In the Musgrave Ranges

CHAPTER XV

A Night Alarm

It can well be imagined that both lads fell asleep quickly and soundly that night after their first day in the yards. Sidcotinga Government House had a veranda on one side of it, and they spread their swags under it just outside Mick's room, as there was no place for them inside, especially in summer.

In the middle of the night a man crept round the corner of the veranda as silently as a black shadow. He paused near the boys, and stooped down and looked into their faces. The lads were sound asleep and did not stir. After a moment's scrutiny the native put his hand on Sax's shoulder and shook it. The tired boy only gave a restless murmur, so the man shook him harder. He opened his eyes at last and realized that somebody was bending over him, but he was so sleepy that he did not call out.

As soon as he saw that Sax was awake, the native held up his left hand, so that the white boy could see it outlined against the pale night sky. The two middle fingers were missing. It was the man who had already done him more than one good turn.

Stobart sat up, prepared for anything which this black-fellow—who knew the father, and seemed so devoted to the son—might suggest. The man pointed down across the trampled sand towards the cattle-troughs. He did it again and again, making little runs in that direction and coming back at once, like a dog who wants its master to go in a certain direction.

"All right, I'll come," whispered Sax at last, forgetting that the man probably could not understand him. Sax had intended to go alone, but when he stood up, Vaughan opened his eyes and asked sleepily: "What's all the row about?"

"No row at all," whispered his companion. "That is, unless you make it. There's something wrong somewhere and I'm going to have a look."

"So am I," responded Vaughan quickly, for the chance of an adventure drove all sleep away from him. "So am I. You bet your life."

The silent native led the way, armed with a boomerang and a shield, creeping from the shelter of one building to that of another, till they were close to the troughs. The man held up his finger and listened. There was a sound of running water. Sax recognized it as the ball-valves of the troughs. There were four of them. Suddenly the thought struck him: Why were they running? From where the three men were standing the dark lines of the troughs could be seen even at night, against the light-coloured sand, and it was clear that no stock were drinking there. But if the valves were running it showed that the troughs were empty, and the water must be flowing away somewhere. It must be wasting.

The importance of water in the desert had already impressed itself upon the white boys, and as soon as they realized that precious water was running away in the sand, they rushed out from behind the shelter towards the troughs. The armed native went with them.

There should have been a plug at the end of each trough. Somebody had pulled these plugs out, and the water was gushing a full stream through the four ball-valves and was running to waste over the sand. This had apparently not been going on for more than five or ten minutes, but it was absolutely necessary to stop the waste; for if once the overhead tank was drained dry, and if there was no wind to work the mill for a day or two, Sidcotinga Station would be entirely without water.

The boys did not stop to wonder who had done this dastardly deed, but went to jam the plugs back again into their holes. But the plugs could not be found. Something must be done immediately. It would waste precious time to run back to the station and hunt round for something to make plugs out of, so they started to fill the ends of the troughs with sand and clay, scooping it up with their hands and ramming it tight till one after another of the leakages was stopped.

When they were occupied with the fourth, and had nearly made a tight job of it, Sax looked around for the native who had told them that something was wrong. The man was standing a couple of yards away with his shield raised. He looked for all the world as if he was defending them from some attack. And so he was. Scarcely had Sax begun to work again, scooping more sand and clay and plastering it smooth and firm, when he heard the click of wood against wood, and a spear stuck into the ground just behind him. Another followed and another with hardly any pause between. The native still maintained his attitude of tense watchfulness. He had already turned three messengers of death off with his shield, and was waiting for more. None came.

He backed slowly towards the boys, still facing in the direction from which the spears had come. Presently he turned quickly and pointed to Government House, and then took up the same position of attention. His meaning was quite clear. He wanted one of the boys to go up to Government House and give the alarm.

