Rolf Boldrewood
The Ghost Camp
Mrs. Bruce attributed his evident surprise to the fact of his not having been informed of the fact of a second lady being at the house. “Ned ought to have told you,” she said, “that my sister was staying with us. She has just come from town, where she has been at school. She is so tall that really it seemed absurd to keep her there any longer.”
“You forget that I am eighteen,” said the young lady under observation. “My education should be finished now, if ever.”
“Indeed, I’m afraid you won’t learn much more,” said her brother-in-law, paternally, “though I’m not sure that another year under Miss Charters would not have been as well.”
“Oh! but I did pine so for the fresh air of the bush – the rides and drives and everything. I can’t bear a town life, and was growing low-spirited.”
“How about the opera, balls, the Cup Day itself, at your age too?” interposed Blount.
“All very well in their way. But society in town seems one unmeaning round with the same people you meet always. One gets dead tired of it all. I must have gipsy blood in me, I think, for the gay greenwood has a fascination, which I feel, but can’t explain.”
During dinner, Blount found Mrs. Bruce most agreeable, and, indeed, entertaining. He learned something too about the neighbours, none of whom were nearer than ten miles. Some, indeed, much farther off. It was also explained to him that the region of the Upper Sturt was not all rock and forest, swamp and scrub, but that there were rich tablelands at “the back,” which might be north or north-east. Also that the country became more open “down the river,” as well as, in a sense, more civilised, “though we don’t call ourselves very barbarous,” she added, with a smile.
“Barbarous, indeed!” repeated the guest, with well-acted indignation. “You seem to me to have all the accessories, and more of them than we in that old-fashioned country called England. Here you have books, papers, all the comforts and many of the luxuries of the Old Land, besides a free, unfettered existence, independence, and no earthly annoyance or danger.”
“I am not so sure about the last items,” said Mrs. Bruce. “Ned has been worrying himself lately about a gang of men who call themselves miners, but are more than suspected to be cattle-stealers. He has missed valuable animals lately.”
“You surprise me!” replied Blount, with a shocked expression. “The bush people whom I have come across have appeared to be such simple, hard-working fellows. But surely Mr. Bruce doesn’t apprehend danger from gold-diggers or drovers? They are so civil and well-mannered too.”
“Their manners are good enough; better, people tell us, than those of the same class at home. But they are not always to be trusted, and are revengeful when thwarted in their bad practices. Edward has more than once been warned to be more careful about riding alone near their haunts in the ranges, though he always goes armed.”
“But surely none of the ‘mountain men,’ as I have heard them called, would lie in wait for Mr. Bruce, or any other proprietor, even if he was unpopular, which I feel certain Mr. Bruce is not?”
“There is no saying. Blood has been shed in these mountains before now, peaceful as they appear. However, Edward never stirs out in that direction without his rifle, and you have seen him shoot. He has no fear, but I cannot feel free from anxiety myself. And now I think we must go into the drawing-room, or wrap up and sit in the verandah while you men smoke; what do you say, Imogen?”
“I vote for the verandah. There’s no wind, and the moon is nearly full. It’s tolerably cool; but dry cold never hurts any one. Indeed, it’s said to be the new cure for chest ailment at Davos Platz, isn’t it, Edward?”
“They say so. Doctors are always changing their theories. I prefer a climate that’s moderately cosy myself. But we must have our smoke, and you girls can talk to us, if you keep to low tones and modulated expressions.”
Blount would have vowed to renounce tobacco for the rest of his natural life if but Miss Imogen would sit by him. The moon had risen, flooding the dark woods and river pools with silver radiance. Could they but continue to listen dreamily to the rhythmic murmur of the stream, the softly-sighing, complaining sound of the trailing willows as from time to time the river current lifted them – what had life to compare with such sensations? However, this idyllic joy was in its nature fleeting, as it became apparent that the frosty air “was really too keen for reasonable people who had colds to consider and babies.” So Mrs. Bruce, thus remonstrating, arose, and with two words, “Come, Imogen!” made for one of the French windows which opened from the drawing-room to the verandah. When they entered that comfortable, well-furnished apartment – a handsome Blüthner piano stood open, with music conveniently close – Mr. Bruce quasi-paternally ordered Imogen to sing, in order that he might judge what progress she had made during the half year.
