20

I slept in the station that night. The riverbank, the entire town, was a mess of dirt and dust. Next morning, I retrieved my camping kit from the riverbank and spent the day cleaning it while Lonergan went off to do the rounds. I checked my eye twitch several times and rubbed the Chinese ointment over my scar, noting the date and time I applied it.

I couldn’t get Beavins out of my mind. He was murdered, plain and simple. Not manslaughter but murder, despite what Joe said about punch-up wounds. Beavins had come to the station looking for me. Not any old trooper, but me. I barely knew him, apart from the interview after Pearson’s death, and there was nothing more to be said about that. Except he was angry about Sally Gilmour and Jimmy. Now he was dead. Maybe Miss Gilmour knew more than she was saying.

I wasn’t sure if there’d be an inquest into Beavins’ death, but if there was it’d be Lonergan who’d have to front up at court, because I wasn’t supposed to be doing anything beyond reflecting on my character flaws. Lonergan came back in the late afternoon and saw me scrabbling through the files, but said nothing. I knew I was never going to be reinstated and had no right to be here, and certainly no right to be nosing through old files. They’d kick me out once the dust had settled, so I had to complete my mission before that day arrived.

Mrs Schreiber had brought some Lancashire hotpot over, which took our minds off files and futures. We made short work of it, then moved on to the evening lesson in navigation.

Lonergan had taken to maps and navigation like he was born to it. Mounted trooper training wasn’t terribly rigorous, and as men were more likely to find good work in a factory, anyone who could spell their own name was quickly snapped up, shoved into a uniform and deployed on the fringes of settlement.

We were now up to celestial navigation with a sextant, standing outside the station in our thick coats and scarves, gazing at the stars, charts and notebooks resting on an old kerosene tin, beside an almanac and my precious marine chronometer. The odd passer-by on the way to the pub gave us a wide berth. If I did anything of use out here, it was teaching Lonergan to navigate.

As we scribbled and squinted, the passers-by multiplied and soon the roar of a pub in full swing filled the silent night. Shouts of laughter, shrill mockery, more laughter, getting louder the more they drank, and more reckless.

‘There’ll be tears before bedtime,’ Lonergan said, shaking his head like an old hand.

The ruckus did have an end-of-days edge to it. Steam escaping a valve at a high velocity. Exhausted men drinking off the muscle ache and resentment.

‘Hear that?’ Lonergan said, glancing nervously down the street as something was hurled outside amid gusts of laughter. It could turn at any moment. We packed up and went inside the station to wait.

‘I won’t be able to stop ’em.’

‘Course you can.’

‘Oh yeah, right, like I’ll put the fear of God into them. I’m a wheat farmer and they know it – the bastards know it as soon as they look at me.’

‘It’s the uniform that does the work for you. You’re not Micky Lonergan from Pakapoo Creek.’

‘Balranald.’

‘Whatever. You’re Johnny Law, the coercive arm of the mighty state of New South Wales, reaching into their stinking daks and twisting their balls until they see the error of their ways.’

But it was a full moon, and any copper would tell you that the full moon brought trouble.

~

There was a lot of lightning on the horizon earlier on, and only now did the thunder come rolling in with great crashes and booms above us. In between the thunder, the sound from the pub seemed to swell. We put the kettle on and by the time it had boiled there was a knock at the back door – Wally was sending for some reinforcement.

‘You coming?’ Lonergan said to me as he went to the armoury.

‘I’m suspended, remember.’

‘Yeah but …’

‘Don’t go there armed, that’ll just wind them up.’

‘What if they go for me?’

‘At least one of them will still be thinking straight and will stop their mate from taking a swing. And if they do, Wally has a rifle behind the counter.’

He took a deep breath, put the rifle away. ‘You coming?’

Walking into a bush pub when every bastard in it was shitfaced and kicking up was the job, and a big part of the job. I had made it clear from my first days in the post that I would administer some corrective violence should I meet with unreasonable resistance, and out here that sort of policing works. Never had any more problems, but Lonergan mustered about as much menace as a tea cosy.

‘I’ll wait outside. If they get stupid, I’ll lend a hand.’

We marched down the road, thunder rolling above in the bleak skies, and arrived at the pub. We peeked through the window at the rabble surging around the bar, the thick fug of fag smoke, the upturned tables and spilled beer, men staggering and shoving.

‘Cometh the man, Micky, lad,’ I murmured, slapping him on his shoulder.

He straightened himself up and marched in. ‘Closing time, gentlemen.’

I peered through the window. Nobody heard him at first and he shouted it again. All heads turned towards him, incredulous laughter and jeers, insults and shoving. It was on the turn – any second now. Time to tighten the screw.

‘Closing time,’ Lonergan repeated, standing still as a rock and giving every man who glanced at him a stony glare. Wally quietly placed his rifle on the bar, his oily white hair glowing in the lamplight.

