He stood, water dripping from his chin. ‘I’ve known this spring nearly all my life and it’s not run dry yet. The wrong pool will kill you quick as a brown snake but this water’s always good.’

Andrew knelt in his turn and drank. The water was cool and sweet. ‘How did ye find oot aboot it?’

‘One of the natives showed me when I was a kid. This was all their land once.’

‘Did they work it at all? Grow crops, anything like that?’

‘No, but they lived off it, same as we do. Don’t think it’s not important to them just because they don’t cultivate it.’

‘Important in what way?’

‘They believe spirits made all things, this hill for instance. For them, the land and the spirit are one and the same.’

‘We say God created the world. There’s nae difference.’

‘They don’t say the spirits created this hill. They say the spirits are this hill.’

‘Idolatry.’ Very fierce, Scots hackles stirring.

‘Why do we always think we’ve got a monopoly of the truth?’ Henderson wondered, as they walked back down the hill to the horses.

Employee or not, Andrew’s conscience made him speak up. ‘Because we do. Withoot the saving grace of our Lord Jesus Christ we canna be saved. Neither Christian nor heathen.’

Henderson said, ‘Perhaps we need to learn from them. The land’s not something you just use. It’s got to mean something to you. Any farmer worth anything knows that. If we don’t get our own spirits involved here, we’ll never come to terms with it.’

‘Nae doot that is why the Lord has brought us here. To bring them all to grace.’

‘While we help ourselves to the land.’

Andrew glanced sharply at him, suspecting irony, but Henderson’s face showed nothing.

They found the sheep as the shadows were lengthening towards evening.

The birds caught Henderson’s eye first. ‘Look there …’

Andrew looked up, startled at the fury in the squatter’s voice. A mile away, on the far side of a dried-up creek, dark wings cut swooping circles against the sky.

‘What are they?’

‘Kites. Come on.’

They put their horses into a canter.

The kites, large birds with black wings and forked tails, were swooping near the ground. Some had already settled and were tearing at what looked like the carcasses of several sheep.

‘Goddamnit it all to hell!’

Henderson leapt from his horse and ran, Andrew following. The birds scattered.

There were five sheep, all with bleeding bites on both flanks, eyes pecked out, entrails dragging. Two of them were not quite dead. Too exhausted to make a sound, they lay, necks extended, bodies quivering.

Henderson cursed again. He drew a long-bladed knife from the scabbard at his belt and, kneeling, cut their throats.

He stood, eyes hot and angry, and wiped his hands against the side of his pants.

‘What did it?’ Andrew asked.

‘Dingoes.’

Sheep grazed a short distance away, unconcerned by what had happened. There was no sign of other animals, no movement in all that vast country.

‘Happens from time to time. They get in a feeding frenzy and attack a mob of sheep. They cut out half a dozen or so and rip ’em up. Other times they leave ’em alone.’

‘What causes the difference?’

‘Who the hell knows.’ He turned away, brushing flies off his face.