It was a silent party that gathered round when black Billy had the big quart pots of tea ready. No one seemed to have anything to say. Norah thought, with a catch at her heart, of the last time they had picnicked in the scrub; the happy talk and laughter, the dear foolish jokes and merriment. This was indeed a strange picnic--each man eating rapidly and in silence, and everywhere stern preoccupied faces. There was no waiting afterwards for the usual "smoke oh"; the men sprang up as soon as the hurried meal was over, and lit their pipes as they strode away.

Soon the temporary camp was deserted--black Billy, the last to leave, muttering miserably to himself, hurrying back into the bush. The search went on.

There was no riding in the afternoon; they were in country where the tangle of dogwood and undergrowth was so thick that to take a horse through it meant only lost time, and hindered the thoroughness of the quest. Norah fought her way through, keeping her line just as the men kept theirs; her white coat stained and torn now, her riding skirt showing a hundred rents, her boots cut through in many places. She did not know it; there was only room in her heart for one thought. When, while waiting for lunch, she had heard Dave Boone say something in an angry undertone about Bobs, she had wondered dully for a moment what he meant. She had forgotten even Bobs.

The hours went by, and the sun drooped towards evening. In the dark heart of the scrub the gloom came early, making each shadow a place of mystery that gave false hope to the searchers a hundred times.

Gradually it was too dark to look any more; for that day also they must give it up--the third since Monarch had broken free from his master and left him lying somewhere in the green fastness about them. There scarcely seemed a yard of it left unsearched. Despair was written on most of the faces as the men came one by one to their horses and rode home, picking up on their way those who were still beating the bush as far as the Billabong boundary.

Jim and Norah were the last to leave. They came back to the horses together, Tait at their heels, his head and tail down. Norah was stumbling blindly as she walked, and Jim's arm was round her. He put her up, and turned silently to unfasten his own bridle.

"Jim," she said, and stopped. "Jim, do you think we'll find him in--in time?"

Jim hesitated, trying to bring himself to say what he dared no longer think. Then he gave way suddenly.

"No," he said, hoa.r.s.ely, "I don't; I don't believe we ever will!" He put his head down on the saddle and sobbed terribly--dry, hard sobs that came from the bottom of his big heart. And Norah had no word of comfort. She sat still on Sirdar, staring in front of her.

Presently Jim stood up and climbed into the saddle, and the impatient horses moved off quickly towards home, Tait jogging at their heels.

Once Jim turned towards his sister, saying, "Are you quite knocked up, old girl?" Norah only shook her head--she did not know that she was tired. Neither spoke again.

It was perhaps a mile further on that Norah pulled up sharply, and whistled to Tait. The collie had slipped off into the undergrowth--she could hear him moving on dry sticks that crackled beneath him. He whined a little, but did not come.

"Don't wait," Jim said. "He'll catch us up in a minute."

"He always comes if I whistle," Norah answered, her brow puckering. "I don't understand. Wait a moment, Jim." She had slid off her pony and followed Tait almost before Jim realized that she was gone.

The dog was nosing along a big log, the ruff on his neck bristling. As Norah saw him he leaped upon it, and down on the other side. Then she heard him bark sharply, and flung herself over the log after him. He was licking something that lay in the shadows, almost invisible at first, until the dim light showed a white glimmer. It was instinct more than sight that told Norah it was her father's face.

"Daddy--oh, Dad!"

The wild cry turned Jim to stone for a moment--then he was off his horse and through the scrub like a madman to where Norah knelt beside the still form, sobbing and talking incoherently, and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g blindly at the cap of the flask she carried. They forced a little of the stimulant between the set teeth, once a terrified examination had told them that he still breathed; then Jim struck match after match, trying to see the extent of his injuries--a hopeless task by the flickering light that lasted only an instant. He put the box in his pocket at last.

"It's no good," he said, "we can't see. Wonder if the men are out of hearing." Running to the horses, standing patiently with trailing bridles, he fired off all his revolver shots in quick succession, and coo-ed again and again. Then he went back to where Norah sat in the darkness and held her father's hand.

"Don't wait," she said. "I'm sure they're out of hearing, Jim, darling.

And we couldn't dare to move him by ourselves. Tear in and bring the men--and send for the doctor."

"I don't like to leave you here alone," he said, anxiously.

"Alone!" Norah said, in amazement. "But I've got Dad!"

"Yes," he said, "but--"

"Oh, do fly, Jimmy!" she said. "Leave me the matches. I'm all right."

