"He's over at Mernda," Macleod said, his voice husky. "Won't be home until after dark."
The old soldier's keen face darkened.
"You'll have to go after him, then. The news has got to get to Westown, and he'll do it quickest in the car. Get a fresh horse when you go in. The police and the black trackers'll have to come out from Westown. Ride as hard as you can, every one of you. And keep your eyes skinned all the time—you don't know where the black fiends may be."
"We'd better wait on guard until you—until you start," Macleod said. "You can't keep a watch while you get them——" The words stuck in the boy's throat. "They could rush you from the trees if we left you alone."
"Yes, that's right," Harry said. "Well, take the little chap off for a minute, Mr. Macleod—poor lad, he doesn't know what's up, and he's looking like a ghost—and we'll get a start."
Macleod went over and took two of the horses from Dick, leading him off behind the hut while he told him of the tragedy. Dick stared at him blankly; evident as it had been to him that something was terribly wrong it was impossible to realise that the old man who had been kind to him lay dead in his hut, foully murdered with his sleeping mate.
"I don't think we've anything to be scared about," Macleod said. "I've a revolver, and, besides, I don't think the brutes would attack any of us in broad daylight."
"I'm not scared," Dick said dully. "I say, do you—do you think it—hurt them much?"
"Harry says not," said Macleod, with a gulp—he was only a boy himself. "He says they couldn't have known. Bill must have been very sound asleep or they would never have got in—I don't expect he ever woke, poor old chap."
"That's something," Dick said. His eyes blazed suddenly. "Can't we do anything? Can't we fight?"