was so impressed by the woodcraft of this grand-looking, sad-voiced bushman, that to the wild astonishment of his friends he actually submitted to hear his opinions confuted.
As they plunged into the sombre trackless forest, where the tall iron-bark trees, with fire-blackened stems, stood ranked in endless colonnades, they seemed to be entirely at the mercy of their lately-gained acquaintance. He it was who rode ever in the forefront, so that the horsemen on the right and left ‘lead’ could with ease direct their droves in his track. He it was who decided which of two apparently similar precipices would prove to be the ‘leading range,’ eventually landing the party upon a grassy plateau, and not in a horrible craggy defile. He it was who gauged to a quarter of an hour the time for grazing, and so reaching a favourable corner in time to camp. He saw the pack-saddles properly loaded, apportioned the spare horses, and commanded saddle-stuffing. Did a tired youngster feel overcome by the desire of sleep, so strong in the lightly-laden brain of youth, allowing his side of the drove to ‘draw out,’ he was often surprised on waking to see them returning with a dark form pacing silently behind them. Did a tricky stock-rider—for they were not all models of Spartan virtue—essay to shirk his just share of work, he found a watchful eye upon him, and perhaps heard a reminder, couched in the easily comprehended language of ‘the droving days.’
Before they had been a week on the new division of their journey, every one was fain to remark these qualities in their leader.
‘I say, Argyll,’ said Fred Churbett, who, with Ardmillan and Neil Barrington, had ridden forward from the rearguard, leaving it to the easy task of following the broad trail of the leading herd, ‘how about going anywhere with that compass of yours? Could you steer us as Warleigh does through this iron-bark wilderness?’
‘I am free to confess, Fred, that it does good occasionally to have the conceit taken out of one. You must admit, however, that he has been over the ground before. Still, he seems to have a kind of instinct about the true course when neither sun nor landmarks are available, which travellers assert only savages possess. You remember that dull, foggy day? He had been away only an hour when he said we were making a half-circle, and so it proved.’
‘And the confounded scrub was so thick,’ said Ardmillan, ‘that I tore the clothes off my back hunting up a pack-horse. But for the tracks, I knew no more than the dead where I was.’
‘This half-savage life he has lived has developed those instincts,’ said Churbett. ‘He could do a little scalping when his blood was up, I believe. I saw him look at that cheeky ruffian Jonathan as if he had a good mind to break his neck. Pity he missed the education of a gentleman.’
‘He is ignorant, of course, poor chap, from no fault of his own,’ said Argyll; ‘but he is not to be called vulgar either. Blood is a great, a tremendous thing; though he doesn’t know enough for a sergeant of dragoons, yet there is a grand unconsciousness in his bearing and a natural air of authority now that he is our commanding officer, which he derives from his family descent.’
That night they reached the base of a vast range, which, on the morrow, they were forced to ascend; afterwards, still more difficult, to descend. This meant flogging the reluctant cattle every step of the downward, dangerous track. Above them towered the mountain; below them the precipice, stark and sheer, three hundred feet to the granite boulders over which the foaming Snowy rolled its turbulent course to the iron-bound coast of a lonely sea.
Mr. Churbett and others of the party had a grievance against Destiny, as having forced them from their pleasant homes to roam this trackless wild, but no such accusation was heard from the lips of Gerald O’More. His spirits were at the highest possible pitch. Everything was new, rare, and delightful. The early rising was splendid, the droving full of enjoyment, the scenery enthralling, the watching romantic, the shooting splendid, the society characteristic. He made friends with all the men of the party, but the chosen of his heart was old Tom, who discovered that O’More had known of his old patron in Mayo. He thereupon conceived a strong liking and admiration for him, as a ‘rale gintleman from the ould counthry.’