“What's it to be?” said Vale, coming to the door of the room.
“Oh, a bottle of Kinahan,” said Forreste, tossing the price of it—a sovereign—upon the table. “Got any salt beef to spare?”
“Not a bite. Wish I had. But that mob of cattle can't be far off now. They were camped at the Green Swamp two nights ago. There's a hundred head—all fine, prime young cattle, I hear.”
“Are you buying the lot?”
“Every hoof—at ten pound a head. Plenty of fresh beef then—at two bob a pound. No charge for hoofs, horns, and the end of the tail,” and with this pleasantry, the landlord of the “Roan Pack-Horse” withdrew, to bring the whisky.
A step sounded outside, and Randolph Aulain entered and nodded to the three men. He had been at Hansen's for some months, and had one of the richest “pocket” claims on the field, but most of the gold it produced went in gambling. He had made the acquaintance of Forreste and his gang, and in a way had become intimate with them, although he was pretty certain of their character. But he did not care.
“Have a drink, Aulain?” said Barney Green.
Aulain nodded, and sat down, and then a pack of cards was produced, and the four men began to play—Aulain as recklessly as usual, and drinking frequently, as was now habitual with him.
Night had fallen, and the diggers' camp fires were everywhere blazing among tents and humpies, as the ex-officer and his villainous acquaintances still sat at their cards, too intent upon the game to think of supper. Vale's black boy, however, brought them in some tea, damper, and a tin of preserved meat, and they made a hurried meal. Just as they had begun to play afresh, they heard a horseman draw up outside, and a voice say “Good-evening, boss,” to Vale.
All four men knew that voice, and Aulain's dark face set, as turning down his cards, he held up his hand for silence.