“All gone humpy,” he said.
Brighter and brighter grew the sunlight, another fierce hot day had begun. And there was nothing in sight, nothing. The plain was all around them, north, south, west, only in the east the red bluffs.
“All gone humpy.” Their haste had been of no avail. The tale was told. They had come too late.
What need to ride for all they were worth now? But so they did ride, revolver in hand. And when they arrived at what had been Dick Stanesby’s hut, an out-station of Nilpe Nilpe, there was nothing to mark it from the surrounding plain but a handful of ashes; even the hard earth showed no sign of trampling feet.
Stanesby flung himself off his horse like a madman.
“She may be all right. She must be all right. It may have been an accident. She is hidden down by the creek.”
Turner said nothing. What could he say? His thoughts flew back to the lonely hut, and the girl lying there on the hard ground in her dusky red dress, alone, cast off, a thing of use to no one. Well, she was dead, he expected nothing else, and she was avenged. Surely this home-coming would haunt the man who had left her all the days of his life.
He laid his hand heavily on the black boy’s shoulder.
“Track, you devil!”
And Jimmy led the way down towards the waterhole.