Jim put the light out after some time. Then he came back and sat down on the bed.
"I wanted to tell you, dear little chap," he said, gently. "I sent Mick out with Boone to-day, and—and they buried him under that big tree where he fell, and heaped up stones so that nothing could get at him." He stopped, his voice uncertain as Norah's hand tightened in his.
"Mick said there couldn't have been any hope for him, kiddie," he went on, presently. "His back was broken; no one could have done anything." He would not tell her of other things Mick had seen—the spur wounds from hip to shoulder and the marks of the stick that Cecil had thrown down beside the pony he had ridden to his death. "They carved his name on the tree in great big letters. Some time—whenever you feel you can—I'll take you out there. At least"—his hand gripped hers almost painfully—"Dad and I will take you."
Norah put her face against him, not speaking. They stayed so, her breath coming and going unevenly, while Jim stroked her shoulder. Presently he slipped to his knees by the bed, one arm across her, not moving until her head nestled closer, and he knew she was asleep. Then the big, tired fellow put his own head down and went to sleep as he knelt, waking, stiff and sore, in the grey half light that just precedes the dawn. He crept away noiselessly, going out on the balcony for a breath of the chill air.
Below him, against the stockyard fence, a black shadow stood and whinnied faintly. Jim's heart came into his throat, and he swung himself over the edge of the balcony, using his old "fire escape" to slide to the gravel below. He ran wildly across to the yard.
A moment later the big bell of the station clanged out furiously.
Norah, fastening her habit with swift fingers, ran to open the door in answer to Jim's voice.
"Hurry all you know, little chap," he said. "I'm off in a few minutes—breakfast's ready. Wally's going into Cunjee with a telegram to Melbourne for the black trackers, as hard as he can ride."
"Jim—there's something you know!"
He hesitated.