While standing at the bar, Henry glanced over his shoulder at Francis Bean fidgeting in his chair and wondered if he wasn’tbeing played. But then it seemed a lot of trouble to go to, just to con him out of a couple of drinks. The barman broughttheir glasses, caught Henry staring, asked him, “That fella bothering you?”
“No, not exactly. You ever seen him before?”
“If I had I’d have slung him out on his arse. We don’t like that sort here.”
“What sort’s that?”
“Them without money to pay.”
Henry returned to the table. Bean went to pounce on his rum but Henry pulled it away. “Listen,” he said. “I’m going to hear your story but there are a few conditions first. No more drinks after this one. This is your last, understand? And tomorrow, assuming I believe you, I want you to come to my chambers and we’ll do all this again, but formally, a proper written record that you have signed and sworn. I am of course familiar with the Native Police. I know the kind of men they were, how they operated, but that was a long time ago; they are all but defunct these days. There might simply not be the appetite for investigating this sort of thing. So I make you no promises. I will hear you out and that is all. If I think you are lying to me I will stand up and leave and if you follow me again I’ll have you arrested, are we clear?”
“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 slidthe 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 builtcorral, its timber fence so freshly cut it gleamed in the midmorning sun. They closed the gate, found some shade beneath anearby blue gum, and sat smoking and talking while the native stableboy brought the horses from the barn. One was Buck, Billy’saging brumby, too old now for scrub work but perfect for the corral; the other the good-natured white pony on which the childrenlearned to ride. The stableboy tied both horses to the fence and glanced at the men beneath the tree. They shared a joke andlaughed 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 sevenyears old, the eldest of two sons, with a daughter, Isobel, born in between. He had his father’s coloring—the dark hair, thebrooding 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’twant to ride today. Would rather have stayed inside playing piano or reading books. Billy wouldn’t hear a word of it. He proddedthe 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, sniffingthe dirt. Billy closed the gate and told William to mount up. He put the wrong foot in the stirrup. Distracted by the cattlestill. His legs got in a tangle and he dropped back to the ground and Billy heard one of the men beneath the blue gum blowout 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 hisattention back to the boy. Besides, he knew who had answered. Todd Anderson was his name. He was one of those who’d knownBilly as a lowly stockman: they’d worked the scrubs together, eaten at the same table, drank around the same campfire. NowBilly was in charge, and men like Anderson resented it—he’d seen how they looked at him, the beat of hesitation before theyfollowed a command, the little quips when they thought he was out of earshot. Billy was moving them on steadily, as he hadJoe, 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
