Dust Off the Bones

by Paul Howarth

  Tommy’s innards churned. “That’s my business. Can you fetch the things?”

  Herman leaned and looked past him, through the open door. “Them your horses and blackboy out there?”

  “Aye.”

  Herman snorted. “I seen fatter corpses, he can’t be much use. And there ain’t a packhorse among them—which you planning putting it on?”

  “I’m not asking for advice. Can you just bring the saddle and grain?”

  “Well, hell, I’m only trying to help ye.”

  “The saddle and grain,” Tommy pleaded, his voice shaking.

  Herman’s eyes narrowed in a squint. “You got a name, fella?”

  Fighting the urge to run, Tommy glanced over his shoulder at Arthur and felt the weight of the debt between them. He’d been right about having carried him these past five years: Tommy owed Arthur his life. And now here they were, fleeing inland, yet again because of him; they would never make it to the Cooper Creek without supplies. He dug his nails into his palms and steadied himself. Took a step toward the counter and said, “I already paid you. Either fetch my things or I will, however you prefer.”

  Herman held his stare a moment, then shrugged and went into the barn, Tommy leaning after him, making sure he didn’t take off. When he returned, his arms laden, Tommy snatched it all off him and hurried outside, Herman watching through the doorway behind.

  “We need to get out of here,” Tommy whispered to Arthur.

  “What happened? What did he say?”

  “Nothing exactly, but still too much.”

  In the general store Tommy stood at the counter, his leg jigging restlessly, waiting for the shopkeeper to fill his list. A thin man in a dark waistcoat and bow tie, with a limp mustache and hair parted fastidiously to one side, he labored between the shelves and balanced the scales like he was weighing gold dust not flour.

  “Can’t you hurry it up there?”

  “You short on time, young man?”

  Tommy glanced out of the window. “Long day’s ride ahead of us, that’s all.”

  “Well, a few more minutes won’t hurt.”

  “We’re headed east,” Tommy told him. “Looking for work.”

  “None of my business where you’re going. But if it’s work you’re after, there’s plenty round these parts, if you were inclined to stick around.”

  Without turning he tapped his pencil against the corkboard on the wall, and the array of job adverts pinned there, along with notices about a meeting to discuss the extension of the railroad, an upcoming racing meet, and a police poster offering a £200 reward for information leading to the capture of . . . leading to the capture of . . .

  Thomas (“Tommy”) McBride and the native known as “Arthur,” on charges of robbery and murder near the town of St. George. McBride has blond hair, blue eyes, and is approximately six feet tall. His left hand is missing the last two fingers and he was most recently seen dressed in stockman’s clothing, riding a (male) gray horse. His accomplice, Arthur, is approximately five feet nine inches tall and . . .

  Tommy felt his body contracting, the blood surge hot in his veins. He had the money clip out, ready to pay, and caught the shopkeeper staring at his left hand. Their eyes met. The other man blanched. He backed away a pace then bolted from the shop, through a side door into another room. Cursing, Tommy gathered what he could of their supplies, bundling out into the street, dropping them as he ran.

  “What is it?” Arthur shouted. “What’s wrong?”

  “A poster. Burns is dead. They’re after us. Bloke knew it was me.”

  Along the street, in the sunshine, the slim figure of the shopkeeper emerged from an alleyway and sprinted in the direction of the courthouse, and forlornly Tommy glanced back at the open doorway and the food lying discarded in the road.

  “Leave it,” Arthur barked, climbing into the saddle. “Tommy—move!”

  They stuck to the track for a couple of miles, driving the horses as hard as they could, before veering off through a creek so as to wipe their trail clean and striking out into open bushland. Endless country before them. No roads anymore, no towns; not even a map to show the way. With only the barest of rations they were heading into the dead heart of the continent and were doing so, God help them, entirely alone.

  Chapter 5

  Billy McBride

  Noone balanced Father’s old mug on the railing, draped the longcoat alongside, and came down the steps out of the shadows into the bright sunshine. He was exactly as Billy remembered him. Hadn’t aged so much as a day. Thick black mustache, black hair parted fine as a blade, taut sunburned skin, and those eyes of his, those eyes . . . no color in them anywhere, a swirl of dead gray smoke, boring into Billy as he strode across the yard.

