"Excellent," echoed Selwyn.
"Father, your fight this afternoon seems to have cheered you up," said Maud.
"What fight?" Power asked.
"The fellers sent Robson up to ask me to unlock the tanks. I put him to the right-about pretty quick. A-huh-huh-huh!"
Selwyn sat up. "Did you get much sport on your trip, Mr. Power? There must have been some thundering good chances early in the morning. Nobody to blunder about and disturb the game from year end to year end."
"A man doesn't get much spare time with cattle," Power answered. "He rides all day, and stands his two watches at night. He is inclined to leave hunting for another time. The cook took a rifle in the waggon, and got a turkey or two; but he sees double, and generally aims at the wrong bird. We had sport of another kind, though, which might have turned into something nasty."
"Ah! How was that?"
"On the border of this run and the next is a stretch of timbered country called Derby's Ten Mile. It is a good bit of country, with big holes holding water all the year, and Simpson, of Kurrajong, my neighbour, keeps it as a horse paddock. For all the fine trees by the river, the place has a bad name. You can't get a man of those parts to camp there the night. There is a story of a swagman murdered on the big hole by his mate twenty years ago. I believe the tale is true, but whether or no, they say on calm nights something cries out in the paddock. This time the cry will sound low down, the next time it will come from the air, and never twice in the same place. You can find a score of men to swear to this. Simpson assured me on moonlight nights he has known the horses stampede from the other side of the river.
"A carrier I knew told me an accident to his waggon once forced him to camp there one night. It was winter, freezing hard—as cold as the Pole—and you could hear a horse bell a dozen miles. He was sitting over the fire thinking of turning into bed, when he heard a queer screech by a clump of timber a couple of miles away. 'Some blanky bird,' he says. He had come round to thoughts of bed again, when he heard the screech a second time, and not more than a mile off, and on the top of it every horse came flying across the dry river bed. They went past him as though they weren't stopping this side of the sea. In a shake the fellow had turned colder than the frost, and he was asking himself what was the trouble, when something shrieked at him, not the length of a bullock team off. He felt a breath of ice in his face——"
Behind the house a fowl gave a blood-curdling death-cry. Gooseflesh rose on the spine of the bravest there. Thanks to that self-command which had stood Mrs. Selwyn in stead on so many occasions, she exclaimed, "What's that?" and no more. But afterwards she owned that for five minutes she was turning hot and cold. The cry was repeated more faintly. Steps sounded outside, and at the same time came the voice of Mrs. Nankervis, the cook, exclaiming out loud. Her steps advanced in a hurry across the house. She burst through the doorway, all wind and heavy breaths, and hands pressed to her ample sides.