Always lay your campfire in a clear space, with grass, bark and other debris raked away — and never with any bushes or anything overhanging. Build up a fireplace of stones if you can, but not wet river stones, as they can explode as the moisture in them swells. If you don’t have rocks, dig a shallow hole in the dirt or hill sand up around the sides or surround the fireplace with large wet or green logs. The logs won’t just stop hot coals rolling away and sparks flying — you can sit on them, or keep food warm on them or dry your damp socks on them.

THE COLONY OF QUEENSLAND, 1884

CLANCY

They had travelled with dusty plains to their left for weeks or months, for the going had got too rough among the hills that had become mountains, the bush growing vines as thick as his forearms, with spines as long and sharp as needles. Clancy had carefully let himself fall out of time, feeling only the seasons change, the high sun of summer changing to a gentler autumn light as the sun hung lower above the ridges to their right.

He no longer knew the land: different trees, though just as thin topped, sun soaked, the grass wiry. Even the bird calls had changed, except for the magpies’ song and kookaburras yelling at the dawn. Large dark birds that were not hawks or eagles — or not ones that he recognised — soared over them, inspecting them for signs of weakness, then glided on.

At the campfire one night — shoulder of mutton on a spit, a skinny sheep traded from a woman with six kids, bare paddocks, an almost dry dam and a husband ‘Out shearin, or I reckon he still is’ for a pile of chopped firewood, the sheep’s fleece and skin, and threepence — McKenzie said, ‘Got a bad few days’ travelling coming up. Worst bit we’ll face, all going well. But it’ll be tough.’

Clancy gazed at the clear sky above, the stars so bright they seemed about to fall, like the one in Mrs McKenzie’s story. ‘Storm?’

‘Wish there was,’ said McKenzie shortly. ‘Cliffs coming up soon. We need to take the cattle further down the plains for the next days. Ain’t gunna be good.’

‘Not enough feed down there?’ The bare clay around the farm woman’s hut had glared at them, the only softness a red geranium in a big tin can at the front door, probably watered with what was left after washing children, plates and sometimes, maybe, a shirt.

‘No tucker, yes. But worse than that. No water maybe.’

‘Only maybe?’

McKenzie shrugged. ‘Know where water used to be, last time we was up this way. Have a feeling it ain’t there this year, and so does the wife.’