One

by Patrick Holland

  ‘Leave you alone?’

  ‘You promised me. Then you left me. With two pounds and you left me.’

  ‘I …’

  But he did not know what to say. She cried.

  ‘Why don’t you even sleep with me? Are you not a man? Is there something wrong with you?’

  ‘What are you talking about, girl?’

  ‘I only ask.’

  He shook his head and looked out the window at the gas lamps that picked out drunk officers walking home. He looked back at her. Her face was like stone.

  ‘If you’re determined to hate me, then so be it. But I believe a dangerous man came through here the other night. Dangerous to you and to every decent man.’

  ‘What is a decent man?’

  He sighed.

  ‘You might have seen him, or at least heard something. Did you hear anyone talking of Jim Kenniff?’

  She shook her head. But the look in her eyes. Were those tears? God alive, he thought, she will cry.

  ‘He is not bad. I know he’s an outlaw. I know outlaws steal horses and rob mail coaches and gold escorts. What is that to me? I was never going to get any part of that wealth but what Jim Kenniff gave me. And at least he knows how to lie with a woman.’

  ‘You’re not a woman. You’re a girl. And he is not a highwayman. He is a destroyer of life.’

  ‘He’s not a bad man. He made a promise to me, and he’ll keep it. He and his men will–’

  She stopped herself. Nixon took her by the shoulders and sat her down on the bed. He took his whisky flask from his coat, unscrewed the cap and gave it to her. She drank and then he drank too. He took a pinch of tobacco and rolled it into a cigarette.

  ‘I will tell you about Jim Kenniff and his men, girl.’ He twisted one end of the cigarette and struck a match on the girl’s table and lit the other end. ‘One day they took a string of horses off a place owned by a man called Biddulph. This Biddulph was powerful enough to get in the ear of the commissioner of police. After that, the Carnarvon Ranges were swarming with police. The commissioner said he wanted men all through the hills, and he wanted the Kenniffs brought in dead or alive, face up or face down, cuffed or dragged behind a horse, he didn’t care. At the behest of Biddulph he had charcoal signs put up in the streets of the near towns saying Jim and Paddy Kenniff are dead men and anyone known to be helping them is a dead man also. I was under a sub-inspector who reckoned the Kenniffs were going between towns in the central west, on the edge of the desert.

  ‘I was a constable then. But me and an officer called Doyle were tasked with blocking their every escape out of here. Country like this. The sub-inspector had us cordon off a thousand miles. Along the perimeter of the cordon were the towns. And in each of these towns were police. Ordered to patrol half the distance to each neighbouring station on the cordon. Each patrol would go out in the morning and meet the neighbouring patrol before returning, so there was an unbroken chain of vigilance. The patrols investigated all suspicious tracks. And spare men rode long sweeps behind the cordon. I was free to scour the west as I pleased. It was my first job hunting them, in a little militia group that ranged from there all the way to the hills that get snow on the southern border. Doyle kept a black tracker with him called Sam Johnson. Good man he was, too. If anyone could’ve found the Kenniffs out there it was him. But there was fire and then floods that year and that spoiled the tracking. And no farmer or station hand was ever going to talk to an itinerant policeman about bandits they had to live beside the rest of their days.’

  The girl looked up and met his eyes. Then she stared out the window. She brought her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

  ‘I feel sorry for anything hunted to that degree.’

  ‘They were anarchists.’

  ‘Not rebels?’

  Nixon shook his head.

  ‘I’ve seen homesteads and hay sheds on fire. Burning in a line on a hill. People running down to water screaming. Women with children in their arms. These were people who crossed Jim Kenniff. He wants to burn the world. He can’t control his men, as he can’t control himself. He and his men have terrified a greater percentage of this country than any man before him. Pillaged the country and drove a path of fire and destruction through it.

  ‘But months went by. Seasons. Trains travelling by night – we searched them especially. There was talk they were already gone to Victoria or even South Africa or America. Just like now. Bushmen who knew the ranges said, if they were still here, it would take ten years to catch them. This bloke Biddulph didn’t have ten years’ enthusiasm in him. He didn’t miss the money his horses would have made him. He forgot about the hunt. The police drained out of the ranges. In the end there were less than half a dozen of us, serving a one-troop station at Warrego. Me and Doyle and Sam Johnson the tracker were the only permanents. And we only worked every other day. Officially, that is. In truth we hunted foxes in the mornings and drank through the afternoons. And every day we waited for our transfers.

