The Crooked Stick Or Pollies's Probation Part 16

You mustn't be angry, Bertram. All you Jackaroos (as the Queenslanders call you) are the same; you leave cover and get shot down like an owl in the daylight, for want of the commonest woodcraft. So don't be obstinate, or I shall be obliged to come down and stand alongside of you. Good-night! Good-night! That is one apiece.'

When the young men entered the room at the barracks, they found the sergeant and Mr. Gateward sitting over the fire smoking. The young constable was on guard outside, in case the attack might come off earlier than was antic.i.p.ated.

The sergeant, though in an att.i.tude of luxurious contentment, was in full uniform, and fully prepared for sudden action. By his side stood a Winchester rifle in excellent order, while within reach of his arm was a large-sized navy revolver. Mr. Gateward had girded on one of the same pattern.

'You're all ready, gentlemen, I suppose?' said the officer. 'Both with revolvers, I see. They're pretty tools, but I prefer my rifle for close range. In an hour more we must put out the lights; so you'd better light up, and make the most of our smoking time.'

They did so, and for another hour the four men sat round the fire smoking placidly, occasionally exchanging remarks, while moment by moment the hour of mystery and doom grew closer. In spite of the high degree of courage and coolness which characterised every individual who sat in that room, a certain amount of anxious expectation could not be avoided.

There was no doubt that there would be shooting. One or two men would 'lose the number of their mess'--the phrase by which among Englishmen the loss of life is generally indicated--and _who_ would it be? That was the question. It was not in human nature to avoid the speculation as to whether the evil-doers would be laid low, or whether, on the contrary, one of themselves, now so instinct with life and vitality, would not be stretched lifeless upon the unpitying earth.

'Half-past eleven, gentlemen,' said the sergeant, looking at his watch.

'We must take our places, and neither move nor speak until the time comes. Mr. Newman, you had better go to bed; we will take care to have a word with them before they rouse you up. Mr. Atherstone, will you please to take that corner? Mr. Devereux, you'll stand here by me. That will give us the chance of first shot, if you care for it. Mr. Gateward, you'll plant behind that bale in the corner--out of harm's way. All you've got to think of is to light the fat-lamp we leave on the top of the wool-pack, and duck down again. They can't hurt you. Constable Gray will stop outside. As soon as he hears horses coming across the plain, he's to come in here and let us know. He's a smart young native, isn't he, Mr. Atherstone? He can track like a blackfellow, he's a pretty shot, and at riding and bush work he's a match for Billy Mossthorne or any other moonlighter that ever shook a clear skin.'

'A quiet, manly young fellow, sergeant,' said Atherstone; 'I had a talk with him coming over. You want more natives in the police to be on equal terms with these down-the-river fellows. They are pretty smart, to do them justice, and it's no use having a man who can't ride to follow them. It's like setting a collie dog after a flying forester buck.'

'We are getting some fine young men in the police now,' said the sergeant. 'There's three brothers out of one family I know, born and bred Australians; two out of the three promoted already and the other safe for it. But the time's getting close; I hope nothing's happened to the beggars.'

The sergeant's voice expressed such a pathetic tone of anxiety that the young men could not help laughing. However, all relapsed into silence shortly. The hands of the clock in the room pointed towards midnight.

Would they never come? or, in a few moments more, would the deep hush of the autumn night be broken by shots and strange sounds, groans and curses?

'How the moments crawl!' said Bertram, lighting a match and looking at the bra.s.s clock on the mantel, the ticking of which sounded loud and sonorous out of all proportions to its size. 'Only a quarter-past now--it seems half an hour since I looked last.'

'It reminds me of the scene in _Old Mortality_,' said Atherstone, 'when the fanatics are waiting for the clock to strike to put Harry Merton to death. You remember one of them hears a sound in the distance which he says is "the wind among the brackens"? Another declares it to be "the rippling of the brook over the pebbles." Then a third says, "It is the galloping of horse."'

'Harry who?' asked Bertram, rather impatiently. 'I don't remember Walter Scott's characters very clearly. They all seem so devilish like one another to me.'

'Hus.h.!.+' said the sergeant, in a low voice. 'By--! here they are. They'll come up fast because they know that the dogs will give the alarm. Their dart is to be in the house before any one has time to think about it.'

As the four men listened intently, a faint, dull noise in the distance gradually resolved itself into the familiar sound of hoof-beats, the measured strokes of horses ridden at speed, which came nearer and still nearer. In the stillness of the night each sound could be heard as plainly as though within the home paddock.

At this moment Constable Gray entered, his eyes glistening with excitement. 'They're near a mile off yet,' he said. 'I went to the paddock gate and listened. There's three of 'em. Three horses, any road--that's Johnny the Pacer has joined 'em; though I don't expect _he_ means fighting. The dogs'll challenge when they come a bit closer.'

'You stay outside till they dismount,' said the sergeant. 'See what door they make for, and then fall back on us. They don't know what's before them.'

The young trooper went quietly out, moving with cautious and wary tread.

The roll of hoofs sounded yet closer. Suddenly there arose a chorus of furious barking and fierce growling from the pack of dogs of various breed which a head station always supports. It told that strangers--presumably hostile--had at that late hour invaded the premises.

Just then Gray re-entered. 'One man left with the horses. Two coming this way, making for the back-door.'

'It's unlatched,' said the sergeant. 'Let them come.'

