Jacky and Grainger at once went to his a.s.sistance and got the horse away, but Scott lay perfectly motionless, and when spoken to did not answer. Grainger, like all good bushmen, had kept his matches dry, and, striking a light, he saw that the big digger had not only received some injury to his head, but, worse still had broken his leg; the bone had snapped completely across half-way down from the knee.

For quite ten minutes the poor fellow remained unconscious, then, when he came to his senses, his first question was about the horse. Was he hurt?

"No, d.i.c.k; but your leg is broken."

The language that flowed from Mr. Scott's bearded lips cannot possibly be set down, but he resigned himself cheerfully to Grainger and Jacky when they put the broken limb into rough splints made of bark and twigs to keep it in position until they could do something better on their arrival at the camp.

Refusing to be carried, Scott dragged himself up the bank, and then allowed them to lift him on Euchre's back, Grainger riding and Jacky walking beside him.

By the time they reached the camp it was broad daylight, and an alarmed look came into Grainger's eyes when there was no response to his loud _Coo-ee!_ thrice repeated.

Suddenly Jacky, whose dark eyes were rolling unnaturally as he glanced all around him, let go the horse he was leading, sprang forward, and entered the tent. He reappeared in a moment.

"What is wrong, Jacky? Where is she?"

"Gone," was the quick reply. "Myall blackfellow been here and take her away!"

"Good G.o.d!" said Grainger hoa.r.s.ely, feeling for the moment utterly unnerved as he watched the black-boy walk quickly round and round the tent, examining the gra.s.s.

"Plenty blackfellow been here," he said, "but only one fellow been go inside tent. I think it, he catch him up missie when she sleep------"

An oath broke from Scott's lips. "Let me down, boss, let me down! It's all my fault. Quick! put me inside the tent and let me be. You and Jacky has two good horses, and Jacky is the best tracker this side o' the country."

"I'll see to your leg first, d.i.c.k," cried Grainger, as he and Jacky lifted him off Euchre and helped him into the tent.

"By jingo, you won't, boss!" was the energetic reply. "What does it matter about my leg? Let me be. I'll pull along all right, even if you are away for a day, or two days, or a week. For G.o.d's sake, boss, don't fool about me! Think of _her_. Saddle up, saddle up, and bring her back!

They can't be far away. Jacky, I'll give you fifty pounds if you get her. Boss, take plenty o' cartridges an' some tucker. I'll be as right as rain here. But hurry, hurry, boss! If they get her into the mountains we'll never see any more of her but her gnawed bones," and the big man struck his clenched fist pa.s.sionately upon the ground.

But Grainger, although almost maddened with fear as to Sheila's fate, would not leave the man helpless, and whilst Jacky was saddling the horses, he put provisions and water, and matches and tobacco, near the poor, excited digger. Then, with the blackboy's aid, he quickly and effectively set the broken leg with proper splints, seized round with broad strips of ti-tree bark. "There, d.i.c.k, that's all I can do for you now." "You're losing time over me, boss. Hurry, hurry! and get the young lady back for G.o.d's sake."

Five minutes later Jacky had picked up the tracks of Sandy and Daylight and their allies, and he and Grainger, with hearts beating high with hope, were following them up swiftly and surely.

CHAPTER XIV ~ "MISS CAROLINE" IS "ALL RIGHT" (VIDE d.i.c.k SCOTT )

The tracks of the abductors of Sheila were easily discernible to the practised eyes of Jacky--than whom a better tracker was not to be found in North Queensland. They led in an almost direct line towards the grim mountain range for about seventeen miles, and then were lost at a rapidly-flowing, rocky-bottomed stream--a tributary of that on which Grainger's camp had been made.

Never for one instant did Grainger think of questioning the judgment of his tried and trusted blackboy, when, as they came to the stream, he jumped off his horse and motioned to his master to do the same.

"Them fellow myall have gone into water, boss, and walk along up," he said placidly, as he took out his pipe, filled and lit it. Then he added that they had better take the saddles off the horses, short-hobble them, and let them feed.

"You don't think, Jacky, that they" (he meant the blacks) "might get on too far ahead of us?" he asked, as he dismounted.

"No, boss, they are camped now, 'bout a mile or two mile farther up creek. We can't take horses there--country too rough, and myall blackfellow can smell horse long way off--all same horse or bullock can smell myall blackfellow long way off."

