By the time the lieutenant had concluded, and we had drank a strong cup of tea, the sun was just setting behind the dark forest, which we had penetrated the day before, and word was passed from mouth to mouth to bring up the horses and get ready for a start.

CHAPTER XI.

Sagacity of A dog.—­A night’s adventures.

“Gentlemen,” asked Lieutenant Murden, as the policeman brought the horses to the door, “I hope you know how to ride.”

“We have done a little in that line,” answered Fred.

“Then I shall allow three of my men to remain behind, to lend the stockman and his daughter such assistance as they may want, while Smith and yourselves will take their animals.  Now, then, mount.”

We slung our rifles over our shoulders by the means of leather straps, and in a few minutes were cantering across the prairie at an easy gait, and in the direction of the bushrangers’ late retreat.

It was near nine o’clock when we reached the edge of the forest, and drew up near the spot where we had entered the day before by the secret path.

The stillness of the woods was oppressive; for not a tree waved its bough, nor did a breath of air sigh over the plain.  The night owl alone sent forth its discordant shriek, as though troubled with ominous forebodings regarding its future fate, and was protesting against them.

“This silence is more dreadful than the howling of wolves,” cried Fred, at length, as he sat in his saddle, and regarded the dark forest before him.

“Those trees, if they could speak, would tell of tales of blood and cruelty, equal to that which I related yesterday,” said Murden, after a short pause.

“And do you think that there are other gangs of bushrangers concealed in those dark recesses?” I asked.

“There must be near half a dozen different ones, for it’s the most extensive forest in Australia; and ten thousand soldiers, with every, equipment necessary, would be obliged to retire from its shades, baffled and defeated, before a few hundred men who knew the ground thoroughly.”

“Well, let us get beyond the range of a bullet,” cried the lieutenant, after a moment’s pause; and as we presented a fair mark for any robber who might be in ambush, we were not slow to turn our horses’ heads and trot a short distance from such dangerous concealment.

We were about to dismount, and post our sentinels, when I heard a deep bay in the direction of the stockman’s hut, which recalled to my mind the many scenes through which Fred and myself had passed since the same sound had first broken upon our ears.

“Do you hear any thing?” I asked, of my companion, pausing to listen.

“No,” he replied; “why do you inquire?”

“Did you, Smith, hear no sound that is familiar to your ear?”

“No, sir,” he replied, pressing forward, “I did not hear any sound but the shrieking of yonder owl.”