A deathly quietness settled over the dense black scrub. The night smelt cold. Presently another baby began crying. And again a young mother came creeping out of her gunyah, blew upon the coals of her fire until tinder burst into flame, then, wrapped in her possum rug, crooned over her wailing child as she warmed it over the fire.

This young mother was Weetah, and Giluram, standing invisible in his place with his back to a great tree towards the Trap mouth, gripped his weapons with a fierce strength. His eyes rolled, his teeth flashed as he watched that little figure down there outlined by the fireglow. Men would die tonight—Cassilis men—Giluram would kill and kill and kill until he himself was killed before they should snatch his Weetah from him.

Standing invisible along both walls of trees every man and lad gripped his weapons with the same fierce thought. When those Cassilis warriors did come, they surely would enter a death trap.

Away out past the scrub edge in the open, the enemy scouts murmured together. One pointed up to the Southern Cross and the Emu and Two Hunters. It was becoming late indeed, but they must remain to the last moment, though certain this was a sleeping camp. And now even those guards on duty were nodding by the fires, or sleepily leaning up against that big tree by the edge.

And now another piccaninny began crying. And again the scouts stared down into the darkness between those two black walls of trees. Again a little campfire blazed up away down there, showing another young mother making up her fire. The cry of the baby sounded high on the cold night air. He kept on crying. By the fire glow, the enemy scouts saw two old women creep out from their gunyah and come and sit beside the young mother and softly talk to her. They warmed something on the fire, put it on the baby’s belly, crooning over him. Soon he stopped crying. The young mother then went back to her own gunyah. The two old women wrapped their possum-skin rugs round their cold old bodies, spread the ashes over the fire, then lay down side by side on the hot ashes. The camp lay in the depth of sleep.

The scouts waited but a little longer. Their leader pointed contemptuously to the guards huddled asleep round their dying fires. Barely raking the trouble to disguise their going, they crept away back and out into the night.

“They’ve gone,” whispered the Red Chief exultantly, “and swallowed the bait! They’ll hurry back to camp. Presently every man of them will come. They will crawl into the Trap with the dawn—and then—!” He clenched his fists in grim silent mirth. And the warrior Burradella smiled with him.

With nine warriors, he and Burradella scouted out after the enemy scouts. When certain they were all returning to their camp they came racing back.

“Quick!” hissed the Red Chief to the campfire guards, “every man to his task!”