The black tracker moved past and he adjusted the heavy saddlebags onto his shoulder. Their weight would be a hindrance, but he dared not put them down. Once he moved, there would be no stopping.

Almost a minute passed before the second horseman drew level on the riverbank above him. He had chosen a place where he could see for fifty or more paces along the game trail and the third man was just coming into view upstream of his position. The man above him wore a police uniform with sergeant’s chevrons on the sleeve. The police sergeant stopped almost level and turned to look back behind him. Anderson heard him curse and then the sergeant continued on his way. The next two men wore police uniforms also. They were closer together than the first pair and talked quietly to each other as they led their mounts. These two led a packhorse each, and Anderson eyed the bulging packs hungrily.

For one brief moment of despair he thought the fourth man was the last of his pursuers. The trail upstream remained devoid of any more men and the two policemen were far too close together to allow him any chance of success. As he watched them pass, he cursed his rotten luck. Then the fifth man and horse materialised out of the shadows along the riverbank.

Anderson let the policemen pass and studied the approaching horseman. He was far enough behind the others to allow his plan to work. The man was young and dressed in civilian clothes. Perhaps from a nearby cattle run, employed as a guide into the mountains? Someone who had a little knowledge of the lie of the land? Whatever the reason for the young man’s presence in the police party, he’d found his victim and cocked his revolver, glad of the rumbling water behind him that would mask any sound of his movements when the moment came.

The man approached with reins draped lazily over one shoulder, his face shadowed by many days of beard. He carried a musket in his right hand and Anderson eyed the weapon wantonly. It was just the sort of long arm he would need to shoot down any pursuers that tried to cross the river behind him. His gaze drifted to the horse following behind its master like a faithful dog, finely muscled and well proportioned, a mount that looked as if it could run well in rough bush, with the stamina to carry its rider far. Anderson could hardly believe his luck.

He stood from his position and took one look back down the riverbank. The trail remained clear of any other men. With the revolver held in front of him he stepped out of the bush. Man and horse both continued on their way, unaware of the danger behind them.