The patrol worked their way across the plain at evening. There came the sound of horses in a corridor of timber in the twilight in the west. The patrol was exposed. They stood their horses and readied their guns.

Two horses came out of the timber. One with an upright rider; the other horse carried something large across the saddle. Then the riders stopped dead still. Not near enough in the dark for any kind of recognition, but each party was within rifle range of the other.

Nixon looked over at the Skillington boy who had dismounted and sat his rifle across the saddle of his mare. His finger was in the housing. Nixon whispered,

‘Go easy, boy. Take your finger off that trigger.’

‘Yes, Sarge.’

King Edward squinted.

‘It isn’t them, boss.’

Nixon called across the wind.

‘State your name and business in the name of the Law.’

A relieved voice came clear across the grass.

‘Aye, Lord in heaven have mercy. Thank God it’s you.’

The rider trotted his horse forward.

The Skillington boy lowered his rifle.

‘It’s the mercenaries.’

But only one – the short man with the scarf. The tall mercenary’s body was slung across the packhorse.

Nixon did not resheath his rifle.

‘You’re responsible for the death of two innocent men.’

‘What innocent men?’

‘Two scalpers you shot and tried to pass off as Jim and Paddy Kenniff.’

‘Aye, true. An honest mistake. But only one of us has lived to regret it. Anyway, those scalpers opened fire on us first. That’s why we assumed.’

‘You bastard.’

‘We ran into the Kenniffs, alright.’ He looked behind him at the darkening bloating face of his former partner. ‘As you see.’

Nixon spat.

‘You taking him home for a good Christian burial?’

‘Aye. He always stuck by me. But give me water.’

The mercenary coughed blood. He was shot through the left shoulder and the bone was shattered. But the bullet had not exited.

‘I found tracks,’ he said. ‘Fresh prints of horses. We figured we’d rode near enough and high enough to meet them at an advantage. We rode out of rocks onto a grass flat and there was nothing around us. Not for miles. Then we hear a voice directly behind us, we turn around and there he is with a gun levelled at my man. I swear to God he just rose up out of the dirt as if by magic. There wasn’t a bloody thing out there to hide behind. One minute there’s nothing. Then he’s there. He shot my partner dead on his horse but not out of his stirrups. I ran for cover. He chased me and shot me down too. He stood over me. Kicked my ribs. I spose he reckoned I was dead. I reckon I was too for a while. Then at dawn I rode back here. That was last night. Now, please, Sergeant, some water.’

King Edward made a fire. At the fire they ate dried beef and stale bread. The mercenary drank whisky from his own supply. Nixon thought about bringing him in for the killing of those scalpers, even protected by the commissioner as he was. But when he saw the blood leaking ever more freely from the wound in the Scotsman’s shoulder then he did not worry. He thought more about the condition of the man’s two horses. And which, the mercenary’s or the patrol’s, looked freshest and were most likely to stay good on a ride into the ranges. He spoke to the mercenary.

‘You got another bottle?’

‘Aye. In the saddlebag.’

They rose late and the mercenary was dead. They left him and his mate against a rock with their saddles in front of them. Nixon took one horse and let two others loose on the plain.