It was dark by the time Caleb emerged from the stable, drying his hands and untying the leather apron. The hot day had passed into a warm night and he found Russell sitting on the verandah of the hotel, a glass of whiskey in his hand and the bottle and a second glass on the bench beside him. The parlour was deserted, all the passengers having departed to their various destinations.

‘Poor man,’ Russell said as he poured Caleb a drink. ‘Is there anything that could have been done?’

Caleb shook his head. ‘I doubt it. An injury like that was always going to kill him.’

Russell frowned and looked down at his glass. ‘Would he have suffered?’

‘I can imagine the bruising from the beating would have been uncomfortable,’ Caleb observed, ‘but no, whatever happened to him before he boarded the coach meant he probably died in his sleep without further pain.’

‘I know the man’s weakness but I always liked him. Is it wrong to feel relieved that you found a legitimate cause for Bowen’s death?’

Caleb took a swig of the whiskey. The malt burned his throat and he remembered he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. ‘I didn’t know him well but to send him to his grave as a sad alcoholic seems unfair to a man who had once, and could still be when the occasion warranted it, a good doctor,’ he said.

Russell nodded. ‘Maidment is going to instigate inquiries in Melbourne. We’ll see if we can find his murderer. A robbery gone wrong, no doubt, but someone will swing for it. We’ll see him decently interred tomorrow. I’ll ensure that we take up a collection back at Maiden’s Creek for a proper headstone so he won’t be forgotten, and I’ll write to his sister. Oh, by the way, when we went through his belongings, we found this. It’s addressed to you.’

He fished an envelope out of his pocket. Caleb turned it over in his hands and held it up to the light coming from the parlour window. Bowen had scrawled his name and punctuated it with an exclamation mark.

He broke the seal and unfolded two sheets of paper. The first was a short note from Bowen himself and for a moment the words blurred as Caleb read:

Hunt, you are too good a doctor to waste your life running from your vocation. I put your case to the Registrar of Medical Practitioners and he has provisionally approved your registration, pending evidence from you of your qualification from America. Have a glass of whiskey for me but don’t make a habit of it. Bowen.

The second sheet was a letter from the registrar confirming Caleb’s provisional registration. He handed it to Russell, who scanned the paper.