Dust Off the Bones

by Paul Howarth

  “This is the context of the incident. Every morning and evening Clarence walked the track fronting the Brooks place, on his way to and from work. He was noticed. On occasion, he was pelted with insults, sometimes stones, from both Mr. Brooks and his children—the impression is it had become some kind of sport. And then a pig went missing. Or so Mr. Brooks has claimed. We cannot be sure of this allegation because Mr. Brooks kept no inventory, and no pig has ever been found. But let us assume it did—what is to say it didn’t simply escape? Might not the gate have been left open? Might not a fox or a dingo have got in? Is there a chance that Mr. Brooks’s carpentry was not quite up to standard and the little swine simply wriggled free? We do not know. The police do not know. Sitting here today, Mr. Brooks does not know either, though at the time he decided he did. He decided that Clarence stole it. For no reason other than he was there, walking past the house every day. And perhaps because he was a native, for who else could be to blame?

  “Now we come down to it. The night before the murder took place. We have heard from multiple witnesses that the prisoner spent that entire evening drinking in the Swan Hotel in Baroo and at one point regaled the bar with his story of the missing pig. He announced that Clarence had stolen it. ‘That no-good nigger,’ he said. Then, and I am quoting directly from the testimony of Simon Rawles here, he boasted that when next he saw Clarence: ‘I’ll kill the cunt, so help me God.’”

  Henry lowered his notes to the table, allowed his words to hang. He could feel the discomfort in the courtroom, the atmosphere shifting, turning his way.

  “Mr. Brooks drank so much that evening he never made it home, sleeping rough on the steps of the hotel. We can only imagine his mood when he was awoken early the next morning by the piercing dawn sunlight and the rumble of wagon wheels. In fact, we don’t have to. Witnesses have filled in the gaps. Down from the hotel he staggered, stumbling along the road. He doused himself in water from the spigot, stole a loaf from the bakery shelves, and assaulted poor Mrs. Temple with such a barrage of lechery that she took flight along the street.

  “And then Clarence arrived, walking through town on his usual route from his house to the Wood place. Multiple witnesses have testified as to what then transpired. They heard Mr. Brooks accuse Clarence of stealing the pig; an accusation Clarence denied. They saw Mr. Brooks strike him, unprovoked, in the face; they saw Clarence fall to the ground. They saw Mr. Brooks, not content with this retribution, straddle his defenseless victim and do exactly what he’d threatened the previous night, delivering a series of blows to Clarence’s head so devastating that Clarence was never to wake. His face was unrecognizeable. Mr. Brooks broke one of his hands. When the constable arrived and pulled him off Clarence, he continued kicking and flailing and even spitting on the man lying dead on the ground.

  “Let me just repeat that: he spat on the man he’d just killed.

  “Now, the defense will no doubt argue that there is mitigation. That Mr. Brooks was under financial pressure, that he was still intoxicated, that he was somehow out of his mind. He was none of those things, gentlemen. He was a man who thought nothing of accusing a ‘no-good nigger’ of theft, and for whom ‘killing the cunt’ was not only just and reasonable but his right as a white Australian man. The law permits no such entitlement. It sees no difference between black and white. Mr. Brooks publicly stated his intention to kill Clarence then the following morning did that very thing, beating him to death with his own hands—and if that is not premeditated murder, gentlemen, then I do not know what is.”

  Chapter 7

  Billy McBride

  They rode until dusk in single file convoy, Billy behind Percy at the rear of the line, the young constable’s enormous rifle slung like a longbow across his back. Every now and then he would turn and glare at Billy, not a word out of him, no clue what he was about. Billy remembered the boy Rabbit, this runaway they were going after, being just the same with Tommy, wouldn’t stop staring, or sniggering, like this was all some kind of game. Which it probably was, to them: at the front of the line Noone and his two troopers trotted along happily, chatting, laughing now and then. Drew Bennett was a fucking idiot, putting his family in their path. Billy had no family of his own yet, but he had Katherine, and Glendale, and he wouldn’t have risked either for anything, least of all some runaway black.

