‘Pa was lucky with this place,’ Toby said. ‘The squatters have got all the good waterfront properties along the big rivers. Most of the creeks lower down are dry. If it wasn’t for the spring feeding that pond we’d be in a spot of bother, especially this high in the ranges. What’s the water like at your place?’

Geoff gave a little laugh. ‘We’ve still got some. Mostly trapped in deeper pools, but the creek hasn’t flowed for over a year. It’s pretty mucky and the sheep have a hard time reaching it after the cattle have churned up the banks. We’ve been bucketing some into troughs.’

‘That’s certainly doing it the hard—’ He was interrupted by someone tugging at his elbow and turned to see Father Dalgleish.

‘Where shall we bury the other fellow?’ the clergyman asked.

Toby stared dumbly at the man. He had forgotten all about the body of Jack Tanner wrapped in damp calico and lying in the tack shed. As far as he was concerned the bushranger did not deserve a decent burial. His body could be dumped out on the ranges for the dingos and crows to feed on for all Toby cared, but he doubted the good father would see it that way.

‘You can bury him anywhere you like, Father,’ Toby said. ‘That is, anywhere but on O’Rourke land,’ he added a little callously.

Paddy hummed a tune in his head as he worked, careful not to enrage the fire in his mind. When he had a full load of white quartz stones, he returned to the grave and used them to add to a border he was making. He couldn’t stand the fact that the grave was unmarked. There was nothing to distinguish it from a vegetable garden or a place where the kangaroos had dug for roots, churning the earth over in their efforts. This little patch on the ridge held special meaning for him and he wanted it defined as such.

He had nearly completed all four sides when he noticed Toby climbing towards him. A little shiver of dread ran through his body. He knew his brother would try and make him talk. Toby had tried to get him to say something almost every night in the week since the funeral, but Paddy was afraid of the fire.

He could understand why Toby wanted him to get his voice back. Before the murders the homestead had been filled with noise. Their mother had always sung while she cooked or cleaned, filling the humble structure with her lilting voice. Sometimes their father would join in and the boys would be given a duet that usually ended with all four of them erupting into fits of laughter.

The evenings were the worst. Where once their father had told stories of Ireland or his days on the chain gang as a convict, now he only had Toby’s voice to listen to, while poor old Toby had no one.