CHAPTER II.
DEAD MAN’S GULLY.
A land of camps where seldom is sojourning,
Where men, like the dim fathers of our race,
Halt for a time, and next day unreturning,
Fare ever on apace.
The long hot day slipped restfully away. The horses spent it down among the rich grass by the river, whither the Scorpion had made off the first opportunity—no bare paddocks for her ladyship! and we did not trouble to bring them back. New Year’s Day had come round, and we made a start in the afternoon. During the morning some welcome showers had fallen, and the yellow hills had just a tinge of green about them, and seemed more inviting than thirty miles of dusty road. Mr. Carthy’s directions were not very clear: we knew we had to get over the hills between the Lindis and the deep basins of the lakes and rivers beyond, and we started out confident of finding our way as we so often had done before. All went well till we came to a hollow in the hills blocked in front by steep tussock slopes, a gorge on the right winding down through ever wilder and wilder crags and towering hills. We tried in all directions for a track—the only one was down this forbidding gully. Further down we came to an old forsaken
