He left the boy to stable the horses. The sub-inspector had been sleeping at the desk. He woke at the sound of spurs chinging on the floorboards.

‘I need money, guns and fresh horses,’ said Nixon. ‘But more than that I need time. I may be gone for weeks.’

‘How do you know?’

‘A feeling.’

‘I know what you’re thinking, Nixon. The government won’t put any more money into chasing rumours of that gang through the mountains to no avail. And how I am I supposed to replace you?’

‘The commissioner wants them caught.’

‘The commissioner wants a promotion into government. You were here last spring. He had a thousand men looking for them.’

‘I was one of them.’

‘Then you’ll know that with a thousand officers on special duties in the southwest, desperadoes run riot in every other corner of the state. The commissioner was near sacked over it. Now he only wants them caught if we happen to fall over them. A thousand men couldn’t find them last spring. How will you fare better?’

‘A thousand men are as visible as a belt of fire from a mountain cave. But one man, that’s different. Me and the boy who’s been riding with me. And a tracker.’

‘There are no trackers. All are assigned. It’d be weeks before we could get one. And who is this boy?’

‘Nephew of Bob Skillington at Merivale. His uncle says he’s a dreamer. Reads too many adventures. Also he’s not good with cattle. But he knows the range country. And he wants to be a lawman.’

‘Hell. When you fail at everything else …’

‘Isn’t that your story? It’s mine.’

The sub-inspector smiled.

‘He should keep at farming. Live to be an old man.’

‘I told him that. But he’s keen.’

The sub-inspector shook his head and bit the tip off a cigar and lit it.

‘Anyway, I heard Jim Kenniff isn’t even in the country. That he’s in South Africa. Or California.’

‘I say he’s here.’

‘Are there signs?’

‘Yes.’

‘Meaning?’

Nixon checked himself.

‘Two dead horses in a clearing.’

‘Dead horses? Why?’

‘Because they thought someone was following them, and that whoever he was was close. And the horses were tired and slowing them down. That is the kind of men they are.’

The sub-inspector tapped his cigar into a whisky glass and nodded.

‘You can set wanted posters,’ said Nixon. ‘But don’t release them. Not while I’m alive. Only afterwards.’

‘Alright then.’ The sub-inspector waved his cigar in the air. ‘You go. I’ll sit it out for you in this shitbox and wait.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Thank me by coming back. I don’t want to wait here one day longer than I have to. If you find them, arrest or kill them. If you find Doyle and Sam, you three ride back here as quick as you can and we’ll all get transfers to somewhere civilised.’

‘Thank you.’

‘But you’re not leaving before the grand fucking goat’s dinner at Mount Moffat.’

‘The commissioner’s coming?’

‘He sent a despatch rider to Mitchell the other day. He’s just come back from holiday down south.’

‘He’ll likely be coming to shut us down. I should be gone.’

‘You want a warrant. And he’s sillier than the magistrates I’ll have to apply to otherwise.’