Ghost Camp — Chapter III part 2

“‘So this is the end of Inspector Frank Dayrell,’ she said, ‘trapped like a dingo by the poor devils he was hunting down.

I told you you’d repent it, if you didn’t let _us_ alone.

And now my words have come true; the Lawless family gang’s broke up, but the bloodhound hasn’t much life in him neither.

I sha’n’t last the year out, the old lot’s close up dead and done for, that was so jolly, and worked hard and straight, when we first came on Ballarat.

Pity we took to ‘cross’ work, wasn’t it?

Love—as they call it—’ here she smiled a strange, sad smile, ‘then jealousy, revenge, false swearing, murder—Poor Lance!

I _did_ him cruel wrong, and but for you, you, Francis Dayrell, I’d never have sworn a word to harm him.

It’s driven me mad—mad!

do you hear, Frank Dayrell?

Good-bye, till we meet in—in—the other place!

’ “The firing was o’er, Dick Lawless now showed himself between the rock and the clear space where lay the dead trooper and Dayrell.

The Inspector raised himself on one arm and with the last glimmer o’licht in his glazing e’en, looked full in the woman’s face, as he drawled out the words, ‘Au revoir!

Kate, pleasant journey, inner circle of mine with the left, eh?

’ The light faded out of his eyes with the last word, and falling back, he was dead when his head touched the ground.

The woman gazed for one moment on the still face; then in obedience to a sign from her brother, walkit over to him, and, mounting their horses, they rode away into the forest thegither.

The police couldna but see they were ootnummered.

Their leader and one trooper dead; anither was badly wounded.

Four men—one barely able to sit on a horse—were no match for six.

“‘See here, men,’ said Bradfield, a tall, powerful native chiel wi’ a black beard, a grand bushman, too; ‘this here battle’s over, you’re euchred, your boss expected to catch us on the hop, and he’s been took himself.

He was a game chap, and we don’t owe him no grudge, nor you either, though he went a bit out of his way in leavin’ his own district to collar another officer’s game.

He didn’t reckon on Ned and Dick Lawless, and it’s them that knocked over his wicket.

A fair fight’s righto, but it don’t do even for a policeman to get hisself disliked.

’ “‘I say, Jim, the horses are up; are yer goin’ to preach here till the military’s called out?

’ “‘All right, Jack, there’s no hurry.

What’s to be done with the dead men?

There’s Inspector Dayrell, our poor cove, and Ned Lawless.

We can’t leave ’em here.

’ “‘The police must pack their mates,’ said the second in command, ‘we’ll take away ours.

Where’s the nearest township, or graveyard, if it comes to that?

’ “‘We can make Warradombee in twenty mile’; here spoke one of the police troopers.

‘It’s close to Grant’s head station.

’ “‘All right, you’ve got your packers; strap on the Inspector, and that Goulburn native, and let ’em be buried decent.

We’re not black fellows.

We’ll carry our man, and bury him first chance.

Ned must stay where he is—he’s better there than under the gaol yard.

Like as not Dick and Kate’ll come back to him.

They’ve not gone far.

Well, you’d better load, and clear—we’ll give you a lift, as you’re short handed.

Don’t sing a bigger song than you can help.

Give us a day’s law, and then we don’t care what you do.

We haven’t acted so bad to you.

’ “‘No, by George, you haven’t,’ said the senior constable, ‘except killin’ the two of us, and you couldn’t help that, seein’ you was fightin’ for your lives, as the sayin’ is.

’ “So the enemies (as I’m tauld) helped to raise the fallen men, and fasten them on their horses.

It was a sad-looking troop, as they moved off, with their dead legs tied underneath, and at the knees, to the saddles, their heads bowed low on the horses’ necks, so that they couldna fall off.

But the upper bodies, with heids swaying aboot in that dreadful guise, lookit awfu’ ghaistly.

Little thocht Frank Dayrell that he wad ride his last ride in siccan a fashion.

But nane can foretell his eend, nor the manner o’t. “Bradfield’s lot cleared without loss o’ time, carrying with them their dead and wounded, until a convenient burial place was reached.

This duty completed, they separated, to meet in the ‘Never Never Country,’ between Burke Town and ‘The Gulf,’ a ‘strange, vain land’ (as one has written) where ‘night is even as the day,’ and the decalogue is no that sariously regairded, as in longer settled communities.

