“I don’t like ye any the worse for being cheeky,” says Moran, “and standing up to me, but it’s too late. The last punishment I got, when I was kept in irons night and day for a month because I’d tried to get out, I swore I’d have your life if ever I came aeross ye.”

“You’ll never shoot me in cold blood,” says the poor devil, be ginning to look blue about the lips.

“I don’t know what old Ben’s going to do with the man he found chevying his daughter,” says Moran, looking at him with his deadly black-snake eyes,“but I’m a-goin’ to shoot you as soon as I’ve smoked out this pipe, so don’t you make any mistake.”

“I don’t mind a shot or two,” says Daly,“but I’m dashed if I can stand by and see men killed in cold blood. You coves have your own reasons, I suppose, but I shall hook it over to the Fish River. You know where to find me.” And he walked away to where the horses were and rode off.

We got fresh horses and rode over quick to Rocky Flat. We took Warrigal with us, and followed, our old track aeross Nulla Mountain till we got within a couple of miles of the place. Warriga! picked up the old mare’s tracks, so we knew father had made over that way, and there was no call for us to lose time running his trail any longer. Better go straight on to the house and find out what had happened there. We sent Warrigal on ahead, and waited with our horses in our hands till he come back to us.

In about an hour he comes tearing back, with his eyes staring out of his head.

“I bin see old missis,” he says. “She yabber that one make-believe constable bin there. Gammon-like it surveyor, and bimeby old man Ben gon’ alonga hut, and that one pleeceman fire at him and all about, and him break back alonga gully.”

“Any of ‘em come back?” says Jim.

“Bale! me see um tent-dog tied up. Cake alonga fireplace, all burn to pieces. No come home last night. I b’lieve shot ‘em old man longa gully.”

“Come along, boys,” says Starlight, jumping into his saddle. “The old man might have been hit. We must run the tracks and see what’s come of the governor. Four to one’s big odds.”

We skirted the hut and kept out wide till Warrigal cut the tracks, which he did easy enough. We couldn’t see a blessed thing. Warrigal rode along with his head down, reading every tuft of grass, every little stone turned up, every foot of sand, like a book.