Forests clothed these mountains, scrub so dense as to appear almost dark
black lined the valleys winding deep amid the ranges. Water gleamed down there in rippling pools, and wide stretches of river. The forest giants
towering above the green flats, now deep in Mitchell grass. A cloud of
yellow crested Cockatoos flew lazily screeching across a flooded gorge.
A smiling land this, a paradise for beast and man, destined to feed the countless cattle, to supply timber and minerals for industry in cities
yet to come, But now it was a fenceless country of scattered cattle stations, a still untamed land of birds and animals and wild eyed men,
both white and black. Distantly rose the smoke of a hunting fire, where
ochre painted warriors crouched forward in the chase.

"The blacks are travelling west" thought Red.
"They don't dream there are white men in the valley."
He frowned, his strong hand loosely gripping the rifle resting across the saddle pommel.
A man of the the wilds, this Red, sitting a powerful thoroughbred as to
the manner born. Intelligence shone from the big brown eyes as the big
motionless horse gazed out across the valley dotted with it's fat stolen
cattle. A stolen thoroughbred too. Motionless the rider, his grim face
heavily fledged with a firey red beard, and firey red was his hair under
a cabbage tree hat. His open neck shirt showed firey red hair upon a sun
blotched neck, his arms were red too, and muscular.
From a belt at his waist the butt of a revolcer shone dully. Long legs
tightly clad in moleskins and leggings, suggested he had endurance to match any Aboriginal's.
Though high up in the ranges this sentinel horseman was not silhouetted,
he was one of the best bushman in a trackless land where only bushmen
could live. A keen eye indeed would have been needed to locate this King
of cattle thieves.
A growl of thunder came rumbling from far away.
A faint tightening of the grim face, an upward glance from steely eyes,
a listening tilt of the ears. Red was pleased. That single growl could mean success, or possibly disaster, life or death. It now meant that the timing had been perfect. It could mean as Red had gambled for, and now
fervently hoped that it would mean, that an early and heavy wet would set in, that would spill water for a thousand miles south-west.
Water is life.
With a touch of bridle and knee, horse and man vanished among the timber down the spur.
In the hidden valley were camped the others of the gang. For long months
they had been waiting and working a hundred miles apart. But now the mob were mustered waiting for the final dash. Fine upstanding beasts the pick of a dozen stations. No old pikers these, no "wind splitters" as
wide across the hips as the forehead, no "razorbacks", going away with nothing behind. These were "tabletops", you could throw your blanket on
any beast and camp on his back. Each beast here was a real marketable
bullock, deep, square, not too old, well bred. rich in color, not too much leg, but plenty of width and depth.
Prominent in the center of the valley, a jet black bull stood shaking his head, mournfully lowing. He was a sleek beautiful beast, with uneasy savage eyes. A problem!