An Outback Marriage

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.