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By Ron Bunney

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Martin dropped his hand from the shovel. Gerald nodded. ’ He grinned ruefully. ‘Must admit your tactic of heading this way threw me for a while. But I’m a good listener. A man with two girls in tow raises talk. Chased a few wrong guesses until I came across a teamster on a return trip from Southern Cross. He was busting with the right information. ’ ‘You tricked her. ’ ‘So you say. I smell opposition. ’ 87 The horse picked up Martin’s angry reaction and tensed its muscles. He breathed in deeply and relaxed his hand, slid it soothingly along Picky’s back.

One hit Gerald on his forearm while the other thudded into his chest. The revolver flew into the air as Gerald staggered back and hit the wheel of the cart. He slid slowly to the ground. Martin scooped up the revolver and pointed it at 88 Gerald. He needn’t have bothered. The man was slumped awkwardly against the spokes, holding his ribs with his uninjured hand. Martin swung around to sooth Picky. He hated himself for what he had done. He patted the horse and spoke softly. ’ A yell from Beth spun him back.

Beth, riding close beside her, observed that all she needed was a hat with which to conceal her hair. 83 ‘You can have mine,’ said Martin, and when her hair was pushed up under it, conceded that the disguise might work — from a distance. The late start had put them way behind. Although C C Hunt had located rock catchments and established wells at approximately fifteen-mile intervals, Martin was beginning to doubt they would reach the next one before nightfall. Particularly when there was always one of them on foot.

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