He found her hand and she answered his touch, rising slowly, and presently standing up. He stood beside her and tenderly picked the rubbish from her hair. She stooped to smooth her dress, and afterwards he kissed her once, and they turned towards home. They did not speak all the journey by the water; but he thought the stars stared down on them like dismal virgins whose virtue has grown strong with loveless years. Sometimes he held a bough aside that she might go by. At the end of a long time they were by the castor-oil tree, and light from the hut shone through the dark.
"Don't come home," she said. "Not to-night." And she had slipped away in a moment through the trees, while he stood staring where she went.
He saddled the mare in brief space. He could look into the distant lighted hut; but it was empty. She was not there. He drew the reins together on the chestnut's neck and gained the saddle. When the mare found her head turned home she started away primly at her swift walk. He gave the reins to her neck. But they had not put behind half a mile of the journey when the steps of a second horse approached, and a whinney came through the dark.
"You, Mick?"
"Hullo, boss."
They pulled up with one accord. He saw O'Neill in the dark, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, a shirt open at the neck, riding trousers and leggings below, and long spurs strapped at his heels. His happy smile had departed, and Power knew he was face to face with the first reaping of his harvest.
"I haven't got back yet," he said. "I went as far as the big hole past the Ten Mile, and then round Mount Dreary way. There were a couple of mobs by the water—doing right enough." He came to the end of what he had to say. O'Neill sat gloomily, tapping the arch of his saddle with his fingers. "I looked in at the Gregory's a bit on the way back." Power added.
Then O'Neill spoke. His old swagger came into his bearing, and he lifted his head defiantly. "Boss, do you reckon you are on the square game down there?"
Anger blazed in Power's face. He felt a weight upon his chest and the chords of his throat tighten. But he had caught hold of himself before the words left his lips. After a long moment he said almost gently: "Fast talking won't do us good, Mick. It looks that the road is pretty rough for you and me just now. We were friends before ill-luck sat down between us. It is a poor crush that won't hold the beast when the branding starts."
O'Neill stared gloomily at the neck of his horse. "Boss, it's no game I'm playing there, I swear. It's no come-and-go affair with me."