“Bobby? Did you hear me? It’s time to move, mate—go!”
“What about him?”
Jack turned to look at the old swagman on the end of his revolver, Ames’s attention flitting between the two of them. “Meand my new friend here are going to go inside and sink a few more beers and forget this conversation ever took place. If helikes he can join my plant for a while, assuming he ain’t afraid of hard work—”
“Hell, I been working my whole goddamned life.”
“—and can handle cattle as well as sheep. But, if them terms don’t suit him, then I’m going to have to keep him here a whilelonger, and find another way of convincing the snaky bastard to keep his mouth shut.”
Ames was nodding furiously. Tommy stared at Jack. He still had his right arm extended, his revolver raised; they couldn’tshake hands or embrace without risking Ames getting away. Warmly, Jack smiled at him, the full Jack Kerrigan grin, and itdawned on Tommy that most likely they’d never see each other again. He would find himself looking out for him, in hotels,roadhouses, brothels, whenever he crossed a droving trail; he’d skim the obituaries half-expecting to find his name. He neverdid. This would be the last contact he ever had with Jack, this man who had saved his life the first time they met and oneway or another had been saving it every day since.
“Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”
“On you go now. Take care of yourself.”
“I mean it. You’ve been—”
“Mate, I’ve been standing here with my arm out for long enough as it is. Get the horses and the rest of it, and get yourselfwest.”
Tommy nodded. A struggle to move his feet. He felt sick at the thought of leaving—he’d rather kill Ames than start his lifeall over again. But Jack would never allow it. He was far too principled for that. Either way, Tommy would lose him, and he’drather keep their friendship intact.
“So long then,” he said, moving past them. “Good luck with everything.”
He was almost out of the yard when Jack called “Tommy!” and the shock of hearing his name after all this time, especiallyfrom Jack, made him pull up sharply and turn. Jack was looking back at him, over his shoulder, silhouetted in the shadows,his revolver extended; Tommy thought he saw the moonlight glisten in his eyes. “It’s been bloody good knowing you. There aren’tmany out there, as you well know, but remember you’re one of the good ones, eh?”
Chapter 21
Henry Wells
The coach arrived in Bewley, and like shipwrecked survivors Henry Wells and Reverend Bean staggered out of the carriage and,in the glare of the brutal sunshine, surveyed the little town. Two rows of mismatched storefronts: crooked verandahs, hand-paintedsigns, window stencils peeling and frayed. The townspeople silently watched them. Wind whipped dust devils along the sand-and-gravelstreet. A dog came sniffing by. From the verandah of the hotel opposite someone called out, “Welcome, m’lords!” and like somewindup diorama the town clicked back to life again.
Henry cringed at the state of it. It was as dismal a place as he had ever seen. Already his skin was prickling in the unrelentingsun; the very air smelled like it was burning, tinged with a foul odor of shit, sweat, and slop. Beside him, Reverend Beanwas pirouetting back and forth, memories assaulting him like blows—“Yes, yes, that’s the courthouse, and there’s the littlechurch . . .”—the town exactly as he had described it, and so pathetic, so innocuous, given the secrets it held.
A man pushing a squeaking handcart paused and spat at their feet.
“Come on,” Henry said quietly, picking up his bags and making for the hotel, Reverend Bean tripping along after him, still twisting himself in knots. He had brought no luggage, boarding the train in Brisbane with only the clothes he stood up in, and an enormous canteen of rum that he’d suckled all journey like a teat. Three trains, two coaches, four miserable days and nights—what Henry needed most, beyond a bath and a meal, was a break from Reverend Bean. The man was insufferable. As was this heat. After crossing the tablelands outside Brisbane and the arable majesty of the Darling Downs, the country had descended into a rolling hellscape of scorched red earth and incessant sun. Henry didn’t know how people stood it, living out here; through the gaps between the buildings he could still make out that endless scrub, the town a tiny atoll in an ocean of desert plains. And now they too were marooned here. Christ, he thought, this better be worth it. We’d better bloody win.
One of the drinkers whistled as they came up the hotel steps. Nobody parted to let them past. “Excuse us, please, gentlemen,”Henry said, squeezing through, into the bar. They presented themselves at the counter—Henry had written ahead—and the baldpublican handed over their room keys. No welcome, no pleasantries, sullenly sliding the two fobs over with a large, hairyhand.
“We will eat first, I think,” Henry told him, “assuming you offer meals. An early dinner while hot water is boiled and takenup to our rooms.”
Horace stared right through him. As if he’d not spoken a single word. In the long mirror Henry noticed Reverend Bean oglingthe drinks shelf, and added, “Oh, and one more thing. My companion here is not to be served alcohol without my say-so. Nota drop, you understand? He has no money, not a penny to his name, and I shall not be footing his bill. If you serve him youmight as well tip your liquor down the drain—do I make myself clear?”
“If you like,” Horace said, glancing at the reverend, who winked at him. Henry swept up the keys. He ordered a carafe of redwine to go with the food, water for Reverend Bean, and found a table near the little raised stage at the back of the room.Quiet in here this
