Rose and Mrs McKenzie sat on a high branch, their legs and the net dangling above the pool. They had tied rocks all around its edges. Mrs McKenzie nodded slightly as a young emu tentatively approached the water. Young meant tender meat and softer feathers and easier to manage.

Another signal from Mrs McKenzie. They heaved. The net dropped.

Its weight knocked the young emu over. It struggled madly to get out, sharp beak, sharper claws, trying to rip, escape.

The other birds looked up, at first annoyed, rather than frightened. Suddenly they ran, swift and silent, vanishing into the night. The women slithered down the tree. Mrs McKenzie picked up the axe, calculating. Two blows, and it was done.

They cut and gutted the carcass a good way from camp — the guts would tempt the flies away, or half of them at least, which only left a million. They dragged the gutted bird to yet a third spot to pluck it. Pin feathers blew into everything, so you woke with your nose half full of snot and down, and more feathers stuck onto your lips.

Mrs McKenzie spread the feathers on top of a fresh net to dry, covering it with the weighted net so they didn’t blow away. ‘Reckon this sun is hot enough to clean them,’ she said. If you didn’t give feathers enough sun and heat, small beasts bred inside the quilt and bit you in the night.

It took an hour to cut what they wanted from the carcass: just the breast meat and the upper legs. They lugged what they wanted back, leaving the rest for the flies and goannas and dingoes, threw the scraps and the leg bones to the dogs, then hung their haul in the meat safe, dangling high up on a branch at camp.

And at last they slept.

The sun was well above the trees when the heat woke her. Mrs McKenzie was already grilling the meat on a green-wood spit above the fire, catching the oil in her skillet as it dripped. An old syrup tin next to her held native spice leaves and river mint. By tonight the oil in that tin would be pungent enough to keep away mosquitoes. A billy of tea stood by the fire and the meat smelled good. The dogs salivated as they chewed their bones, knowing there’d be scraps.

‘Still got some pumpkin chutney in the saddlebags,’ said Mrs McKenzie.

A good life, Rose reminded herself. Comfort and friendship and no reason to be scared . . .

The men came the next afternoon.

Three men, three horses. Not good horses. Not good men. They broke into a canter as they approached the camp, spreading out to circle it. Two held guns.