“Why, you're Sandy! Have you left the police?” (He knew nothing of what had occurred.)
“Yes,” was the reply, “I skipped,” and carelessly putting his rifle down, he asked Potter if he had any tobacco to spare.
“Yes, I can give you a few plugs,” and going to his saddle bags he produced four square plugs of tobacco, which he handed to his visitor, who took them eagerly, at once produced a silver-mounted pipe (probably taken from some murdered digger) filled it, and began to smoke and talk.
“My word, Mr. Potter,” he said with easy familiarity, “it is a good thing for you that I knew you,” and he showed his white, even teeth in a smile. “But I haven't forgot that when I got speared on the Albert River five years ago you drove me into Burketown in your buggy to get a doctor for me.” (He had formerly been one of Potter's stockmen, and had been badly wounded in an encounter with wild blacks.)
Potter made some apparently careless reply. He knew that Sandy, though an excellent stockman, had always had a bad record, and indeed he had been compelled to dismiss him on account of his dangerous temper. He heard later on that the man had joined the Black Police, and a deserter from the Black Police is in nine cases out of ten an unmitigated villain.
Then Sandy became communicative, and frankly told his involuntary host part—but part only—of his story, and wound up by saying—
“You must not sleep here to-night. There is a big mob of myalls camped in the river-bed three miles away from here. If they see you, they'll kill you for certain between now and to-morrow night, when you are going through some of the gorges. You must saddle up again, and I'll take you along another track and leave you safe.”
Tired as the horses were, Potter took Sandy's advice, and the two started at sunset, the blackfellow leading. They travelled for some hours, and then again camped—this time without a fire. Sandy remained till daylight, and during a further conversation boasted that he had enough gold in nuggets to allow him to have “a fine time in Sydney or Melbourne,” where he meant to make his way some day “when things got a bit quiet and people thought he was dead.” In proof of his assertion about the gold he gave Potter a two ounce nugget he picked out from several others which were carried in one of his ammunition pouches. Before they parted Potter gave him—at his particular request—one of the two blankets he carried, and then Sandy and he shook hands, and the blackfellow, rifle in hand, disappeared, and left his former master to continue his journey.
“What a hawwid chawacter!” said Mr. Assheton, when the clergyman had concluded his story. “Why don't the police exert themselves and catch or shoot the fellow?”
“It is such very difficult country,” explained Myra, “and, in fact, has not yet all been explored.”