‘Has Constable O’Shea returned?’ Robbo asked, pushing himself off the kitchen room floor and groaning. He spun around and checked the oven, lifted the hot plate and peered into the coals.
Raff shook his head. He lay his rifle on the table. ‘No, and that’s a worry.’ Standing, he stretched, shook the life back into his hands, stiff from holding the gun. ‘Gone dawn already, and no sign of him.’
Robbo stared at him. ‘Trouble somewhere, maybe?’
‘Maybe.’
Robbo reached into the log basket and shoved a bunch of sticks and dry leaves into the oven. He blew into it until a wisp of smoke rose. Raff heard a crackle as the flames licked over the new fuel. Robbo plonked the kettle on top.
‘Time to see if the patient is awake,’ Raff said. Outside he took a turn left, heading behind the privy, needing to relieve his bladder before he went into the house. He unbuttoned and took good aim at a dried tuft of weeds. Job done, he buttoned up and headed for the pump, stripping off his shirt. Grabbing a thin cake of soap from the brick mount, he worked the lever, dunked his head and scrubbed the cold-water lather through his hair and into his armpits. He rinsed, rubbing his eyes vigorously, dried off with his shirt and shrugged back into it.
‘Ah good, smelling all pretty. While you were takin’ a piss, we took the liberty to see what we could find.’
Raff swivelled, stared up at McCosker and Porter on horseback. McCosker’s rifle was aimed at his chest. Jesus Christ. He hadn’t heard a damn thing.
‘Seems we’ve found the someone we’re after, on his back, inside. Being so crook and all, won’t be no trouble to take him, and ask him politely what else he knows. Don’t need you, though.’ McCosker lifted his chin. ‘Get your mate out here, without his rifle.’
Robbo stepped into the kitchen doorway. He’d have heard everything.
McCosker beckoned him. ‘All the way outside and put the rifle on the ground.’
A thunder beat under Raff’s ribs. Where the hell are the women?