Vaughan instantly jumped to his feet and ran, leaving Sax to finish the work at the troughs, guarded by the faithful nigger. In an incredibly short time Dan Collins and Mick Darby came running down, armed with rifles and revolvers. When the stranger black-fellow saw them he disappeared. No one saw him go, and indeed it would have been dangerous for him if they had; for when two white men with loaded weapons are looking for a chance to shoot a nigger, they are as likely to shoot a friend as a foe. The night seemed to swallow him up, and the white men and Vaughan, who followed hard after them, found Sax alone. Even the three spears had been taken away.

Tracks of naked feet all around the troughs showed that a couple of Musgrave blacks had wilfully pulled the plugs out of the water troughs, knowing that this was one of the ways in which they could do most harm to the hated white man. If the native with the mutilated hand had not given the alarm, Sidcotinga Station would have been right out of water by the morning. No one knew who this friendly black-fellow was. Sax told the others that it was the same man who had put the sprig of needle-bush in the quart-pot, and who had also saved him from the bull a few hours before, but he did not explain how he knew this.

"Seems to have taken a fancy to you, whoever he is," remarked Dan Collins. "I wonder why."

Sax knew why, but he seemed to feel the influence of his father coming from the Musgraves, not far away, telling him to keep the matter secret.

The lads went back to bed, and the two white men kept watch at the troughs till daylight. But the blacks gave no sign of their presence. They had evidently been scared away.

CHAPTER XVI

Mustering

If the boys expected that the night alarm would be the chief subject of conversation next day they were quite mistaken, for the matter was hardly referred to at all. Sidcotinga was as far away from civilization as could possibly be, and its position under the dreaded and mysterious Musgrave Ranges made it the object of repeated attacks by little bands of warragul blacks. Consequently the manager was quite used to turning out in the middle of the night to guard one portion or another of the station property, and the mere pulling out of the plugs from the watering-troughs was forgotten almost as soon as the affair was over.

Important business was afoot—the chief business of a cattle-station—mustering. Station blacks were sent out early in the morning after working-horses; packs, saddles, canteens, hobbles, and horse-gear generally were carefully overhauled by Mick, and tucker-bags were filled with flour, sugar, tea, dried salt meat, and a tin or two of jam. Before sunset everything was ready for an early start next day, for about fifty working-horses had been brought in, out of which number Mick and the manager chose thirty for the mustering plant.

Dan Collins had sent four station boys to round up the horses: Calcoo, whose real name went into about ten syllables and was quite impossible for a white man to pronounce; Uncle, a thoroughly reliable black-fellow, who was somewhat older than the others; Fiddle-Head, so called because of his long thin face; and Jack Johnson, a native of splendid physique from one of the great rivers which flow into the Gulf of Carpentaria. Another black stockman had stayed behind to help Mick Darby and the white boys with the packs. His name was Poona, and he understood station ways better than the others, because Dan Collins had taken him in hand when he was a piccaninny, and taught him to be very useful.

Just before dinner, when Mick was busy mending a pack-bag and Sax and Vaughan were having their first lesson in making waxed thread for sewing leather, Poona came up to the drover with another black-fellow. His companion was naked except for a rope of hair tied round his waist from which a small apron hung down. Sax looked up and recognized him immediately; it was the native with the mutilated hand who had been such a good friend to the white boy. Stobart was about to call out, when the man put his finger on his thick black lips and pointed to the Musgraves. He did this three times, and shook his head so earnestly that Sax knew that, for some reason or another, the black did not want to be recognized.

Mick Darby finished a row of stitching and then paid attention to the two men who were standing so silently in front of him, waiting the pleasure of the white man. He knew Poona, but the presence of the other native needed explaining. "What name, Poona?" he asked.

"You want um 'nother boy go mustering?" asked Poona, pointing to his companion.

Mick looked at the naked man for a moment, and then asked: "Is he any good?"

