The northern territory police magazine $4 c tat

THE LOG By Edward Herbert

HARDENED as he was to bush life, Dan Banning's long legs straightened in the stirrups as he reined his horse on the sky-line of the red-pebbled ridge. His drooping moustaches rose like hawk's wings on the upward sweep, crinkling the crow's feet around his grey eyes and softening the ruggedness of his lean face as he viewed the scene below.

" First time I've seen the place from up here . . . it looks mighty pretty ".

In the clear Northern Territory air, green timbers seemed to stride along the banks of the Yacaman and Aluha rivers. They wove their ways through the broad valley, gradually creeping closer to each other like two lovers to meet at a trysting place where they would merge as one. Ringing bird calls echoed along the river as gay, variegated colours darted over the waters and flashed through the trees. Sleek horses and fat cattle grazed contentedly in the paddocks as foals and calves, like clockwork toys, bucked and frisked about them. A red-roofed homestead, outbuildings, native camps and stockyards nestled in an open forest of huge white gum trees, in extended order, like gallant lancers with pennants flying, prepared to charge any hostile invaders. In the background, the expressive ramparts of the Yacaman and Aluha Ranges, with their play of mauves, yellows, blues, russets, purples and greys, brocaded then in bew intricate patterns with each passing cloud. The pleasant hours of the late afternoon sun lingered benevolently, endowing the whole countryside with lavish splendour, bringing a fairy-like charm to the scene.

Puzzled, Dan Banning tapered a moustache between thumb and forefinger. " Sumpin' wrong here somewhere ", he muttered. " Now what could it be? "

Shaggy brows frown as he searched the majestic panorama . . . narrowed eyes swivelled from the paddocks along the rivers, up to the high ranges . . . sweeping back to the homestead and native camps.

" Ha! You won't see what you're lookin' for, because it ain't there ", he grunted. " No smoke! Well, what do you expect, you myall, there's nobody at the homestead, an' bein' Sunday, Bigfoot an' all the blacks have gone huntin' down the river ".

Fumbling at his belt of plaited kangaroo, he squinted down at an open-faced watch.

" S'truth I Close up five o'clock — that blasted windmill took longer'n I thought. Got a damper to knock