So they had a song, another, several indeed to finish up with. Mr. Blount admitted a slight knowledge of music, and even took a creditable second in one of Miss Carrisforth’s songs. The night wore on, until just before ten o’clock, a neat maid brought in a tray with glasses, and the wherewithal to fill the same. The ladies declining refreshment, said good-night, and left Mr. Bruce and his guest to have their final smoke, hoping that they would not sit up too late, as they must feel tired after their long day’s ride.
The night was glorious, the moon, nearly at its full, had floated into the mid-heaven. The cloudless, dark blue sky seemed to be illumined with star clusters and planets of greater lustre than in ordinary seasons. As they smoked silently, Blount listening to the river gurgling and rippling over its pebbly shallows, the sharp contrast of his surroundings with those he had so lately quitted, indeed even with those during the penultimate sojourn at Bunjil, struck him so forcibly that he could hardly repress a smile.
However he merely remarked – “Australia is certainly a land of wonders – my friends in England will not believe half my adventures when I tell them.”
“I can quite understand that,” replied his host. “When I returned to my native place, after ten years’ absence, mine showed signs of utter disbelief in my smaller experiences, while hazardous tales were swallowed without hesitation.”
Mr. Blount rose early and was rewarded by a view of the dawnlight suffusing the eastern horizon with pale opaline tints, gradually increasing in richness and variety of colouring. Roseate golden clouds were marshalled around the summit of the snow-crowned alp, and even the darksome forest aisles responded to the divine informing waves of light and life.
He was aroused from reverie as he gazed upon the wondrous apparition by resounding whips and the roll of hoofs, as the station horses were being run into the yard. The cob was easily distinguished by his cropped tail and mane, while, refreshed by rest and freedom, he galloped and kicked up his heels, as if he had been reared in the bush, instead of in a suburban paddock. Mr. Blount also witnessed his being caught and conveyed to the stable, in company with Mr. Bruce’s favourite hackney, and another distinguished-looking animal. With respect to the last-named, Paddy said that one “belong’n Miss Immie,” volunteering further information to this effect.
“My word! that one missy ride fustrate.” Storing this encomium in his mind, Mr. Blount repaired to his apartment, where he made all ready for departure, resolving not to remain longer away from his associates in the “Lady Julia,” however great the temptation.
This came at breakfast time, when Mrs. Bruce invited him to stay a few days, when they would show him their best bits of scenery and otherwise try to amuse him. There was a muster of fat cattle coming on, which was always held to be an interesting spectacle to visitors from the other side of the world. Mr. Bruce was convinced that he would acquire more colonial experience in a week at this particular time, than half a year would show him at a different season. A few neighbours would come over – very decent fellows, and fair specimens of Australian country gentlemen. It would be a regular “house-party,” as they say in England. The opportunity should not be lost.
Miss Imogen did not join in the endeavour to tempt Mr. Blount from the path of duty, but she looked as if such a deflection from the narrow way would meet with her approval. After his very courteous, but distinct expression of regret, that he was compelled by a business engagement to decline – with how much reluctance, he could hardly say – their most kind and flattering invitation, the request was not pressed, and the remainder of the breakfast passed off in a lively interchange of the pleasantries proper to the occasion.
“We are going to speed the parting guest, if he will not honour our abode any longer,” said Mrs. Bruce, playfully; “but we must do it after our own fashion. My husband, Imogen and I, will ride with you for part of the way – indeed nearly as far as where you met Ned yesterday, if you don’t mind?”
“Mind,” replied the guest, with a look of surprised gratitude, which caused Miss Imogen to smile and blush. “Nothing could possibly give me greater pleasure.”
“So that’s settled,” said Bruce. “I’ll order the horses round; we’ll take Paddy with us, who may as well lead your cob till we part company, and I’ll mount you on one of the best hacks in this district, or any other. It will save your horse, and as you’re likely to have a long day that’s a consideration.”
“How you are adding to my load of obligation; I shall never be able to repay half the debt.”
“Time enough when we meet again,” said the host, “but we’ve none to spare at present. So, Imogen, ten minutes and no more to put on your habit.”
“Five will do,” said the girl, as she laughingly ran out of the room, to reappear gloved, hatted, and turned out in a most accurately-fitting habit as the horses were led up.
