King Edward walked away from camp to dig water from a soak beside a creek. He was late returning. There was talk in the dark beyond the fire. It was in a native tongue and far enough away so they could not hear if it was one man reciting words, or two in conversation. Nixon saw the Skillington boy had his hand on the stock of his shotgun. They heard footfalls in the dark. Nixon reached inside his coat and touched his revolver.

King Edward came into the camp alone. He cradled a skin of water. Nixon slid the revolver under his leg.

It had been three days since King Edward had seen a print he recognised as a running horse. They were dead reckoning. These three days King Edward began to sing. Especially when alone, and now he sang at the camp.

Nixon thought, He feels well, that’s all. He has become easy with me.

The Skillington boy spat a stream of tobacco into their camp fire.

‘God, I wish he’d be quiet.’ He turned to Nixon. ‘You said they’re given to violence and treachery, these Breelong blacks.’

Nixon said nothing. The Skillington boy went on.

‘Likely as not he’s singing to give away our position.’

Nixon said nothing. King Edward sang.

The Skillington boy shook his head.

‘Sounds like something devils sing to each other in hell.’

The next day King Edward claimed to have seen cook smoke on the horizon. The following day, hoof prints. But they looked faint and old to Nixon.

‘And anyway, there are wild horses out here.’

‘A shoe, boss.’

Nixon brushed the dirt with his boot. He could not be sure.

The day after was the same. But King Edward always picked up the trail and the smoke at dusk, when Nixon’s eyes failed him. He squinted in the directions King Edward pointed but could see nothing.

One night he was gone for hours. Gone without a word after all of them had bedded down.

Nixon lay with eyes half open, watching him walk out of the dark into the light of the fire holding a sharp stick. A spear.

‘Boy?’

King Edward threw a rabbit onto the dirt.

‘For tomorrow, boss. I’ll skin him now.’

‘There’s hours before dawn. You sleep.’

He shook his head.

‘Not a good night for sleep, boss. My head keeps talkin. Anyway, look up.’

A shower of falling stars cut the north of the sky. Vanishing in the west.

‘Duruga.’

‘Meteors.’

‘Duruga.’

‘Lucky. Make a wish!’

‘Bad sign, boss.’