IV

“All right,” said I, “he must have got there a day before his time. It is a big mob and no mistake. I wonder where they’re taking them to.” Aileen shrugged her shoulders and walked in to mother with a look of misery and despair on her face such as I never saw there before.

She knew it was no use talking to me now. The idea of going out to meet a large lot of unknown cattle had strongly excited us, as would have been the case with every bush-bred lad. All sorts of wonders passed through our minds as we walked down the creek bank, with our bridles in our hands, towards where our horses usually fed. One was easy to catch, the other with a little management was secured. In ten minutes we were riding fast through the dark trees and fallen timber towards the wild gullies and rock-strewed hills of Broken Creek.

It was not more than an hour when we got up to the cattle. We could hear them a good while before we saw them. “My word,” said Jim, “ain’t they restless. They can’t have come far, or they wouldn’t roar so. Where can the old man have touched for them?”

“How should I know?” I said roughly. I had a kind of idea, but I thought he would never be so rash.

When we got up I could see the cattle had been rounded up in a flat with stony ridges all round. There must have been three or four hundred of them, only a man and a boy riding round and wheeling them every now and then. Their horses were pretty well knocked up. I knew father at once, and the old chestnut mare he used to ride⁠—an animal with legs like timbers and a mule rump; but you couldn’t tire her, and no beast that ever was calved could get away from her. The boy was a half-caste that father had picked up somewhere; he was as good as two men any day.

“So you’ve come at last,” growled father, “and a good thing too. I didn’t expect to be here till tomorrow morning. The dog came home, I suppose⁠—that’s what brought you here, wasn’t it? I thought the infernal cattle would beat Warrigal and me, and we’d have all our trouble for nothing.”

“Whose cattle are they, and what are you going to do with them?”

“Never you mind; ask no questions, and you’ll see all about it tomorrow. I’ll go and take a snooze now; I’ve had no sleep for three nights.”

With our fresh horses and riding round so we kept the cattle easily enough. We did not tell Warrigal he might go to rest, not thinking a half-caste brat like him wanted any. He didn’t say anything, but went to sleep on his horse, which walked in and out among the angry cattle as he sat on the saddle with his head down on the horse’s neck. They sniffed at him once or twice, some of the old cows, but none of them horned him; and daylight came rather quicker than one would think.

Then we saw whose cattle they were; they had all Hunter’s and Falkland’s brands on, which showed that they belonged to Banda and Elingamah stations.

“By George!” says Jim, “they’re Mr. Hunter’s cattle, and all these circle dots belong to Banda. What a mob of calves! not one of them branded! What in the world does father intend to do with them?”

Father was up, and came over where we stood with our horses in our hands before we had time to say more. He wasn’t one of those that slept after daylight, whether he had work to do or not. He certainly could work; daylight or dark, wet or dry, cold or hot, it was all one to father. It seems a pity what he did was no use to him, as it turned out; for he was a man, was old dad, every inch of him.

“Now, boys,” he said, quite brisk and almost good-natured for him, “look alive and we’ll start the cattle; we’ve been long enough here; let ’em head up that gully, and I’ll show you something you’ve never seen before for as long as you’ve known Broken Creek Ranges.”

“But where are you going to take ’em to?” I said. “They’re all Mr. Hunter’s and Mr. Falkland’s; the brands are plain enough.”

“Are the calves branded, you blasted fool?” he said, while the black look came over his face that had so often frightened me when I was a child. “You do what I tell you if you’ve any pluck and gumption about you; or else you and your brother can ride over to Dargo Police Station and give me away if you like; only don’t come home again, I warn you, sons or no sons.”

If I had done what I had two minds to do⁠—for I wasn’t afraid of him then, savage as he looked⁠—told him to do his own duffing and ridden away with Jim there and then⁠—poor Jim, who sat on his horse staring at both of us, and saying nothing⁠—how much better it would have been for all of us, the old man as well as ourselves; but it seemed as if it wasn’t to be. Partly from use, and partly from a love of danger and something new, which is at the bottom of half the crime in the bush districts, I turned my horse’s head after the cattle, which were now beginning to straggle. Jim did the same on his side. How easy is it for chaps to take the road to hell! for that was about the size of it, and we were soon too busy to think about much else.

The track we were driving on led along a narrow rocky gully which looked as if it had been split up or made out of a crack in the earth thousands of years ago by an earthquake or something of that kind. The hills were that steep that every now and then some of the young cattle that were not used to that sort of country would come sliding down and bellow as if they thought they were going to break their necks.

