That would have been the satisfying finish of this day’s test for any other of the lads. But this fledgeling warrior had had the audacity to challenge any and as many who cared to come against him—a challenge that had been greeted with deep, good-humoured laughter by the warriors, a rousing huzzah from old Bungadoon, laughing encouragement from the women, awed smiles from the girls.

But now silence fell as three elderly warriors stood up from beside the chief, Jerrabri. Deeply scarred, stern-faced men these, ominously fingering their weapons. The first warrior took his stand, staring across at Red Kangaroo from fierce, shaggy eyes. Suddenly he leapt forward and, with a vicious grunt, launched his spear.

Like lightning Red Kangaroo parried it. A deep breath rose up from the crowd. The boy warrior was tensely crouching, watching this opponent almost as if he were a real foe. Again the warrior threw. And again. And now, no shout of applause from the tribe as narrowly Red Kangaroo avoided each vicious spear—only a deep breath of thankfulness.

With dazzling speed the warrior threw his three boomerangs. Then with frowning brow he walked away and sat beside the chief. A low murmur from the tribe died down as a deep-chested warrior took his place. This warrior also launched his weapons with vicious intent, as did the third. And the boy warrior either dodged or parried them.

And now the chief, Jerrabri, stood up and, fingering his weapons, walked to the throwing place. His heavy black beard hid the scowl of his mouth, but could not hide his frowning brow.

The tribe gazed uneasily. The usually calm eyes of the warrior Burradella now were fiercely gleaming, hands twitching upon his weapons; he would leap up and fight should the chief dare kill Red Kangaroo. Young Gilwan was nearly crying out aloud to stop it, while little Tuki clung to Weetah’s hand, nearly weeping. Old Bungadoon was frowning for once, growling deep down in his chest as if about to jump up and take a hand in the game, a game that now looked like death.

Red Kangaroo drew a deep breath as he crouched, his eyes above the shield, staring towards the fierce eyes of the chief. Instantly then he felt he knew what Jerrabri would try to do with his first spear. Split the shield—leaving Red Kangaroo with no protection but his eyes and agile legs and the thin stick of his wommera. The chief knew that the lad’s body, but particularly his eyes, must be feeling the strain by now. A powerful warrior, if he is expert enough, can with a heavy war spear split even a hard shield in half—but only if that shield is held firmly straight on towards him. But Red Kangaroo had learnt this, so, as an inexperienced man would, steadily, tautly, he held the shield straight towards the chief. If he had guessed the chief’s intentions wrongly he might suffer.

The chief stepped back, then hurled himself forward and threw with terrific force. The spear sped up into the air and straight down at Red Kangaroo, who had instantly twisted both shield and body just a wee bit aslant. The spear point zipped hard at the shield, which turned it flying aside at an angle.