‘It was no one’s fault,’ he said. ‘The horse was spooked and young Danny was in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

Netty nodded. ‘I’m just grateful that you weren’t hurt worse. Thank you, Mr Hunt.’

‘We’ll say no more about it, Netty. Thank you for breakfast.’ He ran a hand over his unshaven chin. ‘Would it be too much trouble to ask for some warm water?’

‘I’ll bring some when I come back to fetch the tray,’ Netty said. ‘Miss Adelaide’s sorting the mail, but I’ll send Danny out with something for you to read.’

He must have dozed, waking in a sweat, the heat in the small room stifling. He pulled himself up with difficulty and poured a cup of water. Someone had left several broadsheets on the table beside the jug. Leaning back against the planks of the wall, he opened one of the broadsheets, The Argus, a Melbourne newspaper that predated his leaving that fair city.

He set it aside and picked up the second paper, a smaller edition that bore the banner of the Maiden’s Creek Chronicle. The news section was headlined with DARING RESCUE OF POSTMISTRESS’S SON and went on to recount the events of the previous day, concluding with ‘Mr Hunt is reported to be resting comfortably and is expected to make a full recovery.’

‘You must be that Yankee feller everyone’s talking about.’

Caleb stifled an exclamation. He’d not been aware of the door opening but a short, solid man with a thick, greying beard leaned against the wall near the door. ‘Who are you?’

The man rubbed his hand on his trousers and approached the bed. ‘Folks call me Mick.’

Caleb took the offered hand. ‘Then I owe you an apology, friend,’ he said. ‘I’m occupying your bed.’

Mick shook his head. ‘Missus lets me bunk ’ere on occasion, but truth is I don’t much like walls,’ he said. ‘I prefer to be out there.’ He gestured at the world beyond the slab walls of the hut.

‘What do you do?’

‘Missus pays me to deliver the mail up the track,’ he said. Counting off on his fingers he recited, ‘There’s the Red and Blue Sailor Mines, the Evening Star, Pretty Sally and on up to Aberfeldy. I ’ear you’ve an interest in Pretty Sally?’

‘How’d you hear that?’

Mick shrugged. ‘Word gets around. ’Annigan’s claim?’

When Caleb didn’t reply, Mick gave a snort of laughter. ‘Word is that claim’s not worth the paper it’s printed on.’

‘The word in this town is gospel?’ Caleb snapped.

Mick’s bright eyes twinkled. ‘You’ll find out, Yankee.’

‘If you and I are going to get along, Mick, I’d kindly ask you not call me that,’ Caleb said through gritted teeth.

Mick regarded him. ‘Fair ’nuff,’ he said. ‘Can I fetch you anything? ’ot as ’ades in here.’