Four returned, one week later. Burradella, badly limping, had a broken-off spear-head deep in his thigh. They had killed their men, but on returning had run full into a war party returning from a heavy raid on a neighbouring tribe. They had fought their way through, but had lost three of their number. Again rose the death wail, mournful through the night and the next night and the following night again.

Morosely Red Kangaroo sat beside Burradella while Nundoba the witchdoctor cut the broken spear-head from his friend’s thigh. Deeply embedded in the flesh, the barbed hardwood spike caused torture at the slightest movement of the leg. Only the sternest warrior could have fought and run those miles and miles with those burning fangs of pain biting deep in his flesh.

Slowly, unfeelingly, methodically, his face a maze of wrinkles, skinny old Nundoba proceeded to cut the awful thing out with cunningly fashioned knives of stone, bone, and shell. He was two hours working on it, his talon-like fingers, so slow, so definite, so sure. Burradella, his eyes closed, teeth biting on a stick of hardwood, quivered every now and then, but never a groan escaped him.

Red Kangaroo wiped away the sweat that poured from Burradella’s forehead and temples as the knives began to bite deep. Now and then he gave him a long drink of cold, life-bringing water. At long last the witchdoctor had cut deeply enough to clear the way for withdrawal of the last barb. He grunted, signalling to Red Kangaroo with his bloody hands. Red Kangaroo knelt on Burradella with all his weight, put each big hand to the sides of the long cut, then pressed it open as deeply as he could. The witchdoctor, crouched down like a crow upon a carcass, fixed his teeth firmly in the broken off spear-head, then slowly, strongly, carefully began pulling out the thing while the sinews stood taut in his neck. The gory thing came out finally. Burradella shuddered, groaned.

The witchdoctor filled the deep wound with the fine ash of certain carefully prepared acacia leaves containing curative properties. Then he plastered it all over thickly, firmly, with mud, but it was not just ordinary mud, it was of dried powders of differing kaolin clays, mixed into the form of mud. And each prepared clay possessed some secret cooling or healing property. The warrior Burradella’s wound would heal with surprising quickness. His wife would feed him well. He would walk again, hunt and fight again.

Sullenly, low-voiced, the people growled round the campfires at night again. Another vengeance party must be chosen, must prepare to go out to avenge the three dead men.

An eye for an eye. A life for a life.

XIII

THE FALSE ALARM

The tribe had barely commenced the mourning ceremonies when hunters brought news of tracks of Narrabri warriors who had crossed over their northernmost boundary by Kolorinbrai.¹⁶ And the next evening Giluram came running into camp with news of Quirindi warriors having crossed the southern boundary near Buk-Kulla.¹⁷