“No,” said Burradella. “His thoughts lie as yet in his silence. So the elders dare not act—yet—because of that and because of your popularity. But you are becoming too rash, which again encourages the tribe to say big things too openly about you, some even praising you against the elders, foretelling great things for you.”

“But they will not act with me,” broke in Red Kangaroo bitterly, “not even for their own rights! Not even the Kubara who went through the Bora with me, none but Giluram will stand by me!”

“Which is just as well,” replied Burradella meaningly, “for what you would say or do would upset the easy life of not only Jerrabri and the council of the elders, but of those older warriors who are now enjoying privileges which are not theirs, as we know, by right of law. And it would ruin the prospects of those other warriors who expect with time to enjoy those privileges also. If you would upset those laws that give power, even though unjust power, to the elders who guide the tribe, then you might make Nundoba the witchdoctor uneasy, and let any man who does that beware!” After a troubled silence Burradella resumed. “And now I shall let you into a tribal secret. It is Nundoba the witchdoctor who really controls our tribe!”

Burradella paused. Red Kangaroo gazed in surprise.

“It is Nundoba, who with but a glance sways the chief and the council of elders—when he wishes to interfere.” Burradella paused again. “Now tell me, should you betray that I have told this secret to you, then what would happen to me?”

“The bone!” barely whispered Red Kangaroo, and now there was fear in his eyes.

“Ah!” murmured Burradella as they walked on. The bush seemed hushed, though the birds still sang, though there came the thud of a wallaby bounding through the grass near by. A woodpecker, clinging away up a stringybark, was immersed in his own world as he pecked the bark, seeking insects, his beautifully hooked, needle-sharp claws helping him up and around the tree, his questing eyes like gleaming beads.

“The bone!” The most awful dread of any Australian aboriginal, the fear of the witchdoctor’s “pointing the bone”!

Burradella was walking now towards the waterlily lagoon, beautifully shadowed by its grey and green and red and white timbers. Red Kangaroo followed mechanically, crushing the golden buttercups under his big black feet.

“Now understand,” said Burradella softly, “that Nundoba controls the tribe as if from far away—Jerrabri, the council of the elders, of the seven—all of us! But he rarely interferes—unless something happens that interferes with him. Should he become really angry, he strikes—as death strikes in the night.”

They walked on again in silence, nearing now the blue-gums and stately oaks fringing the lagoon.

“Should Red Kangaroo,” said Burradella abruptly, “in his boyish haste start a big trouble that would upset Nundoba the witchdoctor, then what would happen to Red Kangaroo?”

“The bone!” whispered the lad.