"Yah. Him bin good fella," replied Poona eagerly. "Him bin ride like blazes. Him work one time longa Eridunda," mentioning a famous station farther north. This was not true. The warragul black had never worked on a station in his life and knew very little of the ways of white men. He was a Musgrave nigger who had recently come down from the Ranges. Mick wanted as many helpers as he could get, for the muster was to be a big one, and he engaged the newcomer without further inquiries.

"All right," he said. "What's his name?"

Poona grinned and pronounced a name which he knew was quite impossible for a white man's tongue to manage. Everybody laughed, including the newcomer, who put up his mutilated hand to cover his grinning mouth. Mick noticed the deformity at once. The man's hand, with its three fingers set wide apart, from which long hard nails stuck out, resembled the claw of some bird, so the drover turned to the white boys and said: "What d'you think of that for a name? They've nearly all got names like that. We'll shorten this one down a bit and call him 'Eagle'. Look at his hand." He turned to Poona. "We call that one black-fella Eagle. See? His hand aller same eagle's hand. Take um round Boss Collins. P'raps him give it trouser, shirt, tobac."

In a few minutes the warragul black, duly enrolled as a stockman of Sidcotinga Station, was strutting about in front of a group of native women, dressed in a pair of khaki trousers and a striped store shirt, and was puffing at a new clay pipe. The novelty of his occupation and attire made up for their discomfort, and he would probably have been willing to force his broad feet into boots if they had been given to him, although he had never worn clothes in his life before, and must have found that they hindered his movements at every stride.

Next morning, although it was summer and the sun rose very early, the men had breakfast by the light of a hurricane-lantern, and the mustering plant was all ready to start out before dawn. There were Mick, the two white boys, six niggers, eight packed horses and the rest spares, making thirty in all. The white boys were naturally interested in the horses they were to ride. Sax had a grey mare named Fair Steel to ride in the mornings, and Ginger, a gelding, for the afternoons. Vaughan's two were both geldings: Boxer, a brown, and Don Juan, a tall black. All four horses were well-bred and thoroughly suitable for the month's hard work which lay ahead of them.

The plant made straight for the Musgraves. It was a brilliantly clear day, and when the sun rose the range of mountains ahead of them seemed to be only a day's ride away. But at the end of the second day, when the packs were pulled off near a water-hole, the Musgraves did not look to be any nearer. Mick and the white boys rode in the lead all day, and the plant, driven by the black-boys, followed behind; this is the method of travel all over Central and North Australia.

On the morning of the third day they started to muster. All around the water-hole were the recent tracks of hundreds of cattle, and the day's work consisted of riding out on these tracks till the limit was reached beyond which no cattle had gone from that particular water. Then the stockmen rode in, gathering cattle as they came. The party split up into three in order to muster the district thoroughly, and before sunset a mob of over four hundred cattle was bellowing round the water-hole. The nearest stock-yard was two days away, so the cattle had to be watched that night. Sax and Vaughan had done some night watching on the way from Oodnadatta to Sidcotinga, when wild blacks had been about, but a few tired, broken-in horses were very easy to watch in comparison with a mob of nearly half a thousand wild desert cattle.

The usual precautions were taken. The men made their camp on the slope of a little clay-pan out of sight of the water-hole, so that their movements in the night would not startle the cattle. All fires were put out before dark, and no man was allowed to shake his camp-sheet or make any sudden noise. Watches were arranged so that two stockmen were riding round the cattle all night long.

The moon was full enough to vaguely light the scene, which was very typical of Central Australia and could not possibly be met with in any other part of the world. Mick and Vaughan took first watch and Sax and Poona took the second. When Sax came off watch, and was riding up the little hill, looking forward to rolling himself up in his blankets, the sound of singing made him turn and look back. It was a wonderful sight which met his gaze, and those who have once seen a similar one are never really satisfied in any other place. The water looked flat like a mirror, and one or two cattle stood knee-deep in the edges of it. All around, just a vague black mass from which a warm mist of breath and hot bodies was rising, were the cattle, mostly lying down and contentedly chewing the cud, while a few wandered slowly about looking for one another and quietly murmuring. One of the black-boys, whose turn at watching had just come, was already riding round with one leg cocked lazily over the pommel of the saddle, and chanting a coroboree dirge, both to let the cattle know that he was about and because he was happy.

