But long before the hostile band appeared one of their youths, as forerunner, hailed a Waigonda scout, and signified that he wished to speak.
Dromoora sent a young man to ask him what he wanted, and this was the answer brought back,—
“We, the tribe of Tingura, have come openly, not creeping in upon you, and we intend to kill you all if you do not give up the white men, their dog, and the white men’s stick.”
“Tell the messenger,” bellowed the enraged Waigonda chief, as soon as he could get over this audacious threat, “that neither white men nor stick will be given up—that the Tingura may prepare to lay their bones here; that we shall take all their women, and that we have long wished to see how the cowardly, thieving dingoes will fight.”
When Dromoora’s message was conveyed to the enemy, who were now quite close, tremendous yells, mingled with derisive cries could be heard, accompanied by the thunder of rushing feet, and the next moment, as it seemed, a whole flight of boomerangs entered the camp.
These were dodged or warded off by the yelamans (or shields), and Dromoora and his warriors rushed forth to meet the foe, and with clubs and spears the battle commenced in earnest.
For the first few minutes Mat and Tim had their attention entirely engaged in warding off or dodging the numerous blows aimed at them, and whilst so engaged had not received a scratch, though more than one assailant had felt the power of their arms.
At the very first onset, by sheer weight of numbers, the friendlies were driven temporarily back a few steps, when Mat, who towered above most of his assailants, caught sight of a stoutly-built black fellow, wearing an enormous head-dress of emu feathers, fighting his way through friends and foes to get at him. At the same moment he recognized Tim’s voice, roaring out in English above the awful din,—
“Look out! the devil who the dog bit.”
And he it was, sure enough, with his wrist bound up with some animal’s skin, and with fury gleaming out of his deep-set eyes.