trolled by men, for a strange but deadly serious purpose. It was meant to keep the plague of rabbits out of West Australia.
As he trudged, his garments clinging after their sea-water shrinkage, Sam thought grimly of his double task—triple task, really, for it entailed getting hold of his brother. Tom Varney had vanished so successfully that the police of all Australia had not been able to arrest him. Sam realized that nearly broke, with that $700 note to meet, he could not hope to find Tom except in one way. Get on the track of Paxton Trenholm. Somewhere, following the bushranger, trying to capture or kill him, would be that stern man of single purpose, Tom Varney.
The big white man, the notorious bushranger-madman, rode another camel.
Sam had to have a job of work, or starve. Getting something would be easy, he thought. But it would just be something temporary, to let him get oriented. Once he had a good idea of the bushranger's trail, and a stake sufficient to provide him with rifle and a mount, Sam would break loose for the manhunt. The rewards accumulated on Paxton Trenholm would repay the sum of Sam's note fifty times over.
Now he grew increasingly thirsty. In ignorance of this part of Australia, and hoping it was not like the gold deserts, he still scanned the horizon for sign of a ranch. There was none. But now in the mulga there was wild life on every hand.
Doglike creatures, dingoes, howled at him and slunk away.
