But gorges and ridges were not all Dan had to show us.  Twice in our thirty-five miles of the Roper—­about ten miles apart—­wide-spreading rocky arches completely span the river a foot or so beneath its surface, forming natural crossing-places; for at them the full volume of water takes what Dan called a “duck-under,” leaving only smoothly flowing shallow streams, a couple of hundred yards wide, running over the rocky bridgeways.  The first “duck-under” occurs in a Ti Tree valley, and, marvelling at the wonder of the rippling streamlet so many yards wide and so few in length, with that deep, silent river for its source and estuary—­we loitered in the pleasant forest glen, until Dan, coming on further proofs of a black fellow’s “second-sight” along the margins of the duck-under, he turned away in disgust, and as we followed him through the great forest he treated us to a lengthy discourse on thought-reading.

The Salt Creek, coming into the Roper with its deep, wide estuary, interrupted both Dan’s lecture and our course, and following along the creek to find the crossing we left the river, and before we saw it again a mob of “brumbies” had lured us into a “drouth” that even Dan declared was the “dead finish.”

Brumby horses being one of the problems of the run, and the destruction of brumby stallions imperative, as the nigger-hunt was apparently off, the brumby mob proved too enticing to be passed by, and for an hour and more it kept us busy, the Maluka and Dan being equally “set on getting a stallion or two.”

As galloping after brumbies when there is no trap to run them into is about as wise as galloping after a flight of swallows, we followed at a distance when they galloped, and stalked them against the wind when they drew up to reconnoitre:  beautiful, clean-limbed, graceful creatures, with long flowing manes and tails floating about them, galloping freely and swiftly as they drove the mares before them, or stepping with light, dancing tread as they drew up and faced about, with the mares now huddled together behind them.  Three times they drew up and faced about and each time a stallion fell before the rifles, then, becoming more wary, they led us farther and farther back, evading the rifles at every halt, until finally they galloped out of sight, and beyond all chance of pursuit.  Then, Dan discovering he had acquired the “drouth,” advised “giving it best” and making for the Spring Hole in Duck Creek.

“Could do with a drop of spring water,” he said, but Dan’s luck was out this trip, and the Spring Hole proved a slimy bog “alive with dead cattle,” as he himself phrased it.  Three dead beasts lay bogged on its margin, and held as in a vice, up to their necks in slime and awfulness stood two poor living brutes.  They turned piteous terrified eyes on us as we rode up, and then Dan and the Maluka firing in mercy, the poor heads drooped and fell and the bog with a sickening sigh sucked them under.