The next great clap of thunder was right above him. It made him stumble and his heart missed a beat as his ankle twisted and he was sent sprawling on to the unforgiving ground, jarring his shoulder and hip and skinning his elbow. He curled into himself, his heart pounding, his back against the assault of the wind, the precious water-bags clutched to his chest as the lightning cracked overhead and the thunder continued to boom.

Caught in the maelstrom of noise and whipping sand, the darkness closed in as the banshee wails of the wind howled around him and clawed at his clothes. In his tortured mind he was experiencing the Armageddon he’d so often described from his pulpit – and he cowered beneath its ferocity, certain he was about to die.

An eternity seemed to pass before the thunder rolled away to grumble in the distance as the lightning stuttered between the billowing black clouds. He waited there, curled on the ground until the desperate need for water stirred him. His fingers fumbled with the stopper on the lighter bag. ‘Not too much,’ he muttered. ‘I must be strong and not drink it all.’

The water was tepid, but that first taste was nectar. He held it in his mouth and felt it soothe his dry tongue and lips. He swallowed it greedily and took some more, feeling the pain ease in his head as the nausea ebbed. Tipping back the bag for what he promised himself would be the last time he felt only a trickle land on his tongue. Staring at it in bafflement, he shook it and tried again. But it was empty.

Throwing it away in disgust, he curled once again away from the wind, clutched the last precious bag of water to his chest and closed his eyes. He would rest until daylight.

*

The man who had called himself John Miller had found sanctuary from the storm in the deep dry riverbed that wound through the bush. There was little danger of flood-water rushing down, for the storm carried no hint of rain.

Sheltered by the overhanging trees, he’d made a circle of stones and lit a small fire. With the billy boiling merrily, he threw in some of the tea, added a eucalyptus leaf and chewed on one of Frank’s last few biscuits as he waited for it to stew.

Staring into the flames, he wondered what stories Frank and his offsider would be telling now. It had been a risk to approach them, but with no water or food he’d had no other option. No doubt the townsfolk of Morgan’s Reach would be on the alert for a stranger passing through – and that had to be avoided at all cost. But it wouldn’t be so hard; it was well off the beaten track, and he knew the lie of the land that surrounded it.