  He closed the distance impossibly. Within seconds he was there. Billy gazing up at him, sixteen years old again, gripping the revolver, his hand trembling, boots scraping backward through the dirt. Noone extended a hand and Billy offered his revolver; the inspector frowned then took it and tossed it to the young white boy, whose high-pitched coyote laughter echoed through the yard.

  “Is a handshake out of the question, between two old friends?”

  Billy had disarmed himself. He flushed and accepted Noone’s hand. Long bony fingers, the nails oddly clean; his grip tightened and tightened and would not yield. Billy felt his knuckles grinding. He tried to reciprocate but hadn’t the strength. Finally Noone let him go and said, “Good to see you, Billy. It’s been a long time.”

  “Aye,” Billy managed, massaging his aching hand.

  “Are we not welcome?”

  “Them that are usually don’t come armed.”

  Noone nodded equably. A glance and the troopers lowered their carbines. “I have a request to make of you. And some news you might be interested to hear.”

  “What news?”

  “Let’s talk inside.”

  “Here’s fine.”

  “Inside, Billy.”

  “If you like,” Billy said, shrugging, stepping toward the bunkhouse.

  “The barn? We aren’t animals. Come—the men will see to your horse. You remember Pope and Jarrah there. This is my new constable, Percy.”

  Now Billy remembered the two troopers: he’d once seen Jarrah decapitate a man with a swing of his waddy blade; and Pope was the old witch doctor who’d butchered Tommy’s hand. Neither man acknowledged him. The boy Percy dipped his head and spat messily on the ground.

  Noone walked to the house, whose threshold Billy had not crossed in all these years, and waited by the door, smiling. He knew, Billy realized. The bastard knew all too well. Noone ducked through the doorway and Billy had no choice but to follow. He climbed the steps very slowly, took a breath, and went inside.

  The shutters were closed, thin bars of dusty sunlight twinkling the gaudy pattern of Noone’s waistcoat as he rounded the room. He dragged a hand over the table, trailing finger-marks in the dust, idly lifted the bedroom curtain and let it fall again, slow clip of his boots with each step. He brushed off Father’s chair, set it back from the table and sat down, pinching his trousers as he did so, a look of rank disgust on his face.

  “I was told you are living here now.”

  Billy was still hovering in the doorway. “On and off. Been working mostly.”

  “I see.”

  From his waistcoat pocket Noone produced a small pipe and a matchbox: he lit the pipe and got it going, his cheeks hollowing, clouds of sweet smoke filling the air, then flicked the dead match to the floor. He waved Billy forward. “Are you waiting for an invitation? It is your house, after all.”

  Billy edged into the room, pulled out the chair that would once have been Mary’s, and lowered himself down. “So what’s this news you’ve brung?”

  Noone ignored him totally. Pulling on his pipe. “Tell me, Billy, how have things been for you? Since we last met—how have you fared?”

  Billy shrugged. “There’s near enough sixty head in them paddocks now.”

&nbs
p; Noone’s eyebrows raised, mock-impressed. “I noticed your belongings in the barn, of course. A strange choice of accommodation for a self-made man. Still, this house must bring back memories. They don’t fade, do they—much like bloodstains.”

  “Fuck off with you. What do you want?”

  “I told you, I have a request to make. But very well, first the news I promised. Have you heard from your brother lately? Has young Tommy been in touch?”

  “’Course not.”

  “Is it so unlikely?”

  “You said you’d kill us both if we even so much as wrote.”

  “Ah, yes, so I did.” Noone withdrew the pipe stem, exhaled, rattled it back between his teeth, and bit down. “Well, as it happens Tommy might be heading that way without my help: it seems he and your old blackboy have recently killed the overseer on a sheep station outside St. George, bounced his head off a rock so hard his brain swelled and burst like a balloon. No doubt there was provocation. Those types are always so uncouth. But the fact remains he is wanted for murder. There’s already a posse out there after him, a reward for his arrest.”

