"'They're there in their bunks—speared.'"
Downes reeled back.
"Dead?"
"Yes; both dead." The old man's voice broke in a quavering sob. "They couldn't've known, that's the only thing—both of 'em must have bin asleep. The brutes! the brutes! the brutes! Poor old Bill Summers, that never hurt man, woman or child in his life! My God, if I could get my hands on them!"
The other boys were round them now, leaving Dick with the four horses. They stared at each other, white-faced; and Stephens looked into the hut, to stagger back, hiding his eyes.
"They couldn't've suffered," Harry repeated. "That's the only thing. But it's hard on old Bill, to go out without a chance to hit back. And Fox, too—a decent young chap as ever stepped. Got an old mother, and a girl in Geraldton."
"What are we to do?" Downes gasped.
"Get the kid there home, and warn the other out stations. For all we know they're in the timber here now; not that they're likely to attack five or six men together and in daylight. I must take the—the bodies in in the cart. One of you must help me—you're the eldest, Mr. Downes, you'd better stay—and then you'll have to ride with me; 'cause I can't keep a lookout from the cart, and we must go round by the Five Mile and warn 'em there. Mr. Stephens can go to the eastern stations—not likely to be trouble there, but they must get in their cattle. Mr. Macleod can take the little chap home and warn the other huts on his way. Mr. Warner must hear as quick as you can get home to tell him, Mr. Macleod."