The trooper and the first stockman were both dead, the third man was unwounded, but his horse had been killed, and he had been knocked stiff and silly by the heavy fall. However, after some water and a stiff nip he was soon all right, and swearing he would make the blank-blank-blankety-blank bounders who had killed his pet stock horse and his mate sit up. We quickly caught the loose horses and were soon joined by the officer and his troopers, who were a very fine, smart-looking crowd, but, to my mind, far too big and too heavy for this sort of game. They had two of their number badly wounded, but had wounded and captured three bushrangers, so that, with the one I had put out of mess, Ginger could now have only three men with him. The officer, therefore, determined to follow their spoor with our party and four of his own men. Messengers were despatched to other patrols and to the nearest station to obtain a conveyance for the wounded men, and we started under the guidance of Jampot, our remaining black. "Do you think he will be able to track them?" I asked Blake. "My word," he replied, "Jampot has now a blood feud against Ginger, and will follow him to the death. Ginger may turn and twist how he likes, but unless he can grow wings, or kill Jampot, Jampot will kill him." I had seen plenty of tracking in my time--I even had the cheek to fancy myself a bit at it--and had seen good work done both by white men and Maoris. I had even seen a tame black fellow after stray cattle; but I was now to see a real warrior black, with a blood feud, at the game. I expected a great deal, and I was not disappointed--in fact I saw more than I had ever imagined to be possible. Well, we were ready to start. Jampot had made use of the time in transmogrifying himself into a fiend, and he certainly looked a hideous nightmare in his war paint. Jumping on his horse, he rode to the end of the bush, circled once or twice to take note of the different spoors, then broke into a canter and rode nearly due south. Mile after mile he kept on, over all sorts of ground, through bush and over hard land, never pausing for an instant. "Do you mean to tell me that that black fellow can see spoor going at this pace and over such ground as we are now on?" said I to Blake. He only nodded his head and muttered: "My word!" This is a great Australian expression, and will signify almost anything. We came to a creek, and Jampot was off his horse in a second and was examining the rocks round the water-holes. All at once he held up his hand; Blake and myself went carefully to him. Blake and he talked gibberish for a minute, then, turning to me, the former said: "Jampot tells me one of them is badly hit and can't go far." "How on earth does he know that?" "He has seen blood on the trail and can tell by the tracks on these rocks." "Tracks?" I said. "Where are they?" He spoke to Jampot, who immediately put his finger on several places on the rocks.