“I’m not afraid,” said Nic.
“That’s right. You will ride straight there, then, and—”
The doctor stopped short, with his face drawn and wrinkled.
“Yes, father: and what?”
“If the station is a smoking ruin, ride back to us as hard as you can.”
“Oh, don’t say that.”
“I have said it, boy. There—prove yourself worthy of my mission.”
“Yes, father; but if all is right?”
“Stay there, and tell your mother to keep any black-fellows at a distance till I get home. You can help her defend the place for a few hours. Now: no words. Take a piece of the damper, and put a couple of rashers between, have a good deep drink of the tea—as much as you can, for you will have a thirsty ride—eat your breakfast as you go. Mind, straight as the crow flies for that notch: never mind the track. No words. Shake hands. Mount, and be off.”
Nic saw that it was no time for words, and hurriedly breaking the bread-cake, he placed the bacon between the thin pieces, saw that his shot belt and powder flask were right, took a deep draught of tea, and then, gun in hand, turned to find Leather holding his horse, and looking him fixedly in the eyes.