“Although the tither ootlaws wadna chairge themselves with Ned Lawless’ funeral, it is no’ to be infaired that he was buried without a prayer, or that tears werena shed o’er his lonely unhallowed grave.

As had been surmeesed, Kate and the younger brother returned after nightfall.

“It was nearly midnight, the moonrays lighted up the weird shadows of the ‘Ghost Camp,’ lately throbbing wi’ gunshots, oaths, cries and exclamations.

Blood had been shed; life had been taken; now all was still and deserted looking.

“Tribe had met tribe in the old, old days, and with spear-thrust, nulla nulla and boomerang, had fought oot their conflicts, waged for pride, ambition or revenge.

And always to the bitter end!

Then came the white invader, with his iron axes, fine clothes and magical weapons, which slew before they touched.

The sheep and cattle, such delicate morsels but which except a price was paid, too often that o’ bluid—they dared na’ take.

Battles then were fought in which their bravest warriors fell;

or if by chance they slew stockrider or shepherd, a sair harryin’ o’ the tribe followed.

“Those days were past; and now, how strange to the elders of the tribe, the white strangers fought amang themselves, wounding, killing, and carrying away captive their brithers in colour and speech.

These things were hard to understand.

The rays of the lately risen moon lit up the sombre glades of the battlefield as a man and woman rode in frae the forest track, and tied up their horses.

They came to the rock where the dead man lay.

He had fallen back when Dayrell’s bullet pierced his brain, and was lying with upturned face and dreadful staring eyes.

The woman knelt by his side, and while she closed them, said, ‘Poor old Ned!

I never thought to lay you out in a place like this.

God’s curse on them that drove you to it; but _he’s_ gone that we have to thank for our ruin; that debt’s paid, anyhow!

You were always a soft-hearted chap, and none of us, when we were little, had a hard time with you.

Not like some brothers, who’d knock about the poor kiddies as if they were dingo pups.

’ “‘I’ve nothing to say agen him,’ said the man, ‘he was always good to me, I’d ’a done anything for him.

It’s hard to see him here lying dead, and with that infernal prison crop, not even a beard on his face, and what a jolly one he used to have.

Here’s where the irons hurt him; I expect he tried to break out afore, and they made him work in these.

’ “‘My God!

’ cried the woman, passionately; ‘don’t talk of it any more.

I

shall scream out directly, and go more off my head than I am now, and that’s bad enough.

To think of him that used to come out of a morning so fresh and jolly, well dressed, and always with a good horse under him, and couldn’t he ride?

And now to see him lying here, starved and miserable, like a beggar; it’s enough to break a heart of stone—’ “‘It’s too late now, Kate, too late; but we’d better have taken Tessie’s warning and started a square trade, carrying or something, when the digging broke out,’ said the man.

‘We were all strong and full of go.

I

could do a man’s work, young as I was; the money would have run into our pockets—yes, regular run in—if we’d made a square start and stuck to it.

Look at Benson and Warner, see where they are now!

They couldn’t read and write neither, no more than us.

Then there was that infernal Larry Trevenna.

Poor Lance!

I _was_ sorry for him.

They did us all the harm in the world; Larry with his gambling ways, and Lance setting you up to think you were good enough to marry him, and putting Dayrell’s back up agen the family.

Our luck was dead out from start to finish, and now they’re all gone except you and me.

I’d better set about the grave.

’ “‘Where’d ye get the pick and shovel?

’ “‘Some fossicker left them outside his camp.

I saw them when I went to the spring for a drink.

’ “‘For God’s sake take them back, no use making more enemies than we can help.

There’ll be a row if he misses ’em!

’ “‘All right!

I’ll drop them as we pass,’ said her brother, as he drove the pick into the hard, stony soil.

“The woman took the short mining shovel, and with feverish energy cleared the narrow shaft as often as required.

An hour’s work showed a cavity of the necessary width and depth, wherein the brother and sister laid the wasted body of the eldest son of the family—once its pride as the best horseman, shearer, reaper, cricketer, stockrider, and all-round athlete of the highland district of New South Wales.

The pity of it, when misdirected energies hurry the men along the fiend’s highway, leading to a felon’s doom, a dishonoured grave!

“The pity of it!

The man now lowered into the rude sepulchre, amid that ill-omened, blood-stained wild, might, under happier circumstances, and at a later day, have been receiving the plaudits of his countrymen, the thanks of his Sovereign, as the fearless, resourceful scout, whose watchful eye had saved a squadron, or whose stubborn courage had helped to block an advance until the reinforcement came up.

