s of naked feet all around the troughs showed that a couple of
Musgrave blacks had wilfully pulled the plugs out of the water troughs,
knowing that this was one of the ways in which they could do most harm
to the hated white man. If the native with the mutilated hand had not
given the alarm, Sidcotinga Station would have been right out of water
by the morning. No one knew who this friendly black-fellow was. Sax
told the others that it was the same man who had put the sprig of
needle-bush in the quart-pot, and who had also saved him from the bull
a few hours before, but he did not explain how he knew this.

"Seems to have taken a fancy to you, whoever he is," remarked Dan
Collins. "I wonder why."

Sax knew why, but he seemed to feel the influence of his father coming
from the Musgraves, not far away, telling him to keep the matter secret.

The lads went back to bed, and the two white men kept watch at the
troughs till daylight. But the blacks gave no sign of their presence.
They had evidently been scared away.

CHAPTER XVI

Mustering

If the boys expected that the night alarm would be the chief subject of
conversation next day they were quite mistaken, for the matter was
hardly referred to at all. Sidcotinga was as far away from
civilization as could possibly be, and its position under the dreaded
and mysterious Musgrave Ranges made it the object of repeated attacks
by little bands of warragul blacks. Consequently the manager was quite
used to turning out in the middle of the night to guard one portion or
another of the station property, and the mere pulling out of the plugs
from the watering-troughs was forgotten almost as soon as the affair
was over.

Important business was afoot--the chief business of a
cattle-station--mustering. Station blacks were sent out early in the
morning after working-horses; packs, saddles, canteens, hobbles, and
horse-gear generally were carefully overhauled by Mick, and tucker-bags
were filled with flour, sugar, tea, dried salt meat, and a tin or two
of jam. Before sunset everything was ready for an early start next
day, for about fifty working-horses had been brought in, out of which
number Mick and the manager chose thirty for the mustering plant.

Dan Collins had sent four station boys to round up the horses: Calcoo,
whose real name went into about ten syllables and was quite impossible
for a white man to pronounce; Uncle, a thoroughly reliable
black-fellow, who