Headhunters by Mark Dawson Read Free Book Online Page B

outdoors. They looked tough.
    Milton could see that Eric was getting worked up to start something. Harry could see it, too, and tried to redirect the conversation when Eric started making comments about how rich townsfolk would never be able to understand what it was really like to live and work in the outback.
    It wasn’t a question of being able to overhear what he was saying. He was making no effort to speak quietly. The sensible thing would have been for the tourists to ignore him. Eventually, he would have become bored of his sport and allowed the subject to be changed. But one of the men took offence to Eric’s remarks, swivelled in his chair and told him to be quiet.
    The mood changed.
    “You what, sport?” Eric said.
    “I said you ought to keep your opinions to yourself. You don’t know the first thing about us.”
    “That’s where you’re wrong, see?” he said. “I know plenty.”
    One of the guides stood. “Leave it out, fella. Just enjoy your beer and mind your business.”
    Eric ignored the suggestion. Milton realised that he was drunker than he had suspected. He spoke quickly, his face was flushed red and there was a nervous tic in his cheek that danced up and down. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you fuck muppet.”
    “What did you say?”
    “Leave it out, Eric,” Harry said.
    “Fuck that, skip. I ain’t sitting here and taking bollocks from a dipshit like that.”
    “That’s not necessary,” said one of the effeminate men.
    “Fuck off, you chocolate driller.”
    Milton groaned and rested his forehead in his hand. Eric laughed, turning to Mervyn and looking for a reaction. They shared a laugh. Harry scowled at him and told him to shut up, but it was too late.
    The two guides had stood up.
    Milton assessed them afresh. They were both a touch over six foot and, he guessed, fifteen or sixteen stone. Big, rugged men who looked like they knew how to handle themselves. The nearest one was wearing a big belt buckle with a steer design to hold up his moleskins. There was a half-finished bottle of beer at his place at the table, but he had been sipping at it and he looked clear-eyed. He wasn’t drunk. Neither of them was drunk.
    Eric most certainly was. He staggered out of his seat and bumped against the table as he approached the man. Harry tried to grab his wrist, but he brushed his hand away.
    The two of them squared up.
    “Sit down.”
    “Don’t think so.”
    Eric threw the first punch. The guide deflected it with his left hand, cocked back his right and drilled Eric in the face. There was a splash of blood and a crunch as the bones in his nose snapped. Eric’s legs went out from beneath him and he fell against an empty table, overturning it as he slid onto the floor.
    “Any of you pig-ugly shearers want to make an issue of that?”
    Milton was nearest to the guide. He sighed a little. This was the other reason he tried to avoid bars. He had been involved in brawls two times in the last twelve months, and both occasions had landed him in trouble.
    The man was glaring down at him. “What are you looking at?”
    “I’m not looking at anything,” Milton said.
    “You’re looking at me, dickhead. You want some, too?”
    Milton sighed again. He stood, very deliberately, and took a step to his right so that he was standing between the fallen Eric and the man. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. He was shorter and a couple of stones lighter, but there was an aura about him that made it very obvious that he wasn’t a man to be crossed. He usually hid it, but, when required, it was as effective as it had always been. There was an almost physical quality to his confidence, a manifestation that made it very clear that he wouldn’t hesitate to use violence and, if he was pushed, it would go badly for those in his way. And then there were his eyes. Pale blue, flinty, as lifeless as ice. There was no prospect of mercy or empathy or understanding. They promised pain.
    The