“It was not to be.

Sadly and silently, but for the exclamation of ‘Poor Ned!

good-bye!

God have mercy on your soul!

’ from the woman, the brother and sister rode away into the night.

“A rude cross had been fashioned and placed in a cairn of stones piled upon the grave.

‘The moonbeam strook, and deepest night fell down upon the heath’ as the hoofstrokes died away in the distance, deepening the sombre solitude of the spot, which had long worn the appearance of a place accursed of God and man!

” The far back, and by no means busy township of Dumbool was, if not enlivened, aroused from its normal apathy (when a race meeting, or a shearer’s carouse was not in full operation), by the return of a party of mounted police.

The leading inhabitants, always well informed in such matters, had received notice of them passing through the district, heading towards the border.

The township was not so insignificant or the two hotels so unimportant, as not to provide “Our Own Correspondent” of the _Weekly Newsletter_.

This gentleman, who was Rabbit Inspector, Acting Clerk of the Bench, Coroner, and Honorary Magistrate, held all the minor appointments, not incompatible with the ends of justice, and the dignity of the Post Office, of which he was the present acting head, the Government Official of the branch being away on leave.

He performed these various duties fairly well, delegating the Postal work to the leading storekeeper, and the Bench work to a neighbouring squatter, who, coached by the senior constable, was capable of getting through a committal without blundering.

But the work of Special Correspondent was the one which he really enjoyed, and on which he chiefly prided himself.

He had often murmured at the poverty of the journalistic resources of his surroundings, which afforded no field for literary ability.

Even when Nature seemed kindly disposed, by reason of abnormal conditions, he was restricted in efforts to improve the occasion by the vigorously expressed local censorship of the pastoralists.

Did he draw a harrowing picture of the stricken waste, denuded of pasture, and strewn with dead and dying flocks, and herds, every one was “down on him,” as he expressed it, for taking away the character of the district.

Did he dilate on the vast prairies waving with luxuriant herbage, after a phenomenal rainfall, he was abused as “inviting every blooming free-selector in the colony to come out and make a chess-board of their runs, directly they had a little grass.

” There was no pleasing them.

Even the editor of the _Weekly Clarion_, mindful of influential subscribers, had admonished him to be careful in good seasons, as well as bad.

He was at his wits’ end, between the agricultural Scylla, and the pastoral Charybdis, so to speak.

It may be imagined with what gratitude he hailed the “Tragedy of Ghost Camp,” as his headline described it, in which he was likely to offend nobody excepting the Police Department, for whose feelings his public had no great consideration.

Extract from the _Weekly Newsletter and Down River Advertiser_.

“It is long since the site of this celebrated locality, once notorious for tribal fights, and dark deeds of revenge, not always stopping at cold-blooded murder, if old tales be true, has resounded with the echo of rifle shots, the oaths of the victors, the groans of the dying!

Yet such has lately been the case.

But a few days since a deed of blood, of long-delayed vengeance, has been enacted, recalling the more lurid incidents of pioneer days.

“We had received information of the passing of Inspector Francis Dayrell, with a party of picked troopers, on a back track, running parallel to our main stock route.

They carried a light camp equipment, not halting at stations or townships and apparently desirous to avoid observation.

We have in another place expressed our disapproval of this practice, holding that the ends of justice are better served by forwarding information to the local press.

Had that been done in the present case, the fatal finale might have been averted.

“Be that as it may, the _cortège_ that was descried approaching our principal street at an early hour this morning, presented a very different appearance from that of the well-accoutred police party that our informant noticed but two days earlier heading for the broken mountainous country at the head of the Wandong Creek.

The troopers detailed for this dangerous service were led by that well-known, and, we may say, dreaded police officer, the late Inspector Francis Dayrell, the greatest daredevil, the most determined officer of the Victorian Mounted Police.

“It was quickly noted by a sharp-eyed bushman, in the neighbourhood of Host Parley’s well-kept and commodious hotel, which commands the approach to our township from the north-east, that something was wrong with the body of police now approaching the town at a funeral pace.

“The trooper who rode in front led Inspector Dayrell’s well-known charger, a matchless hackney, perfect in the _manège_ in which all troop horses are trained.

The inspector was badly wounded and nearly insensible, from the manner in which he bowed himself on the horse’s neck, while he swayed helplessly in the saddle.

