“Do you think he will be able to track them?” I asked Blake.
“My word,” he replied, “Jampot has now a blood feud against Ginger, and will follow him to the death. Ginger may turn and twist how he likes, but unless he can grow wings, or kill Jampot, Jampot will kill him.”
I had seen plenty of tracking in my time—I even had the cheek to fancy myself a bit at it—and had seen good work done both by white men and Maoris. I had even seen a tame black fellow after stray cattle; but I was now to see a real warrior black, with a blood feud, at the game. I expected a great deal, and I was not disappointed—in fact I saw more than I had ever imagined to be possible. Well, we were ready to start.
Jampot had made use of the time in transmogrifying himself into a fiend, and he certainly looked a hideous nightmare in his war paint. Jumping on his horse, he rode to the end of the bush, circled once or twice to take note of the different spoors, then broke into a canter and rode nearly due south.
Mile after mile he kept on, over all sorts of ground, through bush and over hard land, never pausing for an instant.
“Do you mean to tell me that that black fellow can see spoor going at this pace and over such ground as we are now on?” said I to Blake.
He only nodded his head and muttered: “My word!” This is a great Australian expression, and will signify almost anything.
We came to a creek, and Jampot was off his horse in a second and was examining the rocks round the water-holes. All at once he held up his hand; Blake and myself went carefully to him.
Blake and he talked gibberish for a minute, then, turning to me, the former said: “Jampot tells me one of them is badly hit and can’t go far.”
“How on earth does he know that?”