  ‘Then a man called Dahlke comes down to the station. He’d just been appointed manager of both Carnarvon and Babbiloora in the ranges. Horses were going missing out of his high country. He asks around, but no one ever sees the boys who are doing it. Dahlke reckons that’s because no one’s game to see them. So he finds out Old Man Kenniff and asks him about the horses. Thing is, he can see some of them grazing in the timber behind the old man’s land. The old man says they’re his family’s horses. Dahlke says, “Fence them in, so they don’t stray onto my land”. He says the Kenniffs can have them. But if any of their horses are seen across either of the two places he runs, he’s gonna muster and sell em. And if the old man’s boys are seen night-ridin up there he’ll have em arrested. Old Man Kenniff says nothing. But two nights later Jim sends his thugs, Elden Calhoun and Michael Carmichael. They ride down onto Carnarvon homestead. Dahlke is away boundary-riding. But Mick Carmichael and the Calhoun boy, they just sit there. They stand their horses at the head of the road to the house and don’t shift. Like a couple of devils in wait in the shadows. Wearin black serge coats and with rifles across their shoulders. Like some dumb violent force ready to be unleashed on the house at any time, and the ringers sit at the windows watching in fear, and the women try to keep the children in bed. No one sleeps. Before dawn a man called Matt Bowers – man who rode with the Kenniffs in his youth but turned straight – he walks out onto the road. He asks the boys what they want. Carmichael asks, “Where is Dahlke?” Matt says, “Away. But he’ll be back soon.” Cause he doesn’t want to tell the boys the boss of the place will be away three days and that he and a black servant are the only men on the place with three women and three children. He says, “We’ve done nothing wrong by you Kenniff boys.” He says, “It’s near dawn. You’ve terrorised this house all night. Leave us alone.” “We haven’t done nothin yet,” says Elden. He gets off his horse. Unbuckles a stirrup. Then he strikes Matt across the head with a stirrup iron. Matt lies bleeding on the ground. The women and children and the black boy come to the veranda and just stand there. Terrified. Unable to say or do anything against this threat. Elden turns around and stares at them and smiles like it’s all nothing. He rebuckles the stirrup and gets on his horse. Then he shouts at the veranda, “That’s comin for Dahlke. You tell im that!” He shouts again as he’s leaving. “One Kenniff horse gets sold off this place, and Jim Kenniff will come at him like the devil let loose.”

  ‘When Dahlke returns they tell him. And he comes to the station and tells us. So we request a warrant, for theft of horses and threatening bodily harm. It’s a good charge. But you ride up there and ask what happened. Nothing. No one will say a word to us. Not officially. Not Matt Bowers. Not the woman. Not the black servant. No one. You look in the children’s eyes, and you wonder how it is they’re more afraid of you than what sits masked in kerchiefs on their boundaries at night. Dahlke was furious. But there was nothing he could do.

  ‘Then one morning out of the blue a horse comes down to the station. A
stolen horse. From a long way away. We call in Dahlke, and he and Doyle and Sam Johnson ride a patrol along the track the horse came – to see if they can find the Kenniffs. The difference this time from the time of Biddulph’s is that there is no commotion. No wanted posters. No charcoal signs. The outlaws don’t know anyone’s lookin for them. And the police have a black tracker who could track a lizard across rocks.