The other boy was waiting for Sax's horse. Sax dismounted and noticed that the man standing near him was Eagle. The native grinned as he climbed awkwardly on the horse, for he was not used to riding, and, as he moved off, he pointed with his mutilated hand in the direction of the Musgrave Ranges and uttered the words: "Bor—s Stoo—bar."

Sax sat down for a moment. These words reminded him that indeed this was his home, the land of his father, the place where perhaps he had been actually born. The magic of the desert night bewitched him; the half-moon, the few stars in the pale sky, the sense of limitless space across the sand, the water-hole and the camped cattle, the quavering voice of the chanting nigger which was now joined by another voice, wilder and more exultant—these things and the consciousness that his father was somewhere near, guarded by these mysterious desert forces and desert men—thrilled him, and when he stood up again and walked over to his swag, he knew in a way that he had never known before that the blood of the North was in his veins, and that he was the descendant of a race of heroes—the Australian bushmen.

The cattle were quiet all night. Mick was an old stockman and had given strict orders to his boys not to hurry the cattle, so that they arrived at the water-hole almost in the same mood as they would have done if they had come for a drink of their own accord. They were on their own country also, and there was not a strange stick or stone or tree to frighten them. Cattle very seldom rush at night when they are on their own feeding-grounds, and though Mick took no chances, and double-watched them all night, he did not expect anything unpleasant to happen. "It's better to be sure than sorry," he told the boys at breakfast.

Immediately the meal was over they started to "handle the cattle". That was Mick's way of expressing it, and, indeed, at one part of the proceedings the cattle were actually "handled". But before they reached that stage many things had to be done. Each man was mounted on the best horse possible, and the party rode down the hill to the water-hole, spreading out like a fan, and slowly working the cattle away from the water till they were on an open plain about a quarter of a mile away.

Now came one of the most difficult things that a stockman ever has to do. It is called "cutting out". Man and horse have to be of the very best to perform this feat properly or else the whole operation results in confusion. Mick was mustering the north of Sidcotinga run in order to brand all cleanskins, and there were probably not more than a hundred unbranded cattle in that mob of nearly half a thousand. Most of these were calves which were still running with their mothers, though there was a sprinkling of larger stock which had been missed the year before. The first job was to separate the cows and calves and other cleanskins from the main herd, thus dividing it into two mobs.

CHAPTER XVII

The Branded Warragul

By noon the cattle were in two mobs, clean-skins and branded. Leaving the clean-skins in charge of three boys, with instructions to keep them from straying, Mick and the other stockmen drove the branded cattle right away and let them go, and then rode back to camp for dinner. A fire was lit, the nine quart-pots put in the blaze, the damper and bag of meat brought out, and soon everybody was munching the hard tucker with a relish which can be gained only by a vigorous life in the open air. As soon as three of the black-boys had finished, they were sent out to relieve the ones who were watching the cattle, and at the end of the hour's middle-day "camp", everybody was ready for the branding.

There were one or two trees on the plain, and a suitable one was chosen with a strong bough about five feet from the ground. A pile of wood was collected and a fire lit and the brands made red-hot. Green-hide ropes were uncoiled to get the kinks out and coiled again ready for instant use, and every horseman saw to the tightness of his saddle-girth. Mick stood near the tree waiting to brand and cut, and with him were Fiddle-head and Jack Johnson for the front and back leg ropes, and Eagle to keep the brands hot and hand them when required. Poona and Uncle were each armed with a long pliant bull-hide lasso, and the two white boys and Calcoo rode round the cattle, keeping them well bunched up.

