At The First Scent Of
"Nigger" His Ears Would Prick Forward, And If Left To Himself, He Would
Carry His
Rider into an unsuspected nigger camp, or stand peering into
the bushes at a discomfited black fellow, who was busy
Trying to think of
some excuse to explain his presence and why he had hidden.
As Roper's ears shot forward and he turned aside towards a clump of
thick-set bushes, Dan chuckled in expectation, but all Roper found was a
newly deserted gundi camp, and fresh tracks travelling eastwards - tracks
left during the night - after our arrival at the river, of course.
Dan surveyed the tracks, and his chuckles died out, and, growing
sceptical of the success of his surprise party, he followed them for a
while in silence, Sambo riding behind, outwardly stolid, but no doubt,
inwardly chuckling.
Other eastward-going tracks a mile or so farther on made Dan even more
sceptical, and further tracks again set him harking back to his theory of
"something always telling 'em somehow," and, losing interest in
nigger-hunts, he became showman of the Roper river scenery.
Down into the depths of gorges he led us, through ferny nooks, and over
the sandy stretches at the base of the mighty clefts through which the
river flows; and as we rode, he had us leaning back in our saddles, in
danger of cricking our necks, to look up at lofty heights above us, until
a rocky peninsula running right into the river, after we had clambered up
its sides like squirrels, he led the way across its spiky surfaced
summit, and soon we were leaning forward over our horses' necks in
danger of taking somersaults into space, as we peered over the sides of a
precipice at the river away down beneath us. "Nothing like variety," Dan
chuckled; and a few minutes later again we were leaning well back in our
saddles as the horses picked their way down the far side of the ridge,
old Roper letting himself down in his most approved style; dropping from
ledge to ledge as he went, stepping carefully along their length, he
would pause for a moment on their edges to judge distance, then,
gathering his feet together, he would sway out and drop a foot or more to
the next ledge. Riding Roper was never more than sitting in the saddle
and leaving all else to him. Wherever he went there was safety, both for
himself and his rider whether galloping between trees or beneath
over-hanging branches, whether dropping down ridges with the
surefootedness of a mountain pony, or picking his way across the
treacherous "springy country." No one knew better than he his own limits,
and none better understood "springy country." Carefully he would test
suspicious-looking turf with a cautious fore-paw, and when all roads
proved risky, in his own unmistakable language he would advise his rider
to dismount and walk over, having shown plainly that the dangerous bit
was not equal to the combined weight of horse and man.
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