‘It’ll come. Trouble is, the goldfields out this side are still new. The main goldfields are to the north and west of Melbourne—they have train lines. I’ve just come up from Port Albert. I had to make the arrangements for a new stamper I’m bringing in. It’s going to be a five-header.’

Caleb let out an impressed whistle. ‘A five-header? That’s a mighty piece of equipment to get over those mountains.’

‘It’s broken down into pieces and we have blacksmiths on site to assemble it, but even then it’s a massive task. It’s going to take several bullock teams weeks to make the journey up from Port Albert.’

‘Why not bring it in overland from Melbourne?’

Penrose laughed. ‘You’ve travelled that route. The swamps are impassable in dry weather. Ah, here’s our transport.’

The rattle and clatter of hooves, jingle of harness and a loud ‘Whoa’ announced the arrival of a carriage drawn by two large horses. SHADY CREEK TO MAIDEN’S CREEK had been handpainted on the door in red paint. A large drop of paint had slid down from the ‘k’ in the second Creek, elongating the letter to nearly the length of the door.

‘If you thought last night’s coach ride was rough, you’re in for a treat,’ Penrose said. ‘Thank God for the dry weather. We would be doing it on foot or packhorse if it was wet. Good day, Burrell,’ he hailed the driver as the burly, red-bearded man jumped down from his seat.

Burrell pushed his hat to the back of his head and wiped his right hand on his corduroy pants. ‘G’day, Mr Penrose. Ready to go?’

‘We are. What’s the road like?’

‘It wasn’t too bad when I came over yesterday,’ the man said. He turned to Caleb and held out his hand. ‘Amos Burrell. I’ve got the coach route up to Maiden’s Creek.’

Caleb took the sweaty, calloused paw and Burrell shook it with such force, Caleb felt the bones in his hand crunch.

‘Where’s your luggage, mate?’

Caleb pointed at the iron-bound box that had been placed on the verandah of the hotel. He checked the padlock before Burrell lifted it onto the roof of the carriage. Then he excused himself and made a trip to the wash house.

When he returned, the coach was waiting for him. The parallel wooden benches barely held two people abreast, making it a tight squeeze for the four passengers. Penrose made room for Caleb on the rearward facing bench. The other two passengers facing them, a middle-aged couple, had not been on the Melbourne coach.

Caleb swept off his hat and climbed in.

‘Beg pardon, ma’am,’ he said as he stepped on the well-shod foot of the stout woman, which intruded into his space.