Grainger knew that this was perfectly true--cattle and horses can always scent wild blacks at a great distance, and at once show their alarm. And that the country was too rough for Jacky and him to go any further with the horses was quite evident. However, he knew that as soon as his companion had taken a few pulls at his pipe he would learn from him what his plans were.

The weapon that the black boy usually carried was a Snider carbine, but he had left that at the camp, and taken the spare Winchester--the one Sheila had dropped in the tent: and he was now carefully throwing back the lever, and ejecting the cartridges, and seeing that it was in good order ere he re-loaded it.

"Your rifle all right, boss?" he asked.

"All right, Jacky; and my revolver too."

Jacky grunted--somewhat contemptuously--at the mention of the revolver.

"You won't get chance with rewolber, boss. Rifle best for you an' me this time, I think it. Rewolber right enough when you ride after myall in flat country."

"Very well, Jacky," said Grainger, "I'll leave the revolver behind. What are we going to do?"

"First, short-hobble horses, and let 'em feed--plenty gra.s.s 'bout here.

Then you follow me. I think it that them fellow myall camp" (rest) "'bout two mile up creek."

"How many are there, Jacky?"

"'Bout twenty, boss--perhaps thirty. And I think it that some feller runaway policeman with them--Sandy or Daylight, I beleeb."

"What makes you think that?" said Grainger, instantly remembering that Lamington had said that he meant to try and head off Sandy and his myalls down into the spinifex country.

"Come here, boss."

Grainger followed him to the margin of the creek, which although at dawn had been running half bank high, owing to the tremendous downpour of rain, was now at its normal level.

"Look at that, boss."

He pointed to a triangular indentation, which, with footmarks, was imprinted in the soft yellow sand at the foot of a small boulder; and taking the b.u.t.t of his Winchester rifle, fitted it into the impression.

"Some feller with Winchester rifle been sit down here, boss, and light his pipe. See, he been sc.r.a.pe out pipe," and he indicated some partially consumed shreds of tobacco and some ashes which were lying on the sand.

"Ah, I see, Jacky," and a cold chill of horror went through him as he thought of Sheila being in the power of such a fiend as Sandy. The myalls would in all likelihood want to kill and eat her, but Sandy or Daylight would probably wish to keep her a captive. And that Jacky was correct in his surmise there could be but little doubt--both the outlawed ex-policemen had Winchesters, taken from the Chinese packers whom they had murdered.

"Go on, Jacky, my boy, for G.o.d's sake!" he said hoa.r.s.ely, placing his hand on the blackboy's shoulder. "Missie may be killed if we do not hurry."

"No fear, boss!" replied Jacky with cheerful confidence, as he proceeded to strip. "You 'member what I told you 'bout that white woman myall blacks take away with them long time ago when ship was break up near Cape Melville, and they find her lying on beach? They didn't kill her--these myall n.i.g.g.e.r like White Mary {*} too much. I don't think these fellow will kill Missie. I think it Daylight or Sandy will want her for _lubra_. {**} Take off boots, boss."

Grainger pulled off his knee boots, and threw them up on the bank, and then he and Jacky short-hobbled the horses, and let them feed. The blackboy had stripped himself of every article of clothing, except the remnants of his shirt, which he had tied round his loins; over it was strapped his leather belt with its cartridge pouch.

"Come on, boss," and then instead of crossing the creek as Grainger had imagined he would, he led the way along the same side, explaining that the myalls, expecting--but not fearing--pursuit, would do all that they could to make the pursuers believe that they had walked up through the creek for a certain distance, and then crossed over to the opposite side. The gins{***} and picaninnies, he said, were not with the party that had seized Sheila, neither were there any dogs with them.

* "White Mary"--A white woman.

** Wife.

*** Gins. Synonymous with _lubra_--i.e., a wife.

"And you will see, boss," he said, as, after they had come a mile and a half, he pointed to a sandbank on the side of the creek, deeply imprinted with footmarks, "we will find them eating fish in their camp.

Look there."

Grainger saw that on the sandbank were a number of dead fish which had been swept down the creek from pools higher up. That many more had been left stranded, and then taken away, was very evident by the disturbed state of the sand and the numerous footmarks.