  As the sun fell they made for a thin stand of brigalow stretching spidery against the gloom, dismounted in the center, and began making camp. Percy saw to the horses, the troopers gathered wood and lit a fire. Noone wandered among the trees, gazing up at the twilight, thoughtfully smoking his pipe. Billy unpacked slowly. Rummaging in his saddlebags, tying and retying the tether rope. He hadn’t a container to give Buck a drink, so called over and asked Percy if he could borrow the tin when he was done.

  The constable straightened and looked at him. He picked up the drinking tin and dragged the bladder bag through the dry grass and dumped both at Billy’s feet. Little eyes glinting. A smirk playing on his lips. He jutted his chin at Billy and spat tobacco juice through his teeth. “Chickenshit,” he said.

  “What’s that now?”

  “Shoot a few blacks and dip your dick in the widow and reckon that makes you a man. Shit, I done fucked prettier hoors than her.”

  It came out of him in a torrent. Rage surged through Billy and he lunged. The boy took a quick step backward and Billy heard his name being called through the trees. He turned. Noone was standing at the edge of the camp, watching them. He tutted and shook his head. Billy seething at the young constable—he had half a foot on him and at least fifty pounds, still the boy grinned like he was begging to be hit. If it wasn’t for Noone, for that rifle on his back . . . Percy caught Billy staring at it, and asked, “Want to know where I got her?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Percy lifted the rifle over his head. “She’s a Hawken. That’s American. Came all this way. Longest shot in the colony, I’d wager. Here, how much do you want to put up?” Billy said nothing. Both fists clenched. Percy shrugged and told him, “I can hit a penny off a fence post at two hundred yards with this thing, or put out a fella’s eyeball, take your pick. Show you tomorrow if you don’t believe me, if you’ve a penny or an eye to spare.”

  Billy relaxed a little. The boy obviously wasn’t right in the head. He bent and snatched up the drinking tin and tipped in some water for his horse. There was a call of Tucker! from the campfire, but when he straightened Percy was still beside him, running his tongue around his gums.

  “I’ll bet her cunny’s smooth and hairless. Bet she keeps it nice and trimmed. Might be I’ll pay a visit and find out for meself—how d’you like them beans?”

  Billy pulled his revolver and leveled it at Percy’s head but at the same time Percy switched the rifle and aimed at Billy’s chest. He started laughing. A wet, yellow-toothed grin. Another shout of Tucker! from the campfire and Billy dropped the revolver to his side. The boy was only goading him in front of the others. It was not a fight Billy could win.

  “Like I said: chickenshit.” And away Percy tramped through the trees.

  They sat around the fire, eating, Billy the last to join. Warily he emerged from the tree line, into the clearing, making for the space they’d left him, between Jarrah and Noone. Watching them all closely. He trusted not one. Pope sat with his long legs crossed and his bald head bent—the dome of his skull dented and ridged—nibbling on a chicken leg; Jarrah hunched moodily beside him, shoveling it all in. On the other side of the fire Percy tossed grapes into his mouth one by one, while Noone ate an apple in six enormous bites, devouring it entirely, core, pips, and all.

  Billy lowered himself between them, picked up his food parcel and opened it, found chicken, bread, cheese, grapes, a couple of slices of beef.

  “She really was most generous. Such an accommodating host.”

  Billy frowned at the comment, then noticed the napkins the food was wrapped in: green with golden trim, the same they used at Broken Ridge. Noone had mentio
ned Katherine back at the house, and there was all Percy had just said. He turned on Noone: “What have you done?”

  “Why, nothing but pay a visit, Billy, asking after your whereabouts—I had heard you were working up there. And of course, a woman alone on a frontier property, vulnerable, it is my duty to ensure she is well. Which she was, you’ll be pleased to hear. Nothing to worry about at all. I have to say, I was rather surprised to find she is engaged now, though I am sure once the poor fellow realizes what his fiancée has been up to, the condition she has got herself in, he will be far less inclined to stick around.”

