to die thus, the journey done, his share in the labour so nobly borne and patiently executed; the desert crossed, and now to be cut off on the edge of the land of promise!  Ah well, it was better so than a lingering death in the desert, a swift and sudden call instead of perhaps slow tortures of thirst and starvation!  Poor Charlie! the call of death is one that none of us may fail to heed; I only pray that when I am summoned to the “great unknown” I may be as fit to meet my Maker as you were.

It was easy to see how the accident had happened; the marks on the rock and the gun were soon deciphered.  He was carrying the gun by the muzzle balanced on his shoulder, the stock to the rear; on climbing down a steep place, his heels—­his boots had iron heel plates—­slipped, he fell with his back to the rock; at the same time the gun was canted forward, fell right over, striking the hammer of one barrel on the rock at his feet—­the cartridge exploded, and the charge entered his body just below the heart.  Death must have been instantaneous and painless, for on his face was a peaceful smile, and he had never moved, for no blood was showing except near the wound.  An accident that might have happened to any one, not through carelessness, for the gun was half-cock, but because his time had come.

We buried him between the rocks and the river at the foot of a large gum tree.  No fine tombstone marked his grave, only a rough cross, and above him I carved his initials on the tree, C. W. S. 30.11.96.

There we laid him to rest in silence, for who was I that I should read holy words over him?  “Goodbye, Charlie, old man, God bless you!” we said, as in sorrow we turned away.  The tragedy had been so swift, so unexpected, that we were all unmanned; tears would come, and we wept as only men can weep.  A few months past I heard that a brass plate sent by Charlie’s brothers had arrived, and had been placed on the tree by Warden Cummins, as he had promised me.

In due course we reached the telegraph line, without enthusiasm or interest, and turned along the road to Hall’s Creek with hardly a word.  Stony hills and grass plains and numerous small creeks followed one another as our march proceeded, and that night, the first in December, we experienced a Kimberley storm.  The rain started about 2 a.m., and in twenty minutes the country was a sea of water; our camp was flooded, and blankets and packs soaked through and through.  The next morning every creek was running a banker and every plain was a bog.  However, the camels behaved well and forded the streams without any fuss.  That day we met some half-civilised natives, who gave us much useful information about Hall’s Creek.  With them we bartered a plug of tobacco for a kangaroo tail, for we wanted meat and they a smoke.  They had just killed the animal, and were roasting it whole, HOLUS-Bolus, unskinned and undressed.  We saw several mobs of grey kangaroos feeding in the timber—­queer, uncanny beasts, pretty enough when they jump along, but very quaint when feeding, as they tuck their great hind legs up to try and make them match the fore.