And Red Kangaroo thrilled to the knowledge that he had unknown friends among elder warriors of standing in the tribe. Why should it be so? Through Burradella they seemed to be protecting him against hitherto unrealized dangers—had even protected him against himself. Why?

Could it be because they believed in him? Or believed in his rashly spoken opinions that an injustice was being done to the tribe? They would never have allowed him to be told secrets—known only to the elder warriors had there not been some serious reason. Could it possibly be that they also believed the chief and the elders were working against the laws of the tribe?

The more he pondered the surer he became that he was not alone in his beliefs with frightened warrior lads as his only allies. If so, he was on the right track after all. With a pleasurable certainty he began to regain confidence. But how carefully now he watched his tongue, and how much more his eyes seemed to see, his ears to hear, his mind to think.

It was eventide some time later when the hunter Mobo came panting into camp to gasp out a story of tragedy. He and three others had been spearing fish along the banks of the Black Creek. He had climbed a tall tree to cut out a bees’ nest. Suddenly a score of painted Terri-Hi-Hi warriors had dashed out from the timber and fallen upon his friends. They had not had a chance, and were transfixed by spears on the instant. Coolta had leapt into the creek with a long spear embedded in his leg, and as he splashed frantically about trying to break off the spear haft they had yelled in laughter from the bank and made him a target. Then they had slashed out the kidney fat of the fallen men and eaten it, gathered up the weapons and swiftly departed. Mobo had seen it all from the tree-top—in their excitement they had forgotten to count the tracks—and had never been so frightened in his life.

He had clung up there, sidling round the tree-top like a frightened goanna every time he thought they might glance up. He had stayed there a long time in case they were hiding and waiting for him to come down, just playing with him.

At last he had slid down the tree and run with all speed to the camp.

Silence, as Mobo poured out his tale to the chief and the elders. Then from the dead men’s relations rose the death wail. The camp was in an uproar on the instant, warriors leaping into the air, rattling their weapons, chewing their beards in fury, howls from men, screams from women for vengeance. The camp became a den of human animals gone mad.

All through the night rose the mournful death wail, taken up again and again to slowly rise in a long, drawn-out wail that seemed to hang on the air, to moan slowly away through the night.