Her brother-in-law put his hand under her dainty foot, and lifted her lightly into the saddle, while the bright chestnut mare sidled, and arched her neck, as she felt the lightest of hands on her bridle rein. Mr. Bruce guaranteed that the hunter-looking bay detailed for his guest’s use was “prompt in his paces, cool and bold” like Bevis, upon whom the spectre knight’s night-ride had such an unfortunate effect, while he himself mounted the favourite steed which his guest had remarked at their first meeting, saying: “You don’t often see a better-looking lot together; as good, too, as they are good-looking.” Mr. Blount was convinced of the justice of this valuation, and thought that the statement might even be applied to the riders. Paddy, on a veteran stock horse, brought up the rear leading the cob, whose short tail and hogged mane excited Polly’s unmeasured ridicule: “Mine thinkit, that one pfeller brother belongin’ to pig,” and seized with the comicality of the idea, she exploded in fits of laughter, as casting lingering looks of regret at the receding cavalcade, she walked soberly back to the huts.
“These two horses are the fast walkers of the party, Mr. Blount,” began the fair Imogen, as the clever hackney she rode started off at so fast a pace as to incur the suspicion of ambling. “Ned and his henchman, Paddy, will go rambling ahead or on a parallel, looking for strange tracks, denoting trespassers on the run, strayed cattle, indeed found sometimes before they are lost, that is by the lawful owners. The life of the owner of a cattle station is often ‘not a happy one.’ It is surprising how many kinds of annoyances, risks and anxieties, he may suffer from.”
“Mr. Bruce doesn’t look as if he suffered from any of the ills of life,” said Blount, gazing at his fair companion, as who should say, “How could any man be unhappy who has such a charming sister-in-law, not to mention a delightful wife and a nice baby?” However he did not wish for a catalogue of his host’s annoyances. He wanted to hear his companion’s appreciation of the grand scheme of colour, tone, light and shadow, just opening out before them, as the “glorious sun uprist” amid clouds which had recently rolled away, leaving full in view the forest-clothed uplands, the silent gorges, and the glittering summit of the majestic alp.
Right joyous are the pastimes connected with horse and hound in the older land whence our fathers came, amid the wide pastures, the hedge-bordered fields of green England.
With the hog-spear and rifle on the dusty plains and sudden appearing nullahs of Hindostan, Arab and Waler, by riders of world wide fame, are hard pressed in rivalry. In equestrian tournaments, in the polo gymkhana, and other military contests, there are trials of skill and horsemanship, with a suspicion of danger, to stir a man’s blood. But a gallop through the glades of an Australian forest, in the autumnal season of the year, or even in the so-called mid-winter under the cloudless skies and glowing sun of the southern hemisphere, yields to no sport on earth, in keenness of enjoyment or the excitement generated by the pride of horsemanship.
When the company is illumined by a suitable proportion of dames and demoiselles, right royally mounted, and practised in the manège, the combination is perfect.
CHAPTER V
And, in the joyous days of youth, the glorious, the immortal, the true, the ever-adorable deity of the soul’s childhood, unheeding, careless of the future, thinking, like charity, no evil, revelling in the purely sensuous enjoyment of the fair present, which of the so-called pleasures of the future can claim equality of richness or flavour, with those of that unsurpassable period of the mysterious human pageant! “Carpe Diem!” oh! fortunate heir of life’s richest treasure-house, is the true, the only true philosophy. Enjoy, while the pulse is high, the vigour of manhood untouched by Time, the spirit unsaddened by distrust of the future.
For you, glows that cloudless azure; for you the streams murmur, the breezes sigh, the good horse bounds freely over the elastic sward; for you shine the eyes of the beauteous maiden with a fore-taste of the divine dream of love. Thank the kind gods, that have provided so bounteous a feast of soul and sense! Oh! happy thou, that art bidden to such a banquet of the immortals; quaff the ambrosia, while the light still glows on Olympus, and Nemesis is as yet an unimagined terror.
In the days which were to come, in the destiny which the Fates were even then weaving for him, Valentine Blount told himself that never in his whole life had so many conditions of perfect enjoyment been combined as in that memorable riding party.
The sun rays prophetic of an early summer, for which the men of a thousand shearing sheds were even now mustering, were warm, yet tempered by the altitude of the region and the proximity of the snow fields. All nature seemed to recognise the voice of spring. The birds came forth from their leafy coverts, their wild but not unmusical notes sounding strangely unfamiliar to the English stranger. An occasional kangaroo dashed across their path, flying with tremendous bounds to its home on the mountain side. A lot of half-wild cattle stood gazing for a few moments, then “cleared,” as Miss Imogen expressed it, for more secluded regions.