CHAPTER X

In another moment steps were heard on the verandah. The growling dogs, still deeply distrustful, remained in the yard. A hand tried the back-door; it yielded, but this apparently excited no suspicion. It is not the custom to lock up houses in the bush of Australia. Burglars are unknown, and bushrangers prefer to transact their business chiefly in broad daylight--about the hour of 11 A.M. This was held to be an exceptional case.

'The storekeeper sleeps off the big room,' said some one cautiously. 'I saw him there when I was buying tobacco.'

'That's Billy's voice,' whispered Gray. 'I'd know it amongst a thousand.'

'Let's go in anyhow,' a rougher voice answered. 'There's not a dashed soul awake. Light a match and we'll have him out.'

A match flashed, lighting up the dim room, but with a result wholly unexpected by the chief actors in the melodrama. As they looked carelessly round the silent room they could hardly restrain a start of surprise as their roving eyes fell upon the sergeant in full uniform, the armed men, the levelled weapons. At the same moment Mr. Gateward arose from behind his bale, and lighting a tallow lamp, retired discreetly.

But in far less time than is occupied in tracing these ephemeral lines, thought had matured and action followed. Outmanoeuvred, outnumbered as they were, the cool courage of the race was as manifest in these unhappy outlaws as in the best men of Britain's warlike forces.

'Surrender in the Queen's name!' roared the sergeant. 'It's no use, Billy; better give in quietly.'

'Not alive you don't get us,' answered the younger man, with the soft, deliberate intonation of the native-born Australian, while he raised his revolver.

The other, a grizzled, broad-shouldered ruffian, shorter than his companion by several inches, forbore reply, but firing at the sergeant's first word, shot Bertram Devereux through the body, sending also a second bullet into Harold Atherstone's right arm without loss of time.

As he did so, Atherstone s.h.i.+fted his revolver to his left hand and fired deliberately. The robber sprang and fell on his face.

At that moment it seemed as if every firearm in the room was discharged simultaneously--the sergeant's rifle, Gray's and Mossthorne's revolvers.

When the smoke cleared, Mossthorne lay dead with a rifle bullet through his heart and with a smaller bullet through his shoulder. Bertram Devereux, bleeding profusely, was lying insensible.

Mr. Gateward had come forward from behind his entrenchment. 'Seems there was enough of you without me,' he said, 'but I felt cowardly like, stowed away behind the sheepskins. But _surely_ the Doctor ain't finished this young gentleman now, as well as the poor Captain long ago?'

'By--! that rally's over quick!' exclaimed the sergeant, as he drew a full breath and gazed around, while Mr. Gateward looked on the prostrate forms with a curious mixture of relief and regret. 'Short and sharp while it lasted, wasn't it, Mr. Atherstone?' the sergeant continued, addressing himself to that gentleman, who had raised Devereux's head with his left arm, and was trying to discover the nature of the wound.

'I'd rather have taken the Doctor alive, but he gave us no time; shooting's too good for him! As for poor Billy, he's better where he is than locked up in gaol for his natural life. Now about Mr. Devereux. We must look to him first thing. He's hard hit, but it mayn't be serious.

Where's Dr. Ryan? Oh! at Wannonbah. That's just right. We'll want him for the inquest besides. Constable Gray!'

The young man, who had been examining the wound in Mossthorne's breast, stood at attention. 'Take my roan horse and ride like h--l to Wannonbah.

Tell Dr. Ryan to come here straight. Then go to the barracks and tell the senior constable to telegraph to the coroner straight off. Come back with him yourself.'

With a sign of a.s.sent the young man pa.s.sed out into the night. A rush of flying hoofs told in marvellously short s.p.a.ce that he was speeding on his errand on the best three-miler in the district.

'Now let's have a look at Mr. Devereux,' said Herne. 'Hold his head a little higher. How do you feel, sir? Bleeding stopped, but you've lost a lot of blood. Faintish, I daresay. Gateward, bring the brandy out of your room; a taste will do him good--and Mr. Atherstone too, for the matter of that. Seems the ball turned outward. Breathe a little, sir.

That's all right,' as the wounded man took a deep inspiration. 'Take a sip of this, and we'll carry you to bed.'

'I feel better, I think,' said the wounded man, speaking with difficulty. 'I must have fainted, I suppose. That scoundrel was too quick for me. I thought he might surrender. What! are _you_ winged, Atherstone?'

'Yes, worse luck,' said Harold, suppressing a groan as the broken bone grated. 'The fellow did not shoot badly, either. Billy just missed the sergeant, I see. There's his bullet mark in the door.'

'He fired first; but I didn't miss _him_,' replied that officer, with a grim smile. 'Gray's revolver bullet went through his shoulder. You dropped the Doctor in good time, Mr. Atherstone, just before he got to his third barrel. We'd better put a cloth over them now.'

As he spoke a tall white female figure appeared in the doorway. It was Pollie Devereux herself, wrapped in a dressing-gown. In her eyes, wide and s.h.i.+ning in the half-light, was horror unspeakable, with nameless dread, as she gazed upon the forms that lay p.r.o.ne and so motionless.

'I _could_ not wait longer after the shots ceased,' she said pleadingly.

'I was growing mad with anxiety. Mother is praying still. Are the men both dead? This one is Billy Mossthorne, I know. Poor fellow! I can't help being sorry for him. I remember his being at Maroobil.'

Her gaze, which had been for the moment riveted to the still forms which

Lay as dead men only lie,