As they stood on the rising ground they had a splendid view of the plain below, and were soon absorbed in the scene before them. The two bodies of blacks were approaching nearer and nearer, and neither tribe shirked an encounter. They could see Yacka standing some distance apart, and evidently directing the movements of the Enooma.
‘Yacka has learned something in the big cities,’ said Edgar; ‘look where he has sent about fifty men round that clump of trees, where they are hidden from the enemy. They intend to make an attack on the rear that will prove successful.’
Suddenly, and without a moment’s warning, the whole scene changed. On the plain, that a moment before had contained two bodies of blacks advancing towards each other, there was now a confused mass of figures, uttering terrible cries and fighting like furies. The sound of blows could be heard above the din, and the grass was dotted with the forms of fallen blacks. They were at too close quarters for spears, and were using heavy nulla-nullas, and warding off the blows with wooden shields.
They saw Yacka quietly surveying the scene, and wondered why he did not join in.
‘He is waiting for a favourable opportunity,’ said Edgar. ‘Those men behind the trees have not moved yet.’
The cries of the fighting blacks became more and more wild and furious. They looked like fiends dancing about in a frenzy, and dealing blows on every hand. One huge fellow, a chief of the Enooma, did terrible execution with an enormous weapon which he whirled about like a battle-axe, and Edgar and Will watched him with a fascination that deadened all sense of their own danger if the tribe suffered defeat.
‘Look at him!’ said Edgar. ‘He’s mowing them down like grass. No one can stand in his way. His wrist play is splendid—it reminds me of club exercise at school.’
‘It’s a trifle more exciting than that,’ said Will. ‘What strength the fellow has! He could fell an ox with one of those terrible blows. Nothing can stop him.’
As though to give the lie to his words, a black, nearly as big as the Enooma chief, barred his way, and a desperate combat took place. Both men had wooden shields with which they dexterously warded off the blows. They were evenly matched, although the Enooma black was a shade taller than his opponent. Both were mad with rage and thirst for blood, and it was a duel to the death.
‘He’s down!’ shouted Edgar, as the Enooma chief slipped; but it was only a feint, as the black, dodging a blow aimed at his head by his opponent, suddenly raised himself. The Curracoo overbalanced himself with the force of the blow, and fell forward. As he stumbled along, the Enooma, raising his huge club on high, brought it down with tremendous force on the back of the Curracoo’s head. Where they stood they could hear the blow, and Edgar shuddered as he saw the black’s head split open, and he fell dead on the ground.