Caleb jerked forward to stop him but he doubted Hannigan had the guts to end his own life. ‘Listen, Hannigan,’ he said, ‘I’ve a proposition for you. ‘Tell me about this claim of yours.’

Hannigan’s hand dropped to his side. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Is there gold at this … Pretty Sally?’

‘Oh, there’s gold,’ Hannigan said. ‘The alluvial stuff’s gone but there’s a reef running through the hillside.’

‘How do you get it out?’

Hannigan spluttered. ‘What do you know about gold mining?’

‘Some,’ Caleb said. ‘Dig it up and stomp it out of the rocks?’

‘That’s pretty much it.’

‘Sounds like hard work.’

‘It is. And bloody expensive too.’

Caleb scratched his unshaven chin. ‘I have a problem, friend. A problem you might be able to help me with.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I now have the right to mine a piece of land for gold, but I don’t know where this land is and what I know about gold mining you could write on a postage stamp.’

Hannigan straightened. ‘So, what are you proposing, Yankee?’

‘Nothing if you are going to call me by that name.’

‘So what do I call you?’

‘Caleb Hunt. How were you planning to fund this expensive expedition?’

The man sucked in a breath through his moustache. ‘I came to town to register the claim but I needed money to pay for the equipment I ordered from McEwan’s. I thought there would be easy money to be made with two-up—’

‘My father used to say, never gamble with money you’re not prepared to lose.’ Caleb’s father would never have considered gambling at all—the words were good advice from a friend that Caleb had consistently failed to follow in his life.

Caleb took out his pipe, filled it with tobacco and struck a match on the sole of his boot. He drew in the smoke and kept his eyes fixed on the twinkling lights of the boats. ‘I think you and I could strike up a deal, Hannigan. I’ve got the money you need for the equipment, but I need someone who knows what he’s doing to work the claim. I’ll pay you a fair wage and, if we strike gold, then you get ten per cent of the profits. Does that sound fair?’

The Irishman’s beard jutted. ‘But it’s my claim.’

‘Not any more. That’s my offer, take it or leave it.’

Caleb straightened and started to walk away, leaving the big man standing on the sidewalk, the knife still in his hand. He half-expected the knife between his shoulder blades but if he had judged the man rightly, Hannigan was no murderer. Hotheaded perhaps, but not one to knife a man in the back.

‘Wait, Yankee.’