The water rushed down it like a torrent in wet winters, and formed a sort of creek, and the bed of it made what track there was. There were overhanging rocks and places that made you giddy to look at, and some of these must have fallen down and blocked up the creek at one time or other. We had to scramble round them the best way we could.

When we got nearly up to the head of the gully⁠—and great work it was to force the footsore cattle along, as we couldn’t use our whips overmuch⁠—Jim called out⁠—

“Why, here comes old Crib. Who’d have thought he’d have seen the track? Well done, old man. Now we’re right.”

Father never took any notice of the poor brute as he came limping along the stones. Woman or child, horse or dog, it’s the same old thing⁠—the more any creature loves a man in this world the worse they’re treated. It looks like it, at any rate. I saw how it was; father had given Crib a cruel beating the night before, when he was put out for some trifling matter, and the dog had left him and run home. But now he had thought better of it, and seen our tracks and come to work and slave, with his bleeding feet⁠—for they were cut all to pieces⁠—and got the whip across his back now and then for his pains. It’s a queer world!

When we got right to the top of this confounded gully, nearly deadbeat all of us, and only for the dog heeling them up every now and then, and making his teeth nearly meet in them, without a whimper, I believe the cattle would have charged back and beat us. There was a sort of rough tableland⁠—scrubby and stony and thick it was, but still the grass wasn’t bad in summer, when the country below was all dried up. There were wild horses in troops there, and a few wild cattle, so Jim and I knew the place well; but it was too far and too much of a journey for our own horses to go often.

“Do you see that sugar-loaf hill with the bald top, across the range?” said father, riding up just then, as we were taking it easy a little. “Don’t let the cattle straggle, and make straight for that.”

“Why, it’s miles away,” said Jim, looking rather dismal. “We could never get ’em there.”

“We’re not going there, stupid,” says father; “that’s only the line to keep. I’ll show you something about dinnertime that’ll open your eyes a bit.”

Poor Jim brightened up at the mention of dinnertime, for, boylike, he was getting very hungry, and as he wasn’t done growing he had no end of an appetite. I was hungry enough for the matter of that, but I wouldn’t own to it.

“Well, we shall come to somewhere, I suppose,” says Jim, when father was gone. “Blest if I didn’t think he was going to keep us wandering in this blessed Nulla Mountain all day. I wish I’d never seen the blessed cattle. I was only waiting for you to hook it when we first seen the brands by daylight, and I’d ha’ been off like a brindle ‘Mickey’ down a range.”

“Better for us if we had,” I said; “but it’s too late now. We must stick to it, I suppose.”

We had kept the cattle going for three or four miles through the thickest of the country, every now and then steering our course by the clear round top of Sugarloaf, that could be seen for miles round, but never seemed to get any nearer, when we came on a rough sort of log-fence, which ran the way we were going.

“I didn’t think there were any farms up here,” I said to Jim.

“It’s a ‘break,’ ” he said, almost in a whisper. “There’s a duffing-yard somewhere handy; that’s what’s the matter.”

“Keep the cattle along it, anyway. We’ll soon see what it leads to.”

The cattle ran along the fence, as if they expected to get to the end of their troubles soon. The scrub was terribly thick in places, and every now and then there was a break in the fence, when one of us had to go outside and hunt them until we came to the next bit. At last we came to a little open kind of flat, with the scrub that thick round it as you couldn’t hardly ride through it, and, just as Jim said, there was the yard.

It was a “duffing-yard” sure enough. No one but people who had cattle to hide and young stock they didn’t want other people to see branded would have made a place there.

Just on the south side of the yard, which was built of great heavy stringy-bark trees cut down in the line of the fence, and made up with limbs and logs, the range went up as steep as the side of a house. The cattle were that tired and footsore⁠—half their feet were bleeding, poor devils⁠—that they ran in through the sliprails and began to lay down.

“Light a fire, one of you boys,” says father, putting up the heavy sliprails and fastening them. “We must brand these calves before dark. One of you can go to that gunyah, just under the range where that big white rock is, and you’ll find tea and sugar and something to eat.”

Jim rushed off at once, while I sulkily began to put some bark and twigs together and build a fire.

“What’s the use of all this cross work?” I said to father; “we’re bound to be caught some day if we keep on at it. Then there’ll be no one left to take care of mother and Aileen.”