Mick looked round to see that every man was in his place, gave his knife an extra rub or two on his boot, and then shouted: "Right-o!"

Poona and Uncle rode forward at once to different ends of the mob. Each of them singled out a cleanskin, and almost at the same time two lassoes whirled through the air. The thin bull-hides uncoiled and uncoiled as they sped over the heads of the cattle, and the loops kept wide open and fell around the necks of the chosen victims. Both horses propped immediately, and the lasso-men sat back to take the strain. It came, but the horses knew their work and lay back, almost sitting on their tails, till the bucking, bellowing animals on the end of the ropes ceased their first efforts to escape. Then, bit by bit, as carefully as an angler plays a game fish, the beasts were drawn out of the mob, while Sax, Vaughan, and Calcoo kept the others from breaking away.

There is always keen rivalry between lasso-men as to who pulls his beast up to the fire first. Poona won this time, for the young bull on the end of Uncle's rope lay down and had to be dragged by main force, just as if it had been a bag of flour. When Poona reached the fire, Mick jerked the lasso over the outstanding bough in order to keep the clean-skin from running round. Meanwhile Fiddle-head and Jack Johnson were on the alert with their ropes, and in a few seconds they had flung them on and had drawn the loops tight, and pulled the animal down and held it. Mick at once loosened the lasso and Poona went back to the mob to rope another. "Brand-o!" was called, Eagle handed up a T.D.3 and a number brand, the head-stockman pressed these on to the near-side shoulder of the prostrate beast, and with a shout of "Let her go!" the leg ropes were taken off, and the dazed animal staggered to its feet and rejoined its companions. By this time Uncle had pulled his animal up near the tree, and as soon as it was branded, Poona had caught his second. And so the work went on without interruption, everybody working as hard as he could.

After about an hour Uncle threw his lasso and missed. The beast he was after was a three-year-old red bull with wide horns which he kept on tossing angrily. The animal saw the green-hide coming and ducked its head, and the whirling rope fell and flicked it in the eye. It was not Uncle's fault that he had missed, but it was a failure all the same, and nobody likes to come off second best when it is a case of such keen rivalry. He looked round and saw that his ill-luck had been observed by all his companions, for there was a lull in the work just at that time, and all hands were watching. The black-boy was on his mettle to redeem his reputation, and his blood was up to perform a feat which he had learnt on a northern cattle-station, but which had never been seen on Sidcotinga. The lasso had flicked the bull in the eye. With a roar of pain, it lifted its great horns and shook them and rushed out of the mob. Sax wheeled to turn it back, but Uncle signed to him to leave it alone. When the wild red bull was clear of the mob, the black stockman coiled the lasso on his left arm and made after it.

Everybody expected him to fling the lasso, but instead of doing that, he galloped up on the near-side of the animal and kept level with its rump for a yard or two. It was on the tip of Mick's tongue to shout out and tell the boy not to "play the fool", when Uncle leaned over with his hand spread out wide. Suddenly he grabbed the galloping bull's tail near the root and gave it a dexterous twist. Over went the animal. It crashed to the ground and threw up a cloud of dust. Uncle flung himself instantly off his horse and held the fallen beast for a moment, while he slipped the noose of the lasso over its head. Then he remounted and lay back to take the strain. It was all done so quickly that the red bull was on its feet again and was tugging at the rope before anybody realized what the stockman had done. He could have easily lassoed the escaping beast in the ordinary way, but his blood was up and he did this wonderful feat just to show his companions that though he had missed once with the lasso, he could do things with cattle which they had never thought of.

Eagle's first experience of cattle-branding was the recent day in the Sidcotinga yards when he had saved Sax from the horns of the infuriated bull, and the present work was so entirely new to him that he was very clumsy. Mick did not take this into consideration. Cattle were being dragged up to the tree one after another, and the brands had to be hot when he called out for them. That was the only thing Mick cared about just then. It is not at all an easy job to keep six pairs of brands red-hot in a fire of very fiercely burning wood on a blazing day in the desert with a north wind blowing. Everybody tries to avoid being made brand-man, for it is hard hot work with no praise and plenty of blame.

