"Good-bye all," he said; then slid into the count-out pen, vaulted two fences, got his saddle and swag. When he caught his horse, he saddled up, mounted, and rode away across the ranges.
"There's a roaring fire in that volcano," said Peter Amos, keeping the words well between his teeth, for fear of the giant with the shock of red hair.
CHAPTER II
Whether the dream or the hand of fate gave him his course I know not, but Bill rode a straight line, up hill and down dale. When he came to a fence or a log he made his horse jump it. There was no going round or turning back, till he found himself descending a steep, rugged spot, known as the Devil's Punch Bowl.
"This is the place I saw in my dream," he said aloud; "but where is the dead man?"
A little stream wound in and out among the rocks. The hum of bees and the smell of honey filled the air. Wattles waved their yellow tassels, and reflected splashes of gold on the water. Wild mint, fennel, and chamomile dipped their feet in the water, and wove two ribbons of green on the margin of the brook, as far as the eye could measure them.
He came to a little track which his bush experience taught him was made by man. He followed it to the water's edge. Here it had a grim ending. A bucket and an old pannikin stood on a stone; a fresh footmark was printed, sharp and clear, on a patch of damp earth; and the body of a man, motionless, asleep or dead, was half hidden among the herbage, growing lush and tall, as if trying to screen it with loving hands.
Bill jumped off his horse, and gently turned the man over on his back and looked at him. One glance was enough. Two eyes, wide open, and horrible to behold, met his gaze. A faint smile seemed to linger about the mouth. The face appeared to be chiselled marble. It was easy to see that Death had aimed true, and that his dart had struck home.