Still no sign from Red Mick. No one stirred about the place; the
fowls still fluttered in the dust, and a dissipated looking pet
cockatoo, perched on the wood-heap repeated several times in a
drowsy tone, "Good-bye, Cockie! Good-bye, Cockie!" Then the door
opened, and Red Mick stepped out.
He was the acknowledged leader of the Doyle-Donohoe faction in all
matters of cunning, and in all raids on other folks' stock; and not
only did he plan the raids, but took a leading part in executing
them. He was the finest and most fearless bush rider in the district,
and could track like a black fellow. If he left a strange camp at
sundown, and rode about the bush all night, he could at any time
go back straight across country to his starting point, or to any
place he had visited during his wanderings. Such bushmanship is a
gift, and not to be learnt. If once he saw a horse, he would know
it again for the rest of his life--fat or lean, sick or well. Which
is also a gift.
In appearance he was a tall, lanky, large-handed, slab-sided
cornstalk, about thirty-five years of age, with a huge red beard
that nearly covered his face, and a brick-dust complexion variegated
with large freckles. His legs were long and straight; he wore
tight-fitting white moleskin trousers, a coloured Crimean shirt,
and a battered felt hat.
Miss Grant felt almost sorry for this big, simple-looking bushman,
who came strolling past their hiding-place, his eyes fixed on the
sheep, and his hands mechanically occupied in cutting up tobacco.
Behind him gambolled a half-grown collie pup, evidently a relative
of the dogs in charge of the sheep.
They brought the sheep up to a little corner of land formed by a
sharp bend of the creek, then stopped, squatting on their haunches
as sentinels, and the sheep, fatigued with their long, fast run,
settled in under the trees to get out of the sun. Behind the
sheep, Hugh caught a glimpse of two horsemen coming slowly up the
road towards the house.
"Look! Here's Mick's nephews," he whispered, "come to take the sheep
away. By George, we'll bag the whole lot! Sit quiet: don't make a
sound."
The crisis approached. Miss Grant, with strained attention, saw
Red Mick strike a match, and light his pipe. Strolling on towards
the sheep, he passed about thirty yards from where they lay hidden.
Already she was thinking how exciting it would be when they rose
out of the bushes, and faced him in quite the best "We are Hawkshaw,
the detective" style.
But they had to reckon with one thing they had overlooked, and that
was the collie pup. That budding genius, blundering along after
his master, suddenly stopped, turned towards the fallen tree, and
sniffed the air. Then he ran a few steps towards them, and stopped,
his ears pricked and his eyes fixed on the tree; barked sharply,
drew back a pace or two, bristled up the hair on his neck, and
growled.