There were a few refractory ones, making threats and squaring up. Lonergan shifted his weight, shoulders back, arms held apart from his body, and gave them all a look that said, don’t give me any grief. The troublemakers straggled out, laughing and jeering, but they went. I walked inside, nodded at Lonergan. He’d done well.

‘What’s up with them tonight?’ Wally said, stowing his rifle under the bar.

‘Full moon,’ I said. ‘Lightning. Moon in Scorpio. All of the above, plus we had to ask questions at Gowrie yesterday. Archie Beavins found dead in a shallow grave.’

Wally sighed, shook his head. ‘Always Gowrie.’

‘I reckon Inveraray is coming up on the outside in the trouble stakes.’

‘Yeah, but Gowrie does something to a bloke. Dunno what’s in their water.’

As we walked out, Wally said, ‘Better check your horses, Gus.’

Out in the dark street, men milled about, laughing or falling over. There were whoops and a bit of carry-on from down by the police station, and the sound of a horse kicking up. We hurried down there to see a horse galloping away and a gang of men laughing fit to burst. They saw us and disappeared. The stable door was wide open.

‘Those bloody shitheads,’ Lonergan cried. ‘They’ve stampeded Dancer.’

~

We saddled up and galloped up the road. Dancer would be mad with fear, and I had a deep urge to kill the bastards who’d done this. We followed his tracks down the road, and then he seemed to have careened off the road and into the scrub. I’d hoped to find him standing on the dusty road, flanks heaving and wondering what to do next.

I hopped off Felix and was able to see where Dancer had crashed through the scrub, breaking twigs along the way, his hoofprints clear in the moonlight.

Then I saw him. He was down in a gully, reins tangled in a bit of mulga, struggling to get up, panting, frothing at the mouth. Felix went to him, nosing his face, blowing through his nostrils, whickering as if to soothe his friend.

‘Oh, mate,’ I murmured as I approached him slowly.

He’d come down hard when the bridle snagged and his front leg was bent and broken. I took my pistol out, walked away, then clicked the safety off. Lonergan took his horse and Felix several yards away. I went back and sat in the dust, resting Dancer’s head on my knees. His eyes were rolling from the terrible pain and fear. I stroked his nose and his neck, smooth, soothing strokes.

‘That’s it, lad, you did well. Served with honour, dear friend. A police horse without peer.’

He stopped struggling at the sound of my voice. His breath was coming fast, but he trusted me – after three years he trusted me.

I put a bullet in his head and he was free.

I sat there with Dancer’s great head on my lap and wept. The wind whistled through the mulga. My tears fell onto his soft, gleaming coat and I wanted to stretch out beside him, bury my face in his mane and shoot myself too.

‘Gus,’ Lonergan said eventually. ‘We gotta leave him, mate.’

He was right – we had to keep going. I laid Dancer’s head down gently in the dirt and took the bridle off. Then I undid the girth and pulled at the saddle. Getting a saddle off a dead horse is not an easy task. But with a bit of heaving, pulling and grunting, we got there. I took the saddle blanket, with its New South Wales Mounted Police badge, and covered his head. Mick and I saluted him, then left him to the darkness.

Dancer had been with me since day one out here, and for him to die at the hands of these drunken fools filled me with rage. If they’d taken Felix, he would have galloped off, had a bit of a snack, then come back. But not Dancer. The devil was after him, and this time it was real.

He had a bloody great government brand on his arse, so he could never be stolen. That was the theory, anyway. And he wasn’t stolen, as he’d been saddled with his police kit first. This wasn’t about nicking a good horse, it was about us asking questions at Gowrie Station.

~

I slept over in the police station. More accurately, I lay in my old bed overnight. I couldn’t sleep. My dancing partner was dead and I could hardly stand it. If Corcoran came around sniffing sheets, he could go to hell. I was leaving as soon as I’d punished the men who killed my horse.

Next morning, I went to the Royal and found Wally in his cellar, shifting barrels.

‘Gus, what can I do you for?’

‘Last night you told me to check the horses. Why was that?’

He wiped his face with a grimy handkerchief, put his fleshy hands on his hips. ‘Don’t remember.’

‘Yes, you do.’

He pressed his lips into a grim line, shook his head. ‘Nup.’

‘Then I’ll get Lonergan to question you and you can repeat that, and then I’ll get him to charge you with obstructing a police officer in the course of his duty.’

His jaw dropped. ‘You wouldn’t do that.’

‘I will do it if you don’t tell me what happened.’

‘Just those bastards from Gowrie. Most of them were from Gowrie last night. They were drinking and shouting, calling Tom Fletcher this and that, calling you this and that, and then some bright spark decided it would be a good idea to teach you to mind your own business, that Pearson was dead and Beavins was dead because of you.’

‘How’d they figure that?’

He threw up his hands. ‘Fucked if I know. And I don’t want to know.’

‘Maroney? Kelly?’

‘Coulda been them, and some others.’

‘Thank you. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’

He snorted and turned back to his barrels. ‘You didn’t hear it from me.’