  ‘I had to stay back at the station. An officer has to be there at all times, and the sub-inspector spends most of his nights drunk in town. I watched them ride out of sight. Dressed in civilian clothes. Doyle and Sam on black troop horses and Dahlke on his thoroughbred. All the next day, into the evening, and on into the next day I tailed out horses on pickings along the road, waiting for word of the patrol …

  ‘Doyle was a good man. My friend. A goodlaw man. Clear headed and just. But let me tell you about Dahlke. He was the son of immigrant Prussians. His dad made shoes in the old country. In Sydney he swept out latrines. Dahlke worked his way up from a penniless altar boy who depended on the charity of the Church to managing one of the biggest runs of country this side of the desert. Had this pair of silver-plated spurs, like something out of a Wild West show. They looked ridiculous, but he said they were gifted to him by one Mrs Collins, the wife of his former boss at Tamrookum for the Christmas of 1900. And he wore a faded old serge coat. He thought it looked nice. Probably had done two or three years back when he bought it second-hand in a cast-out basket at a draper’s. But he had this long glass-headed pin in his coat lapel. Didn’t suit the coat at all. I asked what it was. He said he wore it as a reminder of his mother. Turns out she had given the pin to him when he took his first job as a manager out west. Before taking the job at Carnarvon, he went to see her. She was so proud of him, she used the pin to stick a flower on his coat. Everyone warned him against going to the ranges. Told him that no one took the job because the manger of Carnarvon risked dying at the hands of the Kenniffs. But he was a serious man. “If that happens,” he said to Mrs Collins, “bury my remains at the private cemetery in Tamrookum.” He wasn’t afraid of much. He saved one of the Collins’ young boys from the Nerang River in flood. Risked his life. He saved his father once, too – no one could swim in those days. But the stupid old bloke went into a flooded river a second time trying to pull a sheep out of a fence, and Dahlke wasn’t there. After his father drowned he’d had to bring money into a household with a mother who couldn’t speak English and two sisters who were unmarried. He sent money to his mother all the while he was in the west.

  When he left that day on patrol with Doyle he wore the cheap coat and the Wild West spurs and the glass pin – like he was dressed by an old lady. All for sentiment.

  ‘The rode out a way and met a man called Charlie Tom who tagged along with the patrol as far as his stockyards dam. He wanted to show Doyle some horse tracks cut across his place to the north. The patrol camped for the night near a fenced-in spring. They rode ten more miles and they had crested the range and were descending. And that’s the last anyone heard of them. They never came back.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘I got tired of waiting there at the station. I rode after the trail of the patrol and–’

  The girl looked at him askance.

  ‘If you’re so concerned for your men, why don’t you ever ask anyone after them? Why are you obsessed with catching Jim Kenniff?’

  ‘Because I rode into a clearing. There were cold fires, and Dahlke’s spurs. Doyle’s surcingle. Bullet scars in the trees. Pointed downwards. Fired from a horse. And a great log of ironbark burning and half reduced to ash. I rode up a dry creek. And I saw Doyle’s troop horse standing in the shale. Shaking. Like it had been horrified. It had Doyle’s saddle on it. But no saddlecloth. And the stirrup irons and leathers were gone too. The reins were hanging loose. Thrown across the saddle were police pack bags. Lashed together with saddle straps. I kept looking up into the high rocks. There were caves up there. A man could get shot and never know who pulled the trigger. But I couldn’t see anything move or anything shine. I got off my horse. Pulled the rein around my hand. And I moved up on Doyle’s horse. I caught the bridle. In the revolver pouch was Doyle’s service revolver. Blood on the stock. One spent cartridge. The other round had been drawn unfired. All the while I kept hold of my horse’s rein. Cause of the look in Doyle’s horse’s eyes. I’ve never seen an animal with eyes spooked like that. I tried to lift the saddlebags. I couldn’t. So I unbuckled the flaps. There was charcoal and ash. And a silver pin. The same Dahlke’s mother had used to pin flowers on her son’s second-hand coat. And burnt bone.’

  Nixon drew hard of the cold air. He was staring at the lantern flame burning down to the end of the wick.

  ‘I rode back to Pump Hole, at Carnarvon. I told the people there not to expect their boss. And told them to tell no one else.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because one man can hunt these men better than an army. One man is harder to elude than one thousand. And because Dahlke was a good man and Doyle was my friend. I will get Jim Kenniff myself.’

  The girl nodded and did not shift her eyes from the dark out the window. Nixon took a drink of whisky.

