Australian Hauntings: A Second Anthology of Australian Colonial Supernatural Fiction by James Doig

again four miles farther on. It was the middle of summer, and a horrible sort of haze had set in which would obscure the moon. There would not be much of that luminary in any case, only about a third of the night, but I had calculated on it. As we rounded the rams on to a nice dry ‘rise’ to ‘camp’ for the night, I missed ‘Boro’.
    “Just before we had rounded up we had passed a low spur of the range we had to cross. I had seen him there last, but what with being absorbed with my reflections about poor Tom Imrie’s case, and upon my own business, I had given little thought to him. Mick, of course, had been actively employed in heading the sheep in the right direction, and had had his eyes on the flock.
    “Well, we lit a fire and sat there waiting for the young brute to come up, so that we could get enough water for our tea to boil the ‘billy’. Not a sign of him an hour after, and I began to get uneasy.
    “From thinking he had been delayed in cutting a ‘possum’ out, a conviction was formed that he must have met with an accident. Old ‘Chockaroo,’ the packhorse, was a demon to kick if anything went wrong with the ‘swag’ on his back, and, for all I knew, he might have kicked ‘Boro’s’ head off also. So I told my ideas to Mick, got my horse, which was hobbled, and started to where I had last seen him. Not a sign of him! And the sky got so cloudy, that it very soon got too dark to do anything. So I found my way back to camp. Here we were, in a pretty pickle, no water, and both of us very thirsty.
    “Nothing could be done ’til daylight. The sky was now completely overcast, with a sort of cottony-woolly haze, which looked as if it meant another blazing hot day on the morrow.
    “I resolved to hang it out. About six miles more would do it.
    “So we two got a small round pebble apiece, rolling them round in our mouths to increase the flow of saliva. And all that blessed night we didn’t get a show to move, and it would have been just madness to attempt a start, for you couldn’t see the sheep fifteen yards off, and as to where your horse would go to it would be impossible to judge. My eye, it was a weary watch.
    “To make matters worse, Mick’s horse smashed his hobbles, and, of course, made back straight to the last water. I just managed to catch mine, as I heard the row.
    “Mick’s horse must have come a cropper by getting his hobbles across the stump of an old burnt mulga tree. I shouldn’t have caught ‘Black Jack’ if I hadn’t run full butt into him, and he would have been sure to have followed Mick’s horse. It was black dark ’til the moon rose, but that made very little difference.
    “I took the precaution to put a halter on ‘Black Jack’ and tie him to a tree, hobbles and all. I couldn’t afford to lose him. However, I got him a big heap of mulga boughs, and made him as comfortable as circumstances would allow, but the poor old chap wanted a drink as much as I did, and didn’t bother about eating.
    “Morning broke dull and cloudy. I had had plenty of time to think over my plans, and determined not to be beat. I would try and find ‘Boro’ and the water-bags, and then come back on my tracks and join Mick. I might find ‘Boro’ and I mightn’t. The horses, if loose, would be sure to make back to the last water. If I had had anything to carry water in, I would have gone on to the other side of the range, and brought some water to Mick, but all our belongings were on the packhorse.
    “The young blackguard had evidently bolted. He had probably ridden well clear, and then jumped off and let the ‘yarramen’ go. I knew he daren’t turn up at either Belala or Fassifern on horseback without us. Well, I came to the place where Mick’s track and mine of yesterday were going to camp. A little farther on I got the two others. ‘Boro’s’ horses, ridden, I could see that. If he had been off their backs they would have been apart more than the half length of the