this part of the regulation rations?’ asked Roth.
‘No.’
‘What do they pay you?’
‘Hardly enough to eat at all.’
Kenny considered the Protector. Roth was a little older, perhaps. They were both new chums to Cooktown. He assumed Roth was unmarried. Now he reflected again on their odd opposition: they’d both been employed to deal with the Aboriginal question; Roth to protect the moribund Aborigines from the other races, and Kenny to protect the other races, especially the whites, from the stubborn Aborigines who refused to face facts.
Still, the Protector and the Constable bore a passing resemblance, although if Kenny had to describe Roth officially, say as a wanted felon, he’d put him down as stout build, sunburnt complexion, brown hair, brown moustache, large black hat, a swaggering gait—a bookmaker at pony races. The last was more of animpression, he supposed, of Roth’s type and likely known associates.
‘Who’s the small cove, on your far right?’ said Roth, breaking Kenny’s train of thought.
‘Euro.’
‘I knew I recognised him. Euro. He was with Sergeant Whiteford’s patrol when we went up to the Musgrave last year.’ Roth seemed to have cooled.
Kenny beckoned Euro. ‘ Dauun ngantanum Dr Roth nila ngantanum galmba nami ,’ Kenny told Euro. ‘ Nulu koko ngantanum manu .’
Roth didn’t look at all impressed, but he said, ‘Is the boy Koko-yimidir? I thought he came from the Normanby?’
‘He is Koko-warra but understands Koko-yimidir better than English.’
Roth nodded. ‘Ask him,’ he said, ‘if he could teach me some words.’
Later, as they rode through the afternoon, Dr Roth said, ‘What do you make of your boys?’
It was hard for Jack Kenny to make anything of them at that moment. All were obscured. High grass bent over the track. The horses liked it because it kept the flies away, but it also hid holes full of fine powder that erupted underfoot. The dust crept into the saddlebags and contaminated everything, and it was now a permanent cloud that followed them across the countryside.
‘They’re good men,’ said Kenny.
‘Are they better than a white man? For the job they do? Tracking and such.’
Kenny looked at Roth, who’d pulled the brim of his hat down over his face, so that he was as inscrutable as the troopers at that moment.
‘Most white men wouldn’t do this job.’
‘You do this job,’ said Roth.
Kenny had no answer. He liked horses, he liked the bush, and he needed to eat. He suspected that that wasn’t the answer Roth was looking for.
‘Do you like action?’ the Protector persisted.
‘Action?’
‘The physical challenge of pursuing a man and capturing him. The chase? The hunt?’
It dawned on Kenny what Roth was asking. ‘You think I’m off to disperse the blacks at Cape Melville!’
The dust swirled. Roth said, ‘Cooper was evasive about the purpose of this patrol. And you are well armed.’
‘You don’t seem to appreciate the danger, Dr Roth!’
Roth’s pony snorted. The horses’ hooves were muffled by the road’s thick dust, and their effort was expressed by the creaking of saddles.
‘Do you have a weapon?’ asked Kenny.
‘Of course not.’
Kenny drew his packhorse close and without stopping reached behind a pack and produced a shotgun, holding it up by the barrel. It was a fat, shortand evil-looking weapon. From the look on Roth’s face, it might have reminded him of the death adder that had a few months earlier killed his mule.
Kenny said, ‘Take it.’
‘Why?’
‘Take the shotgun. Just above my hand,’ said Kenny. ‘Careful there.’
‘You’re pulling my leg,’ said Roth, reluctantly taking the thing.
‘You can give this to Schwarz when you get to Cape Bedford.’
‘Did the reverend ask for a shotgun?’
‘He did not.’
‘Then why do you believe he wants one?’
Kenny said, ‘It’s Schwarz’s own shotgun. He lent it to me when I was last up this way. For snakes around the house. But
‘No.’
‘What do they pay you?’
‘Hardly enough to eat at all.’
Kenny considered the Protector. Roth was a little older, perhaps. They were both new chums to Cooktown. He assumed Roth was unmarried. Now he reflected again on their odd opposition: they’d both been employed to deal with the Aboriginal question; Roth to protect the moribund Aborigines from the other races, and Kenny to protect the other races, especially the whites, from the stubborn Aborigines who refused to face facts.
Still, the Protector and the Constable bore a passing resemblance, although if Kenny had to describe Roth officially, say as a wanted felon, he’d put him down as stout build, sunburnt complexion, brown hair, brown moustache, large black hat, a swaggering gait—a bookmaker at pony races. The last was more of animpression, he supposed, of Roth’s type and likely known associates.
‘Who’s the small cove, on your far right?’ said Roth, breaking Kenny’s train of thought.
‘Euro.’
‘I knew I recognised him. Euro. He was with Sergeant Whiteford’s patrol when we went up to the Musgrave last year.’ Roth seemed to have cooled.
Kenny beckoned Euro. ‘ Dauun ngantanum Dr Roth nila ngantanum galmba nami ,’ Kenny told Euro. ‘ Nulu koko ngantanum manu .’
Roth didn’t look at all impressed, but he said, ‘Is the boy Koko-yimidir? I thought he came from the Normanby?’
‘He is Koko-warra but understands Koko-yimidir better than English.’
Roth nodded. ‘Ask him,’ he said, ‘if he could teach me some words.’
Later, as they rode through the afternoon, Dr Roth said, ‘What do you make of your boys?’
It was hard for Jack Kenny to make anything of them at that moment. All were obscured. High grass bent over the track. The horses liked it because it kept the flies away, but it also hid holes full of fine powder that erupted underfoot. The dust crept into the saddlebags and contaminated everything, and it was now a permanent cloud that followed them across the countryside.
‘They’re good men,’ said Kenny.
‘Are they better than a white man? For the job they do? Tracking and such.’
Kenny looked at Roth, who’d pulled the brim of his hat down over his face, so that he was as inscrutable as the troopers at that moment.
‘Most white men wouldn’t do this job.’
‘You do this job,’ said Roth.
Kenny had no answer. He liked horses, he liked the bush, and he needed to eat. He suspected that that wasn’t the answer Roth was looking for.
‘Do you like action?’ the Protector persisted.
‘Action?’
‘The physical challenge of pursuing a man and capturing him. The chase? The hunt?’
It dawned on Kenny what Roth was asking. ‘You think I’m off to disperse the blacks at Cape Melville!’
The dust swirled. Roth said, ‘Cooper was evasive about the purpose of this patrol. And you are well armed.’
‘You don’t seem to appreciate the danger, Dr Roth!’
Roth’s pony snorted. The horses’ hooves were muffled by the road’s thick dust, and their effort was expressed by the creaking of saddles.
‘Do you have a weapon?’ asked Kenny.
‘Of course not.’
Kenny drew his packhorse close and without stopping reached behind a pack and produced a shotgun, holding it up by the barrel. It was a fat, shortand evil-looking weapon. From the look on Roth’s face, it might have reminded him of the death adder that had a few months earlier killed his mule.
Kenny said, ‘Take it.’
‘Why?’
‘Take the shotgun. Just above my hand,’ said Kenny. ‘Careful there.’
‘You’re pulling my leg,’ said Roth, reluctantly taking the thing.
‘You can give this to Schwarz when you get to Cape Bedford.’
‘Did the reverend ask for a shotgun?’
‘He did not.’
‘Then why do you believe he wants one?’
Kenny said, ‘It’s Schwarz’s own shotgun. He lent it to me when I was last up this way. For snakes around the house. But
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