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.

The colour drained from Anderson’s face and his lips trembled. Blood frothed onto his beard as his breath bubbled. Toby watched the mouth work, trying to form words as the bushranger fell to his knees. The long spear prevented him from going over backwards. He let go of the rock and it thudded harmlessly into the sand, fingers clutching at the crude point of the spear, his eyes flicking from side to side, finally settling on Toby. This time he found the last vestige of strength and breath to utter one final word as he collapsed sideways onto the sand.

‘Chilbi!’

At the far end of the sand spit stood a solitary figure, a young Aboriginal man wearing a kangaroo-skin cloak.