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together.’
    ‘It’s no trouble at all.’
    The binders he made to give to strangers were on thin strips of cowhide so that they could be worn. He took four from the drawer and handed one to each of them. Carla and Luis put theirs on immediately. Maria handed hers straight to her husband who placed them in his coat pocket.
    ‘Thank you, Mr Kerrigan. And now I think it’s time for us make a start. We have a lot of miles to cover.’
    ‘You’re not thinking of hiking now, are you?’
    ‘Of course. The day is almost over and we need to make progress.’
    ‘You won’t get far before dark. Take a look outside.’ They all turned and saw the hazy gloom pressing in at the windows. The electric light in the kitchen was warm and bright next to the bruised purple shades of the early dusk. ‘You ought to be pitching camp right now.’
    ‘We will see.’
    Mr. Jimenez stood and the family followed his lead. Kerrigan knew there was no point trying to dissuade them now. They’d soon wise up to the realities of Hobson’s Valley and Bear Mountain.
    ‘Come through this way,’ said Kerrigan.
    He led them out to the front entrance and held the door open for them. Parked out front was a white Land Cruiser. The damp scent of pine was everywhere and the crickets chirped, much louder now, from their hiding places. José Jimenez turned back and held out his hand.
    ‘Thank you again for your help. Completing this task will mean a great deal to my family.’
    ‘No sweat.’
    Kerrigan took his hand and held it, not wanting them to leave. Maria watched but didn’t speak.
    The children seemed excited and carefree. With their binders around their necks they looked like converts to a strange religion or child soldiers ready to crusade against the unbelievers. Kerrigan let go of José Jimenez’s hand and the family trotted to the car, eager to be on their way.
    The doors of the Land Cruiser slammed shut and the engine started easily. As it moved off up the track into the pines, only Carla looked back, waving a pale hand through the glass before the car disappeared from view.
    Kerrigan sat down in the rocker on the porch and listened to the engine being swallowed the deeper into the trees it went. A minute later and the sound was gone but still he listened for it, hoping to hear one last note or grumble wafted his way on a breeze. He didn’t rock in the chair. Instead, he touched his fingers to the binder that rested against his chest beneath the fabric of his shirt.
    Trees limited the view from his porch but the air was always sweet and that was why he liked to sit there. Now that the car was gone he could hear the forest sounds again and beyond that he could hear the Singing River smoothing the rocks in its currents.
    He didn’t stay out for long. The night’s arrival was swift and cunning, the thought of it enough to calcify his joints. He retreated inside before its blackness paralysed him.

Chapter 4
    The morning was dry and chilly.
    Kerrigan assessed the sky as he walked, a deep, cloudless blue. It would be warm once the sun rose high enough to shine into the valley. A mile beyond Randall’s store Kerrigan reached Hobson’s Valley’s main road, known simply as The Terrace.
    The wide street was well kept and clean. There were a few souvenir shops, a gas station, post office, hiking shop and small grocery market, all within a few yards of each other. Oak trees lined the sidewalk and beyond the small commercial area, there were houses, mostly wooden, many of them with two floors. Towards the edge of town were a few trailer homes and smaller properties. The road wound along beside the river for several miles before twisting up into the hills, away toward the flatter land on the other side and civilisation. Hobson’s Valley was a cul de sac and Kerrigan’s stone cabin marked the very end of it.
    In Olsen’s Grocery, there was a better selection of food than in Randall’s store. The trouble was that Kerrigan generally shopped in