Dust Off the Bones

by Paul Howarth

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you agree to swear a formal testimony tomorrow morning?”

  “Do I have to go before a judge or anything?”

  “Not yet. We can do this in chambers. Where do you live?”

  Bean lowered his eyes. “There are hostels. They sometimes have beds.”

  “Well, there might be a way we can help you. But I want you to understand that I won’t be gamed here, Mr. Bean. Now”—he slid the rum slowly across the table, Bean took it but didn’t drink—“in your own time, please begin.”

  Chapter 16

  Billy McBride

  Three stockmen walked half-a-dozen docile heifers uphill from the yards and let them in through the gate of the newly built corral, its timber fence so freshly cut it gleamed in the midmorning sun. They closed the gate, found some shade beneath a nearby blue gum, and sat smoking and talking while the native stableboy brought the horses from the barn. One was Buck, Billy’s aging brumby, too old now for scrub work but perfect for the corral; the other the good-natured white pony on which the children learned to ride. The stableboy tied both horses to the fence and glanced at the men beneath the tree. They shared a joke and laughed at him, spoke quietly among themselves.

  Across the clearing separating the house from the corral walked Billy and young William McBride. The boy was nearly seven years old, the eldest of two sons, with a daughter, Isobel, born in between. He had his father’s coloring—the dark hair, the brooding eyes—and was dressed in almost identical clothes: a wide-brimmed hat, tan twill trousers, a freshly pressed shirt, and boots buffed till they shone. He stumbled along beside Billy, seemed to catch every divot and rock. Sulking. He didn’t want to ride today. Would rather have stayed inside playing piano or reading books. Billy wouldn’t hear a word of it. He prodded the boy between the shoulder blades. “Pick your feet up,” he said.

  At the corral Billy looped his stockwhip and catching rope over a fence post, unhitched the two horses, and handed William the pony’s reins. He ignored the stableboy but waved to the men sitting smoking in the shade: “Fellas,” he called, and dutifully they each raised their hands and replied with a monotone “Boss.”

  Billy led Buck through the gate and held it open for William but the boy stood rooted, watching the cattle through the rails. “Come on now,” Billy said. “Bring him in.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Why not? What’s wrong?”

  “They’re too big.”

  “They’re cows. That’s the size of them. No sense learning on a calf.”

  “Daddy, please.”

  “Get in here,” Billy said.

  In the boy shuffled, leading the pony along. The cattle were grouped at the far end of the corral, milling dumbly, sniffing the dirt. Billy closed the gate and told William to mount up. He put the wrong foot in the stirrup. Distracted by the cattle still. His legs got in a tangle and he dropped back to the ground and Billy heard one of the men beneath the blue gum blow out a short laugh.

  “Don’t you lot have work to do?” he shouted over.

  “Wait till you’re done then bring ’em back down, we was told.”

  Billy nodded, adjusted his hat. He could have gone over and confronted them, insisted the men leave, but instead turned his attention back to the boy. Besides, he knew who had answered. Todd Anderson was his name. He was one of those who’d known Billy as a lowly stockman: they’d worked the scrubs together, eaten at the same table, drank around the same campfire. Now Billy was in charge, and men like Anderson resented it—he’d seen how they looked at him, the beat of hesitation before they followed a command, the little quips when they thought he was out of earshot. Billy was moving them on steadily, as he had Joe, the headman, and most others from the old regime. Todd Anderson had just bumped himself a little higher up the list.

  William got into the saddle eventually. Billy swung up onto Buck. He brought the horse around and stood it next to his son; the boy couldn’t have looked less comfortable if he were riding a kangaroo. He had no natural aptitude for it, Billy had seen that from the start: the very first time he lifted him onto the pony, William had screamed like he’d been scalded to the bone. Now he stared at the cattle, clutching tight to his reins.

  “Right, let’s get started,” Billy said cheerfully, attempting to lift the mood. “First we’ll just give them a little walk round, nice and steady, lead them along the fence. You stay behind them, I’ll be at the side. Keep your distance. You don’t want them getting spooked. Just walk your horse forward and they’ll know what to do.”

