Luke is not sure what part of his body hurts more. He raises his hand and touches the back of his head where it hit a knobbly tree trunk. His skull is sticky; blood and brown hair glaze his fingers. Struggling into a sitting position, he looks grimly at his shoulder. The spear has been pulled free of his flesh. Mungo has worked quickly, pouring liquid from his canvas waterbag to clean the wound, which is bleeding freely. Blood mixes with the brown tinge of creek water.

‘It’s not so bad,’ Mungo grins.

Luke flinches at the pain as he staggers to his feet. One of the blacks lies a few feet away. The other two have vanished into the trees.

‘They’ll be back,’ Mungo advises, gesturing with a quick nod of his head at the dead animal. ‘Come.’ Mungo helps him onto Joseph, leading him back towards the clearing.

‘They’re hungry,’ Luke says stiffly, breathing through the throbbing pain.

Mungo scratches his chin thoughtfully. ‘He’s a warrior. I’ve heard of him further north.’

‘He doesn’t stay with his people?’ Luke, now painfully aware of how fast a spear can fly, considers his team’s vulnerability.

‘Some of my people want to return to the old ways. They want their land back.’

The mountains hover above them. Luke shivers at the chill of the wind. In this land everything is about ownership.

At the camp the cook’s indistinguishable monologue deteriorates into a string of concerned abuse. Luke checks once on the herd before sitting by the fire. They are feeding out happily. ‘Once everything is watered and rested for an hour or so, we’ll walk them onwards. It’s another seven or eight miles to the next night camp, Mungo.’

Mungo looks at a grey tail of cloud snaking above, as if questioning Luke’s timing.

‘You’ll make it. Once the herd sniff the water at the Hanging Hole there’ll be no stopping them.’ Luke knows Mungo hates making camp at this spot where blackfellas and whites fought last century. When they camp there Mungo hears screams and yells, sees their shadowy forms in battle under the glow of the moon. The worst of Mungo’s doctoring is yet to come and Luke grimaces at the thought of their isolation. Although it is Mungo’s unstated role to converse with the dark peoples that roam the bush, Luke is aware of a feeling of responsibility towards his old friend. For that reason alone he is pleased to be the one injured.

Mungo flashes his teeth as he pulls Luke’s riding coat free of his shoulder and rips open his shirt. A small comb, such as those made for a woman’s hair, falls to the ground. Mungo picks it up with a bloody hand, his scraggly nails dark with congealed blood. ‘I tell you about my woman and you?’

Luke gave a pained, lopsided grin. ‘I dream.’

‘Then maybe you keep with you until the spirits answer.’ Mungo stuffs the comb inside Luke’s coat pocket and frowns as he directs his thoughts to his ministrations. There is a short bladed pocket-knife already positioned in the glowing embers of the fire. The cook, not much for talking now that his morning peace has been ruined by a bloody wounding, pulls a cork from a rum bottle and offers Luke a swig. His eyes watch Luke’s bobbing throat. He retrieves the bottle, then, licking his lips, thinks better of it and takes a long swig himself, his eyes white as Mungo lifts the knife from the fire.

Luke turns his head from the glowing blade and grits his teeth. He thinks of the money this sale of cattle will bring; of the supplies that will be purchased. Was a man’s death a fair exchange for the continuation of his father’s dream? Instead of answering his question Luke thinks of the excitement that would greet the mail when a bolt of fine dress silk or a length of cream-coloured lace arrived. She was the reason he always returned to Wangallon, and why he had become a drover, to get away again.

Mungo pours rum on the open wound and then presses the blade down harshly to cauterise the flesh. ‘You visit your girl in Wangallon Town,’ Mungo suggests as a diversion.

Luke growls; he has no girl. The stench of burning skin fills the air as Luke passes out amid a contorted grimace. The cook grunts in disgust and swills more rum. Mungo’s pink-tipped tongue flicks with concern as he prods at the red skin surrounding the wound. He looks up at the cook and grins, his teeth a flash of righteousness.