‘We’ve got two fires,’ Ben said quietly to Jake.

  ‘Yeah, I heard,’ he replied, his expression grim. ‘I’ve sent another small group over to Wallaby Creek with two of the water bowsers, and am about to send a bigger one to Carey Downs. But it’ll take them a fair while to get there, and I just hope they’ve sent some help up from Charleville and Quilpie.’

  ‘They’ve promised they’re on the way – but we have to move quickly. Big Mac says it’s spreading fast, and if it gets to Wilga there’s nothing to stop it tearing right through Warratah Forest – and we won’t be able to do a damned thing about it.’ He looked around. ‘Where’s Django?’

  ‘Sitting by the two-way,’ shouted Jake over his shoulder as he ran back to organise the volunteers.

  Ben decided to get some first-hand knowledge of the fire, and looked around for Jim Rider. He found him by the stock pens, where his cattle were now milling about. ‘How bad is it out there, Jim?’

  ‘It’s a big bugger all right,’ he said laconically. ‘Came ripping through without warning, and we just about escaped with our lives. Last I saw of it, it was moving north – could reach here before morning if something ain’t done quick.’

  Ben felt a chill of foreboding and was about to turn away when the other man grasped his sleeve. ‘The young doc’s still out there – refused to leave the bloke he was treating.’

  Ben had heard the earlier call from Gilburn, and in the subsequent chaos had forgotten that Blackman’s Creek was several miles east of the station on the other side of the main road, and directly in the line of fire from Wallaby Creek. ‘How long ago was this? Was he alone?’

  Jim scratched his bristly chin. ‘About a couple of hours ago, and he was with three of Don Warrington’s men.’

  Ben thanked him and hurried to Jake’s house, where Django was filtering the chatter on the two-way and trying to keep the channel open for emergencies only. ‘Sorry, mate,’ Ben muttered. ‘I need to get through to Gilburn.’ He reached for the dials, effectively cutting everyone off.

  ‘Have your men come back from Blackman’s Creek?’ he asked Don’s wife without preamble.

  ‘Mike and our tracker came in about an hour ago, and Don’s sent them down with the others to help Big Mac. They said Paddy stayed with the young doctor and they were on their way back to the hospital. Haven’t they arrived yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said tersely, and disconnected the call. ‘Keep listening, Django, and keep in touch with me on the walkie-talkie. I’m going down to Wallaby Creek.’

  He raced outside and ran straight into a wild-eyed, frantic Sandra. ‘You’ve got to find Terence,’ she shouted above the noise as she grabbed his coat.

  ‘That’s where I’m going,’ he said as he tried to prise her clutching fingers from his sleeve.

  ‘Then I’m coming too.’

  ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘You have to stay here.’

  ‘You can’t stop me. I have to get to Terence. He could be—’

  ‘You will stay exactly where you are,’ he said, straining to keep his exasperation under control. ‘And if you want to help, then see to it these men have food and plenty of water to take with them.’

  Ben left her on the boardwalk and ran towards the fire truck, which had a huge bowser fitted with over ten thousand gallons of bore water in it. He stood on the running board and waited for Charley Sawyer to clamber on to the back by the ladder with his four helpers, and then looked over the gathering of vehicles that were waiting for the signal to move out.

  ‘Stay together and follow me,’ he shouted.

  As the convoy rumbled down the road and along the track which would lead them to the main road, Ben didn’t see Becky come racing out of the house, or hear her frantic cries.

  *

  Bert Davenport watched the chaos through bleary eyes as he finished the bottle of whisky and reached for another. He had no stomach for fighting fires. The bastards could all burn in hell as far as he was concerned. And if the fire took Morgan’s Creek – well, it served them bloody right.

  He turned from the filthy window, staggered across the room and swept the empty bottles and abandoned glasses off the bar. No one had been near him since Jake had closed the pub, and his anger was such that if Sal had been here, he would have killed her. But as she wasn’t, he took it out on the few sticks of furniture and the ornate heritage mirror behind the bar.

