‘We have something like a water-jump here,’ said Wilfred to his companion, as they watched the hounds disappear and climb up, giving tongue as they scour forward with renewed energy. ‘It is not so very wide, but the sides are steep. If your horse does not know that sort of jump, we had better follow it down to the ford, near the lake.’
‘Black Mountain is full of small rivers and treacheries of all sorts,’ said the girl. ‘A horse that can go there can go anywhere, I think.’ Sending Emigrant at it pretty fast, he lowered his head slightly and ‘flew it like a bird.’
By the time they approached the Deep Creek, as old Tom averred it had been christened ever since he knew Warbrok, the greater part of the field seemed aware that no common obstacle was before them.
‘See here now, Mr. Churbett,’ said old Tom. ‘It’s an ugly lape unless you know where to take it, and some of the ladies might get hurted. You make for the point half a mile down, where ye see thim green reeds. There’s a little swamp fills it up there, and ye can wade through easy. More by token, I’m thinkin’, the hounds will turn to ye before ye cross the three-railed fence into the horse paddock.’
Mr. Churbett at once made sail for the point indicated, successfully piloting, with Forbes and a few men who were more chivalrous than keen, the feminine division. He was followed by the greater portion of the rear-guard, who, seeing that there was an obstacle to free discussion in front, wisely turned when they did. Hamilton, Argyll, and Hampden rode at the yawner with varied success.
As for Bob Clarke, seeing that it was impossible to adopt his last method of simplifying matters, he persuaded Miss Rockley to gallop up the creek with him, on the off-chance of finding a crossing, which they did eventually, but so far up that they were nearly thrown out altogether.
We cannot claim for the sheep-killing denizen of the Australian waste, mysteriously placed on our continent a century in advance of the merino, the wondrous powers of Reynard the Great. But in the pace which enables him to bring to shame an inferior greyhound, and in the endurance which keeps him ahead of a fair pack of foxhounds, as well as in his ardent love of poultry, he undoubtedly does resemble ‘the little tyrant of the fields.’
The distance the black dingo had already come was considerable, the pace decidedly good. The long slopes, all with an upward tendency, began to tell. When the fence of the home-paddock was reached, the farther corner of which impinged upon a steep spur of the main range, the bolt of the gallant quarry was nearly shot.
He was viewed by Tom crawling under the lower rail; an enthusiastic view-holloa rang out from the old man. One more fence and a kill was certain, unless his last effort sufficed to land him within reach of one of the ‘gibbah-gunyahs’ (or rock caves) which the aboriginals and their canine friends had inhabited apparently from remote ages.
As the field ranged up to the horse-paddock fence, it was seen to be by no means so moderate a task as the other post and rails. Old Dick, who had superintended its erection, had been careful that it should be one of the best pieces of work in the district,—substantial, of full height, and with solid posts nearly two feet in the ground. Hence it loomed before the hunt fully four feet six inches in height, with top-rails which forbade all chance of cracking or carrying out.