He looked rather struck at this, and then said quietly⁠—

“You and your brother can go back now. Never say I kept you against your will. You may as well lend a hand to brand these calves; then you may clear out as soon as you like.”

Well, I didn’t quite like leaving the old chap in the middle of the work like that. I remember thinking, like many another young fool, I suppose, that I could draw back in time, just after I’d tackled this job.

Draw back, indeed! When does a man ever get the chance of doing that, once he’s regularly gone in for any of the devil’s work and wages? He takes care there isn’t much drawing back afterwards. So I said⁠—

“We may as well give you a hand with this lot; but we’ll go home then, and drop all this duffing work. It don’t pay. I’m old enough to know that, and you’ll find it out yet, I expect, father, yourself.”

“The fox lives long, and gives the hounds many a long chase before he’s run into,” he said, with a grim chuckle. “I swore I’d be revenged on ’em all when they locked me up and sent me out here for a paltry hare; broke my old mother’s heart, so it did. I’ve had a pound for every hair in her skin, and I shall go on till I die. After all, if a man goes to work cautious and runs mute it’s not so easy to catch him in this country, at any rate.”

Jim at this came running out of the cave with a face of joy, a bag of ship-biscuit, and a lot of other things.

“Here’s tea and sugar,” he said; “and there’s biscuits and jam, and a big lump of cheese. Get the fire right, Dick, while I get some water. We’ll soon have some tea, and these biscuits are jolly.”

The tea was made, and we all had a good meal. Father found a bottle of rum, too; he took a good drink himself, and gave Jim and me a sip each. I felt less inclined to quarrel with father after that. So we drafted all the calves into a small pen-yard, and began to put our brand on them as quick as we could catch ’em.

A hundred and sixty of ’em altogether⁠—all ages, from a month old to nearly a year. Fine strong calves, and in rare condition, too. We could see they were all belonging to Mr. Hunter and Mr. Falkland. How they came to leave them all so long unbranded I can’t say. Very careless they often are on these large cattle-stations, so that sharp people like father and the Dalys, and a lot more, get an easy chance at them.

Whatever father was going to do with them all when he had branded ’em, we couldn’t make out.

“There’s no place to tail or wean ’em,” whispered Jim. “We’re not above thirty miles from Banda in a straight line. These cows are dead sure to make straight back the very minute they’re let out, and very nice work it’ll look with all these calves with our brand on sucking these cows.”

Father happened to come round for a hot brand just as Jim finished.

“Never you mind about the weaning,” he snarled. “I shan’t ask you to tail them either. It wouldn’t be a nice job here, would it?” and father actually laughed. It wasn’t a very gay kind of a laugh, and he shut up his mouth with a sort of snap again. Jim and I hadn’t seen him laugh for I don’t know how long, and it almost frightened us.

As Jim said, it wouldn’t do to let the cattle out again. If calves are weaned, and have only one brand on, it is very hard for any man to swear that they are not the property of the man to whom that brand belongs. He may believe them to be his, but may never have seen them in his life; and if he has seen them on a camp or on the run, it’s very hard to swear to anyone particular red or spotted calf as you would to a horse.

The great dart is to keep the young stock away from their mothers until they forget one another, and then most of the danger is past. But if calves with one man’s brand on are seen sucking another man’s cows, it is pretty plain that the brand on the calves has been put on without the consent of the owner of the cows⁠—which is cattle-stealing; a felony, according to the Act 7 and 8 George IV, No. 29, punishable with three years’ imprisonment, with hard labour on the roads of the colony or other place, as the Judge may direct.

There’s a lot of law! How did I learn it? I had plenty of time in Berrima Gaol⁠—worse luck⁠—my first stretch. But it was after I’d done the foolishness, and not before.

V

“Now then, you boys!” says father, coming up all of a sudden like, and bringing out his words as if it was old times with us, when we didn’t know whether he’d hit first and talk afterwards, or the other way on, “get out the lot we’ve just branded, and drive ’em straight for that peak, where the water shines dripping over the stones, right again the sun, and look slippy; we’re burning daylight, and these cows are making row enough, blast ’em! to be heard all the way to Banda. I’ll go on and steady the lead; you keep ’em close up to me.”

