Here they would one day find themselves in a position that
left them no other chance but the slender one of still pushing forward
into the unknown. Probably it was during one of the cycles of rainless
years that periodically visit the continent. Led on mile after mile,
following the dry bed of one creek, to lose it in some barren flat,
whereon the withered stalks of blue-bush alone told of a time of past
vegetation; again picking up another creek, to lose it in like manner,
knowing that to retrace their steps was impossible; making at last for a
hazy, blue line in the distance that turned out to be spinifex and
stunted forest; trusting still that this might indicate a change that
would lead them to higher country and to water, they would struggle
forward, weak and disorganised.
Then would come the beginning of the end. As they pressed on, the forest
became scantier, and the spinifex higher, spikier, and harder to march
through. One by one their animals had fallen and died, and the desperate
resort of drinking the blood had been tried by some. What little water
they had in their canteens was fast evaporating.
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