“I wonder if I could ‘wheel’ them,” she said, as her bright glance followed the receding drove; “I see Ned and Paddy on the other wing; Mr. Blount, you can follow, but don’t pass me, whatever you do;” and in spite of Mrs. Bruce’s prudential “Oh! Imogen, don’t be rash!” away went the wilful damsel, through the thickening timber, at a pace with which the visitor, excellently mounted as he was, on a trained stock-horse, found it no easy task to keep up. Directly this enterprising movement on the part of the young lady was observed by the watchful Paddy, he called to Mr. Bruce, “Miss Immy wheel ’em, my word. Marmy! you man’em this one piccanniny yarraman, me ‘back up.’” Paddy’s old stock horse dashed off at speed, little inferior to that of the young lady’s thoroughbred, and appeared on the “off side wing” just as the fair Diana had wheeled (or turned) the leaders to the right. Paddy riding up to them on the left and menacing with his stockwhip, caused them to turn towards Imogen. This manœuvre persevered with, was finally crowned with success; inasmuch as the two protagonists, working together and causing the drove to “ring” or keep moving in a circle, finally persuaded them to stop and be examined, when with heaving flanks they bore testimony to the severity of the pace.
Mrs. Bruce, with instinctive knowledge of the points of the situation, had kept quietly behind her guest, who so far from passing his fair pilot, found that it gave him enough to do to keep sight of her.
He did service however, if unconsciously, by keeping at a certain distance behind Imogen, which prevented the cattle from “breaking” or running back behind her. Mrs. Bruce had ridden quietly behind the rear guard, or “tail” (as provincially expressed), and as Mr. Bruce, though hampered with the cob, which he had caught and led along, kept his place between Mrs. Bruce and Paddy, the disposition was theoretically perfect, also successful, which in battles as well as in the lesser pursuits of the world is the great matter, after all.
“Upon my word, Imogen!” said Mr. Bruce, “you have given us a pretty gallop, and as these bullocks are fat, it can’t have done them much good. However,” riding round as he spoke, “it gives me a chance to look through them, and, Hulloa! By Jove! it’s as well I came here to-day, somebody has put a fresh brand on that black snail-horned bullock, J. C. just over the E. H. B.; I never sold that beast, I swear! And who the dickens has put those two letters on? Been done in a pen. You can see it’s put on from above.”
“Me see um fresh brand on one feller cow,” stated Paddy, with gravity and deliberation; “me thinkum might ‘duff’ bullock alonga Wild Horse Gully, me seeum track shod horse that one day marmy shootem brumbie.”
“All right, Paddy,” said his master, “you lookem out track nother one day.”
“My word!” replied Paddy, “me track um up jolly quick.”
Mr. Bruce seemed disconcerted by the discovery just made. It was not unimportant. He had suspected that he was losing cattle at this “end of the run,” among the ranges and broken country. He had not too good an opinion of the honesty of the small parties of miners who worked the gullies and creeks which led to the river. He supposed that they got a beast now and then, but was loath to believe that there was any organised system of plunder. Now, it was as plain as print that cattle were yarded in small numbers and branded, before they were delivered to the buyers, whoever they were. How many had been taken he could hardly venture to guess at. Cattle being worth from eight to twelve pounds a head, it would not take so many to be worth a thousand pounds. It made him look grave, as he said —
“I’m afraid, after this pleasant ride of ours, that it’s time for these ladies to get home. It will be past lunch-time when they sight Marondah, and Mrs. Bruce has family responsibilities, you know. However, I’ll send Paddy on with you till he puts you on a track which will lead to your destination.”
Mr. Blount was profuse in thanks, and exhausted himself in statements that he had never enjoyed himself so much in his life, and had a glorious gallop into the bargain; that it had given him quite a new idea of Australia, that he had been slow to believe the romantic tales he had heard about Australian bush-riders and their cross-country work. He was now in a position to confirm any such statement made, and to declare that Australian ladies, in science, coolness and courage, were equal to any horsewomen in any country in the world. He should never forget the hospitality he had received, nor the lessons in bushmanship. He trusted to revisit Marondah again before long, when he might, perhaps, be permitted to taste a more leisurely enjoyment of their fascinating country life.
Dismounting, he took leave of the ladies, assuring Mrs. Bruce that he should never forget her kindness and that of Mr. Bruce. If he was less diffuse in his explanations to Miss Imogen, it may have been that there was a warmth of his final hand-clasp, or an expression as their eyes met, before she turned her horse’s head and rejoined her friends, which was comparatively satisfactory.