Father mounted the old mare. The dog stopped behind; he knew he’d have to mind the tail⁠—that is the hindmost cattle⁠—and stop ’em from breaking or running clear away from the others. We threw down the rails. Away the cattle rushed out, all in a long string. You’d ’a thought no mortal men could ’a kept ’em in that blind hole of a place. But father headed ’em, and turned ’em towards the peak. The dog worried those that wanted to stay by the yard or turn another way. We dropped our whip on ’em, and kept ’em going. In five minutes they were all a-moving along in one mob at a pretty sharpish trot like a lot of store cattle. Father knew his way about, whether the country was thick or open. It was all as one to him. What a slashing stockman he would have made in new country, if he only could have kept straight.

It took us an hour’s hard dinkum to get near the peak. Sometimes it was awful rocky, as well as scrubby, and the poor devils of cattle got as sore-footed as babies⁠—blood up to the knee, some of ’em; but we crowded ’em on; there was no help for it.

At last we rounded up on a flat, rocky, open kind of a place; and here father held up his hand.

“Let ’em ring a bit; some of their tongues are out. These young things is generally soft. Come here, Dick.” I rode up, and he told me to follow him.

We walked our horses up to the edge of the mountain and looked over. It was like the end of the world. Far down there was a dark, dreadful drop into a sort of deep valley below. You couldn’t see the bottom of it. The trees on the mountain side looked like bushes, and they were big ironbarks and messmates too. On three sides of us was this awful, desolate-looking precipice⁠—a dreary, gloomy, Godforsaken kind of spot. The sky got cloudy, and the breeze turned cold and began to murmur and whistle in an odd, unnatural kind of way, while father, seeing how scared and puzzled I was, began to laugh. I shuddered. A thought crossed my mind that it might be the Enemy of Souls, in his shape, going to carry us off for doing such a piece of wickedness.

“Looks queer, doesn’t it?” says father, going to the brink and kicking down a boulder, that rolled and crashed down the steep mountain side, tearing its way through scrub and heath till it settled down in the glen below. “It won’t do for a man’s horse to slip, will it, boy? And yet there’s a track here into a fine large paddock, open and clear, too, where I’m going to put these cattle into.”

I stared at him, without speaking, thinking was he mad.

“No! the old man isn’t mad, youngster,” he said; “not yet, at least. I’m going to show you a trick that none of you native boys are up to, smart as you think yourselves.” Here he got off the old mare, and began to lead her to the edge of the mountain.

“Now, you rally the cattle well after me,” he said; “they’ll follow the old mare after a bit. I left a few cows among ’em on purpose, and when they draw keep ’em going well up, but not too fast.”

He had lengthened the bridle of the mare, and tied the end of a light tether rope that he had round her neck to it. I saw her follow him slowly, and turn down a rocky track that seemed to lead straight over a bluff of the precipice.

However, I gave the word to “head on.” The dog had started rounding ’em up as soon as he saw the old mare walk towards the mountain side, and the cattle were soon crushed up pretty close to the mare’s heels.

Mind this, that they were so footsore and tender about the hoofs that they could not have run away from us on foot if they had tried.

After “ringing” a bit, one of the quiet cows followed up the old mare that was walking step by step forward, and all the rest followed her like sheep. Cattle will do that. I’ve seen a stockrider, when all the horses were dead beat, trying to get fat cattle to take a river in flood, jump off and turn his horse loose into the stream. If he went straight, and swam across, all the cattle would follow him like sheep.

Well, when the old mare got to the bluff she turned short round to the right, and then I saw that she had struck a narrow path down a gully that got deeper and deeper every yard we went. There was just room for a couple or three calves to go abreast, and by and by all of ’em was walking down it like as if they was the beasts agoing into Noah’s Ark. It wound and wound and got deeper and deeper till the walls of rock were ever so far above our heads. Our work was done then; the cattle had to walk on like sheep in a race. We led our horses behind them, and the dog walked along, saving his sore feet as well as he could, and never tried to bite a beast once he got within the walls. He looked quite satisfied, and kept chuckling almost to himself. I really believe I’ve seen dogs laugh. Once upon a time I’ve read of they’d have taken poor Crib for a familiar spirit, and hanged or burnt him. Well, he knew a lot, and no mistake. I’ve seen plenty of Christians as he could buy and sell, and no trouble to him. I’m dashed if the old mare, too, didn’t take a pleasure in working cattle on the cross. She was the laziest old wretch bringing up the cows at home, or running in the horses. Many a time Jim and I took a turn out of her when father didn’t know. But put her after a big mob of cattle⁠—she must have known they couldn’t be ours⁠—and she’d clatter down a range like the wall of a house, and bite and kick the tail cattle if they didn’t get out of her way. They say dogs and horses are all honest, and it’s only us as teaches ’em to do wrong. My notion’s they’re a deal like ourselves, and some of ’em fancies the square racket dull and safe, while some takes a deal kindlier to the other. Anyhow, no cattle-duffer in the colonies could have had a better pair of mates than old Sally and Crib, if the devil himself had broken ’em in special for the trade.

