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.