Returning to the house with the boxes of supplies, he found Jake and Django playing poker on the kitchen table as the hiss of static came through on the two-way. ‘You’d better get down to Emily,’ he said as he dumped the boxes on the side and beat the dust out of his hat. ‘She’s cooking something special for your tea, you lucky old bastard.’

Jake folded his hand of cards with studied nonchalance. ‘Some of us have got it, and some ain’t,’ he said. ‘Never mind, mate,’ he added with a grin, ‘not everyone’s blessed with my good looks and charm.’

Ben and Django burst out laughing and threw the cards at him.

Jake shook his head good-naturedly and rammed on his hat as he headed for the door. ‘Django will keep you company while I enjoy the comforts of the lovely Emily. Catch you poor saps later.’

Ben was still laughing as he pulled a bottle of beer out of the kerosene fridge. After he’d swallowed the first cold mouthful he began to relax. ‘How you going, Django?’

He grinned, showing large yellow teeth, his face creasing as deeply as a dried prune. ‘Bellyache all gone, boss. No alonga eat Bert’s meat pie.’

Ben was about to reply when the two-way crackled into life. ‘This is Jim Rider from Wallaby Creek Homestead calling Morgan’s Reach fire chief. You there, Ben?’

Ben’s mouth dried as he heard the note of panic and swiftly connected the call. ‘I’m here, Jim.’

‘We’ve got a bit of a situation out here, mate,’ he drawled. ‘Fire’s broke out to the south of us and coming fast. It’s a big bugger all right – gunna need every hand you can muster.’

11

Carey Downs was in mourning. The little girl had died in the night and, as Hugh had drawn the sheet over the tiny still figure, her mother had finally collapsed with grief. Big Mac’s expression told of his own profound distress, but he’d squared his jaw and gently lifted Maeve from the bedside and carried her to the privacy of their bedroom.

Hugh had signed the death certificate as the wind howled around the house and the dust veiled the dawn. The sound of the other children crying and the mournful wails of the Aboriginal women who’d set up a vigil on the back veranda had merely deepened his depression. Big Mac’s family had owned Carey Downs for five generations. They were the salt of the earth, tough and fearless, inured to the harsh conditions and all too familiar with the tragedies that could befall those living in such isolation. He knew he couldn’t have done more – he’d known the child would die the moment he’d seen her. But that didn’t stop him from feeling useless and defeated.