  He took the greatest pleasure in shattering that mirror, for it had been in Sal’s family for three generations, and his boots crunched satisfyingly over the broken glass as he staggered and swayed and viewed his handiwork with grim satisfaction. The bitch was welcome to the place. He’d had enough.

  He took a swig of whisky and shook his head in an attempt to settle his vision as he walked out of the back door and into the paved yard. The last of the crates of beer and cases of spirits were packed into the flatbed of the truck which he’d fuelled this morning. Leaving the back door swinging open, he climbed into the truck.

  By the time he’d finished the bottle of whisky it was almost dark – and although he would have preferred to sleep for a while, he knew it was wiser to get out of town while everyone was occupied. He started the truck and drove out of the yard. He didn’t look back.

  12

  Becky watched the convoy leave the settlement, her fears rising by the minute. The day was closing in – the fires were spreading – and still there was no sign of Danny. She should have taken notice of Sandra – should have kept a closer eye on her boy – no one had seen him since late morning.

  Fear and panic were growing sour in her throat and drumming in her heart as she ran down the street calling for him. She’d been up to the caves and back to the native camp to question Billy Blue more closely, but the boy had been adamant that the last they’d been together was at the caves, and that Danny had said he was going home to help his grandmother see to the animals.

  Becky had then gone to Gwyneth’s and to Emily’s – had even got through to Amy on the two-way in case he’d decided to bike his way over to Killigarth. But even though Amy had driven almost all the way to Morgan’s Reach in search of him, there had been no sign.

  Becky had then checked outhouses, sheds, barns, stables and backyards – had been out to the stock pens, to the blacksmith’s and had even plucked up her courage to look in the yard behind the pub. All to no avail. Danny had vanished.

  She was on her way back to the house when she saw her mother hurrying towards her. ‘Have you heard anything?’ she asked with frantic hope.

  Jane shook her head and wrapped an arm round Becky’s shoulders. ‘I think it’s time we got Jake to put out a call on the two-way.’

  ‘Oh, Mum,’ she said tremulously, ‘you don’t think …’

  ‘I’m not speculating on anything at this precise moment,’ replied Jane, who was drawn and pale with worry. She hooked her hand through Becky’s arm and they pushed their way through the knots of men and machinery that blocked the road to get to the police house.

  Django was manning the two-way, the black walkie-talkie placed closed by. ‘Jake’s alonga Carey Downs,’ he explained after they’d told him about Danny. ‘I alonga look for boy, but I alonga here till boss get back.’

  ‘I’ll look after the radio,’ said Becky quickly.

  ‘You’ll be needed at the hospital once the casualties come in,’ her mother reminded her softly. ‘And with your father and Terry out there … well, I won’t be able to cope on my own.’

  Becky was about to protest when Emily came bustling into the small room with the blacksmith’s mongrel on a lead. ‘I’ll take over,’ she said firmly. ‘People are finding it hard to understand what Django’s saying, and he’d be far more use as a tracker.’

  ‘Aw, fair go, Miss Emily. Alonga me good talk English.’

  ‘Just go,’ she said in the firm tone that her more unruly students knew well.

  Django recognised authority when he heard it, moved swiftly from his chair and grabbed his hat. ‘Must talk Billy Blue first,’ he muttered. ‘Dat boy know tings, for sure.’

  ‘But I’ve already spoken to him,’ Becky began.

  Django tapped the side of his nose. ‘He talk betta me. No worries, missus. Django find boy, alonga home.’

  *

  John Miller had seen the boy on the bicycle at around two in the afternoon and had watched him pass along the main road from his hiding place in the valley, deep within the shadows of a stand of trees. He’d wondered at the time what the kid had been doing so far from anywhere and why he seemed to be in such a hurry, but as it was none of his business he’d tipped the hat back over his face and settled down to sleep through the hottest part of the day.

  But, despite the weariness that sapped him of strength, sleep had eluded him, and after a restless hour he had given up on it. He’d sat there, his back pressed to the sturdy trunk of a paperbark, his legs drawn to his chest, his eyes closed beneath the broad brim of his hat. His conscience was troubling him.

