Neither station nor human being came in my road afterwards till I
reached and was rounding Mount Sturgeon, upon whose rocky summit the
setting sun already glinted. I was now upon a good, broad bush track,
which must lead to some station. But when? This small side-track to the
left looks as though a hut at least were nearer, and so I diverged into
it. Mile after mile I trotted, as well as the rough track would permit,
and when night fell, and for long after, I still pegged away. A dozen
miles right up, within the outer sierra, towards Mount William, brought
me at last to an open glade, where some small piles of "split stuff"
showed me at once my mistake. Dodging about till day, thus giving rest
to my horse, I soon regained my road, and after an hour's further ride,
reached Dr. Martin's sheep station, where a pleasant young fellow, Byass
by name, who had lost an arm in wars of some kind, and was then in
charge, ministered to my wants, and allowed me to take well-nigh the
largest breakfast on record in those parts.
I must not continue in such detail with the rest of my western tours'
incidents, especially as the second was mostly over the same ground as
the first. I dilly reached my last Boyd station, in the pretty and
varied Pyrenees district--a sheep station, then under charge of my
friend James M.
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