“Hullo!” exclaimed Bonaparte, compelled to look upward into the expressionless face. “Who are you? What your name, eh? How you bin called?”
Clearly, without accent, in English came the reply.
“I am the Chief of the Wantella Nation. I am Writjitandil, meaning Burning Water. This is the Land of Burning Water.”
Black eyes opened wide, and in them blazed red anger. Bonaparte had spoken with superiority. Now he heard masterful pride in the voice of this naked black man.
“Who are you, half-caste? What is your business in the Land of Burning Water? Tell me, quick.”
Swift movement of a sinewy arm followed the demand. The long spear became horizontal, its point aimed at Bony’s heart.
Chapter Two
Chief Burning Water
THERE are men of every colour and race who stand high above their fellows by reason of the greatness of spirit lifting them to positions of leadership. In the affairs of the aboriginal tribes of Australia, no less than in the affairs of the allegedly more civilized white and yellow people, such men are found.
This was Burning Water. There was no mistaking the quality of leadership in his poise, in his facial expression, and especially in his eyes. Bony instantly realized that he was confronted by no ordinary aborigine. He saw with clear vision his own standing based on his unfortunate birth, saw clearly how he appeared to this regal man, and knew himself physically inferior.
“I am waiting,” said Chief Burning Water, no whit abashed by the steady stare in Bonaparte’s blue eyes, the lithe cat-like stance of the man born of a black mother and a white father, dressed neatly in serviceable bush clothes, veneered heavily with the white man’s civilization. He saw only a despised half-caste, fruit of a woman who had broken a law.