The sun was near gone. Nixon walked out of a fringe of pines and marked a way up the rock that perhaps one man could take. Maybe. With a horse for a little way at least. And he marked the places where that man would be exposed and sheltered and where he would have to go on foot. Tom came out to him and guessed what he was looking at.

‘I don’t like it,’ he said.

The Skillington boy and King Edward came behind the other two.

‘Somewhere they have to come out,’ said Nixon. ‘The horses can only pick so much weed from the rocks and there can be little water. They will have to water their horses. If that fire’s keeping them from the north, then they’ll come back into the gorge. We need to ride on a way.’

‘Towards what?’ said the Skillington boy.

‘I don’t know this country as well as Jim Kenniff does. But if he’s as trapped as we are, he’ll run out of gorge.’

‘So we just ride along here in a file,’ said the Skillington boy, ‘until we achieve our aim of goin toe to toe with them in a shootout?’

Tom Lawton pointed up a defile that must go somewhere near Hell Hole.

‘You could always ride up there after them instead.’

The Skillington boy mounted his horse and shook his head.

Tom Lawton laughed.

‘Didn’t think so. Where the fuck are those policemen you were crying for last night, boy?’

The Skillington boy ignored him and turned to Nixon.

‘Sarge, please think about what I say. I know this country well enough. It’s a bloody long way before they run out of gorge.’ He looked at Tom. ‘Who knows that this one here isn’t giving them signals?’

Nixon spat.

‘I’ve been watching him.’

‘Who knows what signals he might give?’

Tom Lawton spoke at the boy’s back.

‘Shut up, coward.’

The Skillington boy spoke.

‘He asks where the officers are. I’m asking myself. What if they’re dead?’

Tom Lawton laughed.

‘How the fuck would they get across the north to kill all your police and be shootin at us at the same time?’

The Skillington boy shook his head.

‘You know what they say, Sarge. Jim Kenniff can be in two places at once.’

‘Quiet, boy.’

‘I’m scared the police aren’t coming, Sarge. And I heard you two talking at the fire the other night. The Injune police aren’t coming and we’re up here in a turkey shoot riding with the one man who can make a case against the Kenniffs. If he’s not double crossing us then we’re riding beside a fucking target. We might as well put red feathers in our hats so they can see us better.’

‘Quiet.’

But before the last light was gone the three Injune officers came. They came with a black man on a pony in tow.

‘We saw the flare,’ said Tasker. ‘But we were waylaid. There’s fire all along the range. Haven’t seen anything like it in years.’

‘Did you set the cordon?’

‘Aye, men are moving. But slowly. The fire’s through Consuelo. But look here – Sam Johnson has returned.’

Nixon stood with eyes wide and only now saw properly the face of the black man.

‘Hell, Sam! It’s good to see you. I thought you were dead.’

‘He’s been weeks in the wild. He was injured, half-starved and delirious. We found him at an empty rail siding, trying to pick his way along the line. But he made it back. And you should hear what he has to say about Doyle and Dahlke.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘I heard it,’ said Sam. ‘I was chasing down our packhorse, so I didn’t see. But I heard it.’

Nixon nodded.

‘You heard them killed?’

‘Yes. But I didn’t see what become of our men.’

‘I did.’

Night came and a belt of stars burned above the gorge.

Tasker and Scanlan stood watch at the north of the camp. Nixon looked up at Holland who was loading his rifle. God, he looks soft, Nixon thought. I don’t remember him being so soft. He looked at his own face in his hunting knife. Hell, look at you. You look about a thousand years old, and you’re not even forty. Or was he? He counted the months, the years, since he last knew for sure. He looked again at Holland who watched the northern dark but with less fear in his eyes than the Skillington boy. At last Nixon could rest a little, now the reinforcements were here, and he smiled.

‘Holland.’

‘Sergeant?’

‘You got anything to drink?’

Holland passed him a bottle. Nixon took it.

‘Rotgut?’

‘I don’t know. It’s Tasker’s.’

Scanlan and Tasker were standing watch. The Skillington boy was asleep. Tom was playing dice with King Edward, and Nixon was all alone. For this hour, just this hour, nothing and no one was depending on him. He took the bottle Holland had given him, pulled out the stopper and wiped the lip of the bottle with his sleeve and drank deep. The whisky tasted terrible, but soon a happy warmth spread through him. He drank again. He thought, I hope they open fire up there on the ridge tonight – as long as these others get out – I could die now with this in my belly and I would not be sorry. He drank again. Then again. He remembered the weight of Mrs Thurlow’s head between his shoulders on his horse riding her fence line. He remembered the beautiful little girl back in Jericho. This has been enough for me. He thought, If they opened fire now I’d stand eye to eye with Jim Kenniff and I’d draw and if he was the faster then that would be good. That would be good. He drank again. Then again …