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Sixkiller and Sombre Vol. It was hard going, with dry moss making the granite slippery. Half way up, I stopped for breather and to clear the flies from my face with a spray of repellent from my hip bag.
    From what I could see in the distance, Sombre Vol had come to a stand-still, head down, refusing to move and Sixkiller had dismounted.
    A smirk found my lips. He might have stayed on Vol’s back, but what now Mr Fancy Cowboy? Horses could be as stubborn as they could be wild.
    I leaned back against the rock face, indulging in a flash of childish satisfaction while I swatted flies. But as I moved position something sharp stuck into my hip, distracting me from the moment of satisfaction. Thinking it a loose rock, I reached around to brush it away and my fingers connected something smooth.
    I grasped hold of it and pulled it from its hiding place so I could see. It was a square black box with a dirty crystal lens.
    “What the…?”
    I twisted and slotted it gently back into the resting place that had been carved for it.
    Getting my body totally turned around took a few minutes of careful maneuvering. When I was finally facing the rock, I studied the cavity the box had come from and the area around it. No doubt it was deliberately carved to fit. A camera of some kind, I thought, but nothing I recognized.
    Someone had been illegally filming in my park. A little wave of anger surged through me. Whoever it was, this had been here a while. The case was caked and the lens smudged. But I wasn’t going to mention this to anyone yet, especially Nate Sixkiller. Hunt might have welcomed him with open arms, might want me to trust him… but what my boss wanted from me he didn’t always get.
    I took some photos with my phone and sent them straight to my home address. Then I removed the box from its slot and wrapped it in my handkerchief. Climbing down, I tucked it in the bottom of my saddlebag. As I was rebuckling the strap, Sixkiller and Sombre Vol came trotting between columns of rock. The rider and horse, it seemed, had come to an agreement.
    “It took longer than I anticipated,” said Sixkiller. He didn’t dismount, as if concerned Sombre Vol wouldn’t let him back on.
    “ Yes, I saw you having a deep and meaningful conflab out there.”
    “Shall we continue?”
    It didn’t sound much like a request.
    “There’s a trough over by the thumb.” I pointed to the stubbiest of the rock fingers. “Give him a drink and we’ll move on.”
    He nodded then glanced at where my hand rested on Benny’s saddlebag. “Did you find something? I saw you on examining the rocks.”
    “No. Nothing. But you’ve got keen eyesight Mr Sixkiller.”
    He gave sparing smile. “More than you could imagine, Ms Jackson.”

 
     
    Chapter Six
    I showed Sixkiller the extent of the home-zone territory, hectares of prime desert and iron rock, flecked with stunted bushes in some parts and just plain spinifex in others.
    “The colours are real different from my home. We’re more a yellow sand and flat-green kinder desert.” He was back using his fake cowboy drawl but his expression was rapt and sincere.
    I’d seen video-streams of the last deserts in North America. They were beautiful in their own way, but mine was so vividly red and purple that the spinifex took on a translucent green in contrast.
    My heart swelled with sudden and inexplicable pride. We did a good thing when we saved this for people to see, I told my dad silently. It was worth what you did. It was worth everything.
    Worth dying for?
    Dad would have thought so. I hadn’t given up finding who was responsible for his “accident”. I would one day.
    My mood soured. “Let’s get on,” I snapped. “Hunt’ll be waiting.”
    We checked all the regular tourist’s stops including Little Canyon, Lost Gorge in the middle of the flatlands, Slate Hill on the southern end of my territory, and finally the Last Corral and the Paloma station house. I put the scanner over them all and got