"I tell you what," continued the boy; "we'll get off home as soon as you

feel fit. It's no use waiting for Joe. He can easily catch us. You'll

have to go slow, old man, you know."

This was true, for Tom's shoulder was in an agony of ache, which the

movement of the horse, after they had mounted, intensified to an almost

unbearable degree.

It was long after dark ere the pair sighted the homestead lights. They

had not been overtaken by Joe, much to their surprise. They were met at

the slip-rails by Harry and Jacky, who had just been dispatched to look

for them, as the family were getting uneasy at their prolonged absence.

The men returned with the lads to the house. Beyond a severe word to

Sandy for being tempted to pursue the impossible when on the homeward

track, the squatter justified their act of returning from the camp; also

in not waiting for Joe.

"I expect the rascal will turn up in a few minutes. His horse would

soon be knocked up in that country, and he would therefore be unable to

catch you after he abandoned the dingo. The cheek of you boys, to think

you could run it down in that country!"

The minutes sped without sight or sound of the huntsman. Anxiety

deepened in the women; the men, too, became uneasy.

"Some one ought to go after the lad," broke in the perturbed mother, at

length. "The poor laddie must have met trouble. His horse has knocked

up. Perhaps he has lost himself. Perhaps he----!"

"Perhaps nothing of the kind has happened, except that the horse may

have knocked up. You women will always jump to the worst conclusions.

Willy, you and I'll ride back a bit; come you too Sandy, if you're not

too tired."

Mr. M'Intyre feared more than he showed. It would be easy enough after

all, he reflected, for a boy who was ignorant of the lay of the country

and who had no experience in bush travelling, to lose his way. He

determined, therefore, to take his son with him, so that he might lead

them to the spot where the accident occurred, if it were necessary.

Accordingly the three set off on the track. Fortunately it was

moonlight and clear, so that they were able to make good headway through

the bush.

It is time, however, to return to Joe. That ardent hunter had followed

the chase for some distance ere he missed his pals. What with the

severity of the pace and the increasing roughness of the course, its

twistings and turnings, all his attention was focussed on the quarry. If

he did think at all of his companions, it was to picture them following

close behind. But in the heat of the chase he had little thought for

others. When it did dawn upon him that he had outdistanced his

companions, as happened eventually, he attributed little importance to

that. They, no doubt, had good reason for slackening their pace. His

horse, as he well knew, had a dash of speed denied to theirs. Maybe

their steeds had caved in. Anyhow, he was having a glorious time, and

"the finish" was touched with roseate hues to his imagination.

His horse was justifying the reputation given of him to Joe by Harry,

the stockman, one day when they were discussing the relative merits of

their mounts.

"For a hack," that worthy had remarked, "there's nothing on the run

equal to the little thing you're ridin'. With a light weight up like

yourself she can show a dash of foot an' staying powers that'll take a

tremendous lot of lickin'."

This was a just criticism, as events were proving. Still, the pace was

beginning to tell, and Joe was forced to ease the mare somewhat, even at

the risk of losing sight of the quarry. The rough ridges, too, made the

going to be precarious.

Things were as bad with Master Dingo, however. The pursuit was hot

enough to extend him to the fullest. He was always in view, and could

not shake off the foe. As long as he remained in sight it was

impossible to resort to any trick by which he might gain time or wind.

The ordinary pace of the dingo when on the chase may be described as a

lope. This can be kept up the live-long day, and thus wear down the

fleetest victim. To keep extended at full gallop in this unwonted

fashion is not at all to the dingo's liking, and the sooner he can reach

the distant scrub, which is his objective, the better pleased he will

be. The cattle dog, though not ordinarily a hunter, is strong and

tough, and possessed of a good pair of bellows. He started the game

with the utmost alacrity, and now continues it with the greatest vim and

determination.

So the chase continues, and is now but little more than a mile from the

scrub belt which fringes the base of the hills. To this ark of safety,

therefore, the dingo strains every muscle, and seizes every small

advantage which his instinct discerns. No less strenuous is the cattle

dog. He has the staying powers of his class, and he too runs to win. In

this way the pursued and pursuers hurry-skurry over bush and brake, over

stony ridges and across intersecting gullies.

Within half a mile of the scrub the country flattens out, and this gives

an advantage to the cattle dog, who closes up. Joe's horse is now in

distress. The course has been long and rough, the pace severe, and the

grass-fed steed is weakening, can make no headway, is indeed losing in

the race. The lad sees this, and chevies the dog on, for he can plainly

mark now that unless the chase be ended on this side of the scrub all

hope must be abandoned, Oh, to win! A supremely glorious thing were he

to achieve the impossible! There are chances. Lots of things might

happen yet. On, on, good doggie! Catch him, Brindle! Hurrah, Brindle

is closing; is surely creeping up!

They are now about three hundred yards from the timber belt, and the

dingo is slowly but surely being overhauled. Visions of the scalp as a

proud trophy fill the boy's imagination. If only Brindle may seize his

victim and hold him till he rides up and gives the brute its quietus

with the stirrup iron! Brindle is now not more than four lengths

behind, and the beasts are still a hundred yards from the scrub.

"On then, doggie: catch him: hold him!" shouts Joe across the widely

intervening distance. The voice is borne faintly to the dog's ears, and

nerves him to heroic effort in this the final stage of the struggle, the

last lap, so to speak. Breath is too precious to be wasted in answering

cry, but the spurt of the hound speaks volumes: "I shall catch him,

master, never fear: I am gaining; but ''twill be on the post."

Both dogs, wild and domestic, are stretched to their fullest extent. It

is the crowning burst. They are labouring heavily, staggering, and

rolling in their stride. The pace is slow but hard. It is a question of

endurance. Every ounce of strength in each body is laid under

contribution. Once within the scrub the chances in favour of the dingo

will immediately increase a hundredfold, for in doubling and dodging

through the densely timbered belts the native dog has no equal.

Only thirty yards now lie between the dingo and his salvation--the good

thick scrub that will swallow him up; but--the breath of the pursuer

blows hot upon him. Throwing his head over his shoulder for the fraction

of a second, the desperate beast sees that only by a miracle can he

escape. The adversary is upon his quarters, and in another second the

brute's fangs will be buried in his back. It is a supreme moment. Now

or never! Making a super-canine effort, the fear-stricken thing draws

away from its enemy in the last dozen strides. Saved, saved! Alas,

alas! Right at the very fringe, and within a single step of safety, he

tumbles in a heap, and with a convulsive gasp rolls over and gives up

the ghost: the prolonged exertions have broken his heart.

You can work your will on the hunted one now, Brindle: no need to fear

the vicious snap that was reserved for you should the worst happen. But

the dog's instincts inform him that all power of resistance has gone

from that mute and still form; indeed, he has no strength to worry

should the call be made: the last spurt has left him without a vestige

of strength. And so, when Joe appeared upon the scene a few minutes

later, it was to behold the motionless dingo, and by his side, with

lolling tongue and cavernous mouth, the panting and exhausted Brindle.

In a moment the boy has slid from his horse, and is dancing a grotesque

fandango, expressive of his unbounded joy. But, when in a calmer moment

he understood the tragedy of it from the dingo's side of things, a

feeling of compassion possessed him, yet joy persisted. "He's a noble

fellow, and has given me the grandest sport I've ever had. I'm sorry,

and yet I'm glad," quoth the lad. "What'll old Nosey say to this! My

stars, ain't the boys out of it! Wonder where the poor beggars have got

to. Hope nothing's happened to them. Poor beast!" apostrophising the

dingo, "you made a royal struggle and deserved to escape, but the fates

were against you. And you, good old Brindle; my word, you've covered

yourself with glory, sir! Poor fellow, you are done up; can only blink

your pleasure; can't wag even the tip of your tail. Good doggie, I'm

proud of you!"

"I'm blest if I don't skin the dingo," exclaimed he, after a moment's

pause. "I'll keep it as a trophy. Something to look at in after years

when I'm a grey-beard," chuckled the youth. So saying, he whipped out

his knife. Joe had never before skinned a dingo, but as he had

performed that office on many a wallaby and 'possum he was fairly

expert, and in a few minutes had achieved his object. Rolling the pelt

in the approved manner, the youth bound it with a stout piece of cord

which he extracted from his pocket, and fastened it to the saddle ring.

"Next thing's to get some water. My word! I'm as dry as leather, an'

could drink a tank dry. The animals, too, are clean done up, an' I'll

get nothing out of them unless they have water. Good gracious! why--the

sun's down, an' it'll soon be dark."

Not until this moment did the young hunter realise his position. "Must

be miles and miles off the track," muttered he as he took a brief survey

of his surroundings. "I'll have to make tracks with a vengeance! Won't

do to be nipped here. Let's see; yes, the way back is across that flat

for a certainty, and then over yon stony ridge. Beyond that we bend to

the right till we reach a rocky creek." In this way the hunter strove

to recall the innumerable bends and curves taken in the chase. "Ah,

here's the moon rising: good old moon!"

Joe had plenty of heart, nerve, and resource. His good spirits were

proverbial. Yet the situation was not at all inviting. Fourteen miles

or so from home on the eve of night. A complete stranger to this rough

and trackless region, and his horse badly used up! These were things

calculated to try the nerves and tax the courage of the benighted youth.

He made small bones of these, however, and started off at a slow pace on

his return. The dog had recovered sufficiently to drag himself along at

the horse's heels. The boy eagerly scanned the country for signs of

water for this would afford the greatest relief to man and beasts: all

of whom felt an intolerable thirst. At last they dropped across a small

pool in a stony creek, to their great delight.

Both horse and dog drank as if they would never stop. This, the boy

felt, would be bad for the animals, and he sought to stay them. He with

difficulty checked the horse, but the dog would not quit lapping until

he was as tight as the proverbial drum. Joe himself drank sparingly,

and then moved onward. The dog soon began to vomit, and appeared to be

on the verge of collapse. So after vain waiting and entreaty the lad was

forced to leave it behind, in the hope that it would recover during the

night, when he had small doubt as to its ability to find its way home.

The horse went easier, now that she had assuaged her thirst. All light

had vanished save that of the moon, which shed an uncertain light,

making puzzling shadows on the rough ground.

"It's time I was at the head of the long gully," muttered the lad.

"From there it's only a mile or so to the home track. Get up Jill, and

moosey along. The other chaps are home by this time I expect, and

they're wondering what's become of me."

Strange to say, the long gully refused to appear, until it dawned on Joe

at last that he was off the track. None but those who have experienced

it can understand the weird feeling that possesses one in the dawn of

that consciousness. To be in the lonely Australian bush, where the

silence is an oppression, is something like being cast adrift in

mid-ocean on a raft, with nothing in sight save the wild waste of

waters.

That he had lost his bearings became increasingly evident to the

wanderer as he moved along. He became a prey to disquieting qualms and

the creeping chill of apprehension. Gruesome accounts of the fate of

lost travellers had often been related at the home fireside, and these

memories awoke in his mind.

"I'm off the track all right; still, I'm sure to cut across the

Razorback trail; it'll lie over in that direction." After a pause he

determined to adhere to the way that he had been pursuing for some

little while. On then "breast forward." There is no semblance of a

track, and presently the lad gets into very difficult country. It would

be bad enough to travel through in daylight, but now the trouble is

accentuated; yet the boy, with strong faith in his ultimate emergence

from this chaos, bravely faces the situation. Up hill, down dale,

across gullies, forcing the patches of scrub, slithering down ridges,

going on hands and knees, ever and anon, to feel for the hoof-prints on

what appeared to be the longed-for track--an unceasing march goes on.

At last the mare, completely done up, comes to grief over a tree root,

and tumbles to mother earth. The rider rises, unhurt; not so the mare,

who has strained her fetlock. What is to be done now? It is a serious

mischance, and the boy feels the gravity of the situation. The only

thing to be done is to relieve his steed of saddle and bridle, cache his

accoutrements, and trudge along on foot.

"Might have been worse," sighed the philosophic lad. "Poor Jill! I

don't like leaving you; but it won't be for long, my beauty. Your

master will send some one to look after you to-morrow. To-morrow!--Why,

it must be past midnight now! Good-bye, Jill."

On speeds the gallant youth, whistling and singing snatches as he tramps

the interminable bush. "Might be worse," he reiterates in thought.

There's a chill in the midnight air, and the walk will warm him nicely.

On, then, through the still hours! Not even the hollow note of the

night-owl or the familiar thump made by the feeding marsupial breaks the

monotony of silence. No sound, indeed, save the crunching of the

traveller's boots on the rough ground. How long drawn out the day has

been. It seems an eternity since he dowsed Tom and Sandy on the bedroom

floor. Lucky beggars, they are snug and sound under the blankets,

dreaming the happy dreams of youth; while he, Joe Blain, is tramp,

tramp, tramping. At length the thought of his comrades' sweet repose

fills him with longing for rest and sleep.

