‘What the hell do you suppose happened here, laddie?’ McTavish asked, his eyes sweeping the ridge above the boulders.

‘They don’t look like gunshot wounds,’ Toby said, eyeing one of the dead horses. ‘These animals were killed by spear.’

There were human footprints around the horses, made by bare feet, and something else which made the skin prickle on the back of Toby’s neck.

Another footprint lay in the dust. Unlike the others, this print had been made by a booted foot, the impression perfectly clear. Toby squatted and tentatively traced its outline with a fingertip. The man who had killed his parents had stood on this very spot not too long ago. He felt a hollowness in the pit of his stomach. Was it fear, or something else? In his mind he was outside the homestead at Bunyong Creek, his shirtfront in the grip of a dark stranger who had just gunned down his mother and father.

‘Don’t be fool enough to follow me, boy!’

Beside that print he found another and another. They retreated into a gap in the boulders and he stooped to follow them through.

‘Careful,’ McTavish cautioned. ‘There could be anything in there, laddie.’

Toby cocked the Lovell and stepped into the opening. The walls were covered with many rock paintings: animals, birds and men formed by dots or childlike lines, some looking so fresh it seemed they had only been painted yesterday. Seven paces carried him through and he found himself standing on the edge of a natural amphitheatre. The far wall was a cliff face. Boulders stretched away at either hand, the ground covered with small rocks and tufts of spindly mountain grass. Here and there trees had gained purchase in gaps between boulders, their growth stunted and malformed by their precarious position.

McTavish stood beside Toby. ‘Looks as if they’ve gone, laddie,’ he said, glancing into the shadowy interior of the overhang.

‘Yes, but how long ago were they here? We should get Barraworn in here to have a look. He can tell us when they left.’

‘You’ve got no chance of getting him anywhere near this place. Did you see his eyes when he spotted those paintings on the rocks?’ McTavish said, then, without waiting for an answer, ‘Don’t worry, he’ll find the freshest set of tracks leading away, and those will be the ones we’ll follow. We’re close to the bastard now.’

Toby went to the remains of a campfire and placed his hand on the grey ashes.

Stone cold.

McTavish moved up beside him. ‘Like I said, laddie, they’re gone.’ The sergeant sniffed at the air. ‘What’s that smell?’

A smell of putrefaction came from somewhere close by. ‘Maybe from the dead horses. No, the breeze is blowing the wrong way.’

‘Seems to be coming from over here,’ McTavish said. He crossed to an overhang of rock in which many stones had been piled up. ‘Yes, it’s definitely strongest here.’ The sergeant stooped and pulled a few rocks away, then jumped back.