It was three o’clock in the afternoon when Yarra returned with pick and shovel, and Jim had already selected the spot for Ryder’s resting-place, beside a great boulder above the waterfall.  There he started to dig the grave.

‘Him brother belonga you?’ asked Yarra.

‘Yes,’ said Jim.

‘Good feller,’ continued Yarra, and his black eyes gleamed maliciously.  ‘Boss belonga me kill him.  You kill mine Boss?’ Perhaps it was the remembrance of the many kicks and cuts he had received at the hands of Monkey Mack that inspired the impish eagerness in Yarra’s face, perhaps his affection for the dead man moved him.

Jim Done looked at the boy curiously.  ’Boss belonga you sit down by
Boobyalla?’ he asked.

Yarra shook his head.  ‘No fear,’ he said.  ’Yarra stop ’way pretty quick when Boss bin there.’

’Suppose Yarra catch up track of Boss belonga him, come back when sun jump up, tell me.’

‘My word!  Budgery that!  Mine tink it Boss yabber-yabber longa trooper.’

Yarra set off at once, and Done continued his work.  He was determined that the grave should be deep enough to protect the body froth burrowing animals, and secret enough to save it from human brutes eager for the price on Solo’s head.  This task was not complete when Yarra returned, his eyes ablaze with excitement.

‘Hell bin jump up, mine tink it!’ he cried.  ’Boss belonga me sit down there all right.  You come!’

‘You know where Macdougal is?’

‘My word!  Come longa me.’

Jim took up his revolver and followed the half caste, leaving the body between the sheets of bark with which he had fashioned a rude coffin.

‘Boss close up here,’ said Yarra as they scrambled up the side of the gorge, after following the creek for about a quarter of a mile.  The boy proceeded with out caution, and presently they came upon a saddled horse lying under a big white gum.  The animal’ neck was broken; evidently it had collided with the tree when at a gallop.

‘Boss make big smash up here,’ said Yarra.  He pointed to a huddled, shapeless heap lying amongst the scrub-ferns at a distance of about twenty feet.

Done stood over the body of Macdougal, and felt for a moment a resentment against the Fates that had robbed him of his revenge.  The squatter had dreaded the probability of confederates coming to the assistance of the outlaw, and his ride for safety had been absolutely desperate.  He lay within a quarter of a mile of the waterfall, and had been killed on the spot.  His head was crushed and hideous.  Done turned from the sight with a shudder.