren scrub and linked the compound with the main Broken Ridge homestead. A grand white colonial mansion house with a wraparound verandah propped on wooden stilts, perching on the hillside beneath the towering sandstone escarpment that gave the station its name, overlooking its landholding, or as much as could be seen from here. The Broken Ridge empire stretched for thousands of square miles: excepting Bewley itself and those few ruined smallholdings still gamely hanging on, in one way or another almost the entire district was Sullivan land.

  At the bottom of the steps Billy dismounted and stood waiting for the native stableboy to fetch his horse. The stables were up behind the house, across a clearing; the boy was slumped on a stool outside the door. Billy whistled for him. The boy glanced up and swiped away flies, then rose and slouched into the barn. Billy stood raging. Insolent little fuck. When it became clear the boy wasn’t going to return he tied Buck tight to the balustrades and left him there, in the hope he would shit on the steps.

  There were voices on the verandah. Billy reached the top of the stairs and found two men sitting at an outside table, voile curtains billowing behind them through the open French doors. One Billy already knew: Wilson Drummond, Katherine’s father, the man who’d first traded her to John Sullivan when she was only eighteen, then shot out here like a rat into a grain store when he’d heard the squatter had died, heirless, giving his daughter first claim on all he owned. The other man he didn’t recognize. Younger, with floppy fair hair and a smooth city face; Billy could guess exactly what he was about. This would be the third such show-pony Drummond had dragged out here and tried to stud, wooed with the promise of riches and land. But then they saw what that fortune would require of them, the work, the heat, the dust, the flies, not to mention the woman they’d be marrying, who could be just as ungovernable as her land when she put her mind to it, and none had stuck it yet.

  Their conversation stalled when they noticed him. Wilson Drummond set down his wineglass and stood, saying, “Billy, my boy, good to see you. Though it’s not the best time, I’m afraid.”

  He’d never spoken so warmly to Billy before. “It’s Katherine I’m here for,” he replied. “She inside?”

  Drummond glanced anxiously at the city boy, who was watching Billy while he drank. “Charles,” Drummond said, “this is Billy McBride, the young man I was telling you about—his family had that little run to the south there. Tragic circumstances, obviously, but we’re glad to still have him on board. I’m sure you’ll find him very useful, being a local lad and all. Billy, this is Charles Sinclair, Katherine’s fiancé.”

  He took his time about standing. Dabbed his lips with a napkin, folded it, set it aside, making Billy wait. Finally he ambled over with his hand outstretched, and Billy couldn’t think of a way to not: he shook the hand forcefully, found it soft and damp and feminine, an urge to wipe off his own once they were done.

  “A pleasure,” Sinclair said. “Wilson speaks very highly of you.”

  “Is that right?”

  Sinclair laughed, turned to the view of the hillside and the pastures far beyond. “Quite the country you have out here. I had no idea what to expect.”

  “It’s not for everyone,” Billy said.

  “Well, I’m very much looking forward to becoming acquainted with it. Wilson tells me we owe you quite the debt. All this land and not a native to trouble us—almost sounds too good to be true!”

  Billy glanced to the west, to the distant shadow of the ranges, to all that lay beyond, as Wilson Drummond said, “I was telling him about how you saw off those myalls after what happened with your family.”

  “That ain’t none of his business. None of yours, neither.”

  A silence hung between them. Drummond said, “No, I suppose not.”

  “Anyway,” Billy said, “we still do have it. Glendale, it’s still ours.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You said we used to have a run south of here. We still do. It’s my land.”

  Drummond hummed doubtfully. “It’s not quite that simple, Billy.”

  “How’s that now?”

  “Well, your father’s lease ended when he was killed, sadly, meaning the land reverts to the agent, who holds it on my behalf. I’ve been through it all with the lawyers. Getting the estate ready for Charles.”

  Billy looked between them. His jaw creased. “On your behalf now, is it?”

  “On behalf of the station, then.”

  “Which last I checked belongs to a Sullivan, which you ain’t.”

  “It amounts to the same thing.”

  “It amounts to illegal dummying, did your lawyers tell you that? Only reason that agent’s there in the first place is to get around the Land Acts. John told me how things work round here—I know exactly where I bloody well stand.”

