Tudor, at the time, was lying in a stupor with fever in
a late camp five miles away, the main camp having moved on those five
miles in order to prospect an outcrop of likely quartz. Binu Charley was
midway between the two camps when the absence of the women and children
struck him as suspicious.
"My word," he said, "me t'ink like hell. Him black Mary, him pickaninny,
walk about long way big bit. What name? Me savvee too much trouble
close up. Me fright like hell. Me run. My word, me run."
Tudor, quite unconscious, was slung across his shoulder, and carried a
mile down the trail. Here, hiding new trail, Binu Charley had carried
him for a quarter of a mile into the heart of the deepest jungle, and
hidden him in a big banyan tree. Returning to try to save the rifles and
personal outfit, Binu Charley had seen a party of bushmen trotting down
the trail, and had hidden in the bush. Here, and from the direction of
the main camp, he had heard two rifle shots. And that was all. He had
never seen the white men again, nor had he ventured near their old camp.
He had gone back to Tudor, and hidden with him for a week, living on wild
fruits and the few pigeons and cockatoos he had been able to shoot with
bow and arrow. Then he had journeyed down to Berande to bring the news.
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