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the dough wrapped round it over the coals of the fire. Sinkers were better’n damper, in his opinion: easier to make and quicker, and not as heavy in your belly. A bit o’ treacle to cover the sour taste of weevils in the flour, and—
    ‘You deaf or what? I bin yelling fer an hour!’
    The man stood with his hands on his hips. Billy recognised him from back at the farm: one of the men who shared the long stone barracks building, convicts or old lags who’d been freed, he didn’t know which. It didn’t seem to matter out here whether a man had served his sentence or not. What was his name? Gummy Jake, that was it.
    Billy stood up. ‘Sorry. Been so long since I heard anyone.’
    The man grinned, showing his hard black toothless gums. ‘Know what you mean, matey. You got to approach some of the coves gently like, in case they blow yer head off. Which is why I called out to you. You ain’t barmy yet though, I reckons.’
    ‘No,’ said Billy. ‘Not yet.’
    Jake sat down next to him. ‘Sent me out ter help you bring ‘em in fer shearing.’ He yawned. ‘Do it termorra. Too far to take ‘em tonight.’ He eyed the sinker. ‘Got any o’ that to spare?’
    Billy handed the stick to him, and went to mix more flour and water. People. Buildings. Voices other than sheep…
    He found that he was trembling.
    They were about halfway back, lugging the wool Billy had taken from the dead sheep, pushing the live ones in front of them and keeping an eye out for stragglers, when the thought occurred to him.
    Why go back at all?
    He had his pistol, and enough powder for at least another thirty shots. There was food back at the hut. He could get to the road, hold up travellers like Flash Jim…
    And then what? Run away on his two legs, while they chased after him on horseback?
    He needed a horse.
    There were horses back at the farm.
    Jake gave a yell. ‘Hey, matey. Come look at this!’
    Billy wound his way through the mob of sheep, the ewes bleating and hunting for lost lambs, the wethers bending down to hunt for grass. ‘What is it?’
    ‘Must be old Crookshanks! He were out at the hut afore you. Lost half the sheep afore we found he were gone.’
    Billy looked down. Rags, and among the rags, bones. A human skull. ‘What happened to him?’ he whispered.
    Jake shrugged. ‘Dunno. Snake bite, maybe. Knew a cove whose jaw swelled up with a bad tooth. Killed him in a week. Maybe the heebie-jeebies got too bad an he shot himself. Known that to happen too.’ He poked at the rags with his boot. It was prison issue, but so old it was held together with twine. ‘No sign of his pistol though. Mebbe a bushranger got ‘im. Some of those cove’s kill you fer a bag o’ flour.’
    ‘Should we bury him?’
    Jake shrugged. ‘Why make work fer ourselves? Plenty more bones about the bush. Some coves reckon they can walk all the way to China. Bush gets them an’ all.’
    It seemed wrong to leave the bones. But Jake was already moving the sheep on. Billy bit his lip, and followed him.

CHAPTER 10
The Horse, 1832
    We walked. It is hard to see where to put your hoofs when you are walked in a mob, with men behind and on each side, using their whips to keep you close together. We ate when the men let us—never enough, so our ribs began to show. We drank at the waterholes they led us to.
    Until one day we walked no more. Instead we were left to look for food, and drink at the narrow creek that trickled along one end of our new enclosure.
    The barriers were made of logs now, not the white stuff. The logs were so high I doubted even I could jump over them, and felt solid when I leant against them.
    I called out to the others of our mob to come to me…the ones who were left. It was good to have the smells of familiar companions about. We had walked with the other horses for many days, but they were still not really our mob.
    I led them down to drink, and stood guard to stop the strangers from nudging them away, and then I led them back to the