  Billy felt himself tilting, his face burning in the flames. “What you talking about? What condition?”

  “Oh, you didn’t know? Now that does surprise me. For a cattle man such as yourself, I would have thought gravidity in a female would be easy enough to spot. But then, surely she should have told you—I assume the bastard is yours?”

  “He spat his seed into her cunny, now she’s got a babby . . . He doesn’t think it’s very funny, that he’ll be a daddy . . .”

  Percy sang it like a ditty, a nursery rhyme, then dissolved into cackling laughter once he was done. Noone shot him a reproachful glance. The two troopers sniggered and Billy began scrambling to his feet. Again, he went for his revolver but reconsidered, pointed his finger around the circle instead.

  “Shut your fucking mouths. I got done with you cunts years ago, I don’t want none of this horseshit now. Drew Bennett ain’t nothing to me, neither’s that boy in his barn. Do what you like, see if I care, but you leave us alone, you hear me? I see any of you lot round our way again, especially this gobby little shite here, and I’ll put a hole in you. To hell with it, I’m going home.”

  They watched his performance impassively, like bored spectators at a show. Pope picked off another morsel of chicken and put it between his teeth; Jarrah had his revolver drawn, cocked, and ready in his lap. Already Billy felt his resolve slipping. Could it possibly be true? It had been almost a month since he last saw Katherine—had it happened then, or had she already known? Had she wanted to tell him that day in her office, while he grumbled on about a deed?

  “Sit down, Billy,” Noone said.

  He swallowed thickly. A tiny shake of the head. If he were in town or on the station he’d have hit any man who threatened him; or more likely wouldn’t have had to, they wouldn’t dare. But he had no authority over these men. He was powerless here, and they knew it.

  “Don’t you remember our deal?” Noone said. “We are already a day’s ride closer to Tommy. We could continue directly from here. Or we could go back to Broken Ridge and avail ourselves of Mrs. Sullivan’s hospitality again—I know my boys are more than keen. So why not give your brother a chance of making it, and leave the young widow in peace. You’ll be back with her the day after tomorrow, provided everything goes to plan.”

  All the fight washed out of him. He looked despairingly around the circle of men. Pope had finished eating and was preparing a tobacco pipe; delicately Noone speared a grape on the end of his bowie knife and, smiling, popped it in his mouth. “You cast in your lot five years ago,” he said, chewing openmouthed. “You don’t really have a choice here. You’re already in this up to your neck. Now sit down and eat the meal she has kindly prepared for us and stop making a fool of yourself.”

  Meekly he did as he was told. Legs crossed, the food parcel in his lap, every mouthful sticking in his throat. He imagined Katherine making up these parcels: her slender fingers folding the napkins, putting in the best of what she had, trembling with Noone at her shoulder . . . he should have been there to protect her, they could have done anything.

  Noone produced a silver liquor flask, took a drink and passed it around. Jarrah handed it to Billy and he wiped the neck before he drank. He rolled and smoked a cigarette. The others lit their pipes. The little fire crackling between them all, tossing sparks into the night.

  “They are suns, did you know that?” Noone said, gazing up at the stars. “Millions of suns, no different to our own, so distant they are but pinheads in our sky. And yet they say that some are dying, may already have done so, only their light is visible now. Meaning that at any time, like snuffing out a candle, one of those stars might simply . . . expire.”

  He looked at Billy expectantly. “Horseshit,” was Billy’s view.

  “You don’t believe me? Or don’t understand?”

  “I don’t follow half the crazy things that come out your mouth.”

  “No, well, that doesn’t surprise me at all. But consider this, if you are able: if one star can expire than so can they all, including our very own sun. The Bible claims the world was made by God’s hand, but what I am talking about is the end of days, the impermanence of life here on earth. The sun may rise in the morning, or it may not, and isn’t that the most thrilling thought?”

