"However, between daylight and sunrise—being then about a mile, or a mile and a half, from the bell—I was riding at a slow walk, listening and dozing in the saddle, when I heard a far-away call that sounded like 'Dad-dee!'. It seemed to be straight in front of me; and I went for it like mad. Had n't gone far when Williamson, the narangy, was alongside me.
"'Hear anything?' says I.
"'Yes,' says he. 'Sounded like 'Daddy!' I think it was out here.'
"'I think it was more this way,' says I; and each of us went his own way.
"When I got to where I thought was about the place, I listened again, and searched round everywhere. The bell was coming that way, and presently I went to meet it, leading my horse, and still listening. Then another call came through the stillness of the scrub, faint, but beyond mistake, 'Dad-de-e-e!'. There was n't a trace of terror in the tone; it was just the voice of a worn-out child, deliberately calling with all her might. Seemed to be something less than half-a-mile away, but I could n't fix on the direction; and the scrub was very thick.
"I hurried down to the bell. Everyone there had heard the call, or fancied they had; but it was out to their right—not in front. Of course, the lubra would n't leave the track, nor Bob, nor the chap with the bell; but everyone else was gone—Dan among the rest. The lubra said something to Bob.
"'Picaninny tumble down here again,' says Bob. 'Getting very weak on her feet.'
"By-and-by, 'Picaninny plenty tumble down.' It was pitiful; but we knew that we were close on her at last. By this time, of course, she had been out for seventy-two hours.
"I stuck to the track, with the lubra and Bob. We could hear some of the chaps coo-eeing now and again, and calling 'Mary!'"——
"Bad line—bad line," muttered Saunders impatiently.