The second trooper also led a horse on which was a wounded man.

Behind rode two men, one evidently so badly hurt, that he sat his horse with difficulty.

“‘They’ve been cut up bad,’ said one of the bushmen.

‘Let’s ride up and meet ’em, Jack!

’ Two men waiting for the mail mounted their horses, and met the little party; from which, after a word or two with the Sergeant, they came back full speed to the hotel, and thus imparted the melancholy news.

“‘Police had a brush with Bradfield’s gang from Queensland, as they thought they were going to take.

Some other chaps had joined them along with Dick Lawless, and double-banked ’em.

Dayrell’s killed, and a trooper—they’re the two first; Doolan’s wounded bad.

The Sergeant wants a room to put the dead men in till the Coroner’s inquest’s held; he’ll have ’em buried as soon as it’s over.

’ “Great excitement was naturally evoked by this statement.

“In a few minutes the police arrived at the Hotel, where they were met by Mr. Clarkson, J. P.

, who obligingly undertook all necessary arrangements.

The Inspector and the dead trooper were laid side by side in the best bedroom, the landlord resenting a suggestion to place the corpses in an outhouse—‘He’d have had the best room in the house if he was alive.

He always paid like a prince, and I’m not going to treat him disrespectful now he’s been killed in the discharge of his duty.

Them as don’t care about sleeping there after him and poor Mick Donnelly, may go somewheres else.

They’ll be buried decent from _my_ house, anyway.

’ “The Coroner impanelled a jury without unnecessary delay; and after the Sergeant and his men had necessary rest and refreshment, that official elicited evidence which enabled him to record a verdict of ‘Wilful murder against Edward James Bradfield and Richard Lawless in the cases of Inspector Francis Dayrell of the Victorian Mounted Police Force, and trooper Michael Joseph Donnelly, then and there lying dead.

’ This formality concluded, preparations were made for the funeral to take place next morning in the graveyard appertaining to the township, which already held a number of occupants, large in proportion to the population.

“Word had been sent to the neighbouring stations, so that by noon—the hour appointed—nearly as large a concourse as at the annual race meeting had assembled.

There being no resident clergyman, the service was read over both men by the Coroner, who, by the way in which he performed the duty, showed that he was not new to this sad ceremony.

We have repeatedly urged upon the Government the necessity of providing increased police protection for this important and scantily defended district.

May we trust now that local wants will be more promptly attended to.

“The last offices being paid to the dead the surviving troopers rode slowly away leading the spare horses, and bearing the arms and effects of their comrades with them.

“Kate Lawless and her brother had disappeared.

Whether they had made for the farthest out settled districts of Queensland, or had found a hiding place nearer home, was not known, though rumours to either effect gained circulation.

” “And noo ye hae the haill history o’ Frank Dayrell, late Inspector o’ the Mounted Police Force o’ Victoria, no forgetting the death of Ned Lawless, who died by his hand.

“And, as the sun’s low, and we’ve, I winna say wasted the afternoon—maybe expended wad be a mair wise-like expression—I’ll just say good e’en to you, gentlemen, and gae me ways hame.

The nicht’s for frost, I’m thinkin’,” and so saying, the worthy Sergeant declining further refreshment marched off along the meadow.

* * * * * An early breakfast next morning, in fact, before the frost was off the ground, awaited Mr. Blount.

In some inns it would have been a comfortless repast; a half-lighted fire struggling against a pile of damp wood, and producing more smoke than heat; a grumbling man cook, not too clean of aspect, who required to know “why the blank people wanted their grub cooked by candlelight,” and so on—“he’d see ’em blanked first, if there was any more of this bloomin’ rot.

” Such reflections the guest has been favoured with, in the “good old days,” before the gold had settled down to a reasonable basis of supply and demand, and the labour question—as it did subsequently—had regulated itself.

Waiting, too, for half an hour longer than was necessary for your hackney to eat his oats.

Far otherwise was the bounteous, well-served repast which sent forth Blount in fit order and condition to do his journey creditably, or to perform any feats of endurance which the day’s work might exact.

Sheila had been up and about long before daylight.

She had consulted the favoured guest through his chamber door, as to which of the appetising list of viands he would prefer, and when the adventurous knight sallied forth in full war paint, he found a good fire and a tempting meal awaiting him.

