Jim Dennis heard of the row at the Gum Tree Hotel, and he also heard of the cause.

Ned Glenn, who happened to be there, told him all about it when he pulled up at Wanabeen.

'You'd have laughed, Jim, to see the funk Dalton was in,' he said. 'I never saw such a blooming coward in my life. He's not fit to sew a button on his own shirt. He cowed down before the doc like a whipped kangaroo dog, and darn me if he even so much as swore when Dr Tom asked him out to fight.'

'But what was it all about?' asked Jim.

Then the story came out, with embellishments by Ned Glenn.

'And Abe Dalton said that about my lad?' said Jim.

'Yes, he did; but I wish I had never mentioned it; you look so ferocious.'

'You wait until I come across Dalton. He'll have to answer for it.'

'Leave him alone,' said Ned. 'Treat him as Dr Tom treated him. Let him slide.'

'And so it was Dr Tom who stuck up for me and mine,' said Jim.

'Didn't I tell you so?' exclaimed Ned; 'and I can tell you a bit more. It's through Dr Tom you have not been molested by Dalton's gang for the past few years. Don't you know the yarn? Why, every man in the Creek knows it.'

Jim Dennis said, 'You're—sure—it's—true?' He caught up his few words, and they seemed to stumble over each other.

'Certain. Gospel. I had it from Abe himself. It happened this way: Dalton was dying, and Dr Tom was called in under false pretences. Some blackguard of the gang told him a woman and child were dying. You know what the doc is in such cases. Well, he went. He drove out in that wretched ramshackle of his and he pulled up at headquarters—Abe Dalton's.

'All he heard in answer to his call was groans. He went inside—he's told this to me himself. He don't often give much away in that way do the doc, but he opened his big heart and let me have it; and, by gosh, as you know, Jim, I'm a good receptacle for news.'

Jim nodded; he was taking it all in—and a lot more.

'So the doctor did what?'

Ungrammatical, but it is what Jim said, and I have to record it. We are not all born grammarians.

'The doc did this for you, Jim, but don't let on or split to him, or he'd knock the life out of me. The doc says to Abe Dalton. "You're going to die, old man, and your sins will provide the fuel to roast you." From all accounts—there is only one account, but the doc gets a bit confused when he's on this track—the fact of the matter is that Abe Dalton was in a very bad state. Tom—I mean the doc—pulled him through on one condition; that condition was that you were not to be molested, or your belongings, for ever more.'

'And Dr Tom compounded'—it was a big word for Jim—'with a brute like Dalton? He saved his life at the price of shielding me from this gang? Wait until I see the doctor. I'll tackle him over this.'

'I'm going,' said Ned.

'About time,' answered Jim. 'I'll tell that story of yours to the little chap.'

'Don't. By gosh, Jim, don't,' said Ned, as he got to his horses' heads.

'I will. He ought to know black Sal, eh? Good-bye, Ned.'

Ned Glenn was on the box seat. He looked round at Jim, cracked the whip over his team's ears, and said,—

'I'll be back in time for the cup, my lad, and if Willie don't win on Neptune, s'help me, I'll chuck up the job.'

Jim Dennis's face cleared. The passing cloud had drifted. The gloom was dispelled at the mention of the child. What little things, what small words, what rightly-spoken words can change a man's heart.

'Bah!'

It was an emphatic expression. Jim Dennis spat on the verandah, he kicked a chair over, he swung the hammock round and went inside.

'Sal, do you know what they have said about you? Do you know what Abe Dalton says?'

She shuddered.

'Sal, you have been a mother to my lad.'

She remained silent.

'Do you know what that scoundrel Dalton says?'

'No.'

'That Willie is your child.'

A wail came from her, a piteous, heart-rending wail. She fell on her knees at his feet. She put her head on his boots, and she cried—cried many bitter tears. It was hard for her. She loved this white man, the man who had helped her, had come into her life, picked her up when she was dying, starving, her tongue cleaving to her mouth from thirst, on his verandah steps. He was not a missionary, he never talked to her about God—and the devil. He never frightened her with unknown terrors, he had been good and kind and gentle to her, and they said these things about him!

