"Well, men," said Craig when he re-entered the hut, "I don't quite see the force of what you have done. It is like a declaration of war, and, depend upon it, the black fellows will accept the challenge."
"It'll make the grass grow," said one of the men with a laugh.
"Yes," said another; "and that grass will grow over a black man's grave or two ere long, if I don't much mistake."
"It wouldn't be worth while burying the fiends," said a third. "We'll leave them to the rooks."
"Well," said Craig, "there's meat and damper there, men. Stir up the fire, warm your tea, and be happy as long as you can. We're off to bed."
Gentleman Craig was as good as his word next day. He rode away in search of the tribe, and after a long ride found them encamped on a tableland.
As it turned out they knew him, and he rode quietly into their midst.
They were all armed with spear, and nullah, and boomerang. They were tattooed, nearly naked, and hideous enough in their horrid war-paint.
Craig showed no signs of fear. Indeed he felt none. He told the chief, however, that he had not approved of the action of the white men, his brothers, and had come, if possible, to make peace. Why should they fight? There was room enough in the forest and scrub for all. If they—the blacks—would leave the cattle and flocks of the squatters alone, he—Craig—could assure them things would go on as happily as before.
"And if not?" they asked.