“You’re not listening. You’ll get nothing out of it. You’re wasting your time.”
“Not if you testify. I guarantee that together we would win.”
“Together,” Billy sneered. He stubbed out the cigarette on the arm of the chair, rose slowly to his feet, went to the doorand paused with his hand on the knob. “You ain’t worth the dags on my arse hairs, you dumb fucking city cunt.”
He left, and a breath washed out of Henry. Scrambling from the bed, he got to the door in time to see Billy plodding downthe stairs. He fumbled around on the dresser for his key, found it there alongside Reverend Bean’s, and his hand shaking wildly,slid it into the lock and turned it and heard the bolt click fast.
Chapter 22
Tommy McBride
In the still and silent night he left Urandangi, leading two spare horses behind him, the bags stuffed with whatever supplieshe’d managed to find. He looked back at the hotel aglow in the darkness and imagined Jack in there with Alan Ames, strong-arminghim to a table, the revolver pinning him in place, then plying him with drink till he passed out. With any luck he would wakelate the next morning and agree to Jack’s offer of work, groggily joining the group heading north. Worst case, he’d manageto slip away and raise the alarm, breathlessly explaining how he’d caught the fugitive Tommy McBride and that he was currentlyfleeing west, which would also suit Tommy just fine. Now he understood Jack’s meaning. He didn’t know any cattle trails outwest. The only trail he knew well enough to attempt on his own was the one Jack had painstakingly taught him, trip after trip,as they’d droved it together all these years: the Georgina River and Eyre’s Creek down to Birdsville, then the BirdsvilleTrack to Marree. Long hungry days in the saddle, little or nothing to eat, many of the waterholes reduced to fly-infestedpuddles by the drought. He sucked up the water greedily, at times so clogged with sand and grit it was easier to chew thandrink. At least there was no cattle to see to. Just himself and the horses, which each day he rode as hard and far as he dared.
When finally he reached the outskirts of Marree he paused on the plains overlooking the town, the familiar outline of the buildings, the peculiar silhouettes of the camel trains. It was so tempting. Collect the latest letter from Arthur, a meal among friendly faces; he could almost taste the beer. But they knew him in Marree better than anywhere these days: they had police, and a telegraph line, and all the risks those things entailed. So he kept a safe distance, too far away to be recognized, just another anonymous rider crossing the empty plains, and stopped instead in Farina, where he was one of many weary travelers passing through. He cleaned himself up, restocked and recuperated, gave the horses a chance to do the same, then set out south again, intending to head for Adelaide; he wanted to get his money out of that bank. But the longer he rode the more risky the city felt. There were more coppers in Adelaide than anywhere, and although Jack hadn’t used his full alias in front of Ames, his description could well be out there: his fair hair like a beacon, his missing fingers a red cross painted on his shirt back. That left hand of his had plagued him ever since he’d hurt it, an unshakable reminder of what he’d done. Every time he rolled a cigarette, lifted a mug, took Beau’s reins in his hands, he’d feel the tug of memory, or a snapshot of that morning would flash before his eyes. The native biting his fingers; the fight with Billy that tore one loose. He had broken Billy’s nose that day—did his brother get the same flashbacks, Tommy wondered, when he saw his face in the looking glass?
He decided to avoid Adelaide, for now at least. Take his time about getting down there, let the urgency (if there was any) drain from the pursuit. High in the Flinders Ranges he built a camp on a tree-stubbled hillside beneath a sandstone ridge, rigging a canvas for shade and shelter, digging a stone-lined firepit beside a fallen tree trunk against which he could lean his back. There was water at the bottom of the hillside, and sometimes he managed to catch a fish, otherwise he did well for meat by hunting rock wallabies, goannas, roos. Evenings he would climb the ridge to a lookout and sit on the slab, smoking a cigarette and watching the sunset, the golden light receding over the plains. A certain peace being up here. Nothing like the last time he ran. He was far more capable for one thing, and he trusted Jack to deal with Alan Ames. He’d come a fair old distance. Bewley to St. George, St. George to Marree, and everywhere else in between. Half a continent nearly, and still plenty out there he hadn’t seen. But he understood this country better now than he ever had: it was easier if you accepted the land was king. Most whites struggled because they fought it, tried to bend it to their will, but this wasn’t a place that could be tamed. Better to live within it, alongside it, on its own terms—how long had the natives lived like that, happily, before the first boats came?
Summer arrived and he had to move on; the heat became unbearable in the hills. The hunting grew scarce and the water levelsfell and he worried about the horses in the sun. So out of the ranges he wandered, like some hermit leading his caravan, onlyto run into a pair of boundary riders as he crossed what must have been station land. They asked where he was headed; Tommysaid he was looking for work, if they had any, and one of the men considered the state of him and scoffed.
