Bony put on his vest and shirt. He combed his hair and put on his felt hat. Burning Water picked up his club and spear, with the latter pointing downward to the gully. Bony turned and saw advancing up the bed of the gully towards the burned out car a party of nine aborigines.

“They are of the Illprinka Nation,” Burning Water explained. “They have come from the great desert country towards the west, and not for years have they been friendly. We are but two: they are nine. We have seen what we should not have seen. We must go, quick and fast.”

“How comes it that they are on your land and so far from their own country?” asked Bonaparte.

“I don’t know, but I think many things. Perhaps The McPherson might tell you.”

“The McPherson is a long way away,” Bony said grimly, looking upward from the task of re-strapping his swag after having placed inside it the recovered attache case. “That being so, I will myself ask these Illprinka men what they are doing here on your land.”

Burning Water stared into the abruptly cold blue eyes.

“They are nine,” he pointed out. “They are enemies of the Wantella Nation. As you can see, they are well armed. You are a stranger to the Land of Burning Water. It would be wise for us to go, and to go fast.”

To be discreet in the face of adverse odds is to be wise, not fearful. The present certainly was not opportune for questioning or probing into problems presented within the last hour, for a situation was developing demanding preparation to meet it.

For the third time at this temporary camp, he unrolled his swag and this time took from it an automatic pistol and two boxes of cartridges containing twenty-five.

“Where did you learn to speak English so well?” he asked whilst loading the pistol.

“I am The McPherson’s tribal brother. He is my father and my son.”

This physical impossibility was due to the intricate relationship accepted by any white man sealed into an aboriginal tribe. Bony offered no comment. In fact, he was feeling himself out of depth, as though he was in a strange country, when he was actually in his own. The prefix “the” before McPherson’s surname was, indeed, odd.