"Any gold on this place?" asked Dick.
Stephens shook his head.
"They've hunted for it, of course," he said. "Where haven't they hunted for it in Western Australia? This little old State is dotted all over with poppet-heads and mullock-heaps like plums in a pudding. Mr. Warner reckons if you could go down deep enough you'd get gold; but there'll never be the water available for deep mining."
Near the boundary of Narrung they came upon a frowsy camp, where half a dozen Afghans were cutting timber for the mines. They were eating as the boys rode up, and their greeting was not over-cordial; swarthy, hook-nosed fellows in dirty clothes that were a mixture of East and West. Two or three half-starved dogs flew out to yelp at the horses.
"Wouldn't have them on the place, if it was my say," remarked Stephens. "Dirty, lazy brutes, and look at their poor wretches of starved camels. They haven't had a decent feed for a month. I told the boss they'd start a lively fire on the run some day, but he reckons they can't do any harm in this sandy corner. Well, I wouldn't trust 'em." He rode on, muttering, and shaking an anxious young head.
They had reached the eastern boundary line; a fence had to be mended half a mile beyond the Afghan camp, and when it was finished, they turned north, riding fast until they came to more fertile country. They passed the hut where lived Macleod's poetical "hatter," pausing for five minutes' chat with the old man, who was seated on a stump outside his door under a big belar, devouring papers left him by the ration cart; and then on, across a wide, grassy plain, until they came into the belt of timber that extended beyond the out-station, where Bill Summers and his mate spent their lonely existence. The wheels of the ration cart had left a recent mark upon the grass.
"Harry must have hurried a bit," said Downes. "Of course he goes straight from point to point, and we go round all the corners—still, he must have made his mules travel. He's going to have dinner with old Bill, too; it's a great day for Bill. He'll be awfully sick if he hasn't managed to get a turkey and has to give us salt horse."
"Much we care!" said Stephens.
"No, but he does. Bill's what my mother calls 'house-proud,' and he's also jealous of Harry's cooking. He's a great old chap!" said Downes, enthusiastically.
They came into sight of the hut. The cart was standing near it, the mules contentedly cropping the grass; but there was no sign of any of the men.