White Dog by Peter Temple Read Free Book Online Page B

told you,’ he said.
    Chink understood Harry. ‘Know him,’ he said. He waited, then pointed a thumb at Cam. He seemed to be saying he trusted the man as he trusted Cam.
    Harry nodded, satisfied. ‘Spotted the animal in the paddock, did you?’
    Chink took the weight off his lesser leg. ‘Come by there one day,’ he said. ‘He took a run, rug rottin on him. Knew him for a thorough.’
    ‘How’s that?’ said Harry.
    Chink looked at Harry for a while, unblinking. ‘Bit to do with horses,’ he said. ‘Fifty year.’
    ‘No offence,’ said Harry. ‘And then?’
    ‘Asked around. Got the name.’
    Harry nodded. ‘Lost Legion.’
    ‘Yeah. Membered it. Funny old world.’
    ‘This bloke, he’s the owner?’
    ‘Reckon. He got left the property, everything. More brains in a tinny.’
    ‘We’ll follow you,’ said Harry.
    We remounted and watched Chink and the dog walk towards the paddock gate. The horses and the goat moved to meet them. Chink opened the gate a crack, the goat shot through. Chink found something in his shirt pocket for the horses, they put their noses in his big hand. The trio came back, the goat walking behind Chink, butting him, the dog third, nipping at the goat.
    ‘Like one of them kids’ stories,’ said Harry.
    Chink opened the back of the truck. The goat was waiting like someone in a bank queue. Chink picked it up as if it were weightless and loaded it, closed the door, latched it.
    We followed the Dodge back to the road. The dog’s head poked out of the window, barking at the world. Its colour matched the truck’s bodywork. We turned right and, after a while, took a side road to the right, going downhill again, the country opening up.
    Harry and Cam had an exchange, incomprehensible to me.
    ‘Can I join this universe of knowledge?’ I said. ‘Who’s Chink?’
    ‘Hardest man alive, Chink,’ said Cam.
    ‘The goat likes him,’ I said.
    ‘Hunted brumbies with Chink,’ said Cam. ‘In the Snowies, Tumut, up around there. All uphill, cold as buggery, snows any time, snows at Christmas.’
    ‘And now?’
    ‘No Chink, no horse. The thing’s a killer.’
    ‘Say no more. I understand perfectly. We’ve driven hundreds of kilometres into the wilderness for you to buy a killer horse.’
    ‘You, Jack,’ said Harry.
    ‘Me?’
    ‘I want you to buy it. Supposin we do.’
    I studied the big, lumpy piece of Gippsland that had come into view, more settled here, the odd weatherboard farmhouse smoking under a low, troubled sky, eroded creeks, leaning sheds, rugged-up horses, some signs of agriculture.
    When the land was almost flat, the Dodge, dog riding shotgun for the left flank, turned right. We followed, went through a belt of trees, down a back road for a kilometre or two. The truck pulled into a driveway. We stopped behind it. All humans got out.
    A horse was in the paddock, in the middle, twenty metres away, a tatter of a rug on its back. It looked at us, a glance, put its head down. If this was the horse, I could not see how the animal could be identified as a thoroughbred.
    We walked to join Chink. He was standing at the fence, hands in his pockets.
    ‘Small,’ said Harry.
    Chink didn’t say anything. He made a clicking noise. The horse raised its head. Chink clicked again. The horse looked at us, moved its head as if easing a strain, looked away in a deliberate manner.
    We waited. The horse shifted, one eye looked at us.
    ‘Thin,’ said Cam.
    Chink turned his back on the horse, looked down the valley. Cam and Harry turned. Not to be outdone, I turned.
    ‘Earnin a quid around here,’ said Harry. ‘What’s the secret?’
    ‘They don’t tell me,’ said Chink.
    A sound behind us, the horse. He was three metres away, looking at us: eyes interested but not sharp, small movements of his head.
    ‘No mongrel,’ said Harry. ‘Bit of wear on the legs.’
    Now I noticed the scar tissue on the horse’s forelegs.
    Harry looked at Chink. ‘Let’s see him move,’ he