"Is that a joke?" Sam Marston stared at her husband.
"No. It's not." Elliott Marston frowned. Hands on hips, he leaned forward slightly and opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked at the table and his frown deepened.
Sam realized with a jolt that he was unsure of himself. She had never seen this before. Obviously she would have to guide the conversation. "I assume this has something to do with that letter?"
Marston hesitated, then nodded. He lifted his arms and folded them across his chest. "It's a little complicated."
"Well, we've got all afternoon." Sam rose from her chair and looked around the room. "Let's get comfortable on the sofa so you can tell me all about it." She secured a hold on his belt as she walked past and towed him across the carpet in her wake. He held back at first but she got her way with a sharp tug.
It was an old sofa, wide and long enough for a large man to sleep on comfortably. From the state of the cushions, it was obvious that large men slept on it often. She sat at the very end and pulled her husband down beside her. "Now let's get cozy so we can talk."
Marston closed his eyes and sank into the sagging upholstery where the back curved into a hump. Through the open windows came the sound of a dog barking somewhere in the neighborhood. The street was quiet at this time of day, just after the height of noon. Sam rested against the scrolled wooden arm, waiting for the conversation to resume.
"That letter I sent your father all those months ago - do you remember it?" He opened his eyes and glanced at her, then closed them again.
She nodded. "You wanted him to take on a job for you. A yearlong job. You said it wasn't woman's work."
"The work wasn't just for me. It would have been for a consortium that I'm a part of along with other ranchers in this state. The chairman is Cal Torken, the man who sent me the letter. WARTHOGS is dedicated to -" He jerked his head around. "Did you say something?"
"No, nothing." She hastily coughed. "What did you say it was called?"
"WARTHOGS. It's stands for Western Australian Ranchers Together Helping Our Government Society." With a scowl, he examined her countenance closely. "It's a very exclusive group."
"Yes, I'm sure. It probably takes a special person to be a WARTHOG." She managed to keep her expression solemn for several seconds, then surrendered. Her laughter seemed to have an adverse affect on his mood. He watched coldly as she took in great gulps of air in an effort to get herself under control again.
"If I might resume?" He waited for her confirming nod, ignoring the strangled noise in her throat that accompanied it. "As I was saying, our group is dedicated to assisting the government of the state in one of its most important functions: the security of private property in the agricultural sector through the pacification of the aboriginal population. We recognize that the government's resources are limited and we try to help in our own way. That's why I tried to hire your father on behalf of the society."
"Wait a minute." Sam suddenly did not feel like laughing. "What do you mean by pacification?"
"Eradication. Removal. Extermination." Marston's face was cold and mask- like.
"How can you talk as if they were vermin?" She was incredulous. "They're people! I can't believe this!"
"They are little better than vermin." His voice grated her ears with its harshness. "They do serious damage to ranchers. They poach our livestock and steal our crops. We are within our rights to protect our interests."
"You wanted my father to hunt down and kill people? Is that what you're telling me?"
"I wanted your father to eliminate a pestilential presence from this state. He would have been well paid for his efforts."
She stared at him in disbelief. She did not know this man. This was not her husband, the man she'd pledged her heart to for the rest of their lives. This was a stranger who talked about killing as if it were a sacred duty. A wave of nausea washed over her.
"You make the same mistake so many people do. You don't know what the aborigines are really like." He rose to his feet and paced across the room. Anger swelled his voice with every word. "It's not possible to civilize them in any way. They'll never be like us. It's war out there."
Sam watched him and struggled to make sense of what was happening. She'd never seen him so agitated. "What was in that letter?"
"Cal was reminding me - in his own unique not-too-subtle manner - that he had not heard from me concerning our project. He wants to meet me in town for a progress report. He suggests the middle of next month." Marston paused by the table. "He doesn't know we're already here. We'll have to stay until then anyway."
"Elliott, we've got to talk about this." She was beginning to feel desperate. "You can't really want to kill so many people. What have they ever done to you?"
"To me?!" In two long strides he was in front of the sofa. She cowered back as he loomed over her. He was pale with rage, his hands trembling, his voice hoarse. "It was aborigines who murdered my parents."
