They had Jim Kenniff. The others had got away into the rocks.

Nixon and the Skillington boy cuffed their captive and tied him and sat him on their packhorse. They rode him east over the red plain.

‘What about the others?’ said the Skillington boy. ‘What if they return in the night?’

‘They’ll be too frightened,’ said Nixon.

He looked over his shoulder at the man with hands tied behind his back. His face was burning in the sun but his eyes did not betray an ounce of fear.

A band of black men stood on the shimmering horizon. A caravan of native slaves with iron chains around their necks, driven by howling mounted Aborigines in torn uniforms, unbuttoned, with muzzle-loading carbines and Sniders on their shoulders.

The two sets of riders drew abreast. The captain of the detachment rode to the fore. He nodded at King Edward. He spoke to Nixon.

‘That black fella you got there look wild. Look like trouble. You bringin him in?’

‘No. Look at his uniform. Like yours.’

‘Not like mine. Look old and stolen.’

Nixon pointed to Jim Kenniff.

‘He tracked this outlaw for us.’

‘He know English?’

King Edward stared at the detachment unflinching and silent.

‘Yes,’ Nixon said.

‘He look like trouble,’ said the captain of the detachment.

‘Why are you concerned?’

‘We lookin for the leader a this gang ere.’

He raised his hand and pulled up the chin of the first man of the half-dozen warriors in chains.

‘This one with me is only a boy.’

The native policeman spoke again.

‘What’s that one’s markins?’

‘He is not the man you are looking for. He is a boy. And he is in the employ of the government. You understand?’

The native policeman grinned.

‘Hmmm. Yes, boss. But you should let me look at is markins. They cannibals, this lot. Guilty. Proved.’

‘I know how you prove guilt.’

‘How’s that, boss?’

‘With the threat in that weapon on your shoulder.’

‘You givin cheek, sir?’

‘No. Only saying what is true.’

‘But you see, sir. The government instructed us to keep the roads clear of the natives.’

‘This native belongs to me.’

Nixon put his spurs into his horse’s flanks.

The mounted Aborigines howled and cooeed and drove their prisoners on into shimmering heat.

The Skillington boy looked back with eyes open wide.