There came through the timber, after many minutes, a far-off murmur, such as might travel from a distant surge of the sea, or from a heavy wind moving in a hollow. It was vague, and many would have been at pains to pick it up; but the horse lifted ears to it, and Power came out of his brown study. It arrived as a murmur; but the passing minutes gave it volume. It was strangely exciting. Power knew it from the beginning. It was the roar of a mob of cattle driven against their will.
Presently the sound turned to broken bellowing, and into the tumult entered the snapping of boughs, the bang of whips, and the fierce voices of men. Power stood up. The mob must round the foot of a hill before coming into view. He laid a hand on the horse's bridle and waited for them.
They came in a little while—one or two as a beginning, afterwards the body of them. They dawdled forward, picking at the grass tufts, horning one another, and lifting heads to bellow. They showed to the eye a hardy, good-coloured mob of store cattle, the big part of them six-year bullocks, more ready for a doze by a waterhole than for this journey in the sun with men hanging at their houghs. They counted two hundred maybe, and three white stockmen and a couple of blackfellows handled them, turning them on the flanks, and hunting them forward in the rear. They were a suspicion nervous, and gave Power a wide berth; but the noon heat made them easy handling. By the time they were round the foot of the hill, a stockman, pulling about his horse, rid himself of their company and cantered across. The man pulled up a big chestnut animal a few yards from Power, and showed a happy, handsome face under a big brimmed hat. He was a good figure of a man, riding his horse with a swagger. He had wide kneepads to his saddle, and long rusty spurs at his heels, a shirt wide open at the neck, and in his hand a whip. His skin was brown. Sitting there, he looked a hardy fellow, one to put a good day's work behind him.
He had pulled his horse up from the canter. "Day, Mr. Power."
"Good day, Mick. They came along all right?"
"Yes, boss. A strong lot. Good travellers. An' quiet enough too. We'll make Morning Springs Wednesday certain."
Power nodded his head. "Did you cut those few out?"
"All bar a half-dozen. We can fix 'em at the camp to-night. There's a roan bull to be dropped. I don't know how he came with this lot. I didn't see him when we picked 'em up. He wants watching. He's cranky in the head." So speaking, the man leaned over and pointed his whip at a beast on the outside of the mob. "I suppose we're making camp here for an hour or two."
"My oath, yes. I'll get a fire going."
Mick O'Neill turned his horse about and put it to the canter. Again he made a figure becoming his name as the daddy stockman for a hundred miles about. Power filled a quart pot at the water-bag, and built and lit a fire. The flames rushed to embrace the hot wood. Others of the company arrived with filled quart pots and pushed them into the flames. The blackfellows held the cattle until they had drawn out and dropped to their knees. The horses were unsaddled and unbitted. The quart pots came from the fire. The tea was made. The sticks were trodden into the sand, and the company took themselves into the shade, to sprawl there, one eye waiting for the cattle, one hand waiting for the flies.