Barraworn turned and wandered down the creek bed. Every few paces the tracker stopped and squatted in the water. McTavish watched him work and marvelled at the tracking skills of Aboriginal people. Anderson and his gang had obviously entered the water in an attempt to throw off pursuit. To McTavish, the creek and surrounding bush appeared untouched by the hand of man and he never would have thought four men and five horses had been anywhere near this place, but Barraworn found clues in out-of-place stones and bent grass stems that only he could see. These people certainly knew the land in which they had lived for thousands of years. At one place, Barraworn paused longer than the others and changed the direction of his meanderings, crossing to the other bank.

‘Them fellas cross here, boss.’ He pointed up along the ridge line. ‘Gone up that way.’

It makes sense, McTavish thought. The spine of the ridge was sparsely wooded and would make for easier riding. ‘How long ago?’

Barraworn examined the ground once more and came to a decision. ‘Soon after sun-up, boss.’

McTavish tossed the reins to Barraworn. ‘Lead the way.’

They crossed the creek and headed up the rising ground of the ridge line. McTavish left his hand on his pistol. He had a carbine in a leather bucket strapped to the saddle, but the weapon would be unwieldy in the closely pressing bush and hard to ride with. The thought kept crossing his mind that they were outnumbered. The O’Rourke laddie had said there were three natives with Anderson, though apparently only the white man carried firearms. The natives seemed to prefer clubs and spears. He had been in the colony long enough to know that these weapons were deadly in the right hands.

Around noon they reached a point where the ridge changed direction, switching back on itself and climbing into the north. Barraworn dismounted and searched for the spoor, so McTavish pushed his hat onto the back of his head and looked up along the ridge line. About a mile away the land rose steeply in a boulder-strewn escarpment, seemingly reaching the clouds. The ground looked impassable to a man on foot, let alone anyone on horseback.

Barraworn crossed the narrow piece of open ground and squatted by the scrub near the far side. He had a frown on his face as he traced a hand around a hoof print. He took a pace, looked at the ground again and shook his head.

‘What’s the matter?’ McTavish asked.

‘Tracks gone, boss.’

‘What do you mean gone?’ He could see the look of superstitious awe on Barraworn’s face, the fear in his eyes.

‘Plenty tracks back there, boss.’ He pointed back in the direction they had come. ‘Five horses. Four got fellas on them. Black fellas get off their horses here.’ His arm shifted to a point some five yards ahead of McTavish. ‘Tracks go here.’ He pointed at the ground at his feet then looked up at the sergeant. ‘No more tracks, boss.’