  ‘So there is your captain of the people. I’ll tell you what I think Jim Kenniff did. And, believe me, it is him. I’ve sat in enough of this country’s saloons to know that Paddy is an outlaw by circumstance. Jim is the leader. He’s the most reckless of them. The fiercest. The others follow his lead – they’re too old or too young or too stupid to do otherwise. I think Jim shot and killed one of those men, Doyle or Dahlke. Then the other, by necessity, had to be shot. Then Jim and whoever was with him burnt the bodies, pulverised the remains and shovelled them into the bags. I don’t know how many of his men were with him when it happened. But there was at least one. And he and Paddy are inseparable.’

  The girl nodded and looked down at the table. Nixon put his hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Now tell me. Where he’s going. Where he hides. And what intends.’

  He put the back of his hand against her cheek.

  The girl sniffled. She stared out the window at the gaslit street.

  ‘He seemed nice.’

  ‘He’s the instrument of death.’

  She shook her head. She put her cheek on his shoulder.

  ‘But I can’t.’

  ‘Tell me where they’re riding now. That’s all. You don’t have to tell me another thing.’

  Her head was still on his shoulder. Tears came to her eyes and she let them fall on his shirt.

  Nixon rode back to Injune. He recalled the Skillington boy from Merivale. He collected King Edward from the government mission. He wrote to the sub-inspector at the station at Warrego,

  Got word of Doyle and Dahlke. Catch up to them shortly. Kenniffs still at large. People of this state have no fear or regard for us. Dont issue the posters.

  Douglass made a reply, though Nixon never collected it. It said,

  Tired of this place. The commissioner is impatient. Youre in danger. Ride back.

  Jim rode up to the hideout, heavy-bearded and red-eyed, but sober. Paddy and Jack came out to meet him. There was trouble in their eyes. Jim spoke to Paddy.

  ‘What is it, brother?’

  Paddy went to his saddlebag and produced a wanted poster.

  A reward of £1000 was posted for information leading to the capture of James and Patrick Kenniff, and a pardon offered to any person concerned in the Kenniffs’ crimes who came forward with information.

  Jim took his whisky flask from his coat and took a swig and nodded at the poster.

  ‘A thousand pounds?’

  ‘The most any man’s ever had put on him in this country, Jim.’

  Jim nodded and leant his weight on the pommel of his saddle.

  ‘Aye. Where did you find it?’

  ‘Injune. I’ve not heard of em elsewhere.’

  The old man came out to them.

  ‘You must stay here in hiding, lad.’ />
  Jim shook his head.

  ‘There is one more ride I have to do. To north of Jericho. And that is my last.’ He looked at the poster again. He was glad he and Paddy did not look so young or well as in the pictures. ‘It will take time for these to get around.’

  ‘Only the time it takes a horse to ride between the towns.’

  ‘I’ll go alone if I must. But I have to make this ride.’

  Elden Calhoun spat and grinned.

  ‘I’ll ride. Where will we go, Jim?’

  Jim turned to Paddy.

  ‘Tell me what you will do.’

  Paddy looked away at the bruising winter sky.

  ‘What choice do I have?’

  ‘Every choice. No one can get you here, you know that. I can ride alone.’

  That night the old man, sick and coughing and wrapped in duffel, kissed his boys’ cheeks.

  They rode with a dozen horses down a hidden track deep into the ranges to the west.

  They rode to the end of the gorge and rode into the night. One of the three waterholes they depended on to get out of the ranges was dry. They came into the open then onto a flat beneath Consuelo.

  They came to the camp of a tribe of Aborigines under the rule of a government-appointed king. This was King Billy of Marmadilla.

  Jim spoke to the tribe in English and they pretended not to understand. Then he spoke to them with some words of their own.

  King Billy came out of a timber and iron shack to meet him. Jim told the King that his horses wanted water. He could trade tobacco. He asked if his men could stay in humpie for a night. The King eyed the ragged men and asked who was chasing them.

  ‘Why do you ask this?’

  ‘Because I have seen the men. Two riders moving fast. With guns at their hips.’

  ‘What did they look like? Police?’

  ‘Assassins.’

  Jim nodded. He asked King Billy if he had an empty bottle. The old man had a boy fetch it. Then Jim took out his flask and poured four fingers of whisky.