Something was the matter. That was very evident. There was a light in Braxton’s blue eyes and a flush on the pale cheek.
“Bill,” he said, putting his hand on his comrade’s shoulder, “it’s about time you made tracks for the settlements.”
“What d’ye mean?” said Chicago.
“Why, I mean that the murderers are within a league of us, and that I intend going for them. There, don’t be huffed, old man,” he added; “of course I knew you were only joking. But they are there, Bill; I saw smoke on the top of that hill, and it wasn’t good, honest smoke, mind you; it was dry-wood smoke, and meant to be hid. I thought it was mist at first; but no, it was smoke. I’ll swear it. It could only be them: who else would camp on the summit of a desolate hill? We’ve got them, Bill; we have them as sure as Fate.”
“Or they’ve got us,” growled the American. “But here, lad, here’s my glass; run up and have a look at them.”
“It’s too dark now,” said Braxton; “we’ll camp out to-night. No fear of them stirring. They’re lying by there until the whole thing blows over, depend upon it; so we’ll make sure of them in the morning.”
The miner looked plaintively up at the tree, and then down at his fourteen stone of solid muscle.
“I guess I must take your word for it,” he grumbled; “but you are bushman enough to tell smoke from mist, and a dry-wood fire from an open one. We can’t do anything to-night till we feel our way, so I allow we’d best water the horses an’ have a good night’s rest.”
Braxton seemed to be of the same mind; so after a few minutes’ preparation the two men wrapped themselves in their cloaks, and lay, two little dark spots, on the great green carpet of the primeval bush.
With the first gray light of dawn Chicago sat up and roused his comrade. A heavy mist hung over the bushland. They could hardly see the loom of the trees across the little glade. Their clothes glistened with the little shining beads of moisture. They brushed each other down, and squatted in bush fashion over their rough breakfast. The haze seemed to be lifting a little now; they could see fifty yards in every direction. The miner paced up and down in silence, ruminating over a plug of “Barrett’s twist.” Braxton sat on a fallen tree sponging and oiling his revolver. Suddenly a single beam of sunshine played over the great blue-gum. It widened and spread, and then in a moment the mist melted away and the yellow leaves glowed like flakes of copper in the glare of the morning sun. Braxton cheerily snapped the lock of the pistol, loaded it, and replaced it in his belt. Chicago began to whistle, and stopped in the middle of his walk.