The return stage was short, as Blount did not desire to take the hawk-eyed aboriginal too near the claim, much less within tracking distance of the stockyard. The fresh tracks of the unwilling cattle, forced into a strange and small enclosure, would be like a placard in large letters to the wildwood scout. Hence, as soon as he had land-marks to guide him, he dismissed his Hiberno-Australian attendant, who handed over the cob and departed with a cheerful countenance and a couple of half-crowns.
Left to himself, Mr. Blount rode slowly and heedfully along what he conceived to be the way to the claim, much exercised in his mind as to his line of conduct.
Putting together various incidents and unconsidered trifles, the conviction flashed across his mind that he had been involuntarily an associate of cattle-stealers, and it might well be believed an accomplice.
What position would be his if the whole gang were arrested, and he himself included in the capture? Could it be, during that ride with Little-River-Jack, that he had assisted to drive certain fat cattle afterwards sworn to be the property of Mr. Bruce of Marondah, and bearing his well-known brand “E. H. B.”? Could he deny that he had heard cattle put into the stockyard near the “Lady Julia” claim late in the evening, by John Carter (alias “Little-River-Jack”), and taken away before daylight?
He had received his share of the money for which the gold won in the claim where he had worked was sold, or said to be sold. How could he prove that it was not a part of the price of the stolen cattle? And so on. He felt like many another man innocent of evil, or thought of evil, that, with absurd credulity, and want of reasonable prudence, he had, to a certain degree, enmeshed himself – might, indeed, find it difficult, if not impossible, to get free from the consequences of a false accusation.
Perhaps it might have been his duty, in the interests of justice, to have acquainted Mr. Bruce with the circumstances of his sojourn at the claim with the O’Haras and Dixon (otherwise Lanky); also of the suspicious cattle-dealing. This would have simply amounted to “giving away” the men whose bread he was eating, and who were, however unfortunate the position, his “mates” and comrades. Mr. Bruce would, naturally, lose no time in setting the police to work. Then, Little-River-Jack had certainly saved his life on the “Razor-Back” ridge; another second or two and the cob with his rider would have been lying among the rocks below. One such accident did happen there, when man and horse went over, and were found dead and mangled. As for the two O’Haras and George Dixon, he had no sort of doubt now of their being mixed up with the taking of Mr. Bruce’s cattle – possibly of those of other squatters in his neighbourhood. Of the men who brought the cattle to the yard, he, of course, had no knowledge, and could have none. In the half-darkness of the winter dawn he could only dimly discern a couple of horsemen, one of whom appeared to ride on with Jack Carter, the other returning.
He was glad now that he had not seen them near enough for identification. He was close to the claim now, having hit upon the track, which he remembered was only a few miles distant.
What was he to say to his late companions, and what would be their feelings towards him, if they heard of the police being after them so soon after his trip down the river? Would they be persuaded that he had not betrayed, or at any rate attracted suspicion towards them, which came to the same thing?
He was in their power, he could not but feel that. What chance could he have against three determined men, with perhaps as many more who might be members of the outside gang, the men who were heard, but not seen, for now he remembered to have heard the lowing of driven cattle more than once, and the guarded voices of drovers. There was, of course only one thing to do. He must face the position squarely and tell the truth, whatever might be the consequences. He would warn them that Mr. Bruce suspected the miners in the locality of being in league with cattle-stealers, who were selling his fat cattle to the butchers on the smaller diggings, of which there were not a few between the heads of the rivers and the foothills of the mountain range. They knew Mr. Bruce, a determined, fearless man, who would show them no mercy. They had better “clear,” to use one of their own expressions, before the pursuit was too hot.
Revolving these thoughts in his mind, he rode briskly on. He had remounted the cob, now very fresh, and led the borrowed horse, who, as he thought, deserved all reasonable consideration. When within half a mile of the camp he saw a man walking along the track towards him. It was Phelim O’Hara, the big miner, whom he had always admired as a fine specimen of an Australian. He was a good-natured giant, possessing also a large share of the rollicking, reckless humour which is the heritage of the Milesian Celt. Phelim was a native-born Australian, however, and on occasion could be sufficiently stern, not to say savage. Now he did not look so pleasant as usual.
“Safe home, Mr. Blount,” he said. “I see you’ve found that cob of yours, bad cess to him! I’ve lost a day through him, and maybe more than that. But I’m dealin’ with a gentleman, lucky for all consarned.”