  “What if they rush me though?”

  “They won’t. And if they did, I’d handle them.”

  “How will you?”

  “You have to trust me, William, or this isn’t going to work.”

  William didn’t look comforted. He watched the cattle like they were snakes. Billy just didn’t understand him—by the same age, he could rope and shoot and ride almost as well as he could walk. Tommy was the same. Every day they’d be out there, doing some task, trying to show their father they could cope. William was the exact opposite. Didn’t seem to care what Billy thought. He had tried taking him out into the station but all he did was moan. And Katherine only indulged it. There was plenty of time for all that, she said. But he would have to learn someday, and the sooner he started the easier it would come. Billy would do things differently with Thomas, he’d decided. Thank God he had another son.

  “Look, stop making a bloody meal of this. Just get on with it. Come on.”

  Billy approached the cattle. Meekly, William did the same. Billy noticed the stableboy watching from the fence, his bare arms hanging over the railing, his head bowed, his eyes upturned. He dropped his gaze when Billy looked at him, spat out a long string of saliva, and let it dangle until it broke and hit the dirt.

  The cattle were about as easy and compliant as any he could have hoped for, yet still William managed to get it wrong. He was too hesitant, too slow, kept himself too tight to the fence. Curtly Billy corrected him, once again heard the men laughing from over by the tree as William began squealing, “I’m doing it! I’m doing it!” like he’d roped the fucking moon. Billy knew what they would be thinking. Would have thought the same in their place. Making fun of the little prince.

  They kept the cattle moving until William had stopped his twitching and settled himself down, though now he was too casual, his gaze wandering, wasn’t paying them enough mind—if it weren’t for Billy they would have scattered, or dug in, and it was obvious William neither noticed nor cared. The exercise meant nothing to him. You lost control of a mob in Billy’s day, the whole family could have starved.

  “All right, that’ll do, now we’ll try some cutting out.”

  This involved separating one of the heifers from the group and holding her on her own. William had never done it before but the pony knew how to cut; it was the kind of skill that wasn’t always instinctive, for horses and humans both, but Billy had made sure the pony was trained before attempting to train his son.

  “Can’t we just stop now? I’m tired, Daddy—please?”

  They’d not been at it fifteen minutes. The boy was soft as dung. “No,” Billy snapped. “Pull your lip in. I’ll do the first one. Watch closely now.”

  He singled her out easily. The other cattle moved along. Billy had the heifer pinned against the fence when all she wanted was to run. Funny how skittish a cow will get when separated from the herd. But with each dart she attempted, Billy and Buck did the same, mirroring every movement, keeping her in place.

  “Right. Come up here with me. You can take a turn.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “All you do is follow her. The horse’ll show you how.”

  The pony had its tail up, keen for a run at the cow. Billy dropped back and for a moment after the changeover neither the cow nor William moved. Watching each other closely, seeing who’d be first to flinch, and in the stillness Billy glanced over at the men watching
from the tree—smoking with their hats off, enjoying the show—and at the stableboy also, a slack-jawed sneer about him, that insolent pop-eyed stare. Look! Billy wanted to shout at them. Look what he’s doing now!

  Suddenly the cow bolted. The pony followed suit. Leaping across to block her, then darting back again, and Billy saw William ragdoll in the saddle, and what would happen next. “Hold him, William! Hold him, bring him round!” But the boy was long past trying to control his mount: screaming, he dropped the reins and grabbed the saddle and let the pony run loose, chasing the cow, refusing to let it pass. William slid sideways, and for a long time seemed to dangle there, as Billy jumped down and ran. He wasn’t quite quick enough. William cried out, and fell.

  He hit the ground headfirst, breaking the fall with his hands. He rolled and Billy was over him, protecting him; he got the pony by its bridle, held it until the cow was gone, then when he let go again the pony shook himself and moved off, as if unaware anything was wrong.

