[57]
]‘Next move were, one gets the gun out o’ the hut, an’ I scwoushes down into a six-inch heap, till I remembers she weren’t loaded; an’ I didn’t give ’em credit for knowin’ how to do that.
‘The mopoke as got her points her most careful, with the stock agen his belly, an’ with a grin at his mates, as much as to reckon, “You watch me pot him,” he shouts “Bung!” an’ as true’s I’m sittin’ here, I bursts out larfin’ to see them black fools a-starin’ up so hard, and wonderin’ why I didn’t fall down dead man.
‘Presen’ly, ’bout half way up my tree, they spots a good-sized pipe, an’ bringin’ a fire-stick from the hut, up one comes like a lamplighter. I knowed the ole gum was sound an’ green enough at the butt, but I sees by the pipe that some of the top limbs must be holler, an’ I didn’ fancy this last move a little bit. So, as he’s busy straddled-out, a-blowin’ and a-puffin’ to raise the flame, I nips down, pulls out the spear, an’ lets drive at him ’s hard ’s I could. You never see such a thing in your lives! It hit him just acrost the loins, an’ goes more’n half way through him. He just gives a wriggle or two and twists over into a fork and lies there, a proper stiff ’un.
‘You bet, lads, I was proud’s a dog with a tin tail; an’ sez I, “One for poor Towzer, you pot-bellied willian!” By gosh! didn’t they yell, an’ dance, an’ carry on when they sees this, an’ me safe agen back in the ole perch.
‘Runnin’ to the hut, they tears out the slabs in a [58] ]wink, piles ’em up at the butt of the ole gum, and sets fire to ’em.
‘In a minute or two, I couldn’t see a stem for smoke; but, as they was green belar, not a blaze could they get out of ’em.
‘Well, I was squattin’ up there, a-peepin’ down through the smoke for the next feller as wanted to show off his climbin’ abilities, when I hears a noise of horses gallopin’, an’ men shoutin’, an’ shots a-poppin’ off like Billy-ho.
‘Down I comes through the smoke, an’ just clear o’ the tree was five darkies a-lyin’
stretched out as would never cry “mo-poke!” no more. Not another soul, dead or alive, could I see. But presen’ly back canters ole Davies, an’ says he, cool as you like, “Hello, Wilson,” says he, “is that you? Where’s the rest o’ the cattle? There’s eight head short yet!” Darn his ole skin, an’ all bosses like him, as thinks more of a few head o’ stock than a man’s life!
‘You see, lads, when the cattle, disturbed by poor Towzer a-barkin’, and me a-firin’, moves quietly off afore daybreak, one lot of nigs follers ’em up, an’ one lot stops to ’tend on me.