It was child’s play now, as far as the driving went. Jim and I walked along, leading our horses and yarning away as we used to do when we were little chaps bringing in the milkers.

“My word, Dick, dad’s dropped into a fine road through this thundering mountain, hasn’t he? I wonder where it leads to? How high the rock-walls are getting above us!” he says. “I know now. I think I heard long ago from one of the Crosbies of a place in the ranges down towards behind the Nulla Mountain, ‘Terrible Hollow.’ He didn’t know about it himself, but said an old stockman told him about it when he was drunk. He said the Government men used to hide the cattle and horses there in old times, and that it was never found out.”

“Why wasn’t it found out, Jim? If the old fellow split about it someone else would get to know.”

“Well, old Dan said that they killed one man that talked of telling; the rest were too frightened after that, and they all swore a big oath never to tell anyone except he was on the cross.”

“That’s how dad come to know, I suppose,” said Jim. “I wish he never had. I don’t care about those cross doings. I never did. I never seen any good come out of them yet.”

“Well, we must go through with it now, I suppose. It won’t do to leave old dad in the lurch. You won’t, will you, Jim?”

“You know very well I won’t,” says Jim, very soberlike. “I don’t like it any the more for that. But I wish father had broke his leg, and was lying up at home, with mother nursing him, before he found out this hellhole of a place.”

“Well, we’re going to get out of it, and soon too. The gully seems getting wider, and I can see a bit of open country through the trees.”

“Thank God for that!” says Jim. “My boots’ll part company soon, and the poor devils of calves won’t have any hoofs either, if there’s much more of this.”

“They’re drawing faster now. The leading cattle are beginning to run. We’re at the end of the drive.”

So it was. The deep, rocky gully gradually widened into an open and pretty smooth flat; this, again, into a splendid little plain, up to the knees in grass; a big natural park, closed round on every side with sandstone rockwalls, as upright as if they were built, and a couple of thousand feet above the place where we stood.

This scrub country was crossed by two good creeks; it was several miles across, and a trifle more in length. Our hungry weaners spread out and began to feed, without a notion of their mothers they’d left behind; but they were not the only ones there. We could see other mobs of cattle, some near, some farther off; horses, too; and the well-worn track in several ways showed that this was no new grazing ground.

Father came riding back quite comfortable and hearty-like for him.

“Welcome to Terrible Hollow, lads,” says he. “You’re the youngest chaps it has ever been shown to, and if I didn’t know you were the right stuff, you’d never have seen it, though you’re my own flesh and blood. Jump off, and let your horses go. They can’t get away, even if they tried; they don’t look much like that.”

Our poor nags were something like the cattle, pretty hungry and stiff. They put their heads down to the thick green grass, and went in at it with a will.

“Bring your saddles along with you,” father said, “and come after me. I’ll show you a good camping place. You deserve a treat after last night’s work.”

We turned back towards the rocky wall, near to where we had come in, and there, behind a bush and a big piece of sandstone that had fallen down, was the entrance to a cave. The walls of it were quite clean and white-looking, the floor was smooth, and the roof was pretty high, well blackened with smoke, too, from the fires which had been lighted in it for many a year gone by.

A kind of natural cellar had been made by scooping out the soft sandstone behind a ledge. From this father took a bag of flour and cornmeal. We very soon made some cakes in the pan, that tasted well, I can tell you. Tea and sugar too, and quart pots, some bacon in a flour-bag; and that rasher fried in the pan was the sweetest meat I ever ate in all my born days.

Then father brought out a keg and poured some rum into a pint pot. He took a pretty stiff pull, and then handed it to us. “A little of it won’t hurt you, boys,” he said, “after a night’s work.”

I took some⁠—not much; we hadn’t learned to drink then⁠—to keep down the fear of something hanging over us. A dreadful fear it is. It makes a coward of every man who doesn’t lead a square life, let him be as game as he may.

Jim wouldn’t touch it. “No,” he said, when I laughed at him, “I promised mother last time I had more than was good for me at Dargo Races that I wouldn’t touch it again for two years; and I won’t either. I can stand what any other man can, and without the hard stuff, either.”

