“Black fellow’s?” cried Nic.
“Baal! Baal! white fellow!” cried all three—“white fellow.”
Brookes gave a ghastly grin and cocked his gun.
“I ain’t going no farther,” he growled. “It’s walking into a hambudge. Black fellows don’t kill sheep like that.”
“No plenty mumkull sheep,” cried Damper. “White fellow.”
“P’r’aps we’d better not go on, sir,” whispered old Sam uneasily.
Nic said nothing, but rode slowly back to where the remains of the sheep had been discovered, followed by the rest, the blacks chattering together in a great state of excitement, and the dogs whining and uneasy.
“Pick up the skin, Sam,” said Nic; and the old man made one of the blacks carry it shouldered over his spear.
Nothing more was said, Nic riding along feeling sadly puzzled, and trying to follow out a peculiar line of thought without success. It had something to do with an idea about, spite, and whether it was possible that Brookes had killed these sheep on purpose to make it seem that Leather was lurking about destroying his late employer’s property, so that, when once this idea took deep root, another expedition might be planned for the purpose of hunting the convict down, and relieving him of an object which caused him constant dread.
But Nic gave Brookes the benefit of a doubt, and rode silently on till he was in sight of the house, when he suddenly pressed his horse’s sides and galloped forward.