It was fairly
certain that Mr. Linton was helpless, somewhere in the bush, and that
meant that he had been so for nearly two days, since it was almost that
time since he had ridden away from Killybeg.
Two days! They had been days of steady, relentless heat, untempered by
any breeze--when the cattle had sought the shade of the gum trees, and
the dogs about the homestead had crept close in under the tree
lucernes, with open mouths and tongues lolling. The men working on the
run had left their tasks often to go down to the creek or the river for
a drink; in the house, closely shuttered windows and lowered blinds on
the verandahs had only served to make the heat bearable. And he had
been out in it, somewhere, helpless, and perhaps in pain; with nothing
to ease for him the hot hours or to save him from the chill of a
Victorian night, which, even in midsummer, may be sharply cold before
the dawn. The thought gnawed at his children's hearts.
They passed through the billabong boundary and out into the rough
country beyond, sharply undulating until it rose into the ranges David
Linton had crossed on his way to and from Killybeg. They had been
fairly certain that he had come through them safely on his way home,
and the thought had been a comfort--for to seek a man in those hills was
a hopeless task.
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