A black fellow kills cattle because he is hungry and must be fed with food, having been trained in a school that for generations has acknowledged “catch who catch can” among its commandments; and until the long arm of the law interfered, white men killed the black fellow because they were hungry with a hunger that must be fed with gold, having been trained in a school that for generations has acknowledged “Thou shalt not kill” among its commandments; and yet men speak of the “superiority” of the white race, and, speaking, forget to ask who of us would go hungry if the situation were reversed, but condemn the black fellow as a vile thief, piously quoting—­now it suits them—­from those same commandments, that men “must not steal,” in the same breath referring to the white man’s crime (when it finds them out) as “getting into trouble over some shooting affair with blacks.”  Truly we British-born have reason to brag of our “inborn sense of justice.”

The Maluka being more than willing to give his fair percentage, a judicious hint from him was generally taken quietly and for the time discreetly obeyed, and it was a foregone conclusion that our “nigger hunt” would only involve the captured with general discomfiture; but the Red Lilies being a stronghold of the tribe, and a favourite hiding-place for “outsiders,” emergencies were apt to occur “down the river,” and we rode out of camp with rifles unslung and revolvers at hand.

Dan’s sleep had in no wise lessened his faith in the efficiency of dust-throwing, and as we set out he “reckoned” the missus would “learn a thing or two about surprise parties this trip.”  We all did, but the black fellows gave the instruction.

All morning we rode in single file, following the river through miles of deep gorges, crossing here and there stretches of grassy country that ran in valleys between gorge and gorge, passing through deep Ti Tree forests at times, and now and then clambering over towering limestone ridges that blocked the way, with, all the while, the majestic Roper river flowing deep and wide and silent on our left, between its water-lily fringed margins.  It would take a mighty drought to dry up the waters of the Territory—­permanent, we call them, sure of our rivers and our rains.  Almost fifty miles of these deep-flowing waterways fell to our share; thirty-five miles of the Roper, twelve in the Long Reach, besides great holes scattered here and there along the beds of creeks that are mighty rivers in themselves “during the Wet.”  Too much water, if anything, was the complaint at the Elsey, for water everywhere meant cattle everywhere.

For over two hours we rode, prying into and probing all sorts of odd nooks and crannies before we found any sign of blacks, and then, Roper giving the alarm, every one sat to attention.  Roper had many ways of amusing himself when travelling through bush, but one of his greatest delights was nosing out hidden black fellows.  At the first scent of “nigger” his ears would prick forward, and if left to himself, he would carry his rider into an unsuspected nigger camp, or stand peering into the bushes at a discomfited black fellow, who was busy trying to think of some excuse to explain his presence and why he had hidden.