It was the Skillington boy’s watch now. He and Holland. Clouds drifted across the stars. The Skillington boy had his horse saddled and he held the rein.

Holland laughed.

‘You keep it saddled all night and it won’t run for you in the morning. Horses need to sleep.’

‘I know. Only …’

‘Only what?’

‘Aren’t you afraid? Afraid of what might be sitting further on there looking down at us?’

‘Yes. But not so afraid that I’m going to make myself ridiculous over it. And like I say, I’d rather be ridin a donkey tomorrow than your horse if you keep it saddled and awake all night.’

The Skillington boy looked to the rock wall where Sam Johnson was guarded by King Edward. The two black men were hidden by an elbow of stone. They had sat awake and not speaking, but now Sam lay back to sleep against the rock. King Edward remained awake.

The Skillington boy wanted to shift the topic from his cowardice.

‘How about that!’ he said. The wind rose and he shrank into his duffel coat.

‘What?’ said Holland.

‘Those two crows. Neither says a word to the other.’

‘Sam’s worked for the police for a long time. And in my experience, you only have to ride twenty miles before they speak another language. Those two would be as likely to hit it off as you and a Frenchman.’

‘My grandmother’s French.’

‘Then you and a German. Cigarette?’

‘Thanks.’

‘I say he’ll run,’ said the Skillington boy.

‘Who?’

‘That savage we’re using as a tracker. I’ve been with him weeks and he hasn’t said a civil word to me. You know why?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Because he hasn’t got a civil idea in his head. That’s why. What allegiance does he have to us?’

Holland shrugged. The Skillington boy spat.

‘And Nixon’s given him a rifle to keep. Just look at him. How’d you like to have him ridin beyond you with a loaded gun?’

Holland shrugged.

‘Poor bastard. The missions do alright by the women. But they leave the men helpless. I guarantee you I’ve ridden with worse men.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Look at that cloud moving in. It’ll rain tonight.’

‘Wonderful.’

Nothing moved. No sound but water running in the rocks.

There was a rifle report and a sound like a hard slap and the Skillington boy mounted before he was even conscious of Holland lying dead beside him. Another shot and the Skillington boy’s horse slipped and panicked for footing and fell on its side. He lay looking at Holland’s broken face close beside him leaking blood onto the rocks.

The Skillington boy stood up. Stunned. As though this was all a thing he had dreamt and was dreaming again. He stared at Holland. He pictured himself in death, lying on the ground beside Holland. Surely it could not be so. His horse had bolted back down the creek away from the rifle fire. Nixon bellowed at the boy to run. But he was frozen and looking at the fallen Injune policeman and the blood leaking from the exit wound in his neck, feet in the gorge stream. Twitching.

‘But–’

‘There’s nothing we can do for him!’

Still the boy stood.

‘The twitching is nerves,’ Nixon shouted.

The boy only stared.

Nixon had crawled to beside him.

‘He’s dead!’

Then another shot came from the ridge and ricocheted down the walls and all the men ducked with their arms above their heads.

‘Now run!’

And this time the boy followed around a bend into the dark defile where the Kenniffs had gone before them.