The opportunity soon occurred. A small lot of some fifty or sixty head appeared about a half-mile from the road. Away went Parklands with Eachin and Mr. Neuchamp backing up. After a sharp ring or two the cattle stood with the horsemen around them. To Mr. Parklands’ mortification and Brandon’s wild delight, everything being plainly visible from the waggon, a huge coarse-horned, dun-coloured bullock singled out and ‘went for’ Ernest without more ado. The appearance of the brute was appalling, and his intention so obvious that Mr. Neuchamp did not hesitate to turn and fly across the plain for his life. The cob, though a fair roadster, was not constructed for violent exercise at short notice. He held on gallantly, but _bos ferox_ gained perceptibly on him. At the half-mile end his horns were level with the cob’s quarters, and Mr. Neuchamp had concluded to throw himself off and trust to the brute’s continuing his mad career, when the cob, feeling that the game was up, stopped short, throwing his rider over his head. The bullock hurled past them with a snort of wrath and defiance, continuing his headlong course over the plain, in search of the first congenial scrub. When Parklands came up Mr. Neuchamp was gazing at his horse, which stood with its legs wide apart panting, with streams of sweat running down his flanks and even his face. His ears were dangling limply, and he looked very much indeed as if he were going to cry. ‘Really, Parklands,’ said poor Neuchamp, ‘if that is a specimen of a Rainbar beast, I can well understand your saying that they will not get out of your way.’ ‘D―n the brute!’ quoth Sparks; ‘he does not belong to the run at all. Didn’t you see the JS on his quarter? He is one of those infernal scrub-danglers from the Lachlan come across to get a feed. I’ll shoot the ill-conditioned wretch if ever I come across him again.’ Upon being assured both by Brandon and Parklands that this was really the state of the case, Ernest continued his inspection of the remainder of the mob, with which he was well satisfied. Not to risk any further _contretemps_, Parklands then suggested a return to the known dangers of the waggon. This also suited the cob, who looked as if he had carried all his friend’s money in a race and lost it. ‘Ten miles from Rainbar,’ sang out Parklands. The words had hardly left his lips when the fore part of the waggon sprang into the air. ‘Hang on behind!’ shouted Brandon; and another minute saw Sparks and Jem Fuller fasten on to the hind axle, backing for their lives. ‘Man the horses, Eachin! Jem, you cut a straight sapling while we rouse out the saddle-straps for a splice.’