rard," cried a big, hairy-faced digger, who was
holding a bottle of beer in one hand, and a tin pannikin in the other;
"a bottle of genuine Tennant's India Ale, acceptable to the most tender
stomach, and recommended by the faculty for nuns, nurses, bullock
drivers, and other delicate persons."

The crowd laughed, and then Gerrard, after satisfying his thirst, "cut
out" (separated from the rest of the mob) three fat steers indicated by
Vale; they were at once taken to the killing yard, and the remainder
of the animals driven down to the creek to drink, and Gerrard's
responsibility ceased.

Amongst those who watched the arrival of the cattle were Aulain and
Forreste. They were on the outskirts of the crowd, leaning against the
rough "chock and dog leg" fence which served to enclose an acre or so
of ground used as a horse-paddock by the diggers. Early in the day as it
was, Aulain's sallow face was flushed from drinking. He and Forreste had
come to an understanding the previous night. The gentlemanly "Captain"
did not take long to discover the cause of Aulain's hatred of Gerrard,
and he inflamed it still further by telling him a well-connected
series of lies about his frequently having seen Kate Fraser clasped in
Gerrard's arms on the deck of the _Gambier_, when they imagined that
they were unobserved, and Aulain, who was now hardly sane, believed him
implicitly.

"Let me deal with him first," he had said; "you can have your turn after
I have finished with him."

"You don't mean to kill him?" asked Forreste; "if you do, I'm out of it
I have a score to settle with him, but not in that way."

"Settle it in any way you like," said Aulain savagely, "but don't
interfere with me. I'm not going to kill him, but I am going to make him
suffer for his treachery to me. But," and he turned to Forreste with a
sneer, "you seem very diffident in the matter of killing any one just
now. Perhaps you and your friends acted rather impulsively in the matter
of Trooper Angus Irving."

"What do you mean?" cried Forreste hoarsely, and his face blanched with
mingled rage and terror.

"I have not been five years in the Native Police without gaining some
experience. And when you and your friends galloped after the black
tracker, one of your number lost his moleskin saddle-cloth, did he not?"

Forreste made no answer, though his lips moved.

"_I_ found that saddle-cloth two months ago, and recognised it as
belonging to your mate Cheyne, for