Then placing the lantern beside her, and partly shielding it with a saddle cloth to protect it more folly from the gusts of wind, he and Scott went out into the blackness.
She heard Scott a minute or two later give a loud Coo-ee! for Jacky, and fancied she heard an answering cry from the blackboy, a long distance away. Then the rain again descended in a torrential downpour, and drowned out all other sounds.
Two weeks had passed since Sheila had left Townsville with Grainger and the hard-riding old Warden and the swarthy-faced Lamington and his savage-eyed, half-civilised troopers. At Chinkie's Flat they had learnt that there were now three hundred white miners at the new rush on Banshee Creek, but that everything was quiet, and that no disputes of any kind had occurred, and all that Charteris would have to do would be to visit the place, and, according to the “Gold-fields Act,” proclaim Banshee Creek to be a new gold-field. So, after spending a night at Grainger's new house, built on the ridge overlooking the “Ever Victorious” battery, with its clamorous stampers pounding away night and day, the Warden bid Sheila and Grainger goodbye, and rode off with his hardy white police, leaving Lamington and his black, legalised murderers to go their own way in pursuit of Sandy and Daylight, and “disperse” the myalls—if they could find them—such dispersion meaning the shooting of women and children as well as men.
Now, the truth is, that Grainger should have gone on with the Warden to the new rush, where his prospecting party was anxiously awaiting his arrival; but he was deeply in love with Sheila Carolan, and she with him, although she did not know it. But she was mightily pleased when the “Ever Victorious” Grainger told her that he was going to take her all the way to Minerva Downs, as he “wanted to see Farrow about buying a hundred bullocks to send to the new rush at Banshee Creek.” (This was perfectly true, but he could very easily have dispatched a letter to Farrow, who would have sent the bullocks to the meat-hungry diggers as a matter of business.)
As she had stood on the verandah of Grainger's house in the early morning, watching Charteris and his troopers depart, and listening to the clang and thud of the five-and-twenty stampers of the new battery of the “Ever Victorious” pounding out the rich golden quartz, handsome, swarthy-faced Sub-Inspector Lamington ascended the steps and bade her good morning.
“So you and Grainger travel with me for another ninety miles or so, Miss Carolan,” he said with undisguised pleasure. “Will you be ready soon?”
“In half an hour.”
“Ah, that's right. My boys and I are anxious to get to work,” and he went on to the horse yard.
Sheila could not help a slight shudder as she heard the soft-voiced, debonnair Lamington speak of his “work.” She knew what it meant—a score or two of stilled, bullet-riddled figures of men, women, and children lying about in the hot desert sand, or in the dark shades of some mountain scrub.