Poor Eagle made one or two mistakes, was sworn at, and became flustered and made more and worse mistakes, till Mick began to lose patience. The boy was really doing his best, and he had even taken off his much-prized trousers and shirt in order not to be hindered by them. But somehow he didn't get on at all well; the brands were either not hot enough, or he hadn't succeeded in keeping the handles cool, or he was short of wood, or an extra strong gust of wind had blown his fire nearly all away.

CHAPTER XVIII

Revenge

Just before sunset, after a long and tiring day's work, the last of the clean-skins was branded, and staggered to its feet and made off to rejoin the other cattle. Mick wiped his knife on his trousers and then used it to cut up a fill of tobacco. Sax had taken over the management of the brands after the adventure with Eagle, and was very glad to pull the irons out of the fire and let them cool in the sand. In fact, everybody was pleased to "knock off", both because they were thoroughly tired, and more especially because Mick's cruelty to the warragul had caused an unpleasant feeling to take the place of the former spirit of hearty good fellowship.

The men let the cattle go and rode dejectedly back to camp, and even Mick's efforts to start a conversation with his two white companions was not a great success. A fire was lit, the quart-pots were boiled and "tea-ed", and the damper and meat served out all round, and soon afterwards the stockmen unrolled their swags and lay down for the night.

Sax could not sleep. He turned over on one side and then on another, but did not seem able to find a comfortable position. During the excitement of his fall from the horse in the morning he had not noticed any injuries, but now, when he wanted to forget everything and go to sleep, he felt a large bruise on his hip and a sore place on each shoulder. The moon shone in his face and kept him awake, and he lay on his swag in a very unhappy frame of mind.

Mick's behaviour to Eagle worried him. His body was too tired and sore to rest, but his mind was unusually active, and kept on turning over and over the incidents of the day, and especially the short struggle between the white man and the warragul native.

Sax had been on the other side of the mob of cattle when the incident had occurred, but he had seen enough to make him very angry at the injustice. Eagle had proved himself to be Sax's friend on three occasions, and the lad consequently took the present matter to heart. He quite forgot that Mick did not know who Eagle was, and merely thought him to be a more than ordinarily useless black-fellow. Sax had found out to his cost what an exceedingly unpleasant task it is to keep brands hot on a blazing north-wind summer's day in the Australian desert.

The tired lad's indignant thoughts became confused as sleep gradually claimed him, and at last his aching body was at rest, though his mind still kept active and started to build dreams. Just after midnight, when everything was still, and the last of the cattle had ceased to splash in the water-hole and had gone out on one or another of the long cattle-pads which stretched away into the silent desert, when the half-moon looked down on the motionless and soundless world, a dark face peeped over the top of the sandhill above the sleeping stockmen. The man's naked body lay flat as a snake on the sand and wriggled forward with movements like the waving of a shadow on a wall, till the native could gain a clear view of the place where his unconscious enemy lay.

It was Eagle.

He had come to kill.

The T.D.3 brand, which still throbbed on his flank, was to him a mark of shame, and he knew only one way of washing that shame away—with the life-blood of the man who had put it there.

Slowly he raised his head and looked, remaining for a minute or two without any sign of life at all, not even the blinking of an eyelid. If everybody on the camp had been awake and had chanced to look that way, they would not have been able to distinguish the black-fellow's head from the scraggy bushes which grew here and there on the sand-hill. But all the men were asleep, and after Eagle had noted carefully where Mick was lying, he ducked down again behind the sand-hill and worked his way round till he was directly above the sleeping white man.