“I hope so, Phelim,” said the Englishman; “but what’s the matter, the camp seems deserted?”
“The meaning’s this, Mr. Blount.” Here his voice became rough, if not menacing. “The police are after us. There’s some yarn got up about Little-River-Jack and us duffing cattle and selling them on the small diggings. Pat and Lanky have cleared. I stayed behind to get this horse of mine and give you the office. There’s some says you gave us away to Mr. Bruce, and we know what he is when he thinks he’s being robbed.”
“I’ve heard your story, Phelim, now for mine. I met Mr. Bruce, who’d been shooting wild horses. He asked me what I was doing on his run– he spoke rather shortly. I told him I was looking for my cob, and that I believed it was Crown land, open to all. He then asked me to describe the cob, and telling me it was in his paddock, invited me to stay at Marondah all night, where I was most hospitably treated. He proposed to ride part of the way back with me, and for Mrs. Bruce and his sister-in-law to accompany us.”
“That’s Miss Imogen,” said O’Hara. “Isn’t she the beauty of the world? And ride! There isn’t a stockrider from this to Omeo that she couldn’t lose in mountain country. Mrs. Bruce rides well too, I’m told.”
“Yes, indeed; we rounded up a mob of cattle. Miss Imogen ‘wheeled’ them at the start. Black Paddy, who had been brought to lead the cob, was on the other wing. After that they began to ‘ring,’ and stopped. Then Mr. Bruce, looking through them, unfortunately saw one of the ‘E. H. B.’ bullocks with a strange brand newly put on. ‘That bullock’s been yarded,’ he said, ‘and the brand “J. C.” has been put on in a crush.’ I said nothing. Paddy came with me as far as the cattle track, by the creek that leads to the claim. I remembered that. Then he gave me the cob, and I came on. Now you have the whole story. I did not say where I had come from, nor did Mr. Bruce question me. Of course I put two and two together about the fat cattle. But I said nothing. I have eaten your salt, and Little-River-Jack certainly saved my life.”
“Then you didn’t give us away,” said O’Hara, “or say where we was camped, or tell our names? O’Hara’s not a good one, more’s the pity,” and here the big mountaineer looked regretful, even repentant over the past.
“No! not by a word. As luck would have it, Mr. Bruce did not ask me where or with whom I had been living.”
“And what brought you back here? Wouldn’t it have been easy enough to clear away down the river, and get shut of us, for good and all?”
“Easy enough, and to have gone down river by steamer. But I wanted to warn you in time. I knew Mr. Bruce suspected that there were diggers hereabouts that knew about the fat cattle he missed. So I came to give you fair warning. Where are the others?”
“They’ve cleared out. I don’t think they’ll be seen in a hurry, this side anyhow. They’ve packed all they wanted, and sent word to some of their pals to come and collar the rest. They can’t be pulled for that. There’s a few ounces of gold coming to you, and the ‘clean up’ was the best we’ve had. Here it is.” And suiting the action to the word, he pulled out from a leather pouch a wash-leather bag which, for its size, felt heavy.
“Keep it, Phelim, I won’t take a penny of it. I learned a good deal while I was with you, and shall always be pleased to think that I worked with men, and could hold my own among them.”
“You’re a gentleman, sir, and we’ll always uphold you as one, no matter what happens to us. We’re not bad chaps in our way, though things has gone against us. What’ll you do now? Camp here to-night? No? Then I’ll ride with you past ‘Razor Back’; you’ll have light then and the road’s under your feet. You’d better take my horse till we pass ‘Razor Back.’ He won’t boggle at it if it was twice as narrow.”
It did not take long to pack all that was strictly necessary, which alone Mr. Blount decided to take with him. After which O’Hara boiled the billy, and produced a decent meal, which Mr. Blount, having tasted nothing since breakfast, did justice to. No time was lost then, and O’Hara leading off with the cob started at a canter, with which Blount on his horse found no difficulty in keeping up. The contract was performed, they safely negotiated the perilous pass, the mountain horse treading as securely and safely as on a macadamised high road, and the cob going very differently with a different rider. He was then bestridden by his lawful owner, who prepared to make good time into Bunjil. The moon was rising, when the men – so strangely met, and associated – parted. Blount held out his hand, which the other grasped with unconsciously crushing force. Then the mountaineer quitted the road, and plunging down the steep into the darksome forest, disappeared from sight.
