“The McPherson taught me to speak his language properly, to add numbers, to read from books. The McPherson and I were young together. When Myerloo, the chief of the Wantella Nation, was killed, it was The McPherson who had me become chief in his stead. When that was done I discarded the white man’s clothes which I wore for many years.”

“The McPherson must be a great man,” Bony said, pocketing the pistol and cartridges.

“He is both great and just. He owns four thousand square miles of land, and something like seven thousand head of cattle.”

“Oh! Well, the enemy, I see, have discovered my tracks beside the wrecked car.”

The aborigines below in the gully were running about like hounds on the scent. One pointed up the hillside with his spear. They were not unlike dogs unleashed in a course as they ran up the slope, shouting each to the others, moving with fascinating relentlessness of purpose. Bony could see that they were not following the marks made by the rolling car but those made by his boots.

Reaching the road, they ran straight to the place where he had discovered and retrieved the attache case. Without doubt they saw the mark on the ground made by the case when it fell from the car.

Bony squatted on his heels just outside the tree shadow. He motioned to Burning Water to draw farther into the shade, and it was noteworthy that Burning Water obeyed. Bony placed the automatic beside his right boot, and he picked up a twig and began idly to draw pictures on the sandy ground. Not for a moment did he cease to watch the party of aborigines advancing along the road.

When distant a full hundred yards from Bony they saw him and abruptly stopped. Excitedly they pointed at him and talked, a plump fellow with extraordinarily skinny legs evidently being the leader.