“Please yourself,” said father. “When you’re ready we’ll have a ride through the stock.”

We finished our meal, and a first-rate one it was. A man never has the same appetite for his meals anywhere else that he has in the bush, specially if he has been up half the night. It’s so fresh, and the air makes him feel as if he’d ate nothing for a week. Sitting on a log, or in the cave, as we were, I’ve had the best meal I’ve ever tasted since I was born. Not like the close-feeling, close-smelling, dirty-clean graveyard they call a gaol. But it’s no use beginning on that. We were young men, and free, too. Free! By all the devils in hell, if there are devils⁠—and there must be to tempt a man, or how could he be so great a fool, so blind a born idiot, as to do anything in this world that would put his freedom in jeopardy? And what for? For folly and nonsense. For a few pounds he could earn with a month’s honest work and be all the better man for it. For a false woman’s smile that he could buy, and ten like her, if he only kept straight and saving. For a bit of sudden pride or vanity or passion. A short bit of what looks like pleasure, against months and years of weariness, and cold and heat, and dull half-death, with maybe a dog’s death at the end!

I could cry like a child when I think of it now. I have cried many’s the time and often since I have been shut up here, and dashed my head against the stones till I pretty nigh knocked all sense and feeling out of it, not so much in repentance, though I don’t say I feel sorry, but to think what a fool, fool, fool I’d been. Yes, fool, three times over⁠—a hundred times⁠—to put my liberty and life against such a miserable stake⁠—a stake the devil that deals the pack is so safe to win at the end.

I may as well go on. But I can’t help breaking out sometimes when I hear the birds calling to one another as they fly over the yard, and know it’s fresh air and sun and green grass outside that I never shall see again. Never see the river rippling under the big drooping trees, or the cattle coming down in the twilight to drink after the long hot day. Never, never more! And whose fault is it? Who have I to blame? Perhaps father helped a bit; but I knew better, and no one is half as much to blame as myself.

Where were we? Oh, at the cave-mouth, coming out with our bridles in our hands to catch our horses. We soon did that, and then we rode away to the other cattle. They were a queer lot, in fine condition, but all sorts of ages and breeds, with every kind of brand and earmark.

Lots of the brands we didn’t know, and had never heard of. Some had no brands at all⁠—full-grown beasts, too; that was a thing we had very seldom seen. Some of the best cattle and some of the finest horses⁠—and there were some real plums among the horses⁠—had a strange brand, JJ.

“Who does the JJ brand belong to?” I said to father. “They’re the pick of the lot, whose ever they are.”

Father looked black for a bit, and then he growled out, “Don’t you ask too many questions, lad. There’s only four living men besides yourselves knows about this place; so take care and don’t act foolishly, or you’ll lose a plant that may save your life, as well as keep you in cash for many a year to come. That brand belongs to Starlight, and he was the only man left alive of the men that first found it and used it to put away stock in. He wanted help, and told me five years ago. He took in a half-caste chap, too, against my will. He helped him with that last lot of cattle that you noticed.”

“But where did those horses come from?” Jim said. “I never hardly saw such a lot before. All got the JJ brand on, too, and nothing else; all about three year old.”

“They were brought here as foals,” says father, “following their mothers. Some of them was foaled here; and, of course, as they’ve only the one brand on they never can be claimed or sworn to. They’re from some of Mr. Maxwell’s best thoroughbred mares, and their sire was Earl of Atheling, imported. He was here for a year.”

“Well, they might look the real thing,” said Jim, his eyes brightening as he gazed at them. “I’d like to have that dark bay colt with the star. My word, what a forehand he’s got; and what quarters, too. If he can’t gallop I’ll never say I know a horse from a poley cow.”

“You shall have him, or as good, never fear, if you stick to your work,” says father. “You mustn’t cross Starlight, for he’s a born devil when he’s taken the wrong way, though he talks so soft. The half-caste is an out-and-out chap with cattle, and the horse doesn’t stand on four legs that he can’t ride⁠—and make follow him, for the matter of that. But he’s worth watching. I don’t believe in him myself. And now ye have the lot.”

“And a d⁠⸺⁠d fine lot they are,” I said, for I was vexed with Jim for taking so easy to the bait father held out to him about the horse. “A very smart crowd to be on the roads inside of five years, and drag us in with ’em.”

