Since hearing Reverend Bean’s confession, Henry had looked closely into the Native Police, that uniformed band of mercenariesmarauding with impunity up and down the frontier. They were hardly a clandestine outfit—the whole colony knew what they did—buttime and again blind eyes were turned. Yes, there were letters in the newspapers, and when the evidence was overwhelming orthe clamor grew too loud, inquests had sometimes been held, whereupon officers were simply reprimanded, moved, or quietlyretired. Henry and his clerks had been through every record they could find: despite all the evidence, the eyewitnesses, themass graves, the charred remains, there had never been a successful criminal prosecution of a Native Police officer in relationto an Aboriginal death.
Well, Henry was going to change that. He was going to be the first.
At the post office he pulled out two envelopes from his satchel, one addressed to the colonial secretary, the other to theattorney general. He paid the postage and watched the postmaster drop them in the sack, then turned and made his way backto the station to catch the next Brisbane train.
Reverend Bean’s testimony was one thing, but before taking things any further he’d wanted to get a good look at Noone. Henryhad been shaken by the accuracy with which his life had been unveiled, and in such a short time; nobody had ever seen himso clearly before. But with his outburst, Noone had surely revealed himself too.
The man was guilty as hell.
* * *
As soon as the lawyer had left the building, Percy scooted in his heels and went along the hall to the open office doorway,found Noone carefully preparing a pipe. He got it going with a match, great hollows in his cheeks, then waved for Percy tocome in. He offered him the matchbox. Percy plucked the cigarette stub from behind his ear, lit it, and took a seat. Theysat smoking. Percy brushed ash off his thigh. He noticed the half-filled whiskey glass and took it for himself.
“I’d like you to follow that man, Percy. I believe he is up to no good. We’ll find out eventually what he is planning, I suppose,but for the time being I’d like to know who he is, where he lives, where he works, what he eats, who he fucks, every littledetail down to when the bastard shits. Would you do that for me, please?”
Percy nodded, drinking. “That all? You don’t want nothing else done?”
“For now. There is no sense in taking unnecessary risks.”
“It wouldn’t be no risk to you at all. I’d be careful.”
“I know you would, my boy. And I’m very grateful. But no—let’s leave Henry Wells alive for the moment, until we’ve seen whathe’s going to do next.”
Chapter 18
Tommy McBride
A week after Arthur had left him, as he ran errands for Jack Kerrigan in Marree, preparing for their next cattle drove, Tommywas walking past the post office when the postmaster stuck his head through the open doorway and asked if he was Bobby Thompson,and after a beat of hesitation Tommy remembered that he was. “Letter for you,” the postmaster said, ducking back inside. Tommycollected the envelope and in the shade of the building found his new name and Marree written there in a scrawled and slanted script. He opened the flap and slid out the thin paper and, his frown lifting, asudden churning in his gut, read his real name in the greeting, then the message underneath:
Tommy—
I hope this reaches you. I figure you’re still living it up with Flash Jack in Marree. I’m headed south like I told you. I can’t stay round here. Good luck on them cattle runs. I hope you’re right about him. I’ll write again when I get somewhere—leave word if you move on. So it’ll find you. If you want to, I mean. Anyhow, take care of yourself. No hard feelings, eh?
Arthur
Tommy folded the letter and scanned the alleyway, as if expecting to find Arthur there. Every day he’d looked for him. His absence impossible to believe. But now here was confirmation: this wasn’t just another fall-out, Arthur was actually gone. The finality of the letter hit Tommy like a fist: No hard feelings, eh? After all these years together, after all they’d been through, and done, his only true friend in the world had left him. Inthis place. On his own.
The postmark on the envelope said Lyndhurst, two days’ quick ride south, but by now Arthur would probably have moved on andthere was nothing in his note suggesting Tommy follow. He read it twice over. At least he’d said he would write again. Italmost sounded like he was giving his blessing to what Tommy had planned: Good luck on them cattle runs. I hope you’re right about him.
He looked in on the postmaster. “Hold my mail while I’m gone, will you?”
“That’s the job,” the man said.
Jack put a new droving plant together—horses, a horsetailer, camp cook, and stockmen—and with Tommy among their number theyset out north at a lick, passing long chains of camels carrying teetering mountains of supplies, and other plants ploddingin the opposite direction, as they raced for the Channel Country or the stations in the north, or sometimes out west intothe Territory, where they would collect whichever mob Jack had managed to get a
