Russell regarded him. The man had intelligent, bright eyes that seemed to sear Caleb’s soul.

‘Ah, the war. Bad business that. Were you caught up in it, Hunt?’

Caleb met the man’s eyes with an unblinking gaze. Three years of violent conflict that ripped apart a nation, the scars from which would probably never heal, could not be dismissed as just ‘bad business’.

‘I was, sir, but there would not be one person in Virginia not affected in some way. Even your friends in Fairfax, Mrs Russell.’

The woman’s lips tightened and she glanced down at her gloved hands where they rested in her lap. ‘They lost a son to the Southern cause, Mr Hunt. And you, did you take up arms—’

Caleb was saved from answer by the carriage jerking and Burrell cursing above them. With a shout of ‘Whoa!’ the coach came to an abrupt halt, nearly throwing both Russells onto their fellow passengers. Caleb caught Mrs Russell in time to prevent an embarrassing grapple. As the lady sat back into her place, straightening her bonnet and fussing with her gloves, Penrose called out of the window, ‘What is it, Burrell?’

‘Gold convoy.’ Burrell punctuated this observation with a blasphemous exclamation.

Caleb leaned out the window. Coming up the hill towards them were three riders moving at a good clip, their dark blue uniforms and caps marking them as members of the constabulary. Behind them was a small covered wagon pulled by four horses, followed by another three mounted constables.

‘Impressive,’ he remarked. ‘Is the gold from your mine, Penrose?’

Penrose shook his head. ‘Some. We’ve yet to hit the main seam but some of the other mines in the field are doing well, particularly the Blue Sailor.’

Russell held a neatly pressed white handkerchief to his nose in a vain attempt to lessen the dust cloud kicked up by the passing convoy. ‘The convoy leaves once a week,’ he said. ‘Never the same day or time.’

‘Why?’ Caleb asked.

‘Bushrangers.’ Russell’s mouth pursed. ‘We learned our lessons from the other goldfields.’

‘Bushrangers?’ Caleb had never heard the word before.

‘Outlaws,’ said Penrose. ‘Highwaymen, we’d call them in England.’

Mrs Russell cast a nervous glance around the carriage. ‘Do you think we will be held up?’

Her husband patted her arm. ‘To the best of my knowledge, they are not yet operating in this area, and I don’t see why they would be interested in us, my dear. Burrell has a rifle and if I am not mistaken, our American friend over there is carrying a sidearm.’

All three looked at Caleb and he realised his jacket had pulled back as he leaned out of the window, revealing the Colt revolver on his left hip.

‘Expecting trouble?’ Penrose said, his dark eyes disapproving.

Caleb settled back into his place, pulling his jacket to cover the weapon. ‘Habit,’ he said. ‘When you’ve been a soldier …’ He let the sentence die away.