"So you've turned up at last," said Jim, as he became aware of the other's identity. "Where are the cattle?"
"Camped on the plain," was the reply. "Bad luck to 'em. It was as much as I could do to get the two black boys to remain with them. Are you coming down?"
"We'll be down in half an hour," said Jim. "This gentleman and myself will camp with you to-night and give you a hand. Now be off and get your tea."
He disappeared without another word.
"But if you two are going to help with the cattle, what is to become of me?" asked Mrs. Spicer. "I cannot be left here alone."
"That's perfectly true," said Jim. "I never thought of it. Confound that miserable coward Chudfield. I'll tell you what I'll do, Minnie. I'll send Ruford up to take care of you. He won't be sorry for an evening's comfort, and it is most imperative that we should go down, you see, in case the Stockman should turn up to-night. If he does we hope to bring matters to a crisis."
Faithful to our promise, as soon as the meal was over, we saddled our horses and rode down towards the camp fire that we could see burning brightly on the plain below.
By the time we reached it the appearance of the night had changed, clouds had covered the sky, and a soft drizzle was falling. Ruford had taken the cattle down to the river, and when they had drunk their fill had tailed them slowly on to camp, where the two black boys were watching them. It was not a cheerful night, for the wind had risen, and was moaning among the she-oak trees like a million lost spirits. A more lonesome spot I never was in than that plain.
As we approached the fire Ruford said snappishly,—
"I suppose you think it's funny to hang round a camp, whispering and moaning, in order to frighten a man out of his wits."