  Noone smoked contentedly, watching Billy reel: five long years of silence, now this sudden hammer blow. His neck had roped and his jaw was set and his leg jagged up and down. He wondered if Noone was lying to him. Nothing about the story sounded right.

  “How do you know it was Tommy?”

  “Name, age, description—he wasn’t exactly trying to hide.”

  “What blackboy? Not Arthur?”

  “That’s the one. We never did manage to catch up with him before.”

  Billy folded his arms. “Well, they ain’t here, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Noone chuckled. “Of course they aren’t here. I had no expectation that they were. The local police, in their wisdom, have been searching over the border in New South Wales, but just a few days ago there was a sighting in Cunnamulla, meaning they are heading west, for the interior, which is actually a rather clever plan. The terrain may kill them eventually, but with a band of local officers and a few sheep shearers on their tail, it seems most unlikely they will be caught.”

  “Good for them then.”

  “Or . . .” Noone paused for another pull on the pipe. “My men and I could ride down there instead. How long would it take us to come up with them do you think?”

  Billy shifted in his chair. “You can please yourself what you do.”

  “You aren’t concerned for him?”

  “This is Tommy’s lookout. Nothing to do with me.”

  “He will hang, Billy. Unless someone shoots him first.”

  “What’s to say you’ll even find him? That bush is a bloody big place.”

  “Oh, you do me a disservice. But then you never were the sharper of the pair.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Noone removed his pipe and pointed at Billy with the stem. “It means I know you. I know your brother too. Within the week I will have him, unless you agree to this trade. A favor, in return for leaving Tommy alone.”

  Billy said nothing. Staring at Noone. Waiting for the terms.

  “There is a station a day’s ride south of here, belongs to a man named Bennett—you are familiar with him, I presume?”

  Billy pictured Drew Bennett shaking his hand at the Lawton stockyards. A little reluctantly, it had felt. He swallowed, and nodded his head.

  “Well, it seems Mr. Bennett has taken into his possession something that rightfully belongs to me. Keeps it hidden in his barn, I believe. I am talking about the young trooper, Rabbit—you might remember him, always was a strange boy, but I expected better, I have to say.”

  Billy pictured the trooper, his high forehead and bulging eyes, giving Tommy water when Billy wouldn’t; then later, the two of them all friendly around the canyon campfire.

  “Yeah, I remember him.”

  “He has absconded, as our natives sometimes do. It is a common occurrence, unfortunately, but one I will not tolerate among my own men. So we must retrieve him, and for that I would like your help.”

  “Help how?”

  “With the selector, Mr. Bennett. To ensure he stays in line.”

  “You don’t need me for that.”

  “No, but he might. This is for his protection, Billy, so he doesn’t go getting himself killed.”

  “Drew has a family. Daughters. Two sons.”

  “Exactly. And you will be helping them all. You see, for a man to take a runaway trooper under his wing, he must have a certain disregard for the law. Such a man, when confronted, may react unwisely to our presence on his land. There is ever greater scrutiny on us these days, Billy. Sadly, the force is not what it once was. Our numbers are down, we are unpopular with the politicians, victims of our own success in many ways. Meaning it is preferable if a bloodbath could be avoided. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  They sat in silence, Noone smoking, that word bloodbath echoing in Billy’s mind. Noone frowned into the bowl of his pipe, turned it over, and with the heel of his hand knocked a wad of dead tobacco onto the floor.

  “The other thing you might consider,” he continued, “is what does this traitor Rabbit know? The details of your parents’ murder, the dispersal we carried out afterward, on the basis of your sworn word—there are men on the coast who would drop their bowels if they learned what we did to the Kurrong, would ensure those responsible were hanged. So ask yourself: What might happen to you, Billy, or indeed your young widow on the hill up there, if the truth were ever revealed?”

  Billy leaned forward in his chair, snarled, “You leave her the fuck alone,” and Noone shrugged like it might yet go either way. He peered at Billy knowingly, put away his pipe and stood, brushed off his trousers, straightened his waistcoat, made for the door. “Five minutes,” he said, ducking under the doorframe. There was a smashing sound outside. Billy went out after him and found Father’s old mug lying shattered on the verandah boards, Noone walking toward the horses, his longcoat flaring as he whipped it on. Billy stared at the mug fragments blankly, the broken lettering of his father’s name, then with his head lowered he crossed the yard to the bunkhouse and began packing his things.