  He marched away along the verandah, heard Charles Sinclair let out another laugh. Turning in through the front door, he brushed past the waiting houseboy, knocking him against the wall, then strode along the carpeted hallway and into the vast whitewashed atrium around which the house revolved. A broad staircase swept up to a balcony landing, the ceiling vaulted into the roof space high above, while the white-paneled ground-floor walls were inset with matching white-paneled doors, identifiable only by their little brass knobs. Billy made for the one tucked under the staircase, composed himself, knocked, and cracked it ajar.

  The room that had once been John Sullivan’s parlor was now the office from which his young widow ran the estate. Working at the same desk her husband had been shot over, sitting in the same chair in which he’d bled out, Katherine looked up when Billy entered, and smiled. Framed in sunlight from the window behind her, her dark
ringlets tumbling, her eyes dark also, and very bright. She set down her pen in the groove and folded her hands on the desk, her bare forearms tanned golden brown. She was wearing a yellow blouse with blue and white trim, and just the very sight of her caught in Billy’s chest.

  “Mr. McBride,” she said playfully, “I’m certainly surprised to see you.”

  Billy stepped forward, closed the door. “I just met your new fiancé outside.”

  “Oh? And what did you make of him?”

  “I’m sure you’ll be very happy the pair of you.”

  “I’m glad you approve.”

  “I never said I approved.”

  “You don’t think he’s suitable?”

  “I think he’s suitable for slapping in his smug city mouth.”

  She spluttered laughter. “The idea had crossed my mind too.”

  “Probably best coming from you then.”

  “We haven’t quite got to that stage yet.”

  “Well, I’d hurry up about it. Looks like he’s settling in.”

  “The man’s only been here a few days.”

  “I’d have slapped the bastard the minute he first walked up them steps.”

  Amused, she leaned back in her chair. The leather gently creaked. She had redecorated the room since her husband’s days, taken down the wall-mounted trophies, repapered in cool pastel shades. But the two wingback chairs were still there, angled in front of the desk. Billy hovered between them, fidgeting his hands.

  “So then,” Katherine said with mock formality, “aside from disparaging my fiancé, was there another reason for this interruption? Anything else I can do for you? Anything on your mind?”

  “Aye, there is actually.”

  Her eyes flinched at his sincerity, but she continued, “Well, I’m sure it’s very important, since you’re all dressed up for the occasion. If I’m not mistaken you might even have acquainted your hair with a comb.”

  Billy looked at his getup. “I’d been working, so . . .”

  “I’m honored. You want to tell me what this is all about?”

  “Maybe after?” he said timidly, hopefully; Katherine caught the implication and the tremble in his voice, and she was up and moving, their little dance over, hurrying around the desk in a rustle of skirts, grabbing him and kissing him, pulling him against her openmouthed. Gasping, they parted, such desire in her eyes. Trailing his hand she went to the door, locked it, kissed him again. She gathered her skirts to her waist and leaned back against the desk, and they fucked then, frantically, silently, as had become their way.

  It was over quickly, never lasted long, stolen moments all they had. They staggered apart and righted themselves, Billy fastening his trousers, Katherine pulling up her underwear, shrugging down her skirts, both suddenly bashful; if anything, Billy was worse. This thing between them had been at her instigation from the outset; he had never been the one in charge. Katherine laughed shyly. Billy smiled and looked away. She stepped close and he held her, kissed the top of her head.

  “I missed you,” she said into his chest. “Where have you been?”

  “Working. Same as always.”

  “It’s been weeks, Billy.”

  “I come up too often as it is.”

  “You don’t come up often enough.”

  “The men’ll start suspecting. Probably already do.”

  “I don’t care. Do you?”

  Billy didn’t answer.

  “If I made you head stockman you could come up as often as you liked.”

  “Headman? The bloody boy won’t even stable my horse!”

  “He’s difficult that one. Young.”

  “They’re all difficult.”

  “It wouldn’t be the house staff you’d be in charge of.”

  “I’ve told you, I don’t want it.”

  “You know what the men think of you. You’re the best one for the job.”

  “They don’t know nothing about me. Anyhow, Joe’s all right.”

  “You’ve never liked him.”

  “He’s too soft is his problem. That old cripple Morris has to go.”

  “The one with the knee?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I heard he has nowhere else.”

  “Nobody has anywhere else.”

  “Oh, you’re a coldhearted man, Billy McBride.”

  “Is that what you think of me now?”

  “Well, it’s some way of courting, asking me to throw a cripple out on his ear.”

  “Courting, are we? I thought you was engaged?”

  “When anyone bothers to ask my opinion on the matter, they’ll soon find out that I’m not.”

