“Well then, make your statement. But I promise you, he will find you, and when he does no god will be able to protect youthen.”
The magistrate reached for one of the pens in a double holder on his desk, dipped it in the inkwell, and held it poised overhis writing pad. His bushy eyebrow lifted, watching the reverend writhe, as a drop of black ink slid slowly along the gully,hung from the nib in a teardrop, then spattered on the pad.
“Forgive me Lord, I haven’t the strength,” Reverend Bean whispered, jumping to his feet and scurrying for the door. As his footsteps receded over the lobby flagstones, MacIntyre speared his pen into its holder and flopped back in his chair.
“If it’s spiritual guidance you’re in need of,” the magistrate called after him, laughing, “there’s a church at the end ofthe street!”
Outside, Matthew was sheltering in the shade of the courthouse wall. He hurried over, asked what had happened; Reverend Beanonly blinked into the glare.
“Father? What did he say?”
“He’ll take care of it now, Matthew.” His voice distant, detached.
“Take care how?”
“We’ve done our duty. It’s no longer our concern.”
Matthew glanced at the courthouse doors. “And you believe him?”
“We have no choice. He is a man of the law, after all.”
“So were them others what did it!”
“I know that,” Reverend Bean said sadly. “Yes, I know they were.”
They rode out of Bewley later that afternoon, heading for Mulumba, as had once been their original plan. They were washednow, and clean-shaven, and had provisions in their saddlebags; the reverend had bought a pint of rum. They were no longertalking. Hardly a word between them since. When they passed the little church at the far end of town, Matthew blessed himselfdutifully and muttered a short prayer, while in sight of the cross above the doorway, Reverend Bean turned his back on thebuilding, and hung his head in shame.
Part I
1890
Five Years Later
Chapter 1
Billy McBride
The heaving bar of the Bewley Hotel erupted at the sight of the wall-eyed musician shuffling out from behind the curtain screen,the drinkers whistling and catcalling and rising from their chairs, hurling whatever was at hand, as the young man laden withall manner of pipes and gongs parped and jangled his way to the center of the stage. Through spectacles as thick as bottleends he gazed out at the crowd, missiles sailing by him, or in some cases finding their mark, then put his lips to the mouthorgan, blew a tentative note, and by pumping a foot pedal struck a beat on his drum. He wore it like a backpack, a giant basswith frankie’s traveling dance band stenciled in black lettering on the dirty cream skin, one of many musical contraptions he was scaffolded in. Next came apuff on the kazoo, a ridiculous birdlike honking that drew roars of derision from the crowd. They’d been expecting Theresaand her tassels. Her name was on the chalkboard outside. Instead they’d got this strange little man wearing clackers and cowbells,clutching a ukulele, a hand-horn strapped to his knee. They heckled him all the harder. Despite everything, Frankie beganto play.
From a table near the doors, farthest from the stage, Billy McBride sipped his whiskey and watched the performance steadily unravel. A chair was thrown at Frankie, glass smashed on the floor; someone had Horace, the hotelier, by his collar, demanding he get Theresa out here now. Regardless, the kid was really going for it, playing for his life so it seemed: cheeks puffing, eyes bulging, flapping his elbows and knees. A bloke took his shirt off and jumped up onstage, began imitating Theresa, fondling himself and calling her name. Frankie stalled and the man shook him. Frankie rattled like a box of spoons. “Play, you little bastard, I’m dancing!” the man yelled, to cheers from the crowd. Billy smirked and saw off his drink, rose to his feet, and started walking. He had to get the kid out of here. Only one way this would end.
Pushing his way to the stage, jostling between the men—one took exception and turned with his fist raised, only to realizewho he’d be swinging at and apologetically lower it again. Billy moved past him, bounded up the stage steps, and briefly thebarroom fell still. He spoke with the shirtless man, a hand on his shoulder, and obediently he rejoined the crowd. There wasbooing. Someone shouted for Billy to leave it alone. But now Billy had Frankie by the arm and was steering him off the stage,the drinkers reluctantly parting, a similar reluctance in Frankie too, Billy noticed, like this was a calling he couldn’tleave. Billy could almost imagine him, tramping from town to town, maybe after years of watching his father perform this selfsamesorry act. Then one day the old man keels over and the act becomes Frankie’s to perform, playing street corners for coppers,these dead-end drinking halls, desperately trying to better his father’s legacy, or build one of his own.
Well, that much felt familiar. Billy could relate to that at least.
Out the door they stumbled, onto the lamplit verandah, down the steps to the dark dirt road. The crowd surged after them,and still Frankie was resisting—Billy had half a mind to let him go, see what became of him then. On a night just like thishe’d once seen a hair cream salesman nearly mated with a dog, only for the dog to save them both by fighting harder than theman. That was what Frankie had in store for him, if he didn’t get out of town.
The musician lost his footing coming down the steps, tripped and, unbalanced by his instruments, fell and landed facefirst in the dust. That brightened the mood a little. Laughter from the men spilling outside. Stuck on their cattle stations, or mustering the lonely bush, what they needed was entertainment, preferably from Theresa, but you couldn’t be too choosy out here. Billy hooked Frankie by
