e scene of
our former exploits. All was quiet and still in the vicinity. Not a twig
moved, unless displaced by a gaudy-colored parrot, too lazy, under the
withering influence of the heat, to even chatter.

The hound had bounded into the enclosure, and rushed towards a pile of
branches which had been placed in the clearing since we were there.
Regardless of every thing else he tore away at the wood with his teeth,
and uttered fierce growls, as though he had found an enemy beneath that
pile, and was determined to get at him.

We sent a man to examine the neighborhood, and then went to our
four-legged friend's assistance. With angry growls the dog helped us to
throw aside the branches, but long before reaching the last one, we
suspected the contents of the pile. A horrible stench had for some time
warned us that we were in the vicinity of carrion.

The last branch was removed, and lying in all their ghastly ugliness
were Black Darnley and his crew. Darnley had greatly altered since his
death; but there was no mistaking that massive mouth, filled with strong
teeth, firmly set together, as though striving even with his last breath
to overcome the King of Terrors.

"Are you satisfied?" we asked of Murden, turning away from the sickening
sight with a shudder.

"I am," he replied. "Black Darnley has committed his last crime in this
world; and the man who has caused the police of Australia to turn pale
with fear is now but a home for worms."

"Let us rid the earth of his remains," cried Fred, "and not let them
fester here to breed pollution in the air."

"Well said," replied we all; and after every one had satisfied his
curiosity, we gathered up dry branches and leaves and heaped them upon
the pile, and then set it on fire, and as the flames roared and
crackled, and licked the green corpses, we took our leave of that black
forest, the home of bushrangers, natives, and poisonous reptiles.

As we turned to have a last glance at the fire, we saw the hound
stalking solemnly around that putrid pile, and watching as though not
satisfied until every particle of his enemy had mingled with his mother
earth.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE STOCKMAN AND HIS PARROT.--DARING PLOT OF A ROBBER CHIEFTAIN.

Tired with a hot, dusty ride across the prairie, we felt more like
resting after the sleepless night and busy scenes through which we had
passed, than commencing our journey at sundown, and so we intimated to
Murden; but he was deaf