"How long ago it is since I broke my fast? Must be eight, ten, twelve

hours; yes, twelve mortal hours! Eat! Oh, for a slice of damper and

salt junk! That were a feed if you like. Puddings, tarts, cakes! Bah!

Gimme a slice (thick) of Nosey's damper, an' a slab of that corn-beef."

What a sinking seems to fill his being! How heavy his boots have grown!

How steep those everlasting ridges have become! How lovely to crouch

down on that patch of bracken--for five minutes only! He must stop and

rest awhile; not to lie and sleep: just to get his wind and ease his

tired limbs. Shall he----? But no! he must first cut the track--then!

His limbs are trembling; he must not stand still, or he will fall. On,

on--to the station track! Onward, then, creeps the tottering, stumbling

lad. Whistle and song have long ceased. Fatigue reigns supreme, and

sheer weariness confuses his brain, and bears heavily on will.

Mechanically now, the dear lad staggers over the pathless waste.

But see! Yes, there is a change. What is that line ahead? Is it on

the ground or in the air? It rises and falls in the moonlight, but

still persists. The ground, too, is getting smoother. The ridges have

disappeared. Hurrah! Is not this the end? A few steps more now,

and--the station track!

On trudges the lost boy with rising hope. But, alas! the line thickens,

darkens, deepens, until it stands out solid, an impregnable scrub. How

weird it all is; how awful! In a moment the benighted lad is stripped

of hope. He is frightened beyond words. With a momentary strength born

of despair the wretched youth coasts the dismal scrub, seeking an

opening in vain. Suddenly he stumbles over a soft, dark mass, and falls

to the ground. Putting out a hand instinctively, he touches the

substance. Great Caesar, it is the dingo! Yes, it has happened to poor

Joe Blain as it has to many a one more experienced in the ways of the

bush--he has circled!

This shock is the last blow. Nature is drained of her resources and can

hold out no longer. The lad sinks back into a half-swoon, which

presently merges into a dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

"Joe, old fellow, wake up! Wake up, I say; Joe--Joe--d'ye hear?"

"W-w-w-what is it? Drat you, lemme lone. 'Snot mornin'. There's

goo-good fler, so s-s-sleep----"

Joe Blain, eyes sealed, dead with sleep, rolls over on the ground, and

never was any creature more gently rocked in the arms of Morpheus than

he.

Another voice now breaks the silence, sharp and penetrating.

"Hi! hi! there, you sleepy lubber. Are ye going to lie there all day?

Rouse up, laddie!"

This imperative speech was accompanied by vigorous shakings and

rollings.

"Well, well," grunted the half-awakened boy, "sounds like Mr. M'Intyre's

voice. Never knew him to come into the room be-before. Wish they'd

leave us alone. Can't open"--and the next moment Joe had relapsed into

sleep. Only for a moment, though. The next he was taken neck and crop,

lifted to his feet, and shaken violently, what time a voice rasped his

ear drum: "Wake up, wake up, ye young Rip Van Winkle!"

Opening his eyes, the dazed Joe starts at the unwonted scene. He is not

in his bedroom, then! What on earth has happened? Who are these that

surround him? Why--he's in the bush! And then the truth dawns upon the

weary and weakened lad; he was really lost, and--thank God he is found!

He greets the squatter with a wan smile, and, with the grace

characteristic of the boy, begins to thank him. But Mr. M'Intyre,

patting him affectionately on the back while supporting him with his

arm, extracts the cork of a pocket flask with his teeth, and puts it to

the lad's mouth.

"Tak' a pu' at this, ma laddie; it'll revive ye wonderfu'."

The brandy worked wonders on the boy, so unaccustomed to it.

"We--we ran the dingo down, sir--Jill and Brin--why, here's ole Brindle!

Left him at the water-hole; too sick to follow. The horse too----"

"Horse's all right, Joe. We picked her up at the water-hole, where

we'll leave her for a few days, as she's limping badly. Can you sit on

the saddle before me?" Joe is sure he can, and no time is lost in

starting homewards. M'Intyre, to whom the country was an open book,

knew a short cut that would take them home in ten miles.

During the ride Joe recited his experiences to the squatter, who in

return related how Willie had picked up the tracks, sighting first the

horse and then the dog, and followed the trail till they came upon the

sleeping lad.

It was a weary but not unhappy boy who reached the homestead at length.

The household, duly apprised by Willy, who had ridden on ahead, were in

readiness to cheer the conquering hero.

*CHAPTER XIX*

*CONCERNING WILD HORSES*

"Now welcome, welcome, master mine,

Thrice welcome to the noble chase:

Nor earthly sport, nor sport divine,

Can take such honourable place."

_Ballad of the Wild Huntsmen._

"Where's Floss and Jeannie, Harry? Don't see 'em in the yard this

morning."

"No, sir, they didn't come in with the others."

"Hoo's that, mon?"

"I harsk'd Jacky about 'em when he yarded the others, an' he said they

wasn't with the rest. Too lazy, I bet, to look after 'em."

"But I dinna see Tallboy or Dolly, eyther," said the squatter as he

peered through the rails at the horses.

"I speck they're with the mares down by the dam, or p'raps campin' on

the box ridge."

"Weel, see that they're no missed the morn. Here you, Jacky," to the

black boy; "come along here."

"What's matter, Boss?"

"What for you bin no yard all yarraman?"[#]

[#] Yarraman--native name for horse.

"Bail me see some, Boss."

"You bin getting lazy. I'll hae to gie you a taste o' the stock whip."

"Me no 'fraid you, Boss," replied the black with a grin. "You not like

my ole boss, Cap'n White. Him murry quick with whip. Sandy bin tellin'

me you only gammon."

"See that you drive in every hoof to-morrow morning, or, Sandy or no

Sandy, ye'll get a surprise, my boy."

"I cam across some brumby tracks yesterday aifternoon in the springers'

paddock," continued the squatter to Harry, the head stockman. "Meant to

hae spoken aboot it afore."

"They're a rare nuisance, they brutes! There maun be a gap in the

dog-leg fence at the far side for 'em to ha'e got in. You'd better tak'

Jacky and Denny at once, and mak' the fence secure. That pack o'

rubbage'll be doing a lot o' mischief among the springers wi' their

galloping. Ye'd better go across by the horse-paddock, an' see if ye

can get a sicht o' the mares. It's almost as near as the other track."

"All right, Boss. Jacky, you go to Ah Fat an' tell 'im to put up some

grub. Git the billy an' tots, an' bring 'em along. Tell Denny I want

'im. He's working in the garden."

"Oh, I say," bawling after the retreating boy; "tell Denny to git the

small cross-cut, an' a couple o' tommies, an' a bit o' wire to do the

mendin' with. Slither away, now, ye son of a black buck!"

In a few minutes the men are on their way through the horse-paddock to

the slip-rails in the far corner, to carry on the repairing work in the

springers' enclosure.

It may be explained to the uninitiated that the horse-paddock is that

nearest the homestead, where the station horses in use are kept; a

larger or smaller mob according to requirements. These are yarded at

daylight every morning. When the horses required for the day's work are

selected the balance are turned loose for the day. The springers'

paddock, reserved for the breeding cows, was a large one; one of the

best on the run, in fact. The men as they rode along kept a sharp

look-out for the missing steeds. Separating as they neared the

dam--which was a large sheet of water backing up in the gullies for a

mile or so--they rode on either side, coming together at the box-tree

ridge where the slip-rails were located. No sign of the horses!

"Strange, chaps! Wonder where they can be. Floss an' Dolly are fair

terrors for hidin'. But--hello! there's the slip-rails down!"

Sure enough, the two topmost rails were down. Who could have done it?

The mystery is soon solved; the ground on the outside being trampled

with horse hoofs. It told its tale of cause and effect quickly enough

to these bushmen.

"The blessed brumbies hev got in an' coaxed 'em out, sure enough. It's

the warrigal's[#] mob for a quid. Fifty of 'em, if there's a hoof.

[#] Warrigal--wild, savage; applied indifferently by the natives to

animals and men.

"How d'yer think they horses got the rails down, Harry?"

The speaker was Denny Kineavy, who was a new chum at this kind of work.

"Why, it's the ole warrigal's work o' course. Trust 'im fur findin' out

a way o' gettin' up a flirt with the ladies. He's the cutest cuss in

Australia, bar none. Full o' blood he is too. New Warrior strain outer

a great arab mare of Kurnel Dumaresque. I know 'im well, fur I was with

Captain White just after he'd bought both dam an' foal from the ole

Kurnel; or rather, I should say, Dumaresque swopped 'em fur a stud

Hereford 'e was terribly struck on.

"Yes; he was allus a wild un. My word, you should 'a' seen 'im as a

yearling! Allus leadin' the other youngsters into mischief; breakin'

into the lucem paddocks, an' chasin' the dorgs till they was in mortial

terror of 'im; gettin' mad fits among the horses; kickin' an' squealin'

an' chiveyin' em', till one day the Captain gits in a towerin' rage an'

says to me an' one-eyed Bob, who was workin' fur 'im then: 'Run in that

dad-busted, bloomin' brute an' fix 'im; it's the only way ter take the

divvil outer 'im.'

"You see, 'e was a grand, upstandin' beast as a colt, an' the Captain

wunst thought to have 'im fur stud purposes, fur all 'e was a mix breed;

but 'e soon seed that was outer the question.

"Well, as I was sayin', the Captain orders me an' one-eyed Bob to yard

'im. 'Twarn't no easy job nuther, I tell you; for the brute soon

cottoned what we was up to. At larst, after a lot of trouble, we yards

'im, and with 'im a couple o' colts an' a lot er fillies. Bob threw the

lasso a dozen times afore 'e noosed 'im, cause 'e kept dodgin' in an'

out among the fillies. It was the deuce's own job to separate 'em.

"At larst, I say, Bob fixed 'im, an' didn't 'e perform. Howe'er, Bob

'olds 'im, an' I gits 'old of the slack to give a turn round the post,

so's ter bring 'im up. But all of a suddent 'e makes a mad rush at Bob,

sendin' 'im sprawlin' with three ribs broke; whisks the rope outer my

hands, an' streaked fur the slip-rails--six on 'em there wor--an' by

'evans! jumps like a cat at 'em; comin' down with 'is belly on top,

smashin' the rail, but fallin' on the outside; never, of course,

breakin' 'is bloomin' neck--an' galloped orf like mad.

"Must 'a' bin red mad sure enuff, fur 'e broke through the wire fence

the Cap had round 'is 'orse-paddock; and that's the larst we seen of 'im

fur months.

"Then one day I was on the out station, lookin' after some steers, when

I come acrost 'im in a mob of brumbies he'd chummed up with. 'E was

'aving a pretty rough time of it, I could see; fur there was a couple o'

stallions in the mob as wasn't agreeable fur 'is company in the 'arem;

an that's 'ow we come ter git 'im a few years after, I 'spect."

"Thin you did git hould iv th' grey divvil?" exclaimed Denny.

"Yes; we got 'im all right. But, look here, chaps, no time's to be

lost. These beggars may be still in the paddock. If not, they've got

out the way they came in, an' are 'eadin' fur the ranges. We'll cut

across to the north end where the fence crosses Rocky Crick. I 'spect

that's where they've broken in. It looked a bit shaky a fortni't ago,

as I come by. I don't think they've got in at the dog-leg end, that the

Boss spoke about. Anyhow, we'll try the Crick fust."

A sharp ride of about four miles brought the men to the spot indicated

by Harry. It was a rocky bit of country, and sure enough they found the

"shaky" post and rails lying on the ground. The immediate cause of this

was a big limb of a dry stringy-bark tree, which had fallen upon the

weak spot and smashed it down. The horse tracks about the spot showed

conclusively that the mob had gone in and out by this means.

According to Jacky, the black boy, the inward tracks were about three

days old; the outward, a few hours. Without doubt, the brumbies had

"nosed" the rails to which the mares had been attracted by their

neighings, early in the night. Then in the dawning of the morning they

had moved out to one of their haunts in the ranges.

"The only thing now is to get back an' tell the Boss. 'E'll be mad when

he knows, you bet; thinks no end o' Floss an' Jeannie. Put up the

rails, boys, quick an' lively." In a few minutes the men had fixed up

the broken panels securely, and then rode homewards.

"Saay, Harry, me bhoy, how'd yees yard th' ould stag, as ye was sayin'

when ye was talkin' forninst th' slip-raales?

"Wasn't an old stag then, an' isn't now, fur that matter, the brute's in

'is prime yet. Let's see, 'e's risin' 'leven now, an' we got 'im just

afore I left the Captain fur the Boss here. Lemme think. Yes, it's

just over five year ago; he'd be about six, then. Fur all his tricks,

the two stallions had driven 'im off their beat. 'E'd got a couple o'

mares, though, an' kep' 'em in the range country on the out-station; but

it was all of an accident that we got 'im.

"One day me an' the Captain was ridin' through the run, havin' a good

look at the stock; fur we had a notion of cuttin' out a mob o' fats.