  Chapter 6

  Henry Wells

  “Mr. Wells, your closing address please.”

  The young lawyer nodded to the judge, rose to his feet, adjusted his robes, and solemnly regarded the jury of gray, stone-faced men, sweating in the stifling courtroom in the only suits they owned. They were butchers, blacksmiths, stevedores, mongers of all different kinds, pulled from across Brisbane and so obviously reluctant to spend even another moment listening to him.

  “Judas!” came a call from the courtroom gallery, to a ripple of muted cheers.

  The interruption stalled him. Henry Wells flushed and considered his notes. He could sense the defense counsel, Hugill, smirking across the aisle, as he had all through the trial. Henry was twenty years his junior, in only his second year at the bar, and, round-faced and ruddy-cheeked, looked almost cherubic in his wig.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, the word emerging faint and hoarse. He took a sip of water and tried again, and this time his voice rang loud and clear; he felt the jury’s attention finally rouse. “Gentlemen—thank you for the time you have dedicated to this matter thus far. I know it has been trying and you are keen to go home, but this is the last you will hear from me, I promise, which I’m sure will come as something of a relief.”

  Henry paused after this small levity. No change in their stares. A weight of silence behind him, save the coughs and scrapes and murmurs of the crowd.

  “Of course, before your duty is finished here, a verdict is required, which is a heavy burden, given the stakes. A man’s life is in your hands. Believe me, I understand what I am asking of you here. A guilty verdict will doubtless mean the death penalty for the prisoner, as it must, for that is the law.”

  Eyes flicked to the dock and a scraggy-looking man standing hunched and manacled, one of his hands bandaged,
his gaze downcast.

  “But that is not your responsibility. Only the verdict is within your control. Meaning now you must ask yourselves: How are you going to make that decision? How will you carry out your duty today? By applying the law, following the evidence, the obvious difference between right and wrong; or will you dismiss such things as irrelevant when weighed against the color of a man’s skin?”

  Grumbles from the gallery. Henry remained unmoved.

  “For that is what this case amounts to. The evidence could not be more clear. One man is dead, beaten to a pulp by another in the street. If Clarence had been white, this case would already be over, your guilty verdict rendered, the prisoner taken down. Except he wasn’t white, he was Aborigine, but in all other respects the same as you or I. A husband, a father, a man. A British subject, whether you approve of that status or not, equally entitled to justice in this court. So consider, then: if it were you who had been murdered, your family left destitute, your killer on trial, what would you expect of the jurymen serving? For that is all I am asking of you.

  “Because let us not kid ourselves: Mr. Brooks is a murderer. He killed Clarence in a fit of uncontrolled anger on that fateful morning in Baroo. Witnesses saw him do it. He was arrested—quite literally, gentlemen—with Clarence’s blood still warm on his hands. By way of defense, Mr. Brooks has argued that he believed Clarence stole one of his pigs. Now, that has not been proven and cannot be, since Clarence is not able to answer the charge. But then he is not the one on trial here, and the theft of a pig, even if it had occurred, is really by the by: the crime is that one man beat another to death, with malice aforethought, proven beyond all possible doubt. Again, I ask you: If it were you whom Mr. Brooks had killed that day, or your brother, or your son, would you consider his actions justified?

  “The events of that morning have been clearly established, so I will only briefly summarize them here. Mr. Brooks, you are aware, is the neighbor of Clarence’s employer, Mr. Wood, a man of fine standing in his community and a grazier of some repute. Clarence was his farmhand and general help, and a good employee, diligent and punctual and hardworking. Now, directly abutting the Wood property is the small lot where the Brooks family has lived for generations, forever in a Wood’s shadow, as it were. We have heard there is bad blood between the families. Without a trade to speak of, Mr. Brooks has recently attempted to emulate his neighbor by turning his hand to husbandry, cobbling together a pigpen and chicken coop and, incidentally, diverting Wood water and attempting to rustle a few Wood sheep.