~

I worked my way down the street, knocking on the few doors that constituted Calpa’s main street and asking if anybody had seen men in the street that night, close to the police station stables. As I thought, nobody had seen a thing, even if they had. But then the maid from the Royal, the very sweet Maryanne, popped into the station when I was gazing at the calendar with my mind at a standstill.

‘Hello, Miss Lea,’ I said.

‘Wally told me you were looking for witnesses to your horse theft. I saw them and I don’t mind telling you who they were. I heard you had to put the horse down, and I can’t abide cruelty to animals.’

‘Prepared to go to court and stand as a witness?’

‘I am, and then I’ll hand in my notice.’

‘Brave of you,’ I said.

‘Not really. I’ve had enough of this place. Women aren’t safe. The men who killed the Kirkbrides is still out there, and nobody seems bothered about it anymore. I know Polly from the Larne Royal is terrified, but the men tell us girls we’re hysterical and to be quiet. All very well for them.’

‘So who do you reckon you saw?’

‘Liam Maroney and Patrick Kelly. Plain as day. I was watching from my room over in Kev’s place. I look out onto your stables. I see you and the other fella come and go all the time. I watched these blokes, and they couldn’t see me ’cause I blew my candle out.’

‘So they won’t know you’re a witness – not until they come to trial.’

‘Not unless you tell them,’ she said.

‘I’m not going to do that. Thanks for telling me,’ I said.

Maryanne gathered herself and left. I walked outside and looked at Kev’s house. There was a small window in the whitewashed wall facing onto the dirt road and opposite the police station stables. She would have had a clear view.

With Wally and Maryanne as witnesses, I had enough to make arrests. I got Lonergan to telegram Bourke asking for a police wagon to take the offenders back once the arrests were made. Lonergan was to make the arrests first thing the next day, as we didn’t have a lock-up big enough to keep two men overnight. Nothing happened quickly out here.

~

Lonergan and I rode over to Gowrie Station at dawn and rehearsed exactly what he was to say and do. As we rode up the drive I could hear him muttering to himself, going over it, as if it were some complicated mathematical formula.

‘Just think of your badge, that’s who’s talking,’ I said.

‘Yeah, but—’

‘No. No buts. You take that crown and you smash these bastards over the head with it. The King’s behind you.’

‘Mad,’ he murmured.

The galahs and corellas greeted the new day with their usual screeches of pleasure. Dogs barked, and men were up and about at Gowrie, watching us with interest. I went up to the house and knocked. Will Fletcher came to the door and I told him what we were here for.

‘We’ve had enough disruption around here lately what with Pearson and Beavins.’

‘Two of your men were seen stealing a police horse.’

‘Oh, for god’s sake, two of them? We’re already two down, and the rest won’t work if Tom’s around. Now you want to take another two?’

‘Yes, Maroney and Kelly.’

His mouth tightened and he shut the door. I rejoined Lonergan as Henry Peyton came over.

‘Mr Peyton, good morning,’ Lonergan said, while I stood beside him. ‘I’m here to arrest Mr Maroney and Mr Kelly. Can you please fetch them?’

‘What? What in the hell for?’ he said, looking at me.

‘Horse theft,’ Lonergan said.

‘Wait right here, I’m going to speak to Mr Fletcher – this is ridiculous.’

‘He knows,’ I said.

‘Theft of government property is a serious matter,’ Lonergan said, squaring his shoulders.

Peyton looked to the house, expecting reinforcement from his boss, but got nothing.

‘Mr Peyton,’ I said, sensing Lonergan’s resolve sag. ‘If you kill a mounted trooper’s horse and get away with it, next thing you’ll be killing a mounted trooper, and that cannot stand.’

He fumed, hands on hips. There was nothing he could say to that. The two men cursed and carried on, as was to be expected.

‘It was just a joke,’ Maroney said as his arms were yanked back by Lonergan. ‘We was just fooling around.’

All the remaining staff watched from the verandah of their mess quarters. Lonergan cuffed the two men and then linked them to a long chain. Then looked at me. I mounted up and rode with him but the two prisoners had to walk back to town like convicts as we didn’t have the wagon yet. We rode slowly, with them dragging their feet until Lonergan gave them a tug. The sun had a bite to it and it would be a good hour until we reached Calpa.

‘What are we charged with?’ Maroney said. ‘Making arses of ourselves?’

‘You will be formally charged with theft of government property and animal cruelty.’

‘Oh, fair go, animal cruelty? We wasn’t cruel, that the horse fell wasn’t our fault.’

‘He wouldn’t have been out there if you hadn’t stampeded him, an act of cruelty in itself.’

Maroney and Kelly exchanged sullen, disbelieving looks. I knew we did worse things to animals every day out here. But I wanted to make that charge stick. They chose the wrong horse that night.

‘Just a fucken horse,’ Kelly muttered.

I stopped and glared at him. ‘Just a fucken police horse, Mr Kelly. That one word is a distinction you’ll have plenty of time to think on while in gaol.’