Well, as I was sayin', we was ridin' along the back part of the run, an'

we came acrost a couple o' brumbies, each with a foal. 'Stead o'

scootin', as they does in giniral, the mares galloped in a circle, but

didn't clear.

"'It's mighty strange,' ses the Captain. 'What are they 'angin' about

fur, an' where's their mate? Never seed 'em parted afore.' 'It is

strange,' ses I; 'an' there's only one thing to account fur it, an' that

is the cove's about sumwheres 'andy.'

"We moved on to a rocky gully that opens out on to a big plain. At one

place a log fence runs acrost to keep the stock in. Bymby we comes

plump onter it, an', great gosh alive! if there weren't the grey. 'E

seed us as soon as we spotted 'im, an' set up a great squealin' an'

pawin', but cuddn't get away. There 'e was, like a bandicoot in a

V-trap. 'E was caught by the off hind-leg, between two big logs that

lay clost together. 'E was jammed tight enough. Wunder was 'e didn't

break a leg.

"When the Cap saw the fix 'e was in, didn't 'e just cuss fur joy. Then

'e sends me back to the hut, about two mile away, fur ropes, an' ole

Jack the keeper. Well, I streaked fur the hut, you bet, an' was there

less'n no time. Soon me an' Jack, with two green 'ide lassoes an' an

'emp one, also a axe, was on the spot.

"When the 'orse sees the ropes 'e yelled, an' roared, an' pawed, an'

snapped 'is teeth, fur all the world like a trapt dingo. An', wud you

believe it? _the blarmy mares hadn't follered us up_! There they was

just ahind us, whinneying and screamin'; their way o' swearing an'

cussin' I s'pose. Wish-I-may-die if we didn't have to put the stock

whip on 'em to roust 'em away.

"'How are yer goin' ter manage 'im,' ses I to the Cap when I comes up

with the things.

"'I'll soon let yer see,' ses 'e. 'Fust of all we'll pass a rope round

'is free 'ind-leg well up on to the shank. Then we'll put another on the

front fetlock an' acrost 'is flanks.'

"Well, it took us a goodish bit to fix 'im up. I forgot ter say that we

tied the third rope round 'is neck, an' that was no easy job, fur every

time the Cap threw the lasso he'd dodge it with 'is 'ed like a fightin'

kangaroo. But, ter make a long story short, when we'd roped 'im, we

levered one of the logs with saplin's so's ter git 'is other leg free.

Then, didn't 'e play up! But by the time we'd given 'im arf a dozen

falls, an' two o' them riglar croppers, 'e seed it was no use, throws up

the sponge, an' comes along quietly.

"We didn't give 'im any charnse, you bet, as 'e was such a sly demon.

So we got 'im ter the stockyard at the 'ead station, a matter o'

thirteen mile or so. We put 'im in the crush fust, then got a 'evvy

'alter on 'im, an' tied it to 'is front off leg so's 'e cuddent jump; in

that way we fixed 'im fur the night.

"Early nex' morning, just as I was thinkin' o' gittin' up, there comes a

tremenjious 'ammerin' an' bangin' at the door, shoutin' out sumthin' I

cuddent understand. I jumps up an' opens the door, an' there was ole

Jack singin' out an' makin' a great fluster.

"'What in thunder's the matter, Jack?' ses I.

"'Warrigal's gone!' ses 'e, all tremblin' like. 'Cleared right out in

the night.'

"Off I rushes ter the yards, an' sure enuff, the beast had cleared; yet

the rails was up.

"''Ow the dickens 'e got out, Jack?' ses I, lookin' round. Presently I

comes ter the slip-rails, an' soon spots 'ow 'e done it. I'm blest if

the ole cuss didn't lay down ter it at the rails an' 'riggled 'is way

out sideways. You cud see the ground all tore up by 'is 'oofs as 'e

inched 'is way out. There was a knot at the lower side o' the rail, an'

it was covered with 'air an' blood, which shows what a tight squeeze it

was."

"But 'ow the blazes did he gat out iv th' pathock whin he was

knee-haltered?"

"Like enuff 'e worked 'is 'edstall off as 'e 'riggled through. We

thought we'd made it tight enuff fur anythin'. Anyways 'e cleared, an',

what's more, 'e an' the mares moved off the run an' wasn't 'eard of fur

long, then 'e was found bossin' a mob on Bullaroi."

By this time the men had reached the homestead. Leaving the others at

the stockyard, Harry proceeded to the house to break the bad news to the

owner.

The squatter was greatly put out by the turn the affair had taken. Two

of the horses were brood mares on which he set a high value, and for

which he had given a big price. They were full of breeding, having the

famed Gemma di Vergi strain on the sire's side. The occurrence was no

less than a calamity in more ways than one.

Their location was in difficult country, and with such a rogue as the

grey outlaw to lead and direct, the job of rescue seemed by no means

easy or certain. Mr. M'Intyre, however, was determined to regain his

mares, and at the same time to capture or destroy that equine demon.

One thing in his favour was the fact that in midsummer there was a

scarcity of water in the ranges, and their run, for a while, at any

rate, must be in and about the foot-hills.

As was usual in those days, the neighbouring station-holders were

invited to join in the brumby hunt, which is, as a rule, the most

exciting, and, at times the most dangerous, sport that Australia can

furnish, keenly relished by bushmen.

The brumby is no more a native Australian horse than the mustang is a

native American horse; that is to say, it is not indigenous to the

country. Brumbies are the descendants of imported horses which have

escaped into the bush and bred there.

When Australian settlements were confined to the barest fringe of the

continent, it was very common for stock, both horses and cattle, to

stray from the settled areas into the great wilderness beyond.

An historic illustration is to be found in the genesis of colonial

expansion. When the first expedition sailed from England, not only were

officials, soldiers, and convicts shipped; but also an assortment of

domestic animals to furnish the requirements of the penal colony

proposed to be established on the shores of Botany Bay.

As the cattle in the new settlements increased, many beasts strayed

beyond the borders of the occupied country to the interior forests and

plains; and before very long "brumbies" (wild horses) and "scrubbers"

(wild cattle) covered large tracts, often to the great annoyance of the

advancing line of settlers.

*CHAPTER XX*

*THE BRUMBY HUNT*

"Like a wintry shore that the waters ride o'er,

All the lowlands are filling with sound;

For swiftly we gain where the mobs of the plain

Like a tempest are tearing the ground!

And we'll follow them hard to the rails of the yard,

Over gulches and mountain-tops grey,

Where the beat and the beat of our swift horses' feet

Will die with the echoes away."

HENRY KENDALL.

"How many are coming to the hunt to-morrow, dad?"

"About a score all told, my son. That is," continued the speaker

somewhat inconsequently, "if they a' turn up."

"Gills coming, ain't they?"

"Yes; the old man, son, and ane o' the stockmen'll be here this evening,

so as to be ready for the early stairt the morn's morn. That reminds

me, I've no telt your mother. They'll be here aboot supper-time."

"Captain White coming, I s'pose?"

"If he's above ground. We'd best coont 'em up. Get a bit o' paper,

Saundy, and pit doon the names. Then we'll ken for sure."

"Ready, father."

"Pit doon oor ain lot first. Mysel', you, Hairry, the blacks, Denny,

the bullock driver, the ration carrier, Redgate and Broon from the

oot-station, Joe, Tom, N-eville--I suppose. Hoo mony's that?"

"Thirteen."

"So mony's that? At that rate we'll hae ower a score. Weel, that's a'

the better. Let's see, noo: pit doun the Gill lot, that's three more.

Then there's Captain White. Old Dumaresque says he'll be along, but I

dinna reckon on him, so you needna coont him in. White's going to bring

twa men wi' him. And, m-yes, there's Davison o' the bank, and Dickson

the lawyer. Told 'em the other day I'd let 'em know. They'll need to

be here the nicht, too. We'd better send Willy in wi' a message at

once. That's a' noo I think. Hoo mony does that tot up?"

"Twenty-one not counting the Colonel."

"Weel, I hope they'll turn up, that's a'."

"I say, father, could Jimmy Flynn an' Yellow Billy come?"

"Eh? Weel, I--I dinna ken. Can they ride?"

"Ride? Listen to him! Why, Yellow Billy's the boss rider among the

boys. You know his steer----"

"Ah weel," said Mr. M'Intyre laughingly, "we'll hae 'em. Send word by

the boy."

Accordingly, the invitation was taken to the four Tareelians. Gill and

party turned up about dark, and shortly after them the town lot, all of

whom were welcomed by their hospitable host.

M'Intyre had made extensive preparations for the hunt. There are

various methods for trapping wild horses. The one in vogue at Bullaroi

and the surrounding stations was that called the "wing" trap. This

consists, first of all, in determining the usual brumby run. The next

work, and an important one, is the building of yards in a locality

specially selected, the object being to get as near as possible to the

natural line of the horses' travel when stampeded.

The yards must be well constructed, with a high, strong fence, having an

open mouth so wide as to give the hunted steed no suspicion of running

into a trap. The upper and nether lips of this mouth, after running

parallel a short distance, gradually converge to the throat, as it were,

finally meeting, and forming a cul-de-sac.

From the mouth extremity a vast roll of canvas, or, rather, calico

strips about six inches wide, is made fast to one of the fence

terminals, and from there, at a slight outward angle, is often taken for

miles, being secured at intervals to trees or stakes which are driven

into the ground. The wing is fixed breast high. This, to the

inexperienced, seems but a flimsy obstacle; but the calico barrier,

frail as it appears, acts as an effectual boundary. Brumbies are both

timid and suspicious, and very rarely charge a wing. When driven on to

one they wheel either to right or left, with never a thought of breaking

through or jumping it.

The strategy of the "drive" is to station men at intervals from the

terminal point of the wing; each man is armed with a heavy stock whip, a

cruel enough weapon in the hands of an adept. Others are left at the

trap-yard mouth on the outward side, concealed as a rule, and ready to

dart out and head the mob should it scent danger when nearing the

opening. The remainder of the men proceed to locate and enflank the

mob, and drive them in the given direction. This, often, is a very

difficult matter, and sometimes the best laid scheme is defeated by a

determined and irresistible rush of the mob in the teeth of their

assailants.

Premising the "round up" and drive to be successful as far as the wing,

the wing supports wheel them in the right direction; then close in and

pass to the outside to strengthen the flank men, who now form a parallel

line with the racing brumbies. Thus, with the calico wing on one side,

a living, whip-cracking, yelling cordon on the other, and a harrying

force behind, the spectacle is as brilliant and as exciting as Australia

can furnish in the line of sport.

At sunrise, on a glorious morning in mid January, the Bullaroi party,

well mounted, wend their way to the appointed rendezvous, from whence

the amalgamated forces are to proceed to the brumby grounds.

The men and boys are variously mounted. All the horses, however, are

used to stock work; some of them, within certain limits, being as

intelligent as the men who bestride them. Many of them are what is

known as "camp horses"; that is, horses trained for mustering and

cutting out work on the cattle camp. Quick to wheel, to dodge, to

out-manoeuvre the charging bullock, and even to divine the enemy's

intention; skilful in wedging through a pack; ready to advance

backwards, so to speak, and to use heels when head and shoulders

unavail; needing scarce any control, and with a keen zest for the work,

the camp horse is an invaluable auxiliary on a cattle run.

Both M'Intyre and Gill were specially well mounted on favourites of the

above-named variety. The price of each was regarded by its rider as

beyond rubies. Both men were strong-boned, grizzled, and expert

bushmen, with not a superfluous ounce of flesh on their bodies. Neville

was of the company. He had learned many things in the intervening days;

the first, and most essential, was that England could furnish no

precedent to Australia in things that are peculiar to station life. He

gradually dropped his pet phrase, "The way we do things in England."

The scales had fallen from his eyes concerning many things "Colonial."

Mr. M'Intyre, who liked him, paid him no little attention. He rode out

on the run with him, giving common-sense hints in his dry way, from time

to time, which his guest was ready enough to take. He learned to ride

fairly well, and, after many mortifying failures, could crack a stock

whip without entangling it in the horse's legs.

Mr. M'Intyre was dubious about Neville going. The Englishman, however,

was so set on joining the cavalcade that to object seemed discourtesy.

All hints of the danger attached to this expedition were scouted. So,

on this eventful morning, mounted on his host's favourite hack, Curlew,

the visitor formed one of the company.

The others need no description. With spirits mounting high in

anticipation they pass over open plain, through brigalow scrub, along

box ridges, and across country on a ten-mile spin to a spot on Rocky

Creek called the Glen--a place already decided upon. As there was no

knowing to what extent the powers of both men and horses would be tried

during the day, the journey was made at a moderate speed, so as to spare

them for the arduous task of the drive.

The pals, on this occasion six in number, were compelled to curb their

tendencies to fun and frolic; though there were some very tempting and

well-nigh irresistible inducements to spurts as the game rose or scudded

before them. Inviting jumps, too, lured them; but high jump or low

jump, kangaroo or emu, charm they never so wisely, are resisted.

