“A pleasant division of labor—eh, old Blatherskite?” said Chicago, playfully tapping the one-eyed villain Maloney on the head. “Come on; the ugliest first!” So saying, he began upon him and fastened him securely.
One after another the rangers were tied up—all except the pounded man, who was too helpless to need securing. Then Chicago went down and brought up the horses, while Braxton remained on guard; and by mid-day the cavalcade was in full march through the forest en route for Fallen Pine, the rendezvous of the search-party. The wounded man was tied on to a horse in front, the other rangers followed on foot for safety, while the trooper and Chicago brought up the rear.
There was a sad assemblage at Fallen Pine. One by one they had dropped in, tanned with the sun, torn by briers, weakened by the poisonous miasma of the marshlands, all with the same tale of privation and failure. Summerville and the inspector had fallen in with blacks above the upper ford, and had barely escaped with their lives. Troopers Foley and Anson were well, though somewhat gaunt from privation. Hartley had lost his horse from the bite of a bushmaster. Murdoch and Murphy had scoured the bush as far as Rathurst, but without success. All were dejected and weary. They only waited the arrival of two of their number to set out on their return to Trafalgar.
It was mid-day, and the sun was beating down with a pitiless glare on the little clearing. The men were lying about on the shady side of the trunks, some smoking, some with their hats over their faces and half asleep. The horses were tethered here and there, looking