“I tell you what, Sheila,” he said, regarding that praiseworthy maiden with an approving smile, “this is all very fine and you ought to get a prize at the next Agricultural Show, for turning out such a breakfast, but how am I to face burnt steak and sodden damper at the diggers’ camp to-morrow morning?

” The girl looked at him earnestly for a moment or two without speaking, and then with an air of half warning, half disapproval, said, “Well—if you ask me, sir, the cooking’s not the worst of it in those sort of places, and I can’t see for my part why a gentleman like you wants going there at all.

They’re very queer people at the head of the river, and they do say that the less you have to do with them the better.

” “But I suppose there _are_ all sorts of queer characters in this new country of yours.

I didn’t come from England to lead a feather-bed life.

I’ve made up my mind to see the bush, the goldfields, and all the wild life I could come across, and I suppose Mr. Little-River-Jack is about the cleverest guide I could have.

” “Well—ye—es!

he’s _clever_ enough, but there _are_ yarns about him.

I

don’t like to tell all I’ve heard, because, of course, it mightn’t be true.

Still, if I were you, sir, I’d keep a sharp look out, and if you spotted anything that didn’t look square, make some excuse and clear.

” “But, my dear girl, what _is_ there to watch?

Do he and his friends steal cattle or rob miners of their gold?

Any highway business?

Why can’t you speak out?

I see you’re anxious lest I should get into a scrape; on account of my innocence, isn’t that it?

And very kind of you it is.

I won’t forget it, I promise you.

” “I can’t say any more,” said the girl, evidently confused.

“But be a bit careful, for God’s sake, and don’t take all you’re told for gospel;”

after which deliverance she left the room abruptly and did not appear when Mr. Blount and his guide, both mounted, were moving off.

They were in high spirits, and the cob dancing with eagerness to get away.

As they left the main road at an angle, Blount looked back to the hotel towards a window from which the girl was looking out.

Her features wore a grave and anxious expression, and she shook her head with an air, as it seemed to him, of disapproval.

This byplay was unobserved by his companion, who was apparently scrutinising with concentrated attention the track on which he had turned.

Throwing off all misgivings, and exhilarated by the loveliness of the weather, which in that locality always succeeds a night of frost, he gave himself up to an unaffected admiration of the woodland scene.

The sun now nearly an hour high had dispelled the mists, which lay upon the river meadows, and brought down in glittering drops the frost jewels sparkling on every bush and branch.

The sky of brightest blue was absolutely cloudless, the air keen and bracing; wonderfully dry and stimulating.

The grass waved amid their horses’ feet.

The forest, entirely composed of evergreens, from the tallest eucalypt, a hundred feet to the first branch, to the low-growing banksia, though partly sombre, was yet relieved by an occasional cypress, or sterentia.

The view was grand, and apparently illimitable, from the high tableland which they soon reached.

Range after range of snow-clad mountains reared their vast forms to the eastward, while beyond them again came into view a new and complete mountain world, in which companies of snow peaks and the shoulders of yet loftier tiers of mountains were distinctly, if faintly, visible.

What passes, what fastnesses, what well-nigh undiscoverable hiding-places, Blount thought, might not be available amid these highlands for refugees from justice—for the transaction of secret or illegal practices!

He was aroused from such a reverie by the cheery voice of his companion, who evidently was not minded to enjoy the beauty of the morning, or the mysterious expanse of the landscape in silence.

“Great country this, Mr. Blount!

” he exclaimed, with patronising appreciation.

“Pity we haven’t a few more men and women to the square mile.

There’s work and payin’ occupation within sight”—here he waved his hand—“for a hundred years to come, if it was stocked the right way.

Good soil, regular rainfall, timber, water no end, a bit coldish in winter; but look at Scotland, and see the men and women it turns out!

I’d like to be Governor for ten years.

What a place I’d make of it!

” “And what’s the reason you people of Australia, natives of the soil, and so on, can’t do it for yourselves, without nobles, King or Kaiser—you’ve none of _them_ to blame?

” “Haven’t we?

We’ve too many by a dashed sight, and that’s the reason we can’t get on.

They call them Members of Parliament here, and they do nothing but talk, talk, talk.

” “Oh!

I see; but they’re elected by the people, for the people, and so on.

The people—you and your friends, that is—must have been fools to elect them.

Isn’t that so?

” “Of course it is.

And this is how it comes; there’s always a lot of fellers that like talking better than work.

They palaver the real workers, who do all the graft, and carry the load, and once they’re in Parliament and get their six pound a week it’s good-bye to honest work for the rest of their lives.