But their tongues are uncurbed. How they did chatter, to be sure! It

did the older members good to hear their gay and joyous prattle. Their

views of life in general, and brumby hunting in particular, were novel

and unconventional. They settled everything touching the day's

proceedings, from the place of the "find" to the number yarded. All

that the warrigal might do, and all that they would positively do to

circumvent him, together with many other things, were discussed with the

self-confidence of youth.

In due time the Glen is reached, and the Bullaroi party find that they

are first upon the scene.

"Off saddles all o' you. Must ease the horses a' we can. Saundy, you

and the boys mak a fire and get the billy going. Denny, bring the

tucker-bag from the pack-saddle. Mr. Neville, what in the name of

common-sense are ye tying yure nag to that dead tree for?"

"What's wrong with it, sir?"

"What's richt wi' it, mon?"

"I--I--don't know what you mean."

"Boss means yer a fool ter tie the moke up in the blazing sun," said

Harry in an undertone, as he passed by the new chum. "Put 'im under a

shade tree same as the rest of us."

"Beg pardon, yes--er--I see," answered he, mortified for a moment, as he

moved from the leafless trunk to a clump of currajongs, whose thick

foliage effectually screened the sun's rays.

"Wot sort of a bloke's that 'ere cove?" asked Jimmy Flynn of Tom

Hawkins. "He's a regular greeny, ain't he?"

"Oh, a good enough sort!" replied Tom. "He's new, but he's a learner.

He picks up pretty fast, considering. You should 'a' seen him when he

came here first; my word, he was a greenhorn then!"

"Here's the Captain, father!" sang out Sandy, as three men cantered up

the track.

"Guid-day, White! Guid-day, men! Glad to see you. Off saddle and join

us in a tot o' tea and a bite."

"Good-day, M'Intyre! By George! you've got quite a troop, man. Day,

Dickson! Day, Davidson! What on earth do you townies think you're

going to do? Stand a good chance, Dickson, of cracking your skull and

spilling all that legal soph--I mean lore, that's bottled up there. Oh,

I say, Mac, old Dumaresque's coming along," rattled on the Captain.

"I'll believe it when I see him, no' afore. The auld boy's better at

hame when this wark's on."

"Well, all I know is that he sent me word last night by one of the men,

and cautioned me to be sure and tell you."

"If he comes he comes, and if he disna he'll no' be much missed. Noo,

boys, bring in the tea!"

"By Jove! M'Intyre, your wife's a sensible woman: this is the sort of

grub to work on. Last month I was over at the Glenormiston mustering.

De Little asked me to join him at midday after a heavy morning's work,

and as I was as hungry as ten hunters I readily consented. What d'ye

think he produced from his tucker-bag? Some lettuce sandwiches, no less;

and cream puffs! De Little's as good as gold, you know, so I couldn't

refuse to take some; but, I give you my word, I strolled over to his men

as soon as I could get away decently, and got a slice of beef and a

chunk of damper."

"Hoo's De Little getting on?"

"Well, between you and me and the billy-can, he's no more cut out for a

squatter than for an archangel. Pity he ever left London. He'd be more

at home in Rotten Row. Hello! here's the old Colonel and two boys.

Seeing will dissipate even your scepticism, Mac."

Dumaresque was a choleric but plucky old superannuated Indian officer,

who on his retirement came over to Australia and purchased a small

cattle run, living bachelor fashion. He was now quite old, yet fancied

himself equal to any toil. To hint at his age infirmities was to raise

a very sirocco of indignant language.

"Hello, Cornel! wha'd 'a' thocht that you----"

"Stop, M'Intyre, stop! I know right well, sir, what you are going to

remark. If you, sir, look upon a bit of a brumby hunt as an

extraordinary thing, let me inform you that to me 'tis but a trifle.

Why, man, when I was stationed on the northern frontier----"

"Yes, yes, Dumaresque," broke in the Captain, who knew the other's

weakness, "we're all delighted to see you. Just in time for a pannikin

of tea and a mouthful. Here you, Dick, Tom, Harry, one of you, take the

Colonel's horse."

A few minutes later the men filed out of the Glen, and proceeded along

the creek to a spur in the foot-hills. Then they left the water-shed,

crossing the spur, from which they continued up a grassy valley which

extended nearly three miles before it broadened out into an open plain,

lightly timbered at the upper or ridge side, but perfectly treeless at

its other extremity.

Two-thirds of the way up the valley, in a belt of box trees, was the

trap-yard. The trap mouth, before described, extended across the belt

to the outermost verge.

After a short inspection of the yard the calico wing was fixed. It was

attached to the terminal post of the yard mouth, nearest to the ridge

that skirted the valley on the top side. From thence it was taken in a

straight line on the ridge side of the valley, until the plain was

reached. From this point, inclining slighting outward and made fast at

short intervals, it extended right across the plain, ending in a clump

of iron-barks.

"Noo, men, ye'll jist hae a wee bit grub and then we'll stairt."

The meal was soon dispatched, and a short consultation ensued. M'Intyre

apportioned the men their places. Six, under Gill, were located in the

iron-bark clump. Five others were sent back to the trap-yard, two miles

distant, to assigned duty there. The remaining sixteen were to execute

the task of first "feeling" the enemy; then of outflanking them; and,

finally, directing the stampede.

*CHAPTER XXI*

*THE WARRIGAL'S STRATEGY*

"Hast thou given the horse his might?

Hast thou clothed his neck with the quivering mane?

* * * * *

The glory of his snorting is terrible.

He paweth in the valley and rejoiceth in his strength.

He goeth out to meet the armed men.

He mocketh at fear and is not dismayed.

* * * * *

He smelleth the battle afar off:

The thunder of the captains, and the shouting."

JOB.

"Noo, men, we'll be on the move."

The leader sprang to his horse and directed him on to the plain.

"Where do you expect to pick 'em up, Mac?"

"Micht sicht them at ony minute, maybe no' for hours; maybe no' at a',

Captain."

"Willy and Jacky, you gang on aheed and keep your een weel peeled for

signs. No sae fast, lads; mustna spoil the sport at the stairt. Let

the blacks get weel aheed. We maun sicht them afore they tak alairm, or

it'll be a hopeless stern chase."

Joe, Tom, and Sandy, greatly to their delight, were with the "flying

column." Yellow Billy was with the trap contingent, while Jimmy Flynn

was stationed with Mr. Gill in the iron-bark clump. Neville, at his

earnest request, was given a place with Mr. M'Intyre.

As soon as he touched the myall country, the leader cautiously skirted

it, until the party were well out and away from the range of hills that

continued on the eastern side. He then took an inward course, and made

a slant which carried them back to the foot-hills.

So far there was neither sight nor sound of the mob, nor were there any

indications of their presence at any recent date. From the range base

another tack was taken, which brought them upon the edge of a scrub that

had wedged itself into the plain. By this time the column had covered a

lot of ground.

"We'll fringe the timber for a while, and then, if we've nae luck, we'll

hae to divide; half to go into the ranges, and the other to keep richt

along the plain. Keep weel in, lads, we'll cut that pint," continued

the leader, as the men moved on through the outer fringe of scrub; while

out on the plain, which was dotted with rosewood and myall clumps, the

black boys moved with lithe and stealthy movements.

"Father, I hear a whistle!"

"Hist, men! quiet all o' ye!"

"There it's again!" exclaimed Sandy after a moment's silence, as a low

whistle came from the plain. "That's Jacky's whistle, dad, sure enough.

I'd know it among a thousand----"

"A' richt, my boy. Jacky's got something. We'll move oot quietly and

see."

Wheeling to the right, the column soon arrived at the spot indicated by

Jacky's whistle. The black boy stood by the side of his horse, pointing

to some fresh droppings and to numerous hoof-tracks.

"What is it, Jacky?" exclaimed Mr. M'Intyre as the men rode up.

"Blendy brumby bin here, Boss, few minutes ago."

The tracks and signs were so fresh that, as the black said, it was only

the question of a few minutes since they occupied the spot.

"Most fortunate we've got ahint them. They're near by. At ony moment

we micht sicht them. Ye'll fa' into a doubble column, men. Captain,

ye'll tak seeven men and I'll keep the ithers. We'll hae twa columns a

hunder yairds apairt."

In this fashion the men proceeded slowly, with a black boy ahead of each

column as a scout, and following the tracks of the brumbies. As

predicted, in a few minutes Willy held up a warning hand.

The columns quickly closed up to the scouts, and their leaders saw,

through the willow-like branches of a myall clump, the long-sought-for

mob. The horses were standing close together in an expectant attitude.

Their suspicions were aroused. Though they had not scented the wind of

their pursuers, nevertheless, with that wonderful _something_ so common

in wild things, they _felt_ the enemy's presence.

The intervening distance was about three hundred yards. According to

arrangement, each column opened out at its head, with the object of

outflanking the horses. Silently the columns wheeled to the left and

right sharply, and then moved forward. While in the act of executing

this tactic their presence was detected, and scanned in a moment. Then,

with a snort, or rather a fusilade of snorts and neighs, heads erected,

manes and tails streaming, away flew the alarmed steeds; and in swift

pursuit, maintaining their formation, the men followed.

There was no intention of unduly alarming the brumbies, therefore all

shoutings and stock-whip crackings were restrained. And now the hunters

begin to feel the ardour of the chase, both horses and men; for so eager

were the station horses to join in the hunt that the riders were obliged

to take a double pull on them.

Neville, in the excitement of the raid, forgot the orders, and broke his

line, making a rush for the tail of the flying mob. The Captain,

however, nipped his intention in the bud with a few red-hot expletives,

ordering the Englishman back to his place in the line.

The brumbies, when started, were about eight miles from the wing, and

headed directly for it, going off from the jump with a fine burst. The

wily warrigal, however, was not going to be run off his legs in a spurt;

in a short time the breakneck pace is moderated, and the straggling mob

close up.

The horsemen hung on the flanks of the galloping steeds, steadying into

an accommodating pace, and, as previously directed, making a semicircle,

whose points extended beyond the sides of the retreating animals. The

station mares were in the mob, capering for the moment as wildly as any

in their company. Tallboy lagged somewhat in the rear. He had

evidently received scant courtesy from the brumbies. It was observed

that his heart was not in this matter. Had they wished, the horsemen

could easily have cut him out of the mob.

The flying steeds--about fifty, young and old--had covered about

two-thirds of the distance to the terminal point of the wing, and had

not once swerved from this direction. The men were in high glee. So

far it was nothing more than an exhilarating gallop, and they kept up

the formation beautifully. The horses, too, although the day was very

hot, had not yet shown any sign of distress. It was a different thing

with some of the hunted animals, however. There were some very old

stock among the mares. The pace and the heat combined were telling

heavily upon them, and they that rode could read.

One of these was a chronic "roarer," and her distressed gasps were

plainly heard above the thunder of the hoof. Two of the mares began to

lag in a palpable manner, despite the encouraging whinneying of the

stallion, as he turned from side to side with a troubled look.

They who belittle the intelligence of animals, and treat them as lacking

heart and soul, can have had little experience of their nature and ways.

The old sheik of the wilderness was full of concern for his many wives.

Love, despite all that the poets may say, is not blind; it is open-eyed

and alert. Had he been alone the warrigal would have snorted at his

foes with the utmost disdain, and led them such a dance as not all their

imaginings had ever conceived. But, alas! some at least of his faithful

ones would be overtaken; were even now in peril. Desertion? Never!

Rescue! but how? Yes; he will plan, he will outwit. He will use

strategy against strategy, and at once, by which he may draw these

merciless foes from the weaklings and give them an opportunity of

escape.

Quickening his pace, he raced along, closely followed by his

company--save some half-dozen of the more exhausted mares, who were now

widely separated from their mates. Then, wheeling sharply, the flying

squadron dashed across the plain towards the foot-hills in a furious

gallop.

Divining his altered tactics, the Captain and M'Intyre increased their

speed, taking no notice of the hindermost horses, and closely watching

the head and ruck of the flying squadron.

On, on! in mad gallop, whip and spur going freely now, sped the hunted

and the hunters; and as they suddenly dashed across the face of the

Captain's column, it seemed as if nothing human could stay their flight.

The bold Captain and his men, however, nothing daunted nor surprised,

wheeled a little more to the left, having some advantage in being well

out, as well as being high up on the brumbies' flanks.

"Now, boys," cried Captain White, "head 'em, rush 'em!" Saying which,

he rode straight for the stallion's head--who was leading--with four men

pounding at his heels. It was a splendid attempt to head the mob, and

succeeded save with one exception. That exception was the warrigal!

The bunch of men hurled themselves on the leader, and had he not swerved

there would have been a terrific impact, which might have spelled

disablement or death to more than one. When a man's blood is up in

riotous chase he joyously challenges death in ways that chill him to the

bone in cool blood.

