Most
fitting place for ghost stories is an old ruined castle, full of eerie
noises, so there is no place more suited to cattle-camp yarns than a
cattle camp. They need the reality of the camp-fire, the litter of camp
baggage, the rumbling mob of shadowy cattle near at hand, and the
possibilities of the near future - possibilities brought home by the sight
of tethered horses standing saddled and bridled ready "in case of
accidents."
Fit surroundings add intensity to all tales, just as it added intensity
to my feelings when Dan advised the Maluka to swing our net near a
low-branched tree, pointing out that it would "come in handy for the
missus if she needed it in a hurry."
I favoured climbing the tree at once, and spending the night in it, but
the men-folk assuring me that I would be "bound to hear them coming," I
turned in, sure only of one thing, that death may come to the bush-folk
in any form but ennui. Yet so adaptable are we bush-folk to
circumstances that most of that night was oblivion.
At sun-up, the drovers, still sweetly smiling, announced that two
bullocks had strayed during some one's watch. Not in theirs, they
hastened to assure us, when Dan sniffed scornfully in the background.
