“I'm Gerrard from Ocho Rios,” went on the voice as the rider dismounted, and, giving his horse to the black boy, followed Vale into the combined bar and store. “I've camped the cattle five miles from here, and pushed on to let you know. Can you take delivery tomorrow morning pretty early, as I want to get down to the coast again as soon as I can?”
“You bet!” said Vale with a laugh; “I'm all ready, and so is the money—not in cash, but in nuggets at four pounds the ounce. Is that right?”
“Quite,” was the answer, and then the four listeners heard Vale drawing the cork of a bottle of beer—a rare commodity at Hansen's Rush. “Come round here, Mr Gerrard, and sit down. There's another room, but just now there are four chaps gaffing there, and so if you don't mind we'll sit here, and talk until my nigger gets you some supper.” Then they began to talk about the cattle, Vale frankly telling Gerrard that if he had asked another five pounds per head, he would have paid it, as the diggers had had no fresh meat for nearly five months.
“Well, I've been very lucky,” said Gerrard, and Forreste saw Aulain's teeth set, and wondered. “We—three black boys and myself—started out from the station with a hundred and ten head, and have not lost a single beast—no niggers, no alligators, no poison bush, nothing of any kind to worry us for the whole two hundred miles.”
“I'll give him something to worry over before long,” said Green viciously to Forreste.
“And so shall I,” said Aulain in a savage whisper.
“Do you know him?” asked Forreste eagerly.
Aulain replied with a curt nod, and then again held up his hand for silence.
“Curse you, keep quiet; I want to hear what he is saying.”
“Well, I'm glad to see you, Mr Gerrard,” went on Vale. “I've heard a lot about you, and was sorry to hear of your loss in the big fire. I wish you luck.”