Danny nodded. Jos Creer’s name was green up in the shut miners’ cemetery on the hill, with the date 1869 against it.
“He was a man,” said Packer. “I seen him knock down a twenty-cheque in Mullin’s bar—wot stood where the Crescent dredge is now—an’ go straight away out an’ carry a sack o’ flour two mile over the hill ter Chinaman’s Gully fur a bet. An’ the hills reekin’ wi’ shafts and scrub in those days, not to be speakin’ o’ cows strayed off of the commonage. That’s what I calls a man.”
“That’s what I calls a fool,” said Danny, politely, and cast himself headlong through six wedges of men to drag a fox-terrier off the ear of his blue Smithfield. The fox-terrier belonged to Roddy Duncan, who had come up from the township with Art, and it was Murray’s crisp tones that cut the wrangle in half. Roddy was more flushed and excited than he should have been; but he straightened before the keen eyes, for they wore the look of the hunter of men.
“What yer after?” said Danny, recovering his temper.
“Dick Wepeha. Sheep-stealing—again. Danny, can you tell me the brands and ear-marks of Jackson’s new draught—an’ anything about Behar or Mackay’s?”
Danny knew the signs of all sheep within fifty miles. Each holder in the distance de-
