Fortunately there was good feed for their horses on the bank of the creek and the islands in its bed, and as the last two days had been rather severe on them, they decided to rest for a few days and inspect the surrounding country, although it held out little inducement. However, they preferred stopping at where they were to going back to their old camp at the lagoons, where probably all the grass was burnt. The first thing to do was to jot down the whole of their course since leaving the lagoons and correct it, which they were now able to do, as they had arrived back at a known point. They found that the dead reckoning had been very well kept, and that their work closed in a satisfactory manner.
An excursion down the creek on the following day convinced them that it ran out and was hopelessly lost in the sandy scrub that stretched south and east. Next morning Morton was up early at break of day, and climbing up the hill to reach the summit before sunrise, which is the best time to see long distances. To the east the fire was still burning in the distance, but was evidently now in a dying state. Morton had his glasses with him, and commenced to carefully scan the country. At last his attention became fixed on one particular spot to the south. He took a compass-bearing and descended the hill. The others were up, and about to commence breakfast.
"I've spotted that rock hill," said Morton.
"What! The one Stuart says the old blackfellow told him about?"
"I think so. You can't pick it out with the naked eye, but with the glasses I can make it out quite distinctly. A brown naked cone rising out of the scrub."
"How far away is it?"
"Not more than fifteen miles, I should say. I wonder that none of the niggers were able to take Stuart to it."
"Do you intend going?"
"We may as well. I should like to know all about the place before we go home."
"Well, I'm with you, old man."