The grey demon, however, swerved to the right with tremendous speed, and

the Captain crossed his course within a couple of feet of his stern; his

only revenge being a savage cut with his whip across the retreating

animal's flanks. But if the men's rush failed with the leader, they

stopped the stampede of his immediate followers.

Floss and Jeannie, who were hard on the heels of the warrigal, were

intercepted and turned. The stock whips, cracking like a blaze of

musketry, played upon the ruck of the confused animals in merciless

fashion, scoring their flanks and ribs. In a few seconds they were

driven, pell-mell, back to the line of retreat. In the meantime those

immediately behind the mob, and those on the right flank, kept the

balance going and together. Thus the defeated ones regained their

fellows, discomforted, and not a little cowed, in their leaderless

condition.

And what of the warrigal?

To continue the chase of him were only to knock the horses up in

fruitless pursuit. No! he must be abandoned. With liberty uncurtailed

let him roam the wilds, fancy free. The station runaways remain, as

well as others that will be of value and service.

So wisely reasoned man, but not so the warrigal. Foiled in his purpose,

regardless of his own pursuit, the great equine leader wheeled in a wide

circle, uttering the while shrill neighs to attract his consorts. 'Tis

for naught, however, that he utters challenge to his enemies and appeal

to his mates. The stockmen have ringed the mob, and now at a slower

pace they continue the drive; the men opening out, and keeping abreast

the leading horses.

And now the iron-bark clump is near at hand. To this the enraged

stallion gallops. The wing men, on the alert, watch this last

manoeuvre, and line out to intercept him should he make for the hills.

Such was not his intention, though; and their appearance only

accelerates the execution of his determination, which was simply to

regain his companions; this he did with a rush, no one saying nay.

M'Intyre and his men were careful not to push the driven beasts, but

were content to let them make the pace. And now at a swinging

canter--old mares well up, despite all fatigue---they struck the clump,

and passed the point to which the wing extended. The wing men, joining

in the cavalcade by orders of their leader, pass to the right flank and

reinforce the drivers there.

They are now within half a mile of the trap. At a preconcerted signal

the men close up, and amid an unceasing fusilade of stock-whip crackings

the beasts are hustled, the rear men flogging up the lagging ones.

The calico wing acts effectually on the one side, allowing a strong line

to form up on the other. Barring accidents, the hunt is as good as

finished; for in a moment or two the horses will be entering the trap

mouth.

The outlaw is leading the mob in a direct line for the yard. But, stay!

His keen eyes sight the fence. _It is a trap_! Past adventures flood

his recollection and shape judgment and determination. Inside the trap,

death or slavery! Outside, liberty!

Is it too late? No! By the ashes of his fathers he will elude his

would-be captors! His faithful spouses, naught, alas! will save them.

Let those who dare follow him! Away, then!

With a wild rush, when within some two hundred yards of the trap mouth,

he turns swiftly to the right at a tangent, so as to head his enemies

and cut away on the outside of the fence.

The gallant grey well deserves his freedom. His courage, devotion, and

intelligence should surely prevail upon the men. But the pursuers were

not indulging in any sentiment just then, and as soon as his last tactic

was revealed the race of interception was begun. He might yet have

escaped, for he was full of running, but, alas! the unseen foe!

The five men detailed at the trap mouth, were grouped thereat, just

behind a cluster of silver wattles, ready for any emergency. It seemed

to them that their services would not be required.

But, see! the warrigal!

There is no time to reason. In a flash they streak out from cover and

ride straight at the flying barb. Something must happen. The fearful

impact, narrowly escaped but an hour ago, occurs. There is no attempt

on either side to avoid the issue. With a mighty bound and a savage

snap of his teeth the warrigal flings himself at the foremost, bringing

horse and rider down with a crash, both lying motionless upon the plain.

At the same moment, and scarce a length behind, came Yellow Billy. His

attempt to head the runaway was blocked by the impact of the steeds.

Too near to swerve, his horse struck the leading beast on the

hind-quarters at the moment of the crash, adding to the confusion, and

coming down a cropper.

Staggered by the violent collision, the stallion is brought to a sudden

stop, but not to the ground. And now an astounding thing happens.

Yellow Billy, while falling with his steed, to save himself from the

warrigal's feet clutched frantically at that animal's mane, and, by a

clever vault, to the amazement of his comrades, sprang upon the outlaw's

back.

It would be hard to say if at that particular moment the horse himself

was cognisant of the act. The pause covered but the fraction of a

second. With a bound he leaped the fallen bodies, and, there being no

one in front to stay him, tore off in a direction that skirted the trap

fence.

*CHAPTER XXII*

*HOW YELLOW BILLY BROKE THE WARRIGAL*

"The snorting of his horses is heard from Dan: at the sound of the

neighing of his strong ones the whole land trembleth."--JEREMIAH.

The tragic ending of the last rush held all breaths for some brief

moments. Such a contretemps had never happened before. It beat all

previous experiences. The vanishing horse and rider seemed a wild

fantasy of the brain, that passes like the breaking of a soap-bubble.

There, before their very eyes, lay the slain; the victims of the mad

charge.

Several of the men dash after the desperate horse and his acrobatic

rider. Simultaneously, a small group of men--among the foremost is Mr.

Gill--rush to the fallen men and beasts.

Dick Gill, his son, who lies across his horse, was known as a fearless

and somewhat reckless rider. At the critical moment, with the lust of

the chase upon him, the lad made a mad dash for the racing steed. To

swerve him he instinctively felt would be a vain attempt. "I'll ride

the beggar down!" With naught of tremor, but with a disdainful scorn of

consequence, hawk-like he swooped upon his quarry.

But, as we have seen, the outlaw had his own resolves. These, alas! more

than defeat the object of the horseman. The warrigal's last hope

trembled in the balance. A narrow gap of open space, and--liberty!

This way then, with slap-dash speed!

We have already related the countervailing efforts to stay that rush:

how that hidden horsemen flash from their ambush; how that one, a little

in advance, moved to the strike with tornado-like velocity. Then Greek

met Greek. Comes the inevitable, the sickening thud; and

then--oblivion! Come running men who lift young Dick with all the

gentleness of women, and bear him to the shade trees.

Yellow Billy's horse lies stone dead with broken neck. Dick's, with

broken back, vainly strives to rise. Its great brown eyes look round

with painful entreaty that sends Harry silently to the camp for a rifle,

and then the handsome filly joins her companion in the happy hunting

grounds.

Meanwhile, under the shade trees, Dick Gill lies, the image of death.

An examination reveals a fractured forearm; while a blue-black bruise on

the right temple, as big as a crown-piece, attests the violence of the

blow. The general verdict is that Dick, the life and soul of his

company, will never more crack joke, sing song, or join in the merry

chase; and so the conclusion is, dead, or as good as dead--a distinction

with a slight difference.

There were two, however, who clung to some shreds of hope; the father of

the boy and the Colonel: the latter with obstinacy and emphasis.

"I've seen 'em on the frontier far worse than your boy, Gill, and get

better. The lad's stunned with that dickens of a blow; but he'll rally

directly and be as spry as ever."

"Poor Dick is alive yet; of that I feel sure, even though I cannot

detect any pulsation. What the issue may be, Dumaresque, neither you

nor----"

"Tut, tut, man! he's young, and as tough as leather. Neck's all right.

Keep up heart, old man. I'll trot down to the yards and see what

they're doing to the brumbies."

With that the old officer, whose words were braver than his heart,

strode to the yard, where all the others had congregated, save Joe and

Sandy, who were in the rear-guard when the accident happened; and who,

chilled at heart and filled with apprehension--all zest in sport

gone--remain by the side of their companion.

When the warrigal broke, the others of the mob were in full gallop,

being rushed by the men. They are subjected to a battery of flogging

whips, and swept into the trap-yard; down the converging sides of this

they hustle, only to find an impasse. There they huddle, a compact mass

of sweating, shivering, and cowed brutes.

The horsemen form a line across the way of retreat, until half a dozen

wires are stretched. The rest is a matter of detail which expert

bushmen make small bones about. When all is secure the men inside cut

out selected horses under the direction of Mr. M'Intyre, who, with those

not actively employed in the arena, occupies a place on the rails. The

brumbies designed for use are thrown and branded, etc., then haltered

and made fast to the rails. The station runaways were secured early in

the proceedings, which, from first to last, consume a couple of hours.

The final act is one of horse massacre; all the discarded stock are shot

down. It is cold-blooded but necessary work, for brumbies are rightly

regarded as a pest on a run.

By this time the sun is well down in the west, and having finished their

work at the yards, the men repair to the camp for a bite and a drink.

To their great surprise and delight they find Dick Gill "nather dead nor

spachless," as Denny Kineavy put it.

While his father and the boys anxiously watched him, hoping against hope

for signs of life, the unconscious lad suddenly stretched his limbs and

opened his eyes, as one just awaking from a sound sleep.

The as-good-as-dead youth sat up in wonderment, falling back in pain and

weakness the next moment. A wave of joy surged through Gill's heart at

this manifestation of life. "God be thanked for His mercies!" he

exclaimed. Putting an arm under the sick boy's shoulders, and carefully

raising his head, he held the Colonel's brandy flask to his lips.

"You've had a spill, that's' all. A bit of a knock-out. Your left arm

is broken, and there's a nasty bruise on your forehead. Sip a little of

this spirit; it'll brace you up."

A pull at the flask revived the youth, and he pillowed his head on his

father's arm, who laved the bruised head with cold water. This greatly

helped in the work of restoration. By the time the men had finished,

Dick was able to sit up, and expressed a desire to have a look at the

brumbies. Beyond acute pain in head and arm the lad seemed but little

affected. He enjoyed a feed with the men, and especially was he

grateful for a pannikin of tea. Good billy tea is better for the tired

feeling than all the grog ever invented.

After a short consultation it was decided that Dick and his father, with

Sandy, should proceed to a selector's house about three miles distant.

They would be sure to get the loan of Mrs. Mulvaney's spring-cart, and

by that means reach Bullaroi. This was carried out despite Dick's

protests that he was fit to start on another brumby drive.

What of Yellow Billy and the bolting warrigal! Have they been

forgotten? Not by long chalks!

As soon as Mr. M'Intyre had selected the horses that were to be saved

and used, he left the other work to the Captain, and, accompanied by

Jacky, started off on the tracks of the outlaw. Before long they met

some of the pursuers returning. Their horses were knocked up, and they

had failed to trace the runaway. "Deeficult as the country may be,"

mused Mr. M'Intyre, "Jacky's equal to onything in the trackin' line.

It's only a maitter o' time when we'll run 'em doon."

There was much speculation at the camp over the fate of the half-caste.

It did not lean to pessimism, though jeremiads were uttered by some.

The pals, who knew Billy's ability better than the others, had unlimited

faith in their mate. Whatever happened to the steed, the boy would turn

up safe and sound. The steer rider, in their opinion, could ride

bare-back the toughest outlaw that ever sniffed the wind. "You'll see,"

said Tom confidently to the Captain, "Billy'll more'n hold his own."

"Didn't youse tell us the other day thet at your gra-at

billy-horse-ma-ale-robbery, the steer slung the yallar bhoy----"

"Oh!" retorted Tom pettishly, "that was only----"

Just then the returning men rode up. They had no good news to relate,

but said that by Mr. M'Intyre's orders all were to proceed to the Glen,

and if the missing boy was not brought in before dark they were to

disperse. Let us now follow the fortunes, or misfortunes, of Billy.

As soon as he found himself astride the warrigal, the yellow boy held

fast with knees and hands, the stock whip over his shoulder trailing in

a long line behind the flying pair. To stick on the racing horse was a

comparatively easy thing to Billy, unless, indeed, some fiendish trick

should unseat him. But to guide the scurrying brute, unbitted,

unreined, were as impossible as to turn and check a Mont Blanc

avalanche.

The first instinct of the horse upon escaping from the trap-yard was to

dismount his rider by violent means, but there are eager pursuers on the

track--so away!

He rounds the trap fence, bolts down the grassy valley apace, twists up

a gully with a swerve that almosts unseats Billy, dashes into Glen

Creek, and mounts the bank to enter a defile. The first shock over, the

half-caste begins to realise his position. For a moment a pang of fear

seizes him, and some of the dread possibilities of the ride dawn upon

him. This soon yields to a different sensation as they rush through

space.

There is that in the half-wild nature of the lad which goes out in

unconscious sympathy for the bestridden beast. Despite the mutual

antagonism, which, after all, is not that of hate, there is in some way

a sense of kinship. Wild answers to wild. Man nature comes thus into

close gripping quarters with horse nature. There is no intervening

saddle. Flesh mates with flesh, and spirit answers to spirit. Whose,

then, shall be the victory? The strains of many generations of desert

lords is in the quadruped. But what of the biped? A curious admixture

of blood there! On the white side are the well salted strains, which

hark away back to the old Vikings. On the other and darker, the stream

points backwards to the misty past, when his ancestors, subtle and slim,

moved southward from the older civilisations of the north, and swarmed

the valleys of the Ganges and the Indus, fighting for a foothold.