It’s a deal easier to reel out any kind of rot by the yard than it is to make boots and shoes, or do carpentering, or blacksmith’s work.

” “H—m!

should say it was.

Never tried either myself; but when they get into Parliament don’t they do anything?

” “Well, in a sort of way, but they’re dashed slow about it.

Half the time, every law has to be altered and patched and undone again.

They’re in no hurry, bless you!

—they’re not paid by the job; so the longer they are about it the more pay and ‘exes’ they rake in.

” “What’s wrong with the law about this particular neighbourhood?

” “Well, they’re allowed to take up too much land for one thing.

I

wouldn’t give more than a hundred acres, if I had my way, to any selector,” said this vigorous reformer.

“The soil’s rich, the rainfall’s certain, and the water-supply’s everlastin’.

What’s wanted is labour—men and women, that means.

It’ll grow anything, and if they’d keep to fruit, root crops, and artificial grasses, they could smother theirselves with produce in a year or two.

Irrigate besides.

See that race?

You can lead water anywhere you like in this district.

” “Well, why don’t they?

One would think they could see the profit in it.

Here it is, under their feet.

” “It’s this way; a man with a couple of thousand acres can keep a flock of sheep.

They don’t do extra well, but they grow a fleece once a year, and when wool’s a decent price the family can live on it—with the help of poultry, eggs and bacon, and chops now and then.

It’s a poor life, and only just keeps them—hand to mouth, as it were.

” “Still, they’re independent.

” “Oh!

independent enough—the ragged girls won’t go out to service.

The boys loaf about on horseback and smoke half the time.

If they had only a hundred acres or so, they couldn’t pretend to be squatters.

The men would dig more and plough more, the greater part of the area would be cultivated, they could feed their cows in winter (which _is_ long and cold in these parts), fatten pigs, have an orchard (look at the apple-trees at the last place we passed), do themselves real well, and have money in the bank as well.

” “We must have a republic, and make you first Dictator, I see that.

Now, where does this tremendous ravine lead to?

” “It leads through Wild Horse Gully, down to the Dark River—we’d better get off and walk the next mile or two—there’s a big climb further on.

” “I shouldn’t wonder,” said the traveller.

“How wild horses or any other travel about here, astonishes me.

Where do they come from?

There were none in Australia when the first people came, I suppose?

” “Not a hoof.

They’ve all been bred up from the stray horses that got away from the stations, long ago.

They’re in thousands among these mountains.

It takes the squatters at the heads of the rivers all their time to keep them under.

” “Do they do much harm?

” “Well, yes, a lot.

They eat too much grass for one thing, and spoil more than they eat, galloping about.

Then they run off the station horses, especially the mares.

Once they join the wild mob, they’re never seen again.

Get shot by mistake, too, now and again.

” “Why!

do they shoot horses here?

” “Shoot ’em, of course!

The hides and hair fetch a fairish price.

Some men live by it.

They make trap yards, and get as many as a hundred at a time.

The squatters shoot them now and again, and pay men to do it.

” “It seems a pity.

A horse is a fine animal, wild or tame, but I suppose they can’t be allowed to over-run the country.

” The Wild Horse Gully, down which they were proceeding at a slow and cautious pace, was a tortuous and narrow pathway, hemmed in by rugged precipitous mountain sides.

From its nature it was impracticable for wheeled vehicles, but the tracks of horses and cattle were recent and deeply indented.

These his companion scrutinised with more than ordinary care.

The horse tracks were in nearly all instances those of unshod animals, but as he pointed out, there were two sets of recent imprints on the damp red loam, of which the sharp edges and nail heads told of the blacksmith’s shop as plainly as if a printed notice had been nailed to one of the adjacent tree trunks; also that a dozen heavy cattle had gone along in front of them at rather a fast pace.

These last had come in on a side track, their sliding trail down the face of the mountain showing plainly how they had arrived, and, as nearly as possible, to the experienced eye of one horseman, at what hour.

The day had been tedious, even monotonous, the pace necessarily slow;

the chill air of evening was beginning to be felt, when the bushman, with a sigh of relief, pointed to a thin wreath of smoke.

On an open, half-cleared spot, a hut built of horizontal logs was dimly visible; a narrow eager streamlet ran close to the rude dwelling, while at their approach a pair of cattle dogs began to bark as they walked in a menacing manner towards the intruders.