  Kneeling at the boy’s side, Billy touched his head, body, legs, asking him, “You all right? Can you hear me? Anything broken? Let me see . . .”

  William began blubbering. Billy inspected his face. There was a good-size graze on his forehead and another on his cheek; his hands had been torn up by the gravel and his shoulder hurt, he said. Billy scuffed his hair and smiled at him. “It’s only a scratch. If you don’t get hurt you’ve never tried nothing—come on now, back up, let’s give it another go.”

  “No,” William whimpered through his tears. “I don’t want to.”

  Billy lifted him to his feet and stood with him, roughly brushed him down. He retrieved the boy’s hat, straightened it out, tried to put it back on his head. William hit him. Batted his arm away. Billy heard the men laughing and felt a surge of emotion that was difficult to place. Anger, embarrassment, even a little pride. “Hey now,” he said quietly. “There’s no need for that. It ain’t my fault what just happened. You let that pony have his head.”

  “I don’t want to ride the stupid pony.”

  “Well you ain’t ready for a real horse yet, that’s for bloody sure.”

  “Don’t laugh at me.”

  “I’m not laughing. Come on, let’s show this cow who’s boss.”

  “No.”

  Billy touched his arm. “William.”

  “No, I said.” Shrugging him off.

  “Falling off’s just a part of it. You have to get back on.”

  “I don’t want to. I want to go home.”

  “Well, you ain’t quitting, I’ll tell you that much. Go and collect your horse.”

  “No.”

  He folded his arms and stomped his foot like some prissy schoolgirl. Billy said, “Collect your damn horse before I make you. I ain’t asking again.”

  William only stood there. Billy felt the stares of the stableboy and the men. He put a hand on William’s shoulder, attempting to steer him, but he twisted from the grip and the two of them faced off across the corral. Billy was disgusted by him: the foppish way he held himself, the weakness that ran to his core. They may have looked alike but there was none of Billy in him, the boy was no kind of son. Even his own father, drunk and penniless, would not have stood for this behavior, wouldn’t have had to, Billy would have fought like hell to get another crack at it, not to run off home. Not for the first time he wondered if the child was even his—Katherine had never been clear on the timing, and William had come out small. She’d always denied anything had happened that night with Charles Sinclair, but Billy still had his doubts.

  He lunged and grabbed hold of William, pinned him by the arms, bent so they were face-to-face. William writhing, trying to kick him; Billy said, “You’re making a bloody fool of yourself, and of me. Now quit acting like a baby and show me you’re a proper McBride.”

  He shoved him gently toward the pony. Barely anything in it, but down the boy went, the dust puffing up around him as he landed in the dirt. Later, Billy would wonder if the fall had been deliberate, if William had seen Katherine watching from over by the house and thrown himself to the ground. He lay there groaning, his head buried in his arms. Billy hadn’t noticed Katherine yet. “Christ,” he said, sighing, trudging closer, standing over his son. He tried to rouse him. William refused to stir. His legs started flailing like he was swimming and Billy straightened, shook his head, looked up at the sky.

  Behind him, at the fence line, he heard the stableboy laugh.

  Billy spun and strode across the corral. Briefly the stableboy tried to control himself, to swallow his laughter and bury his gaze in the dirt, but when he saw Billy advancing, a face full of fury and his hands balled into fists, he unhooked his arms from the railing and backed away a step.

  Billy snatched his stockwhip off the fence post. He vaulted the rail in one leap. Now the stableboy had his hands up, jabbering away in his own tongue—Billy could not have cared less what he said. He walked toward him folding the whip in a figure-eight motion, tightening it into a strop. The stableboy tried to run but Billy kicked his legs out and he sprawled into the dust. Billy hit him. One quick thwack of the strop on his temple that briefly sent him limp, then he had him by the collar and was dragging him back to the corral, yelling, “Laugh at my son, will you? Laugh at my fucking son?” while the stableboy grappled his wrist hopelessly, his legs cycling the ground.