  The boy had been much too young to be on his own so far from civilisation, and he’d done nothing to stop him. Perhaps he’d been in trouble – perhaps he was running away from something. Either way, if it had been his son, he would have wanted someone to look out for him.

  At the thought of his boy, who would be about the same age now, he’d taken a deep, trembling breath and drawn the tattered black-and-white photograph from his shirt pocket. He’d carried it through the rigours of training and into the jungle. It had been the only thing he’d managed to hide from his captors – the only tie to home – and a constant reminder of what he was fighting for and why he had to survive.

  He’d looked at it and gently run his finger over the faded faces of his wife and child smiling back at him from that long-ago frozen moment of time. His sweat and the humidity of the jungle had almost obliterated their features, the creases and ingrained dirt making it difficult to see the details. But he’d known that his wife had worn her best cotton dress that day, and that the pretty comb that held back her hair was pink – and that there was a sprinkling of freckles across his five-year-old son’s snub nose.

  He’d just tucked the photograph safely back in his pocket when he’d heard the unmistakable sound of a utility coming down the road. He’d sat very still, safe in the knowledge he was camouflaged in the dappled shadows beneath the trees.

  The utility was driven at speed, the single occupant intent upon the road ahead. There was a red cross painted on the side, and he’d wondered if there was an emergency of some sort further down the road – or if the man was looking for his son.

  He’d glanced at his watch. Over two hours had passed since he’d seen the boy, but at that speed, the man in the utility would be sure to catch up with him soon. Feeling rather happier about things, he’d slid further down the tree trunk and fallen asleep.

  *

  The shadows were more profound beneath the forest canopy, making it dark and rather forbidding, and Sal was all too aware of the time passing. Her throat was almost raw from calling out, and she’d returned to the utility and leaned on the horn for minutes at a time to try to get a response from him. But there had been nothing.

  She climbed behind the steering wheel and wondered frantically what to do. The forest stretched for hundreds of miles, and Max could be anywhere. To try to find him would be madness – the fire was obviously still raging – and soon she could become trapped here. Yet she couldn’t abandon him.

  ‘Oh, Max,’ she whispered through her tears, ‘where are you?’

  The sharp bark brought her swiftly out of her misery and she opened the truck door to find Brandy running back and forth in what was clearly some agitation. ‘What is it?’ she asked as she climbed down and stroked his head.

  Brandy barked and ran away from her. Barked again and ran back to whine and fidget and nudge her hand with his nose.

  Sal realised then that Max must be in trouble, and that the dog had heard her calling and come to her for help. She yanked on the spare boots she’d slung on the floor and grabbed the two water-bags and the powerful torch.

  The dog whined and yipped and ran in circles as she scrambled to find the first-aid box in the mess on the back shelf and then slammed the door. ‘Good boy, Brandy,’ she murmured. ‘Take me to Max.’

  He rushed off and Sal tried to follow as quickly as she could over the rough ground and entangled tree roots and vines. The bright beam from the torch lit up the forest which should have been silent at this time of evening, but was alive with bird calls and the rustle and crash of fleeing animals. The fire had to be getting closer, for now she could smell the smoke.

  She reckoned she’d been fighting her way through the bush for over an hour when Brandy came back, waited for her to catch up and was off again. ‘Wait,’ she shouted. ‘Brandy, come back here.’

  ‘Sal? Sal, what the hell are you doing here?’

  Her heart thudded with relief, but his voice had sounded weak. ‘Looking for you,’ she shouted back. ‘Where are you?’

  As he kept calling to her, she followed the sound of his voice and pushed her way through the hampering branches, ferns and lantana that seemed determined to keep her from him.

  As the torchlight revealed the two tethered ponies, Brandy appeared suddenly and barked once before disappearing down what looked like a sharp slope.

  ‘I’m coming, Max,’ she called as she shone the beam down and found that he was sitting awkwardly on the stony riverbed, his belongings scattered about him, his face covered in blood.