  Chapter 8

  Katherine Sullivan

  She rode down the track to the cattle yards, and like dogs catching a scent the men paused their work and turned their heads. Bright white blouse stark against the crimson hillside, shotgun in her saddle holster, ponytail bouncing with each stride. She knew how they looked at her, what they saw: trading glances, hefting their crotches, smoothing down their hair. She would never be more than John’s pretty widow to these men, her men, good only for ogling or as a punchline to their jokes.

  Leaning against railings, smoking on upturned pails, kicking the dusty ground—Katherine reined up among them and asked for Joe. A young stockman came forward, Alfie Dawson, Katherine made a point of knowing their names. Someone whistled. Dawson grinned. He tipped back his hat and offered his hand to help her down.

  “I’m perfectly capable, thank you, Alfie. If you could just point me in the direction of Joe.”

  “He’s over in the barn there, miss. Be my pleasure to escort you.”

  A gap-toothed smile and another whistle from the men and inwardly Katherine cringed. For nearly five years she’d had to put up with this horseshit, ever since John died. Perhaps she’d been too timid in the early years, too deferential to her father; but then she was only nineteen when she was widowed, what did she know about running a cattle station then? Plucked from a circuit of needlework and gossip and dragged out to this shithole to give some rich squatter a son, it had felt like being shipped off to hell. But she got used to it. And things were much easier now John was dead. She actually had something out here, a chance of a life on her terms. Back in Melbourne she would only ever have become another somebody’s wife; at least here she could do as she pleased. Though not entirely. There was her father to manage, his suitors to navigate, not that they usually stuck around long. But Charles Sinclair was still here somehow, and now Billy was gone, and in the men’s eyes she’d always be nothing but a little girl.

  She spurred the horse and turned so sharply that Alfie had to duck. He lost his footing and fell, howls of derision trailing Katherine to the barn. Smirking, she dismounted and walked in through the open doors, found Joe with a clipboard taking inventory along an aisle. He glanced at her then away again. Katherine waited. Outside, the cattle moaned and the men yelled, getting back to work. Sunlight spilled through the doorway. Birds sang. It wasn’t all bad, she thought.

  Wearily Joe lowered his clipboard and trundled along the aisle. A broad man in a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled, big arms. He wore a beard, as they all did, and in the years she’d known him his hair had thinned and peaked. Now he stood before her, evasive, wouldn’t quite meet her eye.

  “Hello, Joe,” she said pleasantly. “How are you?”

  “Help you with something, Mrs. Sullivan?”

  Katherine forced a quick smile. “You’ve missed our last two meetings.”

  “Been busy here, is all.”

  “Even so, I still need to be kept informed.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of everything. It’s my station. I need to know what’s going on.”

  He looked at his boots then, a kind of shrug.
“Mr. Drummond’s down regular anyway. I can’t be running after you too, there just ain’t the time.”

  Katherine’s eyes pinched. “What do you mean he’s down regular?”

  Another shrug. “I figured you knew.”

  She glanced at the wall then back again. “And is that also the reason the upper paddocks haven’t been cleared? I told you I wanted that cattle moved.”

  “Mr. Drummond said not to. Said to leave ’em a bit. Said the new fella—your husband, I mean—would decide what to do about ’em soon enough.”

  Katherine sighed irritably. Billy thought Joe was too soft, too malleable, but there was also a sly cunning to him, Katherine knew. He wasn’t stupid: he’d seen where things were headed and chosen a side.

  “Charles Sinclair is a guest here and no more,” she told him. “As is my father, for that matter. You report to me, Joe—surely you know that?” She looked at him imploringly, then hardened; he still wouldn’t meet her eye. “So, I want those paddocks clearing, and I’ll expect you next week at the house, and while we’re at it I want you to let that old cripple Morris go. He’s out there now, sitting on his backside smoking cigarettes on my time. You should have done it already. What use is a stockman that can hardly walk?”

  Joe looked up sharply, and inside Katherine swelled. An urge now to turn and stride out of the barn, victorious, but there was something else she needed first. Joe began worrying the edge of his clipboard and mumbling about Morris, about how long he’d been with them, how he had nowhere else to go, and Katherine couldn’t help but think of Billy, holding her against him, telling her nobody did out here.