  The men by the gum tree were standing. Katherine, her skirts in her hand, came running from the house.

  Billy threw the stableboy chest-first against the railings, stropped him again, the stableboy cowering, holding the back of his head. By now William had picked himself up and was watching from the middle of the corral, his knees pressed together, clutching one arm with the other, squirming. Billy gripped the stableboy’s head, shoved it forward, snarled in his ear, “Apologize to my boy.”

  “Daddy . . .” William sniveled.

  “Quiet!” He clamped the stableboy’s jaw with his hand, saliva bubbling with each breath. “Say it,” Billy told him. “Or I swear to God . . .”

  The stableboy didn’t answer. Or couldn’t, maybe. Billy released him and stepped back a way and let out the whip to the ground.

  “No!” Katherine shouted. “No, Billy, don’t!”

  He didn’t even hear her. Lost deep inside himself now. He was sick of being disrespected—John Sullivan never had to put up with this kind of horseshit. Billy had steered the station through a crippling drought, widespread labor strikes, and a depression that had brought the colony to its knees; better than that, they had thrived. Still he met with other squatters and they sneered at him like shit on a shoe, as if marrying into it and being born into it weren’t two sides of the same coin. At the same time neither did his own men fully respect him, still saw him as one of them, not the man he’d since become. Even his own son hated him. They all did, but he would show them, like he had done his whole life, starting with this insolent fucker here.

  Billy drew back the whip and unleashed it and with a sharp crack the tip tore through the stableboy’s shirt. The stableboy cried out and arched to the sky; a bloodstain bloomed where he’d been cut. William was wailing. Covering his face with his hands. The cattle and horses milled restlessly around him, geed up by the sound of the whip. The stableboy looked over his shoulder. Billy drew back the whip again.

  Katherine slammed into him before he could get the second lashing away. She wrapped him in her arms and held him and he didn’t try to fight, looking at her queerly, as if unsure who she was. They stood together, Katherine panting, the world slowly seeping back into Billy’s mind: William crying; the stableboy fleeing down the hillside; the men ambling warily from the blue gum; the cattle and horses in the corral. Katherine called to William, told him it was over now, he was safe; “Get him out of there!” she yelled at the men. Two of them jumped over the railing. They picked up the boy and passed him to the other over the fence. Katherine let go of Billy and stared at him aghast.

  “What the hell is wrong with you? Billy? What h
ave you done?”

  Blankly Billy looked at her. They stayed like that a long time. Then he dropped his whip and walked away without a word.

  Chapter 17

  Henry Wells

  The train squealed into Southport station and hissed a filthy cloud of steam. The doors opened, the passengers disembarked, day-trippers mostly, mothers and their broods. It had not occurred to Henry to bring his family. They might have provided the perfect excuse. Instead he stepped down from first class alone and made his way through the bustle and noise, along the platform, through the station building, such as it was, and outdoors. A crisp winter sun greeted him. A faint whiff of salt water on the breeze. He walked along Railway Street to the park, glimpsed the pier and the beach and the sea. It was all really rather pleasant. He could see why Southport was so popular, apparently favored by the governor himself. They would come in the summer, he decided, stay for a weekend; he would find out which was the best of the hotels. It might prove useful. He could talk to the right people, his children could play with theirs, Laura could befriend their wives.

  He found the little weatherboard police station and, satchel in hand, stood appraising it from the street. With its picket fence and tidy front garden, its deadheaded rosebush climbing the porch, it looked more like a holiday cottage than a police house, and certainly too quaint and quiet for someone like Edmund Noone. The man had quite the reputation. Henry had done his research. Highly decorated for his work spanning almost two decades with the Native Police, a number of high-profile cases to his name, including apprehending the murderer of an outback squatter called John Sullivan . . . which just so happened to have occurred at around the same time and in roughly the same location as the massacre reported by Reverend Bean. The two couldn’t be a coincidence. Henry was on to something, no doubt.