Billy scoffed and said, “What sort of an answer is that?”
“Do I have to spell it out for you? I suppose I probably do. Those men, fine troopers though they were—what was I to do withthem? I can hardly take them with me, so what else? Retire them? How? Where to? They are neither suited for white society,nor can they go back to their tribes; frankly I doubt their tribes even exist. Think of them like workhorses that have reachedthe end of their useful lives. It’s kinder to simply terminate them. Makes things easier all round.”
“But . . . they’re not horses. They’ve been with you for years.”
“Exactly. And consider the things they have seen, the things they know. I am to be promoted, Billy. Chief inspector, and not before time. I cannot run the risk of any scandal. There is a different sensibility on the coast. You should be thanking me, for it is your reputation as well. And besides, now you know what will happen to you and your young family if ever you decide to turn.”
“Have your eye out before you opened your mouth anyway,” Percy snarled at him, patting the Hawken rifle at his side.
“Come back when your balls have dropped.”
“Boys, boys,” Noone said, smiling. “We’re all on the same side here.”
When the hole was ready they’d dragged over the bodies and one by one slung them in. Echoes of his parents, of that day heand Tommy had done this exact same thing. Now it was this little shitstain Percy he crabbed to the graveside with, the boypanting and straining, barely the strength to hold his end. In they went, the four of them—five, Billy corrected himself.A tangle of limbs and bodies that at first came almost to the lip, until Percy climbed on top and like a child crushing sandcastles,set about stomping them down.
The sun was low in the west when they rode away from that place, the broken ground smoothed over and level and covered withrocks and loose grass, the only sign of what had happened here the many bloodstains on the ground, dark pools and drag markstrampled by hooves and boots, though within a few days they would be gone too, dried by the sun and buried beneath a skinof windblown dirt.
That night Billy lay awake among the brigalow, listening to the crackle of the campfire and the constant rustle of the trees. His thoughts swamped by Katherine, and their baby, if there was one, if Noone’s story was real. He’d never felt anything so strongly in his life: a physical aching to get back there, twisting his insides; to be with her, protect her, to claim what was his. Tomorrow. Once Noone had said he could leave. These two fuckers lying snoring across the campfire . . . he could kill them both and be done with it, he realized. He was fully dressed, boots and all, his revolver strapped to his belt. Cast off the bedroll, jump up to his feet, two quick shots and it would be done. He’d be rid of Noone forever, the curse he’d put on Billy’s life, and his brother’s; if he could find him, Tommy could come home. He could bury the bodies out here and no one would ever know. He fingered the revolver restlessly. The breath surging out of him, heart hammering in his chest. He lifted his head and chanced a look, saw the outline of Noone through the flames. He was lying with his head in the crook of his arm, facing Billy, the two dark pits of his eyes, no telling if he was awake or not. Billy eased himself back down, let go of the gun, told himself it was safer not to, better to bide his time. It didn’t feel any safer. All night he lay listening to Noone’s breathing, unsure if he was watching, too afraid to fall asleep.
Chapter 11
Henry Wells
He’d not yet reached the doors of the courthouse when he heard his name being called, echoing over the hubbub in the grandcentral stairwell, its wide stone staircase spotlit by shafts of smoke-filled sunlight through the tall arched windows above.
“Mr. Wells, sir! Mr. Wells!”
Henry paused in the bustling lobby and turned to find a figure running down the stairs. A reporter, probably. Henry hadn’twanted the Clarence murder case when it was given to him, nobody did, but it was doing his profile no harm at all, both withthe public and at the bar. He waited for the man to catch up—warm air teasing through the main doors behind him, the clatterof George Street trams—then noticed with a start that it wasn’t a reporter at all but the judge’s clerk. Henry cringed. Hadhe done something wrong, he wondered, said something untoward in the courtroom? Conducted himself out of turn? Perhaps he’dsimply forgotten some papers, though the boy carried nothing in his hands. He slid to a halt in front of Henry, gasping everyword.
“Mr. Wells, sir . . . it’s . . . the jury. They’re ready . . . to come back.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“The judge told me so himself, sir. You don’t know where Mr. Hugill went?”
Henry took a long time to answer. “Try the robing room,” he said.
The boy scurried off. Henry couldn’t move. It had barely been ten minutes—which must mean they were sending Brooks down. The evidence was so overwhelming, surely to God they couldn’t be about to turn that man free. Of course they could. There was always a risk. But still, ten minutes! One man’s life, and the worth of another, decided before Henry had even managed
