What actual distance she had carried him, of
course it was impossible to say; going so persistently in the wrong
direction, he was simply hastening on to perish. I felt more at ease
walking along the track than riding. We could only go slowly, mile
after mile, rising sand-ridge after sand-ridge, until twelve o'clock,
not having been able to trace him more than seven or eight miles since
morning. We could not reach the Circus by night, for we were nearly
fifty miles from it, and in all probability we should get no water
there when we returned. We had to abandon any further attempt. The
mare had carried him God knows where, and we had to desist from our
melancholy and unsuccessful search. Ah! who can tell his place of
rest, far in the mulga's shade? or where his drooping courser, bending
low, all feebly foaming fell? I may here remark, that when we
relinquished the search, Gibson's tracks were going in the direction
of, though not straight to, the dry ridges that Jimmy and I visited in
February. These were now in sight, and no doubt Gibson imagined they
were the Rawlinson Range, and he probably ended his life amongst them.
It was impossible for us to go there now; I had difficulty enough to
get away from them when I purposely visited them.
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