as ever graced head of man. Each carried a carbine between
thigh and saddle. These were the buffalo shooters.

Behind them rode an elderly, grizzled man, whom Hugh had no difficulty
in recognising as Keogh, or Considine. Following him were some seven
or eight packhorses, all heavily laden with hides. And behind the
packhorses rode three or four naked blacks and a Chinaman.

Hugh's guide at once made himself welcome in his happy-go-lucky style.
He introduced Hugh as Mr. Lambton, from New South Wales. The buffalo
shooters made him welcome after the fashion of their kind; but Considine
was obviously uneasy, and avoided him, riding with Tommy Prince for a
while, and evidently trying to find out what Hugh had come for.

That night, when they got to the buffalo shooters' camp, Hugh opened
fire on Considine. The veteran was in a cheerful mood after his meal,
and Hugh wanted to start diplomatically, thinking he might persuade him.
If that failed he would give him the summons; but he would start with
the suaviter in modo. When it came to the point, however, he forgot his
diplomacy, and plunged straight into trouble.

"I'll tell you what I've come up here for, Considine," he said. "My
name's Hugh Gordon, and I want to find out something about your marriage
with Peggy Donohoe."

"Well, if that's what you come for, Mister," said the veteran, pulling a
firestick out of the fire, and slowly lighting his pipe, "if that's what
you come for"--puff, puff, puff--"you've come on a wild goose chase. I
never knew no Peggy Donohoe in my life. My wife"--puff--"was a small,
dark woman, named Smith."

"I thought you told my brother that you married Peggy Donohoe."

"So I might have told him," assented the veteran. "Quite likely I did,
but I must ha' made a mistake. A man might easy make a mistake over a
thing like that. What odds is it to you who I married, anyhow?"

"What odds? Why look here, Considine, it means that my old mother will
be turned out of her home. That's some odds to me, isn't it?"

"Yairs, that's right enough, Mister," said the courteous Considine;
"it's lots of odds to you, but what I ask you is--what odds is it to me?
Why should I go and saddle myself with a she-devil just when I'm coming
into a bit of money? I'd walk miles to do her a bad turn."

"Well, if you want to do her a bad turn, come down and block her getting
Mr. Grant's estate."

"Yes, an' put her on to meself What next? I tell you, Mister, straight,
I w