She was at Frenchy's camp in a very short time. Frenchy was at his fire, dreaming. When he saw who his visitor was he was startled, to say the least of it.
"What, Billjim the Beautiful? At this hour of night? Why, what in the name of...?" were his incoherent ejaculations.
And Billjim for the first time in that eventful night really gave way. She sat down and sobbed out:
"Oh, Frenchy.... Come.... Poor Jack.... Two mile ... crushed and bleeding to death, Frenchy.... I saw the blood oozing out.... Oh, dear me!... Get the boys ... come...."
Frenchy's only answer was a long, melodious howl, which was promptly re-echoed from right and left and far away back in the scrub, and from all sides forms hurried up clad in all sorts of strange night costumes.
Some shrank back into the shadows again on seeing a woman sitting at the fire sobbing, but one and all as they hurried up asked:
"What's up? Niggers?"
They were told, and each hurried back for clothes. Frenchy got his bandages together, and fetched his bunk out of his tent.
"We'll take this," he said; "it's as far from Jack's camp to the two mile as it is from here. Now then, Billjim, off we go."
Her followers had to keep moving to keep near her, loaded as they were, but at last they arrived at the scene of Jack's disaster.