Chilbi stood in the shadows and watched the distant treeline across the valley. There was no sign of their pursuers, but he knew they were there. Two days ago, Warrigal had sent him back along their spoor to check for signs of pursuit, as he suspected the boy from the Djarriba settlement was following their trail, seeking revenge for the killings. Chilbi had found no boy, but instead one of the blue men Warrigal called a trap, along with a tracker from another tribe.

‘Are they still there, Chilbi?’ Warrigal Anderson spoke in Jannjirra from the back of his horse.

‘Still there, Warrigal. They follow down the creek there. Soon they will cross and follow up here.’ In the beginning, Chilbi used to marvel at the fact that Warrigal could not see the signs for himself, but he had learned to keep his mouth shut on such matters. To question the big white man often brought a fist or booted foot.

Anderson shook his head. ‘Kill a man and they follow for a day or two. Kill a woman and they never give up. That tracker the trap has with him is good, but you are better, my little black heathen. We’ll cross onto the ridge and make our way onto the escarpment.’

Chilbi turned towards the rising ground Warrigal had indicated and a smile crossed his face.

‘That’s right, Chilbi,’ Anderson said, ‘We’re going back up to your tribal lands. The ground here is rocky and we aren’t leaving much of a trail, but we can’t afford to lead that trap bastard up there. I’ll take the horses. Tell your brothers to hide the spoor until we are into the passage. Make sure nothing is left for the Djarriba tracker to follow. We’ll hide out for a while then come back to continue the war.’

Chilbi passed the reins of his horse to Warrigal as Yawong and Tarrat slid from their saddles. They tied their horses into a string that the big bushranger led forward, then they moved back along their trail to erase all sign of their passing.

McTavish held the reins of both mounts and let the horses drink their fill while Barraworn squatted in the trickle of water and topped up the canteens. He had his jacket undone, one hand resting on the handle of his horse pistol. Here the bush was thick and dark, the perfect place for an ambush, and his eyes flicked to every sound in the undergrowth.

Barraworn finished filling the canteens and stood. He handed one to McTavish, and the sergeant took a long swig. ‘It’s no’ a good malt whisky, laddie, but it slakes the thirst none the less.’ He slapped the stopper in before looping the strap over the pommel of his saddle. ‘Now, tell me. Where did these rogues get to?’