“That old bloke took ’im,” he said. “Old bloke that come in the coach. While yous was all talking in the pub, he sneaks out here and nabs that ’orse, and away like a rabbit. See that dust on the plain? That’s ’im.”
The drover looked helplessly out over the stretch of plain. He seemed quite incapable of grappling with the problem.
“Took my horse, did he? Well, I’m blowed! By Cripes!”
He had another good stare over the plain, and back at the party.
“My oath!” he added.
Then the natural stoicism of the bushman came to his aid, and he said, in a resigned tone,
“Oh, well, anyways, I s’pose—s’pose he must have been in a hurry to go somewheres. I s’pose he’ll fetch him back some time or other.”
Gordon leant down from the box of the coach.
“You tell him,” he said, “when he does fetch him back, that if I’d had a rifle, and had seen him sneaking off like that he’d have wanted an ambulance before he got much farther. Tell him I’ll find him if I have to hunt him to death. Tell him that, will you?”
“All right, Mister!” said the drover, obligingly, “I’ll tell him!”