He kicked and pulled for the surface as hard as he could. Aching for air, his vision waned to a pale curtain as unconsciousness loomed. His head broke through into sunshine and he drew in two quick breaths as the current spun him about and he saw Paddy running along the riverbank above him. The current carried him up against a submerged tree trunk and he was swept underwater. Slimy wood grazed along the back of his head, then he struggled for the surface again. This time he was able to take several breaths, but the water picked up speed as it squeezed between boulders. Rocks and trees rushed by in a blur and he was tumbled and pummelled, slammed backwards into a partly submerged boulder and the wind was driven from his lungs.

Toby felt the last of his strength going. His arms were weighed down, as if by lead, each stroke a laboured agony.

Then, just as quickly as it had started, the cascades ended, and he found himself in calmer water. His foot touched bottom and he pushed upwards, gulping at the air, filling his aching lungs.

Exhausted, he half swam, half waded for the nearby bank. Coughing, he struggled onto a sandy spit and crawled until he could go no further. He lay there panting and retching up river water, spitting it onto the sand.

A shadow moved in front of him and he looked up. Anderson came towards him, water dripping from his clothing and hair. He was bleeding from a gash in his forehead and his shirt was torn open across his chest. The saddlebags were gone. He held a rock the size of a loaf of bread in his hands as he staggered towards Toby.

‘I lost my gold.’

Anderson’s voice was little more than a rasp, but it carried a menace that made Toby shiver with something more than cold.

‘Because of you I lost my gold. It’s out there somewhere.’ He pointed at the river with his chin. ‘It’s gone.’

Anderson took another step and Toby wanted to tell him of all the things he had lost, of the heartache and grief he’d had to endure because of Anderson. But there was no time for such words. Anderson raised the rock above his head and Toby could only stare at the instrument of his own demise, too exhausted to try and evade the blow. He waited for death, watching with a strange detachment as the rock rose to full stretch and the muscles in Anderson’s arms bulged as he prepared to put every ounce of strength into the blow.

The bushranger gave a little grunt as something appeared in the middle of his chest. Anderson looked down at where a pointed piece of wood projected a foot from his body, a look of utter surprise on his face. Blood trickled from the wound and he staggered, twisting sideways. It was then that Toby saw the shaft of the spear in Anderson’s back, eight feet of it, still quivering from the impact.