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 heart-broken 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.
"Could he track them?"
"Yes, easily. They had gone away there." He pointed north and east as he spoke.
"This is strange," said Craig. "Men, if what Jacoby tells us be correct, instead of retreating to their homes in the wilderness, the blacks are doubling round; and if so, it must be their intention to commit more of their diabolical deeds, so there is no time to be lost."
It was determined first to bury their dear friends; and very soon a grave was dug—a huge rough hole, that was all—and in it the murdered whites were laid side by side.
Rupert repeated the burial-service, or as much of it as he could remember; then the rude grave was filled, and as the earth fell over the chest of poor old-fashioned Findlayson, and Archie thought of all his droll and innocent ways, tears trickled over his face that he made no attempt to hide.