She heard him crash back to the horses, and then the swift thud of Nan's hoofs grew fainter and fainter as he spurred her madly over the rough ground, galloping off for help. The darkness seemed all at once to be more complete, and the scrub to come closer, like a curtain round them--round her and Dad, who was found again. She put her ear close to his mouth--the breathing was a little more distinct, and so far as she could tell his head was uninjured. One leg was doubled up beneath him in an ugly manner. Norah knew she must not try to move it; but even in the darkness she was sure that it was badly hurt, and the tears were falling on David Linton's face as Norah crept back after her examination. It was horrible to see Dad, of all people, helpless and still.

Perhaps it was the tears that woke him from his stupor. He stirred a little, and groaned. At the sound, Norah, on her knees beside him, trembled very exceedingly, with a mixture of joy and fear that almost took her breath. She spoke softly.

"Dad!"

"Is it--you?" said David Linton, weakly. The darkness hid his face, but to hear his voice again was wonderful; and Norah's hands shook as she wrestled with the flask.

"Yes, it's me," she said. "Oh, Dad, dear old Dad, are you much hurt?"

"I don't know." The voice was very faint. Her fears surged back.

"Try to drink some of this--it's weak, and you won't choke," she said.

"Is your head hurt, Daddy? Could I lift it a little?"

"Not hurt," he managed to say. So she groped in the darkness to lift the heavy head, and together they made a sorry business of the flask, spilling far more than he drank. Still, some went the right way; and presently he spoke again, his voice stronger.

"I knew you'd come... mate."

"Tait found you," she said. "And Jim was here, but he's gone for the men. We'll take care of you, Daddy. Could I move you any way to help?"

"Better not," he said. "Just--be there." His hand closed on hers, and he seemed to slip off into unconsciousness again, for when she spoke to him he did not answer. So Norah sat and held his hand; and the night crept on.

"Coo-ee!" Far off a shout. She slipped her hand away gently, and ran a little way before answering, lest the cry should startle him. Then she shouted with all her strength; and soon the beat of hoofs came nearer and out of the darkness Jim came back, Murty galloping with him.

"He's spoken," said Norah; "but he's gone off again. And he's had some whisky."

"Did he know you?"

"Yes; but he's terribly weak." They were all beside Mr. Linton now, and Murty struck a match, and carefully shading it, scanned the fallen man's face by its glimmer. Norah saw his own change as he looked. Then the match went out, and for a moment it was darker than ever.

"They're bringing things," Jim said. He took off his coat and spread it over his father, and Murty did the same. "And the doctor's coming--it's wonderful luck--he came out from Cunjee with Wally." Jim put his hand on Norah's. "Were you all right, old kiddie?"

"Quite right," said she. Then they waited silently until a rattle of wheels came as the express wagon clattered up. Murty went out to the track to bring the doctor in.

Dr. Anderson cast a glance at Norah by the light of the lanterns they had brought, and spoke to Jim.

"Take her away," he said. "I don't want you, either. Murty and Boone will help me." So the two who were only children wandered off into the scrub together, sitting on a log, silently, in sick anxiety, while the doctor was busy. A groan came to them once, and Norah shuddered and put her face into her hands, while Jim, who had himself shivered at the sound, put his arm round her, and tried to whisper something, only his voice would not come. Then--ages later, it seemed--the doctor's voice:

"Are you two there?"

They hurried to him.

"We'll get him home," the doctor said. "A risk, moving him; but it's worse to leave him lying under that log. The men are getting some of the dogwood down, so that we can carry him out better. He's badly knocked about, but his head's all right. The leg is the worst; it's fractured in two places. You'll have a patient for a good while, Norah."

"Then--then he won't die?"

"Die?" said the doctor. "Not a bit of it! He'll--ah, you poor child!"

For Norah had turned and clung to Jim, and was sobbing, while the big fellow who bent over her and patted her was himself unable to speak.

Little Dr. Anderson patted them both, and choked himself, though he hid it professionally with a cough. He remarked afterwards that he had not known that young Norah Linton could cry.

It was only for a minute, though. The men came back carrying a stretcher, and Norah and Jim sprang to help. Very gently they lifted David Linton's unconscious form, and the four bore him slowly to the wagon, Norah backing in front with two lanterns to light every step.

"Chancy work through them dorgwood spikes," said Dave Boone. But they came out safely, and got him into the wagon, where a mattress was in readiness. The doctor heaved a sigh of relief when the business was done. So they took him home, the grey horses pulled into a slow walk, while Jim and Norah rode ahead to find the smoothest track.

It was past midnight when the lights of the homestead came into view; but everywhere Billabong was up. The men were round the open gate of the yard, from Andy Ferguson, the tears running unheeded down his old face, to Lee Wing, for once without his wide benevolent smile, and in the background Lal Chunder's dark face. Beyond them was Mrs. Brown, with the pale-faced girls behind her. There were a score of willing hands to bring David Linton into his home.