At dawn, he crept carefully from his sleeping place. The valley was still shrouded in darkness, but the heights on the far side were beginning to lighten as the first tentative rays of sunrise played against them. Behind him, the mountainous interior loomed. To the west, a band of high cloud stretched from horizon to misty horizon, too thin to promise rain.

Anderson placed his revolver into his belt, hefted his calico bag and the precious saddlebags over his shoulder, and set off once more along the edge of the escarpment. The line of cliffs stretched on and on, an unclimbable barrier. No wonder the Jannjirra had remained isolated for so long, he thought. But the line of cliffs was not continuous. About two miles away a spur descended into the valley, reaching almost to the river.

His spirits lifted as he realised this might be a way off the escarpment at last. Adjusting the saddlebags on his shoulder, he moved on.

Following the spoor wasn’t easy. There was no trail left by horses, and the bushranger seemed to be employing anti-tracking techniques as he travelled, making use of every patch of rocky ground or watercourse to mask evidence of his passage. Often Barraworn was forced to dismount and cast back and forth hundreds of yards to the left and right until he regained the trail and they could follow on. At one place the trail entered a creek and they lost time searching for the place where Anderson had left the water.

‘Do you suppose he knows we’re onto him?’ Sloan asked, as he and Toby searched the creek downstream from where Anderson’s trail entered the water.

‘I don’t think so,’ Toby answered, without looking up. He studied a patch of reeds at the water’s edge, looking for a snapped or bent stem that might indicate Anderson had come this way. ‘He can’t know we’re up here. I think he’s trying to put off whoever speared those horses.’

Sloan opened his mouth to ask another question, but before he could speak a low whistle came from upstream.

‘C’mon,’ Toby said, splashing water in his haste, ‘Barraworn has found something.’

They returned to the horses and rode up the creek to where the rest of the party waited. Barraworn squatted in reeds beside the far bank, shaking his dark, scraggly head as he examined the ground.

‘You found something?’ Toby asked.

‘Yes, boss,’ Barraworn nodded. ‘One fella, same one at horses, he got white fella boots on. Another fella, him black fella, boss. Follow along-a white fella, but him hurt. Use a spear to help him walk.’

He pointed to several little plug marks in the dirt and the story that the tracks told became clear. Bare footprints led across the soft earth beside the creek, and beside each left print was a corresponding depression made by the end of a walking stick or spear that the person was using like a crutch.