The next morning the clear sky
showed that all the rains had departed. We deepened the native
clay-hole, and then left for the depot, and found some water in a
little hole about ten miles from it. We rested the horses while we dug
a tank, and drained all the water into it; not having a pickaxe, we
could not get down deep enough.
From here I intended to pack some water out north. While we were
digging, another thunderstorm came up, sprinkling us with a few drops
to show its contempt; it then split in halves, going respectively
north and south, apparently each dropping rain on the country they
passed over.
On reaching the camp, we were told that two nice showers had fallen,
the stream now showing no signs of languishing all the day long. With
his usual intelligence, Jimmy Andrews had pulled a double-barrelled
gun out from under a heap of packbags and other things by the barrel;
of course, the hammer got caught and snapped down on the cartridge,
firing the contents, but most fortunately missing his body by half an
inch. Had it been otherwise, we should have found him buried, and
Gibson a lunatic and alone.
