The breath was hardly out of him when a horse comes tearing through the scrub on to the little plain, with a man on his back that seemed hurt bad or drunk, he rolled in his saddle so. The head of him was bound up with a white cloth, and what you could see of it was dark-looking, with bloodstains on it. I knew the figure and the seat on a horse, though I couldn’t see his face. He didn’t seem to have much strength, but he was one of those sort of riders that can’t fall off a horse, that is unless they’re dead. Even then you’d have to pull him down. I believe he’d hang on somehow like a dead ‘possum on a branch.

It was Warrigall

They all knew him when he came dose up, but none of the troopers raised their pieces or thought of stopping him. If a dead man had rode right into the middle ‘of us he’d have looked like that. He stopped his horse, and slipped off on his feet somehow.

He’d had a dreadful wound, anyone could see. There was blood on the rags that bound his head all up, and being round his forehead and over his chin it made him look more and more like a corpse. Not much you could see, only his eyes, that were burning bright like two coals of fire.

Up to Starlight’s body he goes and sits himself down by it. He takes the dead man’s head into his lap, looks down at the face, and bursts out into the awfullest sort of crying and lamenting I ever heard of a living man. I’ve seen the native women mourning for their dead with the blood and tears running down their faces together. I’ve known them sit for days and nights without stirring from round a corpse, not taking a bite or sup the whole time. I’ve seen white people that’s lost an only child that had, maybe, been all life and spirits an hour before. But in all my life I have never seen no man, nor woman neither, show such regular right-down grief as Warrigal did for his master—the only human creature he loved in the wide world, and him lying stiff on the ground before him.