But it is not our purpose to describe the sickening scene of murder and rapine that follows, when towards four o’clock Inspector Puttis gives the revolver shot signal to commence the holocaust. We have already rendered to our readers a faithful account of a similar occurrence in an earlier chapter. To those gentlemen who, taking a special interest in such kinds of sport, have honoured our pages by perusing the same, we will respectfully point out that they can obtain their fill of it by making their way to up-country Australia. Partly for the benefit of such “sports,” and partly for another class of reader, our publishers have deemed the late Dr. Dyesart’s map of the “Wicked Island” worthy of reproduction with this our narrative of his nephew’s adventures.
So, instead of “potting” a few “buck” niggers, or tomahawking a woman or child, or otherwise assisting the police (Queensland Native Mounted) in the execution of their duty, let us follow Mr. Wilson Giles and watch his movements and actions, which more nearly affect our story.
It having been reported to Mr. Morth that a party of runaway “boys” are encamped a few miles from where he is assisting his senior officer in the development of his plan of attack, the sub-inspector, taking a few native troopers with him, starts off to investigate matters in this new direction, being accompanied by Mr. Giles and a few other gentlemen.
After a dark ride of an hour the party reach the cliffs which Claude Angland has descended only a few hours before, and, leaving their horses with a couple of station-hands, creep silently through the shadows after their black guide.
Presently each man feels, rather than hears, the whispered order to halt, and Mr. Morth glides forward like a snake to reconnoitre.
As ill-luck would have it, at the time when the police officer raises his keen eyes above the edge of a sheltering rock that commands a view of the camp, the only members of Angland’s party in sight are General Gordon and the Myall black, whose friends, a short distance off in the village, are in like imminent peril to themselves. Both are naked; for having discovered Claude’s absence, and guessing something of what has happened, they are about to set forth in search of him. Don and Joe lie in the deep shadow of the rock and are invisible; neither does the feeble illumination afforded by the wood embers reach the blankets, pack-bags, and other civilized impedimenta, and warn the scout that what he takes for a warragal camp is at present occupied by the “boys” and belongings of a white man.
On the other hand, Morth recognizes Gordon, as he stoops over the fire for an instant to light his pipe, as a runaway from Murdaro Station. So crawling backwards to his waiting friends and troopers, he commences to arrange them quietly round his intended prey.
The early morning sky is now clear and star-studded, and in another hour or two another day will have begun.
The men creep forward amongst spiny grass trees, rocks, and tree-stems, but are not yet in position, when, above the roar of the creek hard by and multitudinous noises of a water-laden scrub,—all veiling the approach of the foe from the occupants of the granite shelter,—comes the muffled sound of a distant rifle volley.
The stalkers hear it as they slink through the darkness, and know that their friends have commenced their work of destruction at the village. The runaway “boy” Gordon and his Myall friend hear it also, and guessing its fearful import spring to their feet and stand trembling to listen, as the faint echoings of a few more single shots follow the first discharge.