"No. It's not." Elliott Marston frowned. Hands on hips, he leaned forward slightly and opened his mouth, then closed it again. He looked at the table and his frown deepened.
Sam realized with a jolt that he was unsure of himself. She had never seen this before. Obviously she would have to guide the conversation. "I assume this has something to do with that letter?"
Marston hesitated, then nodded. He lifted his arms and folded them across his chest. "It's a little complicated."
"Well, we've got all afternoon." Sam rose from her chair and looked around the room. "Let's get comfortable on the sofa so you can tell me all about it." She secured a hold on his belt as she walked past and towed him across the carpet in her wake. He held back at first but she got her way with a sharp tug.
It was an old sofa, wide and long enough for a large man to sleep on comfortably. From the state of the cushions, it was obvious that large men slept on it often. She sat at the very end and pulled her husband down beside her. "Now let's get cozy so we can talk."
Marston closed his eyes and sank into the sagging upholstery where the back curved into a hump. Through the open windows came the sound of a dog barking somewhere in the neighborhood. The street was quiet at this time of day, just after the height of noon. Sam rested against the scrolled wooden arm, waiting for the conversation to resume.
"That letter I sent your father all those months ago - do you remember it?" He opened his eyes and glanced at her, then closed them again.
She nodded. "You wanted him to take on a job for you. A yearlong job. You said it wasn't woman's work."
"The work wasn't just for me. It would have been for a consortium that I'm a part of along with other ranchers in this state. The chairman is Cal Torken, the man who sent me the letter. WARTHOGS is dedicated to -" He jerked his head around. "Did you say something?"
"No, nothing." She hastily coughed. "What did you say it was called?"
"WARTHOGS. It's stands for Western Australian Ranchers Together Helping Our Government Society." With a scowl, he examined her countenance closely. "It's a very exclusive group."
"Yes, I'm sure. It probably takes a special person to be a WARTHOG." She managed to keep her expression solemn for several seconds, then surrendered. Her laughter seemed to have an adverse affect on his mood. He watched coldly as she took in great gulps of air in an effort to get herself under control again.
"If I might resume?" He waited for her confirming nod, ignoring the strangled noise in her throat that accompanied it. "As I was saying, our group is dedicated to assisting the government of the state in one of its most important functions: the security of private property in the agricultural sector through the pacification of the aboriginal population. We recognize that the government's resources are limited and we try to help in our own way. That's why I tried to hire your father on behalf of the society."
"Wait a minute." Sam suddenly did not feel like laughing. "What do you mean by pacification?"
"Eradication. Removal. Extermination." Marston's face was cold and mask- like.
"How can you talk as if they were vermin?" She was incredulous. "They're people! I can't believe this!"
"They are little better than vermin." His voice grated her ears with its harshness. "They do serious damage to ranchers. They poach our livestock and steal our crops. We are within our rights to protect our interests."
"You wanted my father to hunt down and kill people? Is that what you're telling me?"
"I wanted your father to eliminate a pestilential presence from this state. He would have been well paid for his efforts."
She stared at him in disbelief. She did not know this man. This was not her husband, the man she'd pledged her heart to for the rest of their lives. This was a stranger who talked about killing as if it were a sacred duty. A wave of nausea washed over her.
"You make the same mistake so many people do. You don't know what the aborigines are really like." He rose to his feet and paced across the room. Anger swelled his voice with every word. "It's not possible to civilize them in any way. They'll never be like us. It's war out there."
Sam watched him and struggled to make sense of what was happening. She'd never seen him so agitated. "What was in that letter?"
"Cal was reminding me - in his own unique not-too-subtle manner - that he had not heard from me concerning our project. He wants to meet me in town for a progress report. He suggests the middle of next month." Marston paused by the table. "He doesn't know we're already here. We'll have to stay until then anyway."
"Elliott, we've got to talk about this." She was beginning to feel desperate. "You can't really want to kill so many people. What have they ever done to you?"
"To me?!" In two long strides he was in front of the sofa. She cowered back as he loomed over her. He was pale with rage, his hands trembling, his voice hoarse. "It was aborigines who murdered my parents."