The white party stand altogether on the flat, listening, for a few minutes, and then the less perfect auditory organs of the whites can distinguish the “property, property, property” of approaching horsemen. A couple of minutes more, and a rattle of brittle stones, followed by a brief plunging in the narrow part of the swamp close by, and two horsemen appear upon the grassy flat, and, bending upon their horses’ necks to avoid the branches, ride through the shadows at a walking pace towards the men on foot. The first of the new-comers to appear in view is a black “boy” of the conventional type, save that he is better clothed than the usual station native, and wears a scarlet handkerchief, placed turbanwise, upon his head.
“I’ll be hanged if I wasn’t right about that blank Britisher!” says the “boss,” angrily, out loud, as the second rider comes into view. “Why couldn’t the beggar leave this part of the work to me if he doesn’t like to do it himself, not go poking his nose after me wherever I go. But I don’t care a cursed shake of a possum’s tail if the beggar ‘props’ or not at it.” He openly affirms his feeling of nonchalance, but in his heart he feels very uncomfortable,—which, seeing that the new-comer is his partner, who is to supply the necessary funds for stocking the new run with cattle, and for wages, rations, and fencing wire; and, moreover, since an important contract between them has just been broken by himself, his irritation is natural. “Curse me,” he murmurs to himself, biting his lower lip, “if I’d waited till he’d got accustomed to what the other fellows will do when they take up the country round us, and he found the niggers coming for beef on his own run, he’d soon have been the same as all of us.”
The white rider comes up to the group. The broad brim of his dirty, white felt hat, turned up in front, so as not to obscure his view, shows the stern and severe face of a man of about forty-five. He holds a revolver in his sword hand, is spare of form and sinewy, and wears a thick brown beard. The bosom of his grey shirt flaps opens as he moves; and the long stirrup leathers he uses show at once that he has learned riding elsewhere than in Australia.
“Morning, Sam,” says the “boss,” as the horseman pulls up, “anything wrong at Bindiacka?”
The other men look on curiously, as if they expected a wordy warfare and were waiting for the first shot.
“Have not come from the camp,” answers Dyesart, for it is our hero’s uncle that is eyeing his partner keenly as he replies to the latter’s question.
“I had a look round the big flat to the eastward after I left you yesterday. Came across a friendly lot of natives at a place,” pointing to his “boy,” “Saul says they call Narrabella. Coming back cut your tracks. Lost them on the ‘gibbers’ (stones) last night. What have you been doing up here? No row with the natives, I hope? Heard rifle shots early this morning.”
“We camped here last night,” replies the last speaker’s partner, turning to avoid the keen eyes fixed upon him; “niggers attacked us, if you want to know.”
“You camped here, leaving your horses and tucker (food) behind,” sneers Dyesart, disgusted with the palpable lie.
He continues after a moment,—