The Kenniffs only came out of hiding under cover of dark, to water the horses they kept tied in the bush, or to collect the food and newspapers Mrs Boyce left for them.

Some nights they went into the scrub and put bridles on their horses and rode bareback to Injune Creek to plan an escape with their sympathisers – the Creevy boys and some of Alex Stapleton’s unschooled cousins. But there were nights the hut they arrived at was dark and no one came.

Jim read in the newspapers that he was in Durban. In another paper that he was being hidden by an army of Irish rebel sympathisers. He read an interview with a man whose name he had never heard who claimed to have ridden with him and who said that he was already dead.

One night they stood their horses on the western boundary of Hutton Vale to take in the the dawn.

‘The sun will be good for you,’ Paddy said. But when the sky paled in the east and a line of silver sat on the horizon and the shadows became diffuse he became nervous.

‘We should go.’

‘You go, brother. I will stay just a little longer. You were right. I need to see the light.’

Paddy nodded and rode the bush track their horses had cut from their hideout.

Jim watched the stars fade and a fringe of light come after them, just broad enough to touch his face. Then he turned and rode into the woods.

A newly appointed lookout called Henry Humphreys-Brown had been boundary-riding with his boy along the fence between his place and Thurlow’s. Something moved in the periphery of his vision. He stood his horse very still. He put his finger to his lips for his boy to be quiet. For there, like a figure from a dream, was a man huddled in a black duffel coat, hair and beard ragged and long, eyes fixed on the horizon. Father and son froze. When the figure was gone Humphreys-Brown and the boy galloped back to their homestead. The next evening the man rode alone to the same place and saw the figure again. He sent a rider to Injune Station with a message for Sergeant Nixon.