had two mounted men, whom he called boundary riders, one an Irishman
and the other a German--and them he trusted fully, the German
altogether, and the Irishman equally as regarded his honesty. But he
could not explain to them the thoughts that loaded his brain. He
could instigate them to eagerness; but he could not condescend to
tell Karl Bender, the German, that if his fences were destroyed
neither his means nor his credit would be sufficient to put them up
again, and that if the scanty herbage were burned off any large
proportion of his run, he must sell his flocks at a great sacrifice.
Nor could he explain to Mickey O'Dowd, the Irishman, that his peace
of mind was destroyed by his fear of one man. He had to bear it all
alone. And there was heavy on him also the great misery of feeling
that every thing might depend on own exertions, and that yet he did
not know how or where to exert himself. When he had ridden about all
night and discovered nothing, he might just as well have been in bed.
And he was continually riding about all night and discovering
nothing.

After leaving the station on the evening of the day on which he had
expressed himself to the women so vehemently respecting Medlicot, he
met Bates coming home from his day's work. It was then past eight
o'clock, and the old man was sitting wearily on his horse, with his
head low down between his shoulders, and the reins hardly held within
his grasp.

"You're late, Mr. Bates," said Harry; "you take too much out of
yourself this hot weather."

"I've got to move slower, Mr. Heathcote, as I grow older. That's
about it. And the beast I'm on is not much good." Now Mr. Bates was