“How do you make that out?” says father. “Are you going to turn dog, now you know the way in? Isn’t it as easy to carry on for a few years more as it was twenty years ago?”

“Not by a long chalk,” I said, for my blood was up, and I felt as if I could talk back to father and give him as good as he sent, and all for Jim’s sake. Poor Jim! He’d always go to the mischief for the sake of a good horse, and many another “Currency” chap has gone the same way. It’s a pity for some of ’em that a blood horse was ever foaled.

“You think you can’t be tracked,” says I, “but you must bear in mind you haven’t got to do with the old-fashioned mounted police as was potterin’ about when this ‘bot’ was first hit on. There’s chaps in the police getting now, natives or all the same, as can ride and track every bit as well as the half-caste you’re talking about. Some day they’ll drop on the track of a mob coming in or getting out, and then the game will be all up.”

“You can cut it if you like now,” said father, looking at me curious like. “Don’t say I dragged you in. You and your brother can go home, and no one will ever know where you were; no more than if you’d gone to the moon.”

Jim looked at the brown colt that just came trotting up as dad finished speaking⁠—trotting up with his head high and his tail stuck out like a circus horse. If he’d been the devil in a horsehide he couldn’t have chosen a better moment. Then his eyes began to glitter.

We all three looked at each other. No one spoke. The colt stopped, turned, and galloped back to his mates like a red flyer with the dogs close behind him.

It was not long. We all began to speak at once. But in that time the die was cast, the stakes were down, and in the pool were three men’s lives.

“I don’t care whether we go back or not,” says Jim; “I’ll do either way that Dick likes. But that colt I must have.”

“I never intended to go back,” I said. “But we’re three d⁠⸺⁠d fools all the same⁠—father and sons. It’ll be the dearest horse you ever bought, Jim, old man, and so I tell you.”

“Well, I suppose it’s settled now,” says father; “so let’s have no more chat. We’re like a pack of old women, blessed if we ain’t.”

After that we got on more sociably. Father took us all over the place, and a splendid paddock it was⁠—walled all round but where we had come in, and a narrow gash in the far side that not one man in a thousand could ever hit on, except he was put up to it; a wild country for miles when you did get out⁠—all scrub and rock, that few people ever had call to ride over. There was splendid grass everywhere, water, and shelter. It was warmer, too, than the country above, as you could see by the coats of the cattle and horses.

“If it had only been honestly come by,” Jim said, “what a jolly place it would have been!”

Towards the north end of the paddock was a narrow gully with great sandstone walls all round, and where it narrowed the first discoverers had built a stockyard, partly with dry stone walls and partly with logs and rails.

There was no trouble in getting the cattle or horses into this, and there were all kinds of narrow yards and pens for branding the stock if they were clearskins, and altering or “faking” the brands if they were plain. This led into another yard, which opened into the narrowest part of the gully. Once in this, like the one they came down, and the cattle or horses had no chance but to walk slowly up, one behind the other, till they got on the tableland above. Here, of course, every kind of work that can be done to help disguise cattle was done. Earmarks were cut out and altered in shape, or else the whole ear was cropped off; every letter in the alphabet was altered by means of straight bars or half-circles, figures, crosses, everything you could think of.

“Mr. Starlight is an edicated man,” said father. “This is all his notion; and many a man has looked at his own beast, with the ears altered and the brand faked, and never dreamed he ever owned it. He’s a great card is Starlight. It’s a pity he ever took to this kind of life.”

Father said this with a kind of real sorrow that made me look at him to see if the grog had got into his head; just as if his life, mine, and Jim’s didn’t matter a straw compared to this man’s, whoever he was, that had had so many better chances than we had and had chucked ’em all away.

But it’s a strange thing that I don’t think there’s any place in the world where men feel a more real out-and-out respect for a gentleman than in Australia. Everybody’s supposed to be free and equal now; of course, they couldn’t be in the convict days. But somehow a man that’s born and bred a gentleman will always be different from other men to the end of the world. What’s the most surprising part of it is that men like father, who have hated the breed and suffered by them, too, can’t help having a curious liking and admiration for them. They’ll follow them like dogs, fight for them, shed their blood, and die for them; must be some sort of a natural feeling. Whatever it is, it’s there safe enough, and nothing can knock it out of nine-tenths of all the men and women you meet. I began to be uneasy to see this wonderful mate of father’s, who was so many things at once⁠—a cattle-stealer, a bushranger, and a gentleman.