Is not this a challenge to the latent forces in the wild blood of the

human? It riots through the youth's veins, giving vim and sparkle to

his courage. Who shall win the lordship? Away then, and away!--through

the mountain pines till clothes are mere shreds, and breast and thighs

are torn and blooded with innumerable scores; slithering down the gorges

to the accompaniment of rattling stones; jumping fallen timber, and

smashing through the undergrowth, till all pursuit has faded away--the

infuriated steed holds his course. On, on! ever up to the inaccessible

heights.

But, has the half-breed been doing nothing save holding on, meanwhile?

With incredible difficulty, owing to the mad career of the horse over

the wilds, Yellow Billy has managed to pass his whip thong twice round

the brute's neck. This, knotted together, forms just the sort of

hold-fast the boy has been accustomed to on his steer rides. The grip

gives him a great advantage.

But the horse is now scrambling up a gully, which becomes sharper and

steeper as he advances, merging into a deep gorge at last, with

precipitous sides and frowning, unscalable face. A cul-de-sac, indeed!

Even this the indomitable warrigal essays. Again and again does he rush

the battlements, and mount some distance; only to tumble back with

sobbing breath but dauntless energy.

Cannot Yellow Billy now dismount in safety?

As easily, oh, reader, as one might slip off a rocking-horse.

Why not, then, fling himself off; abandon the desperado, and be thankful

for life and limb?

What! Billy show the white feather? Billy throw away his chance of the

honour and glory of capture thus? Not for all the wealth of Australia!

This is the most ecstatic moment of his existence.

Foiled in his attempt to scale the heights, Bucephalus begins to think

more seriously of the foe upon his back. Were he dislodged, what might

not become possible? Here then!

So began the battle royal between these well-mated antagonists, to be

fought to a finish, there, on that small patch of earth in the rocky

fastness; with none in the arena to interfere or to applaud. None,

indeed, to witness, save the rock wallaby perched high on a beetling

crag, who may have moralised on the unwonted spectacle of the whirling

grey-and-brown mass of flesh and blood below. Higher still, wheeling in

mid-air, is an eagle hawk, who keenly watches the solitary duel down

there, with unwinking eyes of insatiable greed; caring not a doit which

wins the mastership, so that the issue may provide a fit object for

tearing talons and lacerating beak.

But below there!

The warrigal, with bloodshot eyes flaming in rage and malice, ears set

back, head and neck well down between the forelegs, back arched like a

bent bow, bucks and squeals, kicks and twists. Forward, backward,

sideward; round and round; up and down; now in the middle of the patch;

now trying to rub the boy against the rough sides of the rocky canon,

but all in vain. Not even the young Mazeppa, lashed to the wild horse,

was more securely bound than was Billy to his steed.

There he is; Yellow Billy! Behold him!

Grasping with both hands the encircling stock whip, head and shoulders

inclined backwards, his knees grip the horse's sides like a vice. The

horse's hoarse neighs are answered with shrill shouts. And so, amid

battle-cries, dust and flying pebbles, sweat and foam, with evolutions

to which those of the circus ring were flat and monotonous, the tug of

war for supremacy between man and beast goes on.

Presently, however, the bucking desperado moderates. There is a lull.

He shifts from side to side, making at the same time a slow gyral

movement. Is this premonitory of collapse? He is blowing like the

proverbial grampus, and ejecting steam from quivering nostrils like an

exhaust pipe. The sweat flows from neck, belly, and flanks to the

ground in streams. Spasmodic sobs like those of a broken-hearted child

send shudder after shudder through his whole frame. See! his head is

hanging upon his breast; the symbol of despair. Yes! he is done,

conquered! He is broken. Well done, Billy! But the most dangerous

moment of Billy's existence is at hand.

Suddenly rushing backwards, the demon rears and throws himself to the

ground, almost turning a complete somersault in the act. Crash! down

come body and hoofs and--Billy. The boy is taken unawares, and can do

little to avert the consequences of this trick. Still, the little saves

him. When, in the fraction of a second, he sees the inevitable, a

spasmodic jerk flings him just beyond the horse's legs, which are

working like the arms of a windmill. Scarce has the animal regained his

feet ere, with panther-like spring, the half-caste is reseated. Again

the horse is down, but now he is weakening--is rapidly nearing the limit

of endurance. All the reserves have been called up.

Again, behold! a rapid change of tactics. The outlaw whips round his

head with open mouth and snaps at the rider's leg. Again and again, on

both sides, and it is only by the utmost dexterity that the lad escapes.

This, more than anything else, begets fear; for Billy, like the horse,

is fast tiring. With despair in his eyes the boy looks round him for

help, and catches sight of the whip handle, which is hanging, with some

two feet or more of thong, from where it is tied to the neck. In a

trice his knife is out and the thong is severed near the knot. This

end, coiled round his hand, becomes a weapon of offence. A loaded

stock-whip handle is as formidable as an Irishman's shillelah. And now

every snap is met with a cruel smack, and this not for long can even the

warrigal stand. Yellow Billy does more, he rains blows upon the steed's

shoulders and head with such severity as almost to paralyse the brute.

The end is coming fast now. Worn, blown, trembling with weakness, dazed,

the battle has indeed turned.

There is a point in horse-nature up to which no man may call himself

master. In some animals it lies low down. In others, the warrigal, to

wit, it is placed at the apex of his mettlesome temper. Let that point

in mastery be taken by the adversary and all is yielded. That citadel

stormed, there is naught left but the white flag. The independence once

surrendered is never regained. In other words, once the complete

master, always the master.

See now the lord of the wilderness! the equine conjurer of tricks!

There he stands with shrunken form, drooping head, lack-lustrous eyes,

motionless and clinging tail, subservience incarnate: fit statue of

unconditional surrender! The struggle has been gallant, heroic,

prolonged; the capitulation is complete. A well planted blow, now,

between the ears, and that noble creature; that thing of bone and

muscle, of arching neck and glossy coat; that creature of will and

courage, which made him emperor among his kind by right of merit--with a

stride worthy the envy of Lucifer! Just one blow in the right spot--he

staggers, trembles, and falls.

Yellow Billy is standing at the horse's head. 'Twas a glorious ride, a

royal fight, a grand victory. Nothing is left now but--pity! And so,

with soft and cheery word, rubbing the nostrils, wiping the drying

sweat, massaging the trembling limbs, the boy is mercifully engaged when

footsteps are heard, and in a moment the squatter, Jacky, and a couple

of men ride on to the battle-field.

Darkness is mantling the earth, and the men at the Glen camp have all

gone, save a few, including the boys and Neville, who are still

anxiously waiting. The striking of iron on the flints of the creek-bed

breaks the dismal silence, as a group of horsemen steal out of the

surrounding gloom, and stand half-revealed in the light of the camp

fire. Yellow Billy is perched on the croup behind one of the men,

while, with a stock whip converted into a halter, Jacky leads the bone

and soul sore warrigal, who, in this abject spectacle, drinks the cup of

humiliation to its bitterest dregs.

*CHAPTER XXIII*

*A DAY'S SHOOT*

"Alas! that, when the changing year

Brings round the blessed day,

The hearts of little native boys

Wax keen to hunt and slay,

As if the chime of Christmas time

Were but a call to prey."

BRUNTON STEPHENS.

"S-a-n-d-e-e! S-a-n-d-e-e!"

"H-e-ll-o! H-e-ll-o!"

"Where--are--you?"

"Down--here."

"Where's here?"

"Find--out!"

"Where's that horrid Sandy, Joe?" exclaimed Jessie M'Intyre to Joe

Blain, as she came out into the back yard, shortly after breakfast, one

fine morning a few days after the brumby hunt.

"Can't split on me mates, Jess."

"You're a nasty, good-for-nothing boy, Joe Blain: that's what I think of

_you_, and I don't care if you _do_ know it."

"Tweedlum, tweedlum, tweedlum twee,

The cat and the rat ran up the tree,"

quoth Joe, as he capered about just out of reach of the girl, who chased

him round the room with a broom.

It so happened that as Joe was dancing past the kitchen window, Ah Fat

the cook was in the very act of throwing out a dish of kitchen slops,

and the contents struck him fair on the head and shoulders.

This unintended but well-delivered blow came so swiftly and so

unexpectedly that for the moment Joe was stupefied, gasping and

spluttering between wind and water, so to speak. He cut so ludicrous a

figure that Jessie had to fairly hold her sides with laughter. Meanwhile

the innocent Ah Fat stood gazing at the spectacle in amazement.

"Oh, Missee Joe, I welly solly. Me neffer see you when me tlew um----"

"You jolly Chinaman!" cried Joe, in great wrath. "You--you--yellow

joss!"

With that the irate boy jumped through the window and vigorously

assaulted the cook with hands and feet.

"Oh!--Missee Joe--welly solly. O--h! Oh, Clismus! O-u-c-h!"

At first genuine sorrow controlled the Celestial. And indeed the onset

was so furious and determined that the Chinaman had enough to do in

fending blows, and was not a little alarmed. But when Joe, in closing,

clutched him by the head, and essayed to unwind his pig-tail, alarm

yielded to horror at this unexpected indignity. An ominous glitter came

into his eye, and a string of curses in his native tongue flew from the

angry heathen.

The boy, having loosened the tail, wound a coil of it round his hand,

and began to give fierce tugs. Passion in an Oriental may take any

turn. A passion-fired Chinaman, however well-disposed and peaceably

inclined at other times, will wreak his vengeance regardless of moral

issues. With a yell of mingled pain and rage the maddened man executed

a Chinese edition of Jiu-jitsu, sending his youthful antagonist whirling

through the air, to come down with a rattling bump that shook the breath

from his body. Fortunately for Joe, the part of his anatomy which bore

the brunt of the contact was that least susceptible to damage.

This act would have been followed by one severer still had not Mrs.

M'Intyre at that moment run into the kitchen, and, seeing the fallen boy

at the mercy of the rage-possessed Chow, who was in the act of assault

and battery, made for the man with a shrill scream, and hauled him off

the prostrate lad. All the while, John Chinaman was in a state of wild

excitability, sending forth a torrential stream of pidgin-English.

Joe tumbled to his feet none the worse for the bout save a bruise or

two. The sight of Ah Fat with flowing pig-tail and grotesque

gesticulation sent the lad into fits of laughter. This only the more

incensed his adversary, who made another effort to get at him, being

hardly prevented by Mrs. M'Intyre. In this hilarity Joe was joined by

Jess, who had followed her mother and stood first in terror, but now

with hearty laughter.

"Joe Blain, get out of this kitchen this moment, you wicked boy! Be

quiet, Ah Fat, or I'll call for one of the men! Stop laughing at once,

Jess, you bold hussy, or I'll box your ears!"

Both Joe and Jess disappeared in a flash, and this had the effect of

calming the Chinaman, who told the tale to his mistress as well as his

perturbed condition and broken English would allow.

"Me thlo dirtee watah outa window. Joee comin' plast. Me no see him.

Watah 'it 'im head and soljer. He jumpee tloo window, pullee hair, welly

angly. Me get angly too, and thlo 'im down."

"Quite true," said Joe, who suddenly appeared at the window. "It's all

my fault. He didn't see me, I'm sure, when he pitched the stuff out.

My paddy got up, an' I went for him like a terrier. I think the

terrier's got the worst of it, eh, Ah Fat?"

The quick acknowledgment of wrong produced an immediate effect on Ah

Fat. There was a winning grace about Joe that few could withstand.

Hitherto he had been the cook's favourite. And now, no sooner did he

express his sorrow for the summary proceedings, and own his defeat, than

the mantling frown of anger on the Chinaman's forehead vanished, and his

dingy and stolid countenance lit up with a smile.

"Me welly solly----"

"Oh, stow that! No harm done. I'm off to get rid of this muck," cried

Joe, as he disappeared from the window. A few moments later, Joe was in

the act of passing this same opening to convey a message to Sandy, who

was doing a job for his father in the carpenter's room, at the rear of

the stables.

The act was observed by Ah Fat, who made a rapid move to the window.

"Hello, Joe!"

"Hello, Ah Fat!"

"Come here, Joe," said the Flowery-Lander, beckoning as he spoke.

"No more soap-suds, Ah Fat?"

"No mo dirtee watah," said he of the pig-tail grinningly. "See a-here,

Joe"--displaying a jam pasty, hot from the oven. "You takee dis

plastee. Stlawbelly jam, welly good."

"By Caesar! Ah Fat, you're no end of a brick!" cried Joe, as he

received the peace-offering with eager hands and glistening eyes.

"Saundy, ye scoondrel!" shouted he a moment later, bursting in upon

Sandy, who was spoke-shaving a piece of timber designed for a swingle

bar. "Didn't you hear Jess call you a few minutes ago?"

"I did hear some sort of a cackling an' flustration. What's up?"

"We've got to go an' shoot some ducks."

"That all?"

"That all, ye cauld-blooded Scotchman!"

