“Halt, men!” he cried. “Halt for a moment and deliberate. Who is to be the commander of this little force?”
“Yourself,” said Gentleman Craig, lifting his hat. “You are boss of Burley Farm, and Mr Cooper’s dearest friend.”
“Hear, hear!” cried several of the others.
“Perhaps it is best,” said Archie, after a moment’s thoughtful pause, “that I should take the leadership under the circumstances. But, Craig, I choose you as my second in command, and one whose counsel I will respect and be guided by.”
“Thank you,” said Craig; “and to begin with, I move we go straight back to Findlayson’s farm. We are not too well armed, nor too well provisioned.”
The proposal was at once adopted, and towards sundown they had once more reached the outlying pastures.
They were dismounting to enter, when the half-naked figure of a black suddenly appeared from behind the storehouse.
A gun or two was levelled at him at once.
“Stay,” cried Craig. “Do not fire. That is Jacoby, the black stockman, and one of poor Mr Findlayson’s chief men. Ha, Jacoby, advance my lad, and tell us all you know.”
Jacoby’s answer was couched in such unintelligible jargon—a mixture of Bush-English and broad Scotch—that I will not try the reader’s patience by giving it verbatim. He was terribly excited, and looked heartbroken with grief. He had but recently come home, having passed “plenty black fellows” on the road. They had attempted to kill him, but here he was.