‘I’m not speculating on anything at this precise moment,’ replied Jane, who was drawn and pale with worry. She hooked her hand through Becky’s arm and they pushed their way through the knots of men and machinery that blocked the road to get to the police house.

Django was manning the two-way, the black walkie-talkie placed closed by. ‘Jake’s alonga Carey Downs,’ he explained after they’d told him about Danny. ‘I alonga look for boy, but I alonga here till boss get back.’

‘I’ll look after the radio,’ said Becky quickly.

‘You’ll be needed at the hospital once the casualties come in,’ her mother reminded her softly. ‘And with your father and Terry out there … well, I won’t be able to cope on my own.’

Becky was about to protest when Emily came bustling into the small room with the blacksmith’s mongrel on a lead. ‘I’ll take over,’ she said firmly. ‘People are finding it hard to understand what Django’s saying, and he’d be far more use as a tracker.’

‘Aw, fair go, Miss Emily. Alonga me good talk English.’

‘Just go,’ she said in the firm tone that her more unruly students knew well.

Django recognised authority when he heard it, moved swiftly from his chair and grabbed his hat. ‘Must talk Billy Blue first,’ he muttered. ‘Dat boy know tings, for sure.’

‘But I’ve already spoken to him,’ Becky began.

Django tapped the side of his nose. ‘He talk betta me. No worries, missus. Django find boy, alonga home.’

*

John Miller had seen the boy on the bicycle at around two in the afternoon and had watched him pass along the main road from his hiding place in the valley, deep within the shadows of a stand of trees. He’d wondered at the time what the kid had been doing so far from anywhere and why he seemed to be in such a hurry, but as it was none of his business he’d tipped the hat back over his face and settled down to sleep through the hottest part of the day.

But, despite the weariness that sapped him of strength, sleep had eluded him, and after a restless hour he had given up on it. He’d sat there, his back pressed to the sturdy trunk of a paperbark, his legs drawn to his chest, his eyes closed beneath the broad brim of his hat. His conscience was troubling him.

The boy had been much too young to be on his own so far from civilisation, and he’d done nothing to stop him. Perhaps he’d been in trouble – perhaps he was running away from something. Either way, if it had been his son, he would have wanted someone to look out for him.