Then the chief and the elders walked back to their own fires, leaving Red Kangaroo with his uncle and Burradella and Bungadoon and Boobuk, and the adoring group of warriors of his own age. Far into the night again and again old Bungadoon’s hearty voice and rollicking laugh could be heard all over the camp extolling the deed of Red Kangaroo the warrior, prophesying great deeds ahead.

Not until the small hours did the camp quieten into slumber. But Red Kangaroo slept not at all. Coiled by the warm ashes of his dull campfire he was fighting every movement of that great fight over and over again, concentrating on that last, that unexpected blow, that downward, slanting thrust of the sharpened shield—that fatal blow.

He knew now that he had been right; a shield could be made into a deadly offensive weapon. No foeman would dream that a defensive shield with one sharp blow could end a fight. On this occasion it had been partly good luck, of course, for the end still was not the right shape. In a fever of impatience he sat up and reached for his shield and sharpening stone. He would start now. It would take time and patience, another moon might even come and go before he had the shield ground down to that tapering shape and sharpness. Then in every fight where it came to the last final test of man to man, shield to shield, nulla to nulla, he would wield a secret weapon undreamt of by his enemy. He smiled as he worked. He would teach his fellow warriors of his own degree; they would be eager now to learn the blow and shape their own shields. And then, when he was a full-grown man, his warriors would be unbeatable in a close fight, a shield to themselves and to the tribe. His warriors…

He ceased work, staring out into the night. His warriors? Not his—yet. Slowly he put down shield and grinding stone. Unseeing, he stared out into the night, feeling some strange prompting of caution. He lay quietly back, thinking. Perhaps for the time being it might be best to say nothing more about that blow, about that shape to the shield end. No man had seen him strike that blow; all thought he had clubbed his man by greater strength and skill. No, perhaps it would be best for the time being to keep the secret, quietly to shape the end of his shield at such times when he would be quite alone.

When the first cold grey of dawn came stealing over the treetops he hardly felt the chill. He was still wide awake, trying to puzzle things out, groping into what the future might hold.

Steel-grey grew the sky above the dark tree-tops. Slowly the grey merged into dull silver, slowly then into faint pink rippling into rosiness. Somewhere, far away over the mountains, Walcha the sun was rising from his night’s sleep. A bird twittered sleepily, a new day was being born.