She thought not of herself, her whole thoughts were for him, the man who had protected her.

'Willie, Willie!' she wailed.

She wished he belonged to her, that he were flesh of her flesh. She craved for that child as mothers crave for their own.

'Get up, Sal. I thought you ought to know,' he said.

She lifted her face to his, and the tears were streaming down her half-black cheeks.

'You have been more mother to Willie than his own,' he said.

With the quick motion always noticeable in the black races, she rose to her feet. She went to the door.

He watched her with wondering eyes.

She came back, caught him by the arm and peered into his face.

'You have a bad friend,' she said.

'Only one,' said Jim, with a smile, as he patted her on the head much as he would a dog.

She glanced to the right and then to the left.

'Do you know his name?' she said.

'Yes, Abe Dalton.'

She laughed, and he started.

'Abe Dalton!' she exclaimed. 'No! what has he to do with you? My people can guard you from him. It is not Dalton; it is—' she hesitated.

'Name him,' said Jim.

'Rodney Shaw!' she said.

He caught her by the wrist. He had met with treachery in black blood before, and he half mistrusted her.

'What do you mean?'

She looked frightened.

His grip tightened.

'What do you mean?' he asked again.

'I am afraid of him, afraid for you, for myself, for Willie,' she said in a low voice.

'Some of your legends,' he answered roughly. 'You blacks are all alike, half-brutal, half-beast.'

She shrank from him. They were the hardest words he had ever said to her.

'I'm sorry, Sal. I forgot myself. Tell me what you mean.'

'You know the legend of our tribe,' she said. 'No white man's blood shall mingle with our own unless calamity—I was taught that word—befall us.'

'Tell me the story, I forget it,' said Jim, as he sat down.

'This is as it was told to me by King Charlie, the chief of our tribe. He rose from his meal and stood up alone, solemn, in the moonlight.'

Sal had posed for this effect, and Jim took it all in—but it was a genuine pose, which is not the case with poseurs of the present day.

'He had eaten kangaroo and wallaby, and had supped well. You have seen King Charlie. True, he is only a black, but he has not the white man's curse upon him.'

Jim Dennis knew Sal in these moods, when the savage was uppermost.

'He looked upon me—I can see him now—a gaunt figure with the chain around his neck and the half-moon badge of his tribe on his chest. His hand was slowly raised, and he pointed at me. I will not give you the words of our tribe, it would be shame unto me, but I will tell you what he said.'

She raised herself to her full height.

'"You are cursed!" I can hear the words now. They hissed through my ears like a sound of running water at flood. "You are cursed!" Again he said it, and I shrank from him. What had I done, what fearful deed had I committed that I should be cursed?

'It was my mother's sin, not mine, and yet not hers. She was taken as a slave might be taken—and I was begot.

'"You are cursed!" It rang in my ears, it rings now. I can see the old king of our tribe rise up and cast me out.'

Jim Dennis watched her; he had never seen Sal in quite this mood before. She looked like a prophetess.

'And when he cast me out what did I reply? I defied him. I said the sin of my mother ought not to be visited upon me. I said that the white man's hand was strong in the land, and that he ought to suffer for his sins, not the poor "gin" that succumbed to him.

'I know King Charlie. He is a just man and good. He has dreamed the dream of our race, and he has wonderful visionary powers. But because he cursed me I left the camp and wandered forth. I was weary and I fell—you know where I fell—on the steps there, and you took me in as you would a little child, and saved me.

'Rodney Shaw is your enemy—he is mine,' she went on. 'He has tempted me and I have urged him on.'

'You have?' said Jim.

'Yes, and why? I have tried him and tested him. He desires me. He says I am to him more than all his stations and cattle. But why does he say that? He is your friend. And they say—Abe Dalton says—I am the mother of your child. They lie—and we know it.'

He tried to calm her.

'But where is the danger to me, Sal? You must be mistaken,' he said.

'Shaw hates you. There is something in him I do not understand,' said Sal.

'Never mind, my girl, we can get level with Rodney Shaw any day. I'm just commencing to find things out,' said Jim.