  She stepped away, unlocked the door, and Billy sat in one of the leather wingbacks, watching her move around the room. She fixed them both a whiskey, dropped a slice of lemon in each, a new fashion she’d picked up somewhere that Billy didn’t care for at all. Besides, he’d had enough whiskey last night.

  He took the drink anyway, thanked her; Katherine sat down opposite, smiled, and took a sip. “Seemed like you might really have something to tell me?”

  “Aye, there’s something.” Turning the tumbler back and forth in his hands.

  “Come on then, let’s have it out.”

  He swallowed hard and looked at her. “It’s time I went back to Glendale, made a proper go of the run. The paddocks are up, all it’s waiting on’s a mob, and there’s a sale at the Lawton cattle yards the week after next.”

  She was watching him evenly. Another sip of her drink. “And you plan on living down there?”

  “It’s not far.”

  “No, it’s not. But you’re ready for that? The house?”

  “It’s only a house.”

  “Seems like you’ve made your mind up.”

  “You know it’s just something I have to do.”

  “On your own, though?”

  “I’ll still get up to see you whenever I can.”

  “Whenever you can. So, I’m not to have any part in this venture?”

  “Well, that’s what we need to talk about: the terms.”

  Katherine inhaled and slow-blinked. “Not as a business partner, Billy, for goodness’ sake. You can have whatever you need. Men, cattle, horses . . . John ruined your family, it’s the least you deserve. What I’m asking is—”

  “Not all of us he didn’t. I’m still around.”

  “What I’m asking is, where do I fit in these plans?”

  Billy shifted in the wingback. “Like I said, I’ll get up when I can.”

  “Well, lucky me.”

  “What, then? What do you want? Aren’t you getting married anyhow?”

  “You know I’m not.”

  Katherine put her glass on a side table and came to kneel by Billy’s chair. She laid a hand on his arm. “Look, I know what it means to you, turning Glendale around. But is that all you want from life? Is there really nothing else?”

  Billy didn’t answer her. Staring into his drink.

  “I can’t hold them off forever, Billy. The crows have been circling this place since John died. I’ll need a husband eventually. It shouldn’t matter but it does.”

  “So hitch yourself to that plank out there, if it bothers you so much.”

  “And wouldn’t that bother you?”

  “’Course it bloody would.”

  Her hand slid free. She backed away and perched on the edge of her chair again. “Do something about it, then. You could run the two stations as one.”

  Already he was shaking his head. “I need to get Glendale going on its own.”

  “Why? Because your father couldn’t? What does that prove?”

  “That’s just how it is.”

  “And how long will all this take?”

  He shrugged. “Couple of years, maybe. Depends on the rains.”

  “A couple of years, Billy?”

  “I’m not asking you to wait.”

  “So what are you asking?”

  “Like you said: cattle, supplies,
I might need—”

  “Have you even been listening to a word I’ve said?”

  “—a proper deed, I reckon. Your old man’s out there now saying the land ain’t even mine!”

  Billy’s anger withered under her gaze. A wall clock counted the silence until eventually Katherine stirred and said, “Well, at least now I know where I stand with you: a means to a bloody deed.”

  “Don’t be like that now.”

  “How else can I be?” she said, her voice faltering. “I’m offering you everything and you’re breaking my heart, and what’s worse is I don’t think you even know you’re doing it.”

  She rounded the desk and sat down, picked up her pen and dipped it, her face flushed and her eyes watery, the pen trembling faintly in her hand. She spoke without looking at him: “I’ve work to do.”

  “I didn’t mean it how you took it. It came out all wrong.”

  “I’ll send word to Joe. Take whatever you need.”

  “Katie, please.”

  “I’m busy, I said.”

  There was a knock at the door. It opened and her father was standing there, asking, “So, what’s this business that’s so important? Anything I need to know?”

  “Billy’s moving back to Glendale, setting up on his own. We’re sorry to lose him, but I think it’s for the best. I’ve told him the land is his and we’ll get him started with anything he needs. Joe can take care of the arrangements.”

  Wilson Drummond scowled as he processed this news, but the way Katherine had said it gave him little chance to object. She flicked her eyes to Billy then went back to her work, and for a moment Billy sat there gripping his whiskey tumbler and staring at her, before lurching to his feet and making for the door. Drummond jumped aside to let him pass, and Billy slammed the tumbler so hard on the table that the lemon slice was still bobbing long after he’d left the room.