They did so, word for word. Burradella nodded. The boys vanished into the now pitch-black darkness of the scrub.

An eerie experience that, even for full-grown warriors, to find their way through that black night of a thousand tangled vines and canes, shrubs and creepers, ferns and undergrowth and trees, to the very heart of this dense scrub sheltering the Secret Camp. Only those who knew it from birth could have done so. Even in the gloom of daylight no stranger would find the Secret Camp unless he stumbled on it by sheerest chance. And before then, if the camp had been tenanted, an invisible guard would have transfixed him by spear or dashed out his brains with a club.

The lads obeyed their instructions to the letter, to find themselves presently standing motionless at the very point of a spear. Even they could see nothing but a momentary glint from the guard’s eyes.

They whispered their message, then stood silently. A tree-frog croaked—twice. Another invisible guard came to the croak of the tree-frog.

“Messengers from the warrior Burradella,” whispered a guard’s voice, “to be messengers for the Red Chief who is swiftly coming. Take them inside the camp.”

Exactly thus, as I have written it, was the Secret Camp of the Gunn-e-darr tribe guarded in times of emergency years ago, according to the account given by the last of the tribe.

XXX

THE TRIBE IN DESPERATE STRAITS

On that warm day of the eighth sun, while Burradella and his people were fishing near the Namoi crossing, the Red Chief and his nine warriors had come leisurely to the meandering Mooki River, heavily loaded with emu meat. They followed the Mooki to where it shallowed into a long, narrow, reedy waterhole. Here they spied a shoal of fish jumping and flapping amongst the sun-warmed reeds. With boyish laughter they threw down their loads and splashed into the water, making merry at spearing and clubbing the fat fish so easily cornered amongst the reeds.

Very soon fish gleamed in the sunlight as they were thrown from the water to flap helplessly along the narrow bank. The hunters lit fires and roasted the fish on the coals. After a week of gorging on emu meat those fish were a tasty change and each warrior ate a strong man’s meal. Lazily they discussed whether they would spear more fish to carry back to camp, only fifteen miles away from this point of the Mooki, or whether it would be too much with their already heavy loads. Suddenly Kuribri jumped to his feet and pointed away out towards the outline of Porcupine Ridge. From the look-out a long finger of black smoke was shooting up into the clear blue sky. As they watched, the smoke column changed to white. After an interval it changed to blue. The Red Chief and his warriors, all standing, watched silently as the column faded. It was duplicated swiftly from the distant ramparts of Carrowreer. Then a big ball of black smoke shot up. It died out. A small ball shot up. It faded away. Then, at intervals, arose smoke rings. Some black, some blue, some white. Presently, this smoke also faded away. There was an interval, then the black column shot straight up again. The signal was being repeated.