It was a long way into the night, and not far from daylight either, when we stumbled up to the cave—dead beat, horses and men both. We’d two minds to camp on the mountain, but we might have been followed up, hard as we’d ridden, and we didn’t like to throw a chance away. We didn’t want the old man to laugh at us, and we didn’t want to do any more time in Berrima—not now, anyhow. We’d been living too gay and free a life to begin with the jug all over again.

So we thought we’d make one job of it, and get right through, if we had to sleep for a week after it. It would be slow enough, but anything was better than what we’d gone through lately.

After we’d got down the mountain and on the flat land of the valley it rested our feet a bit, that was pretty nigh cut to pieces with the rocks. Our horses were that done we dursn’t ride ‘em for hours before. As we came close, out walks old Crib, and smells at us. He knew us in a minute, and jumped up and began to try and lick Jim’s hand: the old story. He just gave one sort of sniff at me, as much as to say, “Oh, it’s you, is it?” Then he actually gave a kind of half-bark. I don’t believe he’d barked for years, such a queer noise it was. Anyhow, it woke up dad, and he came out pretty sharp with a revolver in his hand. As soon as he saw the old dog walking along side of us he knew it was right, and begins to feel for his pipe. First thing father always did as soon as any work or fighting or talking was over was to get out his pipe and light it. He didn’t seem the same man without it. “So you’ve found your way back again, have ye?” he says. “Why, I thought you was all on your way to Californy by this time. Ain’t this Christmas week? Why, I was expecting to come over to Ameriky myself one of these days, when all the derry was over-- Why, what’s up with the boy?”

Jim was standing by, sayin’ nothing, while I was taking off the saddles and bridles and letting the horses go, when all of a sudden he gives a lurch forward, and if the old man hadn’t laid hold of him in his strong arms and propped him up he’d have gone down face foremost like a girl in a dead faint.

“What’s up with him, Dick?” says father, rather quick, almost as if he was fond of him, and had some natural feeling—sometimes I really think he had—” been any shooting?”