He grimaced with the sting, and continued walking steadily back towards the camp. He’d been up since the first blush of predawn light, circumnavigating the sheltered clearing where the clan rested following last night’s burial. His self-imposed sentry duty led him to within a mile of the Lycett farm and back again, each consecutive sweep disturbing a variety of creatures; from the lizards and mice scattering through the grass, through to emus running helter-skelter, heads down through the scrub. Although he doubted anyone would be tracking them so soon, Adam could not afford the possibility of the clan being attacked without warning. There were police in the village of Hartley to the east and Bathurst to the west and the constabularies were not averse to journeying through the night, with the aid of a black tracker. Archibald Lycett was dead. The loss of the man who’d figured so prominently in Adam’s life was something he’d been unprepared for and the circumstances still made him reel.
