“You don't think, Jacky, that they” (he meant the blacks) “might get on too far ahead of us?” he asked, as he dismounted.
“No, boss, they are camped now, 'bout a mile or two mile farther up creek. We can't take horses there—country too rough, and myall blackfellow can smell horse long way off—all same horse or bullock can smell myall blackfellow long way off.”
Grainger knew that this was perfectly true—cattle and horses can always scent wild blacks at a great distance, and at once show their alarm. And that the country was too rough for Jacky and him to go any further with the horses was quite evident. However, he knew that as soon as his companion had taken a few pulls at his pipe he would learn from him what his plans were.
The weapon that the black boy usually carried was a Snider carbine, but he had left that at the camp, and taken the spare Winchester—the one Sheila had dropped in the tent: and he was now carefully throwing back the lever, and ejecting the cartridges, and seeing that it was in good order ere he re-loaded it.
“Your rifle all right, boss?” he asked.
“All right, Jacky; and my revolver too.”
Jacky grunted—somewhat contemptuously—at the mention of the revolver. “You won't get chance with rewolber, boss. Rifle best for you an' me this time, I think it. Rewolber right enough when you ride after myall in flat country.”
“Very well, Jacky,” said Grainger, “I'll leave the revolver behind. What are we going to do?”
“First, short-hobble horses, and let 'em feed—plenty grass 'bout here. Then you follow me. I think it that them fellow myall camp” (rest) “'bout two mile up creek.”
“How many are there, Jacky?”