CHAPTER VI

LAKE MACDONALD TO THE DEEP ROCK-HOLES

On the 16th we had breakfast by moonlight, and were well on our way before daylight.  From a ridge higher than the others we got the only glimpse of the lake that was permitted us by the sandhills.  About two o’clock, the gin, who had been making towards the Davenport Hills (Tietkens), suddenly turned off and brought us to a little well in the trough of two ridges—­the usual wretched concern, yielding no more than three bucketsful.  We worked far into the night.  Having to observe for latitude I stayed up last, and baled the well before going to rest, leaving about two gallons in the bottom to allow it to settle before morning.  At daylight we heard loud howls and snarls coming apparently from the centre of the earth.  Further investigation disclosed a lean and fierce-looking dingo down our well, which, in its frantic struggles to get out, had covered up our little pool of water and made a horrible mess of things.  I never saw so savage-looking a brute, and, not feeling called upon to assist it, I ended its troubles with a bullet—­a kindly act, which doubtless, on their return, gave a welcome supply of cheap meat to the tribe who had only lately retired from the well, and also added to our small store of dingo-tails, which (at 5 shillings each), so far as we could see, would be our only means of deriving any profit from our labours.  I think we only got five, and they were lost!

Our position there was lat. 23 degrees 26 minutes, long. 128 degrees 42 minutes.  The gin on showing us the well had been at once liberated, a step which I now rather regretted—­but one cannot be unkind to ladies, even though they are black, naked savages, little better than beasts!  Remembering that she had pointed towards the hills ahead, I steered on that course, and before long we came on the tracks of a man, woman, and child, walking in the same direction.  Here I saw a pure white spinifex rat, leaping the tussocks in front of me, but of course had no means of stopping it.

All that day we followed the tracks, over sandhills, samphire-flats, through clumps of desert oak, past dry wells, from sunrise until sunset.  Warri and I were ahead for in tracking it is better to be well in advance—­riding and walking in turn until Highlander knocked up and had to be led.  Breaden and Godfrey had awful work behind to get the camels along.  At almost every sandhill one or other of them, usually Bluey, would drop and refuse to budge an inch until forced by blows.  How the poor brutes strain, and strain again, up the steep, sandy slopes; painful sight, heart-breaking work—­but work done!

We crossed the Davenport Hills shortly before sunset and waited on the other side for the main party, in case in the bad light and on the hard rocks our tracks should be missed.  As they came up, we heard a distant call—­a gin’s—­and presently the smoke from a fire was visible.  The Monk had done the least work that day, and was the staunchest horse, indeed the only one capable of more than walking, so I despatched Godfrey to surprise the camp, whilst we followed.  He rode right on to the tribe, and was accorded a warmish welcome, one buck casting his spear with great promptitude.  Luckily his aim was poor and the spear passed by Godfrey’s head.