Dust Off the Bones by Paul Howarth

Author:Paul Howarth
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harper
Published: 2021-06-08T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

Tommy McBride

In the still and silent night he left Urandangi, leading two spare horses behind him, the bags stuffed with whatever supplies he’d managed to find. He looked back at the hotel aglow in the darkness and imagined Jack in there with Alan Ames, strong-arming him to a table, the revolver pinning him in place, then plying him with drink till he passed out. With any luck he would wake late the next morning and agree to Jack’s offer of work, groggily joining the group heading north. Worst case, he’d manage to slip away and raise the alarm, breathlessly explaining how he’d caught the fugitive Tommy McBride and that he was currently fleeing west, which would also suit Tommy just fine. Now he understood Jack’s meaning. He didn’t know any cattle trails out west. 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 Birdsville Track to Marree. Long hungry days in the saddle, little or nothing to eat, many of the waterholes reduced to fly-infested puddles by the drought. He sucked up the water greedily, at times so clogged with sand and grit it was easier to chew than drink. 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.

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