We reached the higher ones in
twenty-two miles. Nearing them, we passed over some fine cotton-bush
flats, so-called from bearing a small cotton-like pod, and immediately
at the hills we camped on a piece of plain, very beautifully grassed,
and at times liable to inundation. It was late when we arrived; no
water could be found; but the day was cool, and the night promised to
be so too; and as I felt sure I should get water in these hills in the
morning, I was not very anxious on account of the horses. These hills
are similar to those lately described, being greatly impregnated with
iron and having vast upheavals of iron-coated granite, broken and
lying in masses of black and pointed rock, upon all their summits.
Their sides sloped somewhat abruptly, they were all highly magnetic,
and had the appearance of frowning, rough-faced, bastion walls. Very
early I climbed up the hills, and from the top I saw the place that
was afterwards to be our refuge, though it was a dangerous one. This
is called the Cavanagh Range, but as, in speaking of it as my depot,
it was called Fort Mueller*, I shall always refer to it by that name.
What I saw was a strong running stream in a confined rocky, scrubby
glen, and smokes from natives' fires.
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