Toby stood beside local storekeepers, Hans and Helga Gutten, who had driven out from Bunyong Creek in a buggy to attend the funeral. Geoff Smith and his three boys had come in from the stock camp. They wore black frock coats over their work clothes. Like himself, they possessed no other clothing for special occasions. They had helped him dig the double grave on the ridge and then donned the coats moments before the service got underway. Mrs Smith and Susie had somehow found enough flowers in the parched countryside to make a wreath that now sat at the head of the grave.

Much to Toby’s surprise, their neighbour, Henry Pelham, also attended, accompanied by his head stockman, a swarthy fellow by the name of George Grey. The pair stood a little apart from the other mourners and seemed more interested in the surrounding land than the ceremony, leaning close and whispering quietly.

Toby paid no interest to the words of Father Dalgleish. Nor could he look at the two canvas-wrapped bodies in the grave. He settled his gaze on Paddy, who stood beyond the grave beside Mrs Smith, his head swathed in bandages. The woman had a motherly arm around Paddy. Tears streamed down his face and his mouth hung open as if he were about to wail in despair, but no sound came. Paddy had not uttered a single sound since Toby had fetched him at first light.

Toby had no tears himself. He hadn’t cried since the night of the murders. A deep hollowness sat in his gut – a feeling as though part of him was missing. Though the crying had stopped, he doubted the emptiness would ever be gone.

Heat haze shimmered on the high ground. Father Dalgleish did not dwell on his words. He rattled through the service and finished with a hearty ‘Amen’, snapping his leather-bound Bible closed to signal the conclusion. As the little gathering turned to wander back down to the homestead Toby went to where the shovels stood waiting. Geoff Smith cut him off.

‘Me and my boys will take care of this, Toby. You go and see to your guests.’

Toby nodded his thanks and followed the others.

Down at the homestead he wandered about aimlessly, uninterested in the food Helga Gutten and Mrs Smith had prepared for the wake. He accepted offered condolences with a humble nod of his head, but found it hard to maintain any sort of meaningful conversation. Geoff and his boys eventually wandered down from the grave and Toby found himself standing with his neighbour, leaning on the verandah rail, looking out over the pond and the valley.

‘McTavish get on the job quick enough?’ Geoff asked.

‘Left at first light the very next morning,’ Toby said.

‘Not a bad fellow, McTavish,’ Geoff said. ‘Hits the grog a bit every now and then, but he has a good sense of duty.’

‘He seemed keen to get on the trail. Barraworn had a good set of tracks to follow.’