This sudden danger had apparently passed. Their enemies seemed to have been acting but half-heartedly and—independently. But had they co-operated those four different enemies would have attacked from different directions at once. He drew a deep, fearful breath. Such an attack must have meant the end of his tribe. What an escape! But next time—!

He gazed out over hill and plain, gleam of water amongst the dense dark lines of river trees, the ramparts of distant ranges, all bathed in sunlight from a deep blue sky. How he loved this, his tribal land!

It was lost—if something were not quickly done. The weakened tribe was dwindling—the young men not marrying, the loss by raids and in expeditions for vengeance. In this season alone how many able-bodied men had fallen in battle, or by accident or “mysterious causes”? His face was furrowed with concern as he began to count them and compare their replacement by children. And then there was the loss of stolen women and children!

No wonder the once powerful Gunn-e-darr Tribe had dwindled so alarmingly during the lifetime of its recent chiefs and elders. So very few in the tribe realized it. The tribe would do nothing. Could he, one man, barely more than a lad, do what the tribe was afraid to do? There must be some way, otherwise surely the witchdoctor would have allowed the elders to get rid of him as a nuisance to their peace.

He thought and thought, almost in despair. Only one little gleam of light began steadily to grow. If there was anything that could be done, then he must do it alone. Then suddenly his face lit up. At last he believed he could see the track ahead—the track he must follow to save the tribe.

XIV

THE CORD

As the campfire embers slowly dimmed the children of the wild huddled in sleep, wrapped in the slumbrous blanket of night. Yet not all things slept. Furtive things crept out in the living silence—a stealthy sound, a rustling in the grass. Somewhere glowed eyes of molten gold. Flash of green eyes, too—eyes that vanished. Deep, hoarse croak of the mopoke, lingering howl of a dingo in the hills, mournful call of the curlew, swish of the night hawk’s wings. And other things were prowling in the breathless watchfulness of the night. Other things that did not sleep, the Spirits of the Night.

Dread thought! Should a human be forced to walk by night he might even meet Wunda, the white-skinned spirit.¹⁸ Most spirits were good, but some were bad—very bad. Others again took no interest, or but a mildly passing interest in humans. Still others were mischievous imps, such as those who delighted in carrying tales to the ears of witchdoctors, or in whispering trouble into the ears of friend and foe, man and wife.

Brave with a fearful bravery were any warriors who ventured forth by night, clinging close together, swiftly urged by lust or necessity or the maddening thirst for vengeance—or fleeing, because Death raced at their heels. And the warrior who would travel alone by night, unless to escape certain death, was looked upon with awe as imbued with a bravery past understanding.