The Factor swore quietly. The next moment a grey mare dashed furiously from the darkness. At the door she pulled up panting, with blood-red nostrils, her sides covered with foam-sweat, while a figure tumbled helplessly from the improvised saddle.
McAuliffe caught him as he staggered forward, and half carried him inside.
Justin stood by the mare, with his rifle at the ready, and his bead-like eyes staring into the gloom, but there was no sign of pursuer. The black trees whispered solemnly in a light breeze.
'Fetch my whisky keg along!' bellowed McAuliffe. 'Give the boy a good dram, and damn the water.'
Denton shuffled off to obey, while Justin's voice came rolling inside with weird effect. 'Billy!—be gone!'
The Factor's great hands shook as he administered the liquor. Winton gasped and clutched at him.
'Don't claw me; I'm not a nitchi. Now, then, you're right again, eh?'
The young fellow struggled up and glared round wildly. 'So it's you, Alf?'
'That's what. Old Billy's coming on behind?'
Winton shuddered. The words rattled forth like shot upon a hollow wall. 'They've fixed him.'