"An' when have we to go?"

"Now, at once, immediately, if not sooner, ye spalpeen."

"Ye're an odd mixture of Scotch an' Irish this morn, me hairy-breasted

hero, an' a bad hand at either. But why all the hurry about the ducks?"

"Your mother's just got word to say some chaps are coming out from

Tareela to dinner this evening, an' they're sure to expect game."

"All serene. Tom comin'?"

"No, he ain't. He's out with Harry on the run. There's only you an' me

for't."

"I'll be with you in a jiff, my son. Just finishing this bar."

"Where'll we go for the birds, Sandy?"

"Up the creek, I s'pose. Too far out to the swamp if it's to-night they

want them. There's a mob o' woods I'd like to get a smack at--the ones

we saw when we were fishin'."

"Jacky told me yesterday he saw 'em the other night roosting on the old

dead gum just at the junction of Mosquito Crick an' the Crocodile. How

far d'ye call that?"

"'Bout three mile."

"Your mother said we are to try and get some pigeons when we're out."

"Used to be a lot o' pigeons in the scrub; but the last time Dickson and

some other coves came out shooting, they went through the scrub, but

didn't see a feather--so they said."

"No good goin' there, then?"

"Well, I don't know. We can give it a try, I s'pose. What's the time,

Joe?"

"Struck ten as I came along; so we'd bes' be off in less'n no time,

sonny."

In a few minutes the boys were loaded up with guns, ammunition, sculls,

and the tucker bag. They decided to take the skiff and try their luck

on the water, instead of stalking the game along the banks.

"Don't be later than four o'clock. Try and be back before, if

possible."

"All serene, mother; we'll be back on time, luck or no luck."

"We'll fetch you some shags anyhow for fish soup," yelled back Joe as

the lads walked briskly along.

Sandy took the oars at the start, Joe sitting in the stern with his

muzzle-loader. Breech-loaders were at that time a rarity in Australia.

There were handicaps in shooting in those days of the muzzle-loader, the

powder-horn, and the shot belt, when compared with the modern

choke-bore, smokeless powder, etc. But there were compensations. Men

were far more careful of their ammunition. Loading itself was an art in

which the expert took considerable pride. To every novice the formula

was carefully given by the senior--

"Ram your powder well, but not your lead,

If you want to kill dead."

But, beyond all other considerations, there was more of the element of

sport in it. There was a greater call for skill. The very limitations

of gunnery in those days put the game on a nearer footing of equality

with the hunter. There were greater chances for the quarry, and

therefore greater merit in the kill. These are the days of machinery,

and even in gunnery there is a disposition to do the work by turning a

handle--"pumping the lead into 'em," as the moderns put it.

Sandy's father was the possessor of a renowned Joe Manton, and many were

the tales told by the lad of his father's prowess and the wonderful

distances at which this Joe Manton could kill.

The creek on both sides was lined for the most part with rushes, weeds,

and water-reeds, which afforded fine cover and food for the wild-fowl.

It was possible to pass within short distances of the ducks in the

rushes without being aware of their presence.

"Keep your eyes skinned along here, Joe," remarked Sandy, after rowing

some distance. "Might start a brace at any time."

The words were hardly out of the boy's mouth when a bird rose out of the

reeds with a great flutter. Joe's gun was up in a trice, and before it

had flown a dozen yards, it fell into the water with a splash.

"Good shot, Joe; but what's the use of wasting powder and shot over a

red-bill? Thought you knew a coot from a duck."

"Well--I--I'm blest! If I'm not a dumplin'-headed, double-dyed duffer!

As if I hadn't shot tons of 'em. Well, well, well!"

"It's not well at all," answered Sandy with a grin, as the boat glided

past the beautiful glossy black and purple-hued bird, which, though

edible enough, generally ran to toughness, and was not classed as game.

Yet a plump red-bill that has fattened on the river-end patch of the

settlers' maize is by no means to be despised.

Joe quietly reloaded, and was doubly on the _qui vive_ after the

misadventure. He had his revenge before long, for on rounding the point

they ran into a mob of teal which were camping on a shady mud-beach.

The teal rose in a very alert fashion, flying back over the boat.

Quickly turning, Joe poured the contents of right and left barrels into

the retreating birds. Three of them soused into the water, two of which

were stone-dead. The third, though badly wounded, was nevertheless

exceedingly agile in dodging the boat by diving. After some trouble the

boys managed to secure it, and so a good start towards a full bag was

made.

Then their luck departed for a while. Two or three pairs of black duck

rose, but out of range.

"Here, Sandy, let me take the oars and give you a spell," said Joe,

after proceeding about two miles from the landing. The positions were

reversed, and the boat sped on its way to the junction.

"Pull easy, Joe," said Sandy, as that point came in sight. "There's a

chance of the wood-duck on the spit. We mustn't miss this lot, anyway.

You'd best land me here, ole man, an' I'll stalk 'em."

Joe, whose back faced the spit, to coin an Irishism, turned round to

survey the birds, which clustered thickly on the spit-end.

"See 'em, Joe," said Sandy excitedly. "It's a grand mob. If I don't

knock half a dozen, you may----"

"Bag the whole bloomin' lot if you like, Sandy M'Intyre," replied the

rower, who had been gazing intently on the birds, and now turned to his

mate with an amused smile.

"Why--why--whatcher mean?"

"Mean! Mr. Alexander Duff M'Intyre, bushman, waterman, sportsman, and

naturalist by profession, but only a Scotch mixture of bat an' mole for

all that! Why----"

"Do you mean to insinuate, Joe Blain, that yon's not a mob of

wood-duck?"

"Yes; and ready to swear to it till all's blue. I _did_ think you knew

the difference between a duck of any sort and a plover!"

"You call 'em plov----?"

Here one of the birds stretched its neck, flapped its wings, gave a hop

and a short run, plover-ways, and finished with the typical harsh note.

"Great Donald! you're right, man!" finished the boy, in a mortified tone

and with a considerable amount of disgust.

"Oh, well," he resumed, after a moment's silence, "a few plover won't

come amiss, especially if we don't collar any more duck. Like 'em

myself, grilled, as well as anything; they've such plump little breasts.

Pull on, Joe."

Joe made for the spit, coming in so quickly with a few quiet but

vigorous strokes that Sandy was able to get in a pot and a flying shot,

accounting for no fewer than five.

"I vote," exclaimed that youth, when they had bagged the plover, "that

we pull into the mouth of 'Skeeter Crick, tie up to the bank, an' stalk

the crick for a mile or so; then we can cross over to the scrub by the

old tree. We'll chance to get a pigeon or two, or I'm mistaken. P'r'aps

we'll have better luck with the ducks on our way back. Never saw 'em so

scarce on the Crocodile before."

Accordingly, they landed a hundred yards or so up the creek, assailed

the contents of the tucker bag, and then proceeded to skirt the right

bank, on the look out for duck. A single bird, a very fine drake, fell

to Joe's gun near the fallen log which bridged the narrow stream. This

crossed, the boys entered into a belt of virgin scrub that extended back

a mile or so from Crocodile Creek, abutting Mosquito Creek along its

breadth.

"We'd bes' separate, Joe," said Sandy, when they had gone a little

distance into the jungle. "You keep on a few hundred yards, and then

bear on the left towards the Crocodile. I'll make straight for there

from here. It'll be hard if we don't account for a bird or two."

The scrub was very thick and interwoven in places. It contained a number

of native fig trees of great height and spread. These trees were in

fruit, therefore there was a better chance of getting pigeon, some

varieties of which are exceedingly fond of the native fig.

The umbrageous trees formed a lofty canopy whose cool shades were very

agreeable after a couple of hours on the water under a January sun. The

lawyer and other cane vines hung from the great trees in long festoons,

varying in thickness from ropes no thicker than one's little finger to

the great cables extending downward from the huge limbs of the fig

trees. Besides these growths were scrub bushes, many of which were

covered with blossom, and still others with berries, blue and red. There

were also spaces of bare ground, occupied only by giant fig and other

columnar trees. These, by natural formation, made arched aisles, whose

loftiness, lights, distances, and vistas constituted a grandeur, and

even splendour, unapproached by any of the great cathedrals of earth.

These, however ancient, are but things of yesterday when compared with

nature's porticoes, cloisters, and altar spaces.

The boys, however, took little heed of these things. They were in the

scrub neither for architectural nor devotional purposes. Pigeons and

other scrub game alone had any attractions for them.

After separating they walked warily, listening with both ears and

scanning with both eyes. Sounds there were in abundance. The

ubiquitous minah, as the noisy and saucy soldier-bird is called, is as

widespread as the gum tree itself. The thrush, though smaller than its

English namesake, and with a differing note, is equally melodious. Then

peculiar to scrub country are the musically metallic notes of the pretty

but exceedingly coy bell-bird.

Henry Kendal, the greatest of Australian nature poets, has limned it in

song. Here is a stanza--

"The silver-voiced bell-birds, the darlings of daytime,

They sing in September their songs of the Maytime.

When shadows wax strong and the thunder-bolts hurtle,

They hide with their fear in the leaves of the myrtle;

They start up like fairies that follow fair weather,

And straightway the hues of their feathers unfolden

Are the green and the purple, the blue and the golden."

There is also the merry Coachman, who cracks his whip with his beak, so

to speak, in such verisimilitude that the wandering new chum looks round

eagerly for a coach-team.

Added to these are the soft coo-coo of the doves and the stronger and

booming note of the pigeon tribe. And beyond all these, the calls,

chirpings, and chatterings of scores of feathered favourites. They who

call the Australian bush songless libel it.

The pigeon has a coo that is as monotonous and far-reaching as a fog

horn. For this sound the boys are now cocking their ears. Presently

the loved note reaches Sandy's ears: coo--coo--coo!

"A wonga for a dollar, and where's one is sure to be another."

To locate a pigeon by its note is often a most difficult thing in the

scrub. It may be on the tree under which one happens to be standing, or

hundreds of yards away. To run down a pigeon by its note is a work that

needs experience and patience.

Sandy listened intently, mind as well as ears working. "Not high up,

that's certain. Seems to be right behind me. Bet tuppence he's on that

white cedar," said the boy to himself after a further scrutiny in the

supposed direction. Away in the locality indicated, distant a hundred

yards or so, rising above a clump of myrtles, was a white cedar tree,

its shining yellow berries revealing its presence as seen through the

tree boles and shrubs.

Stealthily moving through the undergrowth and timber, the lad cautiously

advanced towards the cedar. Gaining the myrtle cluster, he was thereby

screened to some extent even when viewed from above. Just then a coo

gave him the location. Moving to the edge of the saplings, he now got a

fair view of the tree beyond; and there, on a lateral limb, distant from

him not more than thirty-five yards, sat a glorious wonga-wonga, the

finest species of Australian pigeon, not to be beaten for table purposes

throughout the wide world. The specimen before Sandy was a male bird as

big as three ordinary pigeons.

"That fellow's calling his mate, and she's not far off, by the way he's

noddin' his head," surmised the youth. "Shall I pot him, or wait for his

mate and cop 'em both?"

The question was soon settled, for suddenly, and with a great whirr, the

hen rose from the ground, or rather, tiny water pool: for she had been

drinking and bathing and admiring her reflected image in the glassy

water. Her return, alas! is the signal of death, for what time she

alighted on the bough at her spouse's side, the remorseless hunter, with

hasty but true aim, brought both fluttering to the ground.

Their necks are wrung and they are bagged instanter, with a laconic but

satisfied grunt from the sportsman: "Not so bad."

At this moment a double shot broke on Sandy's ears. This was immediately

followed by a deep, mellow sound that formed the common signal of the

pals. Putting his two hands with hollowed palms together, conch-shell

fashion, the boy raised them to his lips and blew a prolonged and

resonant note followed by three short notes staccato, which conveyed to

the other's ears the answer: "Heard you, am coming."

"Joe wants me for something. Got into a covey of bronze-wings, or maybe

a mob o' flocks," muttered the lad as he made in the direction of the

sound.

He soon espied his mate at the butt of an enormous fig tree, and

signalled his advent. The moment Joe perceived Sandy he stooped down

and picked up a couple of large black-looking birds, and waved them

excitedly.

"My word! ole Joe's run into a flock of turkeys. Hurrah! here's luck."

Yes, Joe had been fortunate enough to "rise" a fine lot of tallagalla,

to call them by their native name, better known as scrub turkey.

Unlike the so-called turkey of the plains--which, indeed, is not a true

turkey, but a bustard--the scrub turkey is true to its title, being

seldom or never seen out of thickly wooded country. Its breeding home

is a huge mound raised by scratching together the dry leaves and bits of

rotten bark and wood. On the top of this elevation of debris the eggs

are laid, some scores of them, and barely covered. As the birds use the

same spot for many years, the nests become in time mounds of vast

dimensions. Turkey nest, as it is called, becomes in time a rich compost

of leaf-mould, and is eagerly sought for garden purposes.

The bird itself is stronger in the legs than in the wings. Unless

startled and rushed, it will not rise, but scuttles through the

undergrowth with inconceivable speed, and he is a fortunate man who is

able to draw a bead as it darts through the thousand obstacles of the

scrub. Hence the necessity of a good dog to rush the birds pell-mell

and startle them into immediate flight, when they almost invariably seek

refuge in the trees near by.

Joe, fortunately, heard the drumming and clucking of a turkey gobbler

before he was seen of them. Moving with intense caution through the

bush, which was very thick at this spot, he saw at last through the

intervening leaves, on a patch of bare ground, scratching among the

decayed vegetable matter for grubs, a flock of turkeys containing a

score or more.

They were exceedingly active, running hither and thither; many of them,

just at the pullet stage, indulging in mimic warfare. The elder ones

were busily engaged grubbing. Joe could easily have shot two or three of

them as he stood an unseen watcher. There was a better way than that,

however. Once "tree" them, and one could leisurely pick his birds. How

are they to be got into the trees? He'll be his own dog.

Bursting out from his cover with a hair-raising and blood-curdling yell,

making at the same time a high jump and wildly waving his arms, the

stalker rushed into the midst of the mob, catching, indeed, a young one

by the leg, and generally making such a hullabaloo as to scare them into

instant flight.

It is a peculiarity of this bird, like that of its American brother,

when once "treed," to remain there. Wanton shooters, taking advantage

of this trait, will often shoot a flock right out.

The birds put up by Joe, with one or two exceptions, flew into the trees

surrounding them. The lad's first act was to slip a piece of string

round the captured turkey's legs and swing it from a tree limb. This

done, he took a couple of pot shots, bringing down a young gobbler each

time. Having made sure of a brace, he signalled to his mate, as

described.

The shooters, with true sporting instinct, refrained both from wanton

destruction and from shooting at the hens. They picked out half a dozen

of the biggest males, leaving the others on their perches.

Needless to say, the boys were greatly pleased with their success in the

scrub. On their way home good fortune followed them. Though they did

not sight the mob of woods, they surprised a pair, which they promptly

secured. Though the bag could not be considered a big one for those

days, it was a good one for variety.

Greatly to Mrs. M'Intyre's delight, the boys reached home a little after

three o'clock. During their absence of five hours they accounted for

the following game: one black duck, two wood-duck, three teal, five

spur-wing plover, six fat turkey gobblers, two plump pigeon, and the

captured turkey.

"You are dear, good boys," was Mrs. M'Intyre's comment as the game lay

side by side on the bench at the rear of the kitchen. "What fine birds!

what a lovely variety!"

Mrs. Mac., while not an epicure, was a noted housewife, and dispensed

hospitality in such a whole-hearted fashion and in such an acceptable

manner that her dinners were things to be remembered with delight.

"Go into the kitchen, boys, and get a snack: you'll be dying for

something to eat. After you've finished you can bear a hand with the

plucking and cleaning, as Denny's the only one about. Come here, Ah

Fat! What do you think of the birds, Ah Fat?"

"Dem welly good, missee."

"Yes, they'll do very well. The boys'll clean them for you--at least

the ones we're using to-night. We'll hang the rest. Let me see! they

had better clean the pigeons and plover first. You can put them on to

stew: we'll turn them into a game pie. Grill the teal, and roast a pair

of ducks and two gobblers."

"Allee lita, missee; I do 'em. That all? I mos go back an' look after

puddens."

Denny and the boys set to work on the fowl, and were soon feathers and

down from head to foot.

[Illustration: "Retreating one moment and advancing the following,

uttering war-cries."--_See p._ 219.]

"Tell me, Joe, me bhoy, did ye or Sahndy here shute the most b-i-rr-ds?"

"Honours are easy, Denny."

"Begorra! phwat th' divvil's thot?"

"It means that each shot an equal quantity."

"An e-qu-a-al quantitee! Be jabers, wheres did ye put 'em?"

"Put what?"

"Whoi, th' pair iv e-qu-a-al quan---- Be Saint Michael, it's a new sort

iv a b-i-rr-d ye've shuted!"

Denny was not so dense as he pretended to be.

"You're a downy cove, Denny," laughed Joe, who caught a twinkle in the

young Irishman's eye.

"That's true for ye, Joe," retorted the wit, surveying himself; "but,

bhoys, why doan't ye's take me wid youse? Sure an' it's a foine shot Oi

am."

"That's news, Denny. Didn't know you'd ever let off a gun."

"Manny an' manny's th' wan Oi've seen me farther bang off, annyways.

Did youse never hear tell iv me farther's shutin'? Shure he was a

sealabrity in Killarney!"

"Never. Tell us."

"Well, la-ads, wan da' he was rowin' th' Dook iv Dublhin, who was a

g-rr-a-at sport, on th' woild la-a-kes iv Killarney. They was lukin'

for dooks."

"Set a duke to catch a 'dook,' eh, Denny?"

"Be aisy, Marsther Joe. It's th' flyin' dooks Oi'me dascribin'. Be

jabers! farther rowed about a tousan' moile, and th' only dook th'

g-rr-a-at mahn shuted was a gull, though they was there in g-rr-a-at

mobs."

"The gulls or the ducks, Denny?"

"If you'd 'a' bin there they wud 'a' bin two gulls, annyhow, me mahn."

"Good for you, Denny. Let him finish, Joe."

"Well, shure, saays farther at last, ses he, 'If y're Riall Hoiness wud

let me have wan shot, maybe Oi'd bring ye luck.' An' he did it. So

farther, he gits th' Dook's big gun, an' th' Dook he tuk th' pathles,

an' bynby they see a mob iv dooks all in a loine acrost th' boat's bows,

saalin' for all th' warld loike th' owld loin-iv-batthle ships in th'

pictures, stim an' starn.

"'Howld aisy,' saays farther, ses 'e, whin they got abreast thim fowls.

With that he pinted th' gun at th' la-adin' dook, an owld dr-a-ake be

th' same token--pulled th' thrigger an' let her off. Wud ye bela-ave

me, so quick was he that before all th' shot had got out iv th' way-pon

he'd got her down to th' tail-most birr-d, an' betune you an' me an'

little Garr-ge Washintong in th' Bible, ivry sowl iv thim dooks lay

spaachless dead upon th' wather. Now thin, phwat div ye think iv that

f'r shutin', ye gosoons?"

"Think of it, Denny," said Maggie, who had been standing at the kitchen

door, unobserved of the boys, an amused listener. "Why, you'll be

writing a book one day that will put the Kybosh on Baron Munchausen."

"Well, if iver Oi does, Miss Maggie," replied the incorrigible Irish

boy, "Oi'll pit y'reself in as th' laaden acthress--Oi mane th'

herr-owyne."

"Maggie!"

"Coming, mother."

*CHAPTER XXIV*

*THE CORROBBERIE*

"Deep in the forest depths the tribe

A mighty blazing fire have spread:

Round this they spring with frantic yells,

In hideous pigments all arrayed.

* * * * *

One barred with yellow ochre, one

A skeleton in startling white,

Then one who dances furiously

Blood-red against the great fire's light.

* * * * *

Like some infernal scene it is--

The forest dark, the blazing fire,

The ghostly birds, the dancing fiends,

Whose savage chant swells ever higher."

WILLIAM SHARP.

"Jacky and Willy want to know if they can have some raddle,[#] whitning,

and blue: can they, dad?"

[#] Raddle: a red pigment used for marking sheep, etc.

"They're very reasonable, I maun say. And what are they aifter noo, the

scamps?"

"Oh, I thought you knew, dad! There's going to be a grand corrobberie

to-night. Old Tarpot has sent in a messenger for them to go out, and

take this stuff with them, and----"

"Precious cool cheek on the pairt of Tarpot, and o' the boys as weel.

Why couldna they come oure and ask me properly?"

"Dunno, dad."

"It's the blacks' way all over, dad," said Maggie.

"Dad, dad," interrupted Jessie, who was eagerly waiting a chance to get

in a word, "you said, the last time there was a corrobberie, when you

refused to let us go, that you would the next time. Now then, dado, you

can't refuse to let us this time. Say you will. Ah, I know by your

eyes you will say yes! You dear thing, it's worth a kiss and a hug."

When the ardent girl had bestowed these filial pledges she turned round

to Sandy and the others, out of whose sails she had taken the wind in a

manner.

"There now, young people, we are all going, for which I ought to be

thanked. Only for my good memory, I'm afraid the dear man would have

said no! wouldn't you, dadums? We'll make up a party, and Mr. Neville

will, I am sure, be delighted at the exhibition."

"My stars, Jess, but you're gettin' 'em bad! You will be applying for a

school teacher's billet next. Such consideration for Mr. Neville, too!

Why----"

"Oh, brither mine, bless your poor thick skull; it's positively no use

you trying to be funny--you simply can't. Oh, it'll be glorious fun,"

continued she, turning to the Englishman.

"But, Miss Jessie, please! In the first place, what is this corbobbery?

Is that the way it is pronounced?"

"No, sir, it is not; though to be sure they do kick up a tremendous

bobbery."

"Well, whatever the name, I suppose it stands for an aboriginal

ceremonial or pastime?" said Neville smilingly.

"Exactly. Cor-rob-ber-ie is their Cafe Chautant, a free-and-easy; with

this difference, though--all their performers appear in full dress; got

up to kill by the aid of the tribe tonsorial artists and valets. The

young bucks are perfect pictures, I do assure you; and as for the

girls----"

"Don't take any notice of the saucy kid, Mr. Neville," broke in Sandy,

who felt that he owed his young sister one. "She's only jigging you.

It's their native dance and song by the firelight; she's right there.

The men do the dancing, and the women simply play the music."

"Music! I had no idea that they were----"

"Musicians. Oh well, not exactly that. They beat time for the men.

They, the men, are all painted up and armed. It's a sort of action

song, but it's jolly fine, a tiptop sight, especially when there's a big

mob of them. Sometimes four or five tribes get together for what they

call the 'great corrobberie.' Then you see something; for there's

generally ructions before they finish, particularly if there has been

any grog in the camp. In that case they usually wind up with a fight,

and then there's the killed and wounded to count when the cleaning-up's

done. It's all right to-night, though. There will be only two tribes

in it, and they've always been friendly. Would you like to come?"

"Come! I wouldn't miss it for the world. Yes, you may reckon on me for

one--that is, of course, if your father is agreeable for us to go."

"I suppose, dad," said Sandy, turning to his father, "we may all go?

It's to be held at the old spot."

"Oh, weel, I suppose you'd think me hard-herted if I said no? I'll jist

mak' one condeetion, and that is, dinna interfere wi' the blacks. You

maunna mak' ony attempt to boss them. Let them cairry oot things in

their ain way."

"All serene, dad."

"Can the boys have the whitnin' and other things from the store?"

repeated Sandy.

Consent is given, and the heart of Tarpot, the King of Bullaroi, is made

glad with a goodly parcel of pigments.

That night after tea the party, including Denny Kineavy, mount their

steeds and ride out to the corrobberie grounds, a matter of three miles.

It was situated on a lightly timbered box-tree flat, where a cleared

space occurred forming a natural amphitheatre, wherein the aboriginal

tribes foregathered periodically and disported themselves in their

national characters and games at night time.

The blacks make a distinction in these festivals. There is the

corrobberie and the cobborn (or great) corrobberie. It was one of the

former that the whites were to witness. The latter occurred only at long

intervals, and was a time of feasting as well as amusement; both

feasting and play being prolonged often for weeks, and generally

attended by all the tribes within a radius of hundreds of miles.

Each tribe would bring its song and dance (corrobberie), in many cases

composed for the special occasion. This produced the exciting element

of competition. A corrobberie of exceptional excellence would be

learned by the other tribes, and on their return to their own country

passed on to the surrounding tribes. Thus it happened sometimes that a

corrobberie of singular merit travelled round and through the continent.

These folk-songs were associated with the dances, and treated on

elemental themes, as war, the chase, the feast, love, birth, death.

Often some humorous theme would be introduced, causing immense fun. As

a rule each tribe had clowns, whose grotesque attitude and voice

intonations were mirth-provoking to a degree. The Australian native

manifests a keen appreciation of a joke and has an inborn tendency to

laughter.

The preparations were far advanced by the time the station party arrived

at the camp. The gins, to whom fell all labour of a manual sort, were

lighting the fires, while the bucks were busy "dressing" for their

parts.

The girls remained in the clearing talking to some of the old gins,

while the males proceeded to the outskirts of the forest, where the work

of adorning went on apace.

For this no pains were spared. The naked bodies of the dancers were

treated by the tribe experts, and some fearfully and wonderfully

startling effects were produced. Take His Majesty, Tarpot, as a sample.

The ordinary court dress of the King consisted of a tattered police

uniform, together with a crescent-shaped brass plate that adorned his

breast, where it hung, suspended by a chain from his neck. The

plate--presented to him on one occasion as a joke--bore upon it the

inscription--