But he had only to look into my face to see
the answer there.

"You need not tell me, sir, you need not tell
me," he said, in accents of unfeigned sorrow,
"that is one of my life's objects gone. Next
to the happiness of seeing my native land again,
I hoped to see him once more, and show him
my gratitude."

Miska (or Michael, in English) stayed with
me that night; and, as I had a vacancy in my
staff, he agreed to engage in my service, merely
to drive my horses while I was surveying and
exploring. I knew I should cure him by a
discreet use of quinine and chlorodyne, and I
succeeded in doing so. Many a tale he told
me of Hungary and of Deutschland, and many
a happy hour we enjoyed at the camp-fire in the
lonely, melancholy bush.

One evening we came to a sheep-station,
where we found two shepherds. We were
informed by them that, four days back, when
only one shepherd lived there, he saw a large
mob of blacks at the creek to which he had
gone down for water, and which was about
a quarter of a mile from his hut. The blacks
were all armed with spears, waddies (clubs for
throwing), nullah-nullahs (clubs for close
combat), boomerangs, and tomahawks. He was
without a weapon. They sent forward two or
three gins (females) to him, but he waved his
hand, said "Yambo" (begone), and they stopped.
He then retreated slowly to his hut, got the
sheep secured in the yard, fastened the door of
the hut, and, having previously possessed himself
of his carbine, went off for assistance to the
head station, sixteen miles off. An armed
party started thence early in the morning, and
found that the blacks had dug under the hut,
and had taken flour and various other things.
They tracked the savages for a long distance,
until they came to rocky ridges, very thickly
timbered, where they gave up the pursuit.

I had to follow this creek down, and I
issued orders that no man of my party should
go out of sight of the camp, without a revolver.
A few mornings afterwards some of my horses
were not to be found, and the men scattered
themselves to look for them. All were at last
brought in save Miska's. I pushed on with my
son to the head station, which was eight miles
off, leaving directions with my Chainman to
assist Miska. That same evening my party
arrived, and camped near the station; but the
horses were not yet found. My Chainman
came up and reported himself to me, but
Miska I did not see that night. Next day was
Sunday. About eleven o'clock in the morning
I went down to inspect my camp, and found
that Miska had set off an hour before, expressing
his determination to stay out until he found
the animals. He took two or three days'
rations, and told my Chainman that he had his
"shooting-iron" with him. He did not return
that night, and next morning I had to set off
with my party to complete the adjustment of
boundaries. A good many days elapsed before
I returned. In this interim two travellers
saw a body floating in a very long water-hole
near the place where I had last camped before I
departed. This was the corpse of poor Miska,
greatly decomposed, but not sufficiently so to
conceal the spear-wound which had robbed him
of his life—a coward-thrust in the back.

The word was passed from station to station
(there are but few in that remote nook of
earth), and in a day or two, eight or nine
determined men, mounted on splendid stock-
horses, and guided by two tame blacks, were
on the death-trail.

For about a mile and a half, their course lay
through what is locally called "Old-man
Triodia"—a sort of spinitex grass. It covers
the whole surface of the ground, and is from
three to four feet high. The blades are such
strong prickles, that I have doubled thick moleskin
trousers four times—that is, made eight
layers of the fabric—and yet have passed the
spear-blades through them as swiftly as you pass
a needle through cambric. But the blacks make
their way through this obstruction with facility
and speed.

The party now began to approach the watershed,
which in that particular place was very wild
and rough. Night drew on, and there was no
appearance of the blacks. The traces were fresh.
No fear was entertained of failure in coming up
with them, and our friends quietly camped beside
a rocky water-hole. Next day, at an early hour,
they resumed their march.

Suddenly one of the black guides turned
back to a squatter, and said, with great glee:

"Cobawn gin like along a billy-bong."
(Plenty of gins near a water-hole.)

"Where that fellow, billy-bong?"

"Close up that fellow."

In a few minutes we had surrounded the
gins, and the wretched creatures shrank cowering
to the ground. They were at once secured.

Few white men slaughter gins, no matter how
great the provocation. I have scarcely ever
known them to be killed unless by mistake.
Nevertheless, nothing is better established than
the fact that they are infinitely worse than the
males, as the instigators and the chief and
primary agents of most of the outrages
committed by the latter.

Many questions were asked of the gins by
the guides, which they answered readily.

Next day the party struck sharp off to
the north, over a high range covered with
trees, and were surprised to find water in
many clefts in the rocks, whereas a drought
had prevailed for some time in the low country.
It would seem that on this very high ground
the spicula of the tree-leaves frequently attract
the electricity of the clouds, and thus produce
showers which do not reach the lowlands.
The stony ground was very severe on the
horses, for station-horses are never shod; their
hoofs grow even too quickly, and often need
paring. When night began to close in, the
guides strenuously urged the party not to
camp, but to follow them in silence. Some
were opposed to this, but gave way; and at