“But surely in this wild, open place no one would interfere with the waggon?”
“Think not? Why, Nic, we have bushrangers—escaped convicts—beside plenty of people less desperate but more dishonest, without counting the blacks.”
“Are there any of them about here?” asked Nic, with a glance round.
“Perhaps. We hardly know where they may be. You see they belong to wandering tribes which roam about in search of food. They are here to-day and gone to-morrow. We never know when they may come.”
“Are they dangerous?”
“Yes and no, my boy. We always have to be on our guard, especially in such a lonely place as ours.”
“But why did you go and live in such a lonely spot, father?” said Nic.
“Because the place suited me, my boy. I rode over hundreds of miles of country before I pitched upon the Bluffs and took up the land. It was beautiful, the pasture was good, and there was that more than great necessary we look for in this droughty country—a good supply of water. I have known squatters out here lose hundreds of cattle and thousands of sheep in a dry summer, when everything is burnt up.”
By this time the bullocks had dragged their load close by, and for the first time Nic stared at a black figure, dressed in a strip of cloth and a spear, walking behind the waggon.
“There’s one of the blacks, father,” whispered Nic, staring at the shock-headed fellow, who turned a little on one side, and displayed a short club with a large knob at one end.