  She slithered down the steep incline and, in her haste, almost went tumbling before she managed to break her fall by grabbing hold of a tree root. She found a foothold and carefully eased the rest of the way down, all too aware that it would do no one any good if she injured herself as well.

  ‘I told you to go home,’ he scolded.

  ‘Well, it’s a good thing I don’t listen, then, isn’t it?’ she retorted as she handed him one of the water-bags and used her handkerchief to wipe away the blood so she could see where it was coming from.

  She wanted to cry with relief, to hold him close and tell him how much she loved him – but there was little time to be emotional if they were to get out before the fire came through – so all she said was, ‘You’ve got a nasty cut there, and a bump the size of an egg on the back of your head – but you’ll live.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing wandering about out here anyway?’ he asked as she put a pad of gauze over the wound and bound it with a length of bandage.

  ‘Looking for you, to warn you about the damned fire,’ she retorted. ‘I’ve been calling and calling for hours. Why didn’t you answer me?’

  ‘It was Brandy that heard you. I must have been knocked out when I fell.’ He tried to move and couldn’t disguise the flinch of pain. ‘Could you look at my leg?’ he asked. ‘I think it might be broken.’

  Sally’s hands were shaking as she shone the torch on it. ‘I really can’t tell,’ she replied. ‘But it’s swollen, so best to splint it before I get you out of here.’

  ‘Don’t fuss,’ he said impatiently. ‘Just give me your hand and I’ll get out of here on my own.’

  ‘If you’re so clever, then why haven’t you done it already?’ she snapped back at him, her relief that she’d found him after the fear making her sharp.

  She looked around, gathered up the large satchel which had spilled out sketchbooks, pencils and charcoal, rammed everything back in and picked up his walking stick.

  Max slung the satchel over his shoulder and, grasping her arm, leaned heavily on his walking stick as he struggled to stand. His expression was grimly determined, but it was clear from the hiss of his breath and the way the colour drained from his face that he was in a lot of pain.

  ‘You won’t be able to climb up there,’ she said as she eyed the slope. ‘Is there somewhere that’s not so steep?’

  He shook his head. ‘I tried coaxing the ponies down, but they didn’t like the look of it either. You’d better leave me here to sort myself out, Sal. I can smell the fire now.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere without you,’ she insisted as she grabbed a tree root and began to scramble back up the slope.

  The two mares had been hobbled and couldn’t run away, but they shied, stamped and shook their heads, making it difficult for her to grab hold of them. Selecting the sturdier of the two, Sal wound her fingers in her mane, unfastened the rope tied round her front legs and used it as a makeshift halter.

  As the mare danced on her toes and flattened her ears Sal kept tight hold of her mane as she stood on a fallen tree branch and swung up on to her back.

  ‘Good girl,’ she crooned as she tried to calm the mare’s fears and coax her down the slope.

  ‘Come on, Betsy,’ said Max softly from the riverbed. ‘There’s a good, brave girl. Don’t be afraid.’

  At the sound of their voices the mare seemed to find courage and she tenuously made her slithering, halting way down the slope – and soon they had reached the bottom. Sal had no rewards for her but a pat on the neck.

  She turned to Max, who was lovingly stroking the mare’s forehead. ‘You can do all that when we’ve got out of here,’ she said briskly. She cupped her hands. ‘Put your good foot in there and I’ll give you a leg-up.’

  Max meekly did as he was told and smiled wanly down at her from the mare’s back. ‘I never realised before just how bossy you are,’ he said.

  ‘You ain’t seen nothing yet,’ she muttered. She looked up the slope at the other pony, who was watching them and whickering with concern. ‘I’m going up for Molly. Then we can ride along the riverbed until we find a way out of here.’ Without waiting for his reply, she once again clambered up the slope.

  Molly was quite happy to have the hobble removed and to be coaxed down the hill. She snorted with pleasure as she rubbed noses with Betsy and they both stood calmly to see what would happen next.