Just to one side of Mick's swag was a row of pack-saddles and bags, and leaning against one of the saddles was the axe which had been used to chop wood for the branding fire that afternoon. In fact Eagle had been the one who had chiefly used it. He was now going to use that axe again, but for a purpose more dear to his savage heart than cutting dead branches: he was going to cut the live body of a hated white man, and cut it again and again till no semblance of humanity remained.

He crept forward down the slope inch by inch. No snake in the grass is more silent and no fox is more stealthily alert than a black-fellow creeping on an enemy. The body is held tense for instant action, and the limbs move slowly and are put forward just a little bit at a time with that slinking movement which is known only to beasts of prey and to savage men. He reached the packs at last and lay down flat, not moving for fully five minutes. Gradually a black hand stretched out and a supple arm glided silently over the sand.

He grasped the axe. He did not drag it. Even that slight noise might spoil the night's work. He lifted and rose gently on his knees and one hand, and held the axe close to his body with the other.

Eagle is six yards from Mick. The critical time has come. No one can see him move, for he changes his position such a little and such a little more that he is in a new place without seeming to have left the old one. His actions are as imperceptible as those of water. Five yards. Four and a half. Four. Nearer and nearer. Three. Two. Surely he will strike now! He is on hands and knees. He waits for a moment or two and then straightens his body, pulls up one knee, and poises the axe behind him. He is like a spring. In another second the terrible tension will be relaxed and that supple black body will launch itself at the sleeping man. The axe will split the skull in two from forehead to chin, and not a sound will tell that the forces of the desert have claimed another invader as their victim.

The silence of the night is shattered by a shot. The poised axe falls to the ground. The crouching native springs into the air with a yell and puts a broken finger in his mouth. There is a mighty shout, and Mick hurls himself at his would-be murderer. A blow under the chin which would have felled a bull sends the black-fellow spinning to the ground several yards away. The white man follows like an incarnate fury and grapples at his enemy's throat. A terrible struggle ensues. Over and over they roll. Now the black is on top, now the white, but Mick never relaxes his hold on the man's throat. Gradually the native's struggles weaken. The white stockman digs deeper with his thumbs into the neck of the gasping man and waits the inevitable end. Finally all resistance ceases. The black body grows limp and the head falls back.

The green-hide ropes are lying near. Mick reaches for them and binds his captive more securely than any clean-skin cattle have ever been bound. Then he looks up and meets the startled gaze of Sax and Vaughan.

CHAPTER XIX

Chivalry in the Desert

Mick had expected to be attacked. He had worked with natives for thirty years and had had many narrow escapes for his life, and had come to anticipate danger and thus avoid it. When Eagle's head had poked up over the opposite sandhill, Mick had been lying in that half-sleep which cattle-men get used to and from which they are instantly awakened by the slightest unusual sight or sound. He had seen the native and had known from experience exactly what the man would do. With nearly closed eyes he had followed the stealthy movements of the man down to the packs, had seen him take the axe, and had waited till the very last moment with pistol-barrel pointing through a fold in the camp-sheet. Then he had fired at the hand which was grasping the axe.

At the sound of the shot the two white boys had been startled awake, but they had been so heavily asleep before, that it took them a moment or two to realize what was happening. By that time it was all over, and when they arrived on the scene, Mick was giving the last hitch to the bull-hide rope. In answer to their eager questions, the stockman told the lads of his adventure. It seemed terrible to them that Mick had been so near death, and they wondered at his letting the native get so near. But the white man treated the matter lightly, and all three of them stood round the bound native and watched him slowly recover consciousness.

The five black-boys were standing in a group on the other side of the smouldering fire, not knowing whether the white man's anger would vent itself on them, but they were reassured when he called out to them, pointing to the bound man: "This one, Eagle. Him try to kill white man. No good at all. Silly fella quite. You all good fella. You go back longa swag. You lie down. You all good fella."

Eagle's eyelids fluttered and then opened, and he looked up into the face of Sax. The light of the moon was strong enough to show the boy what intense appeal there was in the captive's eyes. The man evidently thought that he was going to be killed. He looked beseechingly at Sax and then rolled his eyes to the north, towards the Musgraves, and muttered the syllables: "Stoo-bar."

The sound drew Mick's attention to him. "So yer've recovered, have yer?" he asked, stooping down to pick up a quart-pot of water. "P'raps that'll help yer." He dashed the cold water into the man's face. It certainly brought him round to complete consciousness, and the dark eyes no longer looked appealingly at Sax, but gazed with hatred at his tormentor.

"Yer don't like having a decent brand on yer hide, don't yer?" sneered Mick. "Like me to take it off, would yer? Well, I'll have a try."

The white boys had no idea what the drover intended to do, and stood back when he asked them to do so, He rolled the helpless man over till his flank was uppermost and showed the recent brand-mark T.D.3. The brand was outlined with thick burns which stood up from the black flesh. Mick went over to his swag for his whip. It was long and supple, made of plaited kangaroo-hide, and ended in a well-rounded lash. He drew it once or twice through his fingers and then cracked it in the air. The sound was like the sudden banging together of two flat wooden boards. Mick stood back from the prostrate native and measured the distance with his eye.

"Don't like to be branded, don't yer?" he asked. "Well, I'll take it off for yer."

He drew back the whip and swung it forward. There was a yell of pain from Eagle. The lash had bitten right in the middle of the brand. The whip fell again and again, each time unerringly.

Sax sprang forward. He acted on the spur of the moment. With clenched fists and blazing eyes he stood between the drover and the bound man. For a moment there was silence except for the moaning of the tortured man. Mick looked at Sax and said, with a cruel smile: "Well, and who told you to interfere?"

"But, Mick," gasped the lad, surprised at his own audacity, but determined to see the matter through—"but, Mick, you can't do it. He's tied up."

"Can't do it, indeed!" shouted Mick. "Can't do it! That nigger wanted to kill me, he did. Look out. I'm going to chop that brand out of his side with this whip."

The thong whistled through the air over the drover's head and came forward. But Sax stood his ground. The falling whip coiled round his legs and jerked him off his feet, sending him backwards over the body of the bound native. Mick laughed and raised the whip again; but before it came down, the lad was on his feet and had cleared Eagle's body at a bound. The lash caught Sax's right leg. It slashed through the thin cloth of the trousers and left a bleeding cut from ankle to knee. The boy did not cry out. He grabbed at the whip and missed it, but before it could be raised again, Vaughan rushed forward and caught it. He twisted the plaited hide round his wrist and hung on. Sax joined him immediately, but they tried in vain to wrench the handle out of the infuriated man's hand. The unequal tussle was soon over. Mick was a big heavy man, and the lads were light and were not used to matching their strength against the endurance of a man. First one and then the other was thrown back. They came on again, however, till, with a sudden jerk, Mick flung the whip away from him, and faced them with his bare hands.

Sax and his friend were breathless. They stood panting beside the native on the ground, and looked at the drover.

"You young whipper-snappers!" he shouted, advancing with threatening gestures. "You young whipper-snappers! I'll teach you to mind your own business. Get out of my way."

But the exhausted boys stood firm. At all costs they meant to protect the bound man from the drover's anger. Mick hesitated for a moment. He looked at the lads who were so new to the back country and who had played the game so well. They seemed so young and small to him just then. Because of his man's strength he could easily have killed them both, but their very weakness made their obstinate resistance and pluck seem all the greater. His anger began to die slowly, and his clenched fists fell to his sides and opened. "I can thrash that nigger in the morning," he said to himself. And then his real manhood, which anger had hidden for a time, asserted itself, and he felt ashamed. "After all," he thought again, "a chap shouldn't hit a man when he's down, nigger or no nigger."

Finally he spoke aloud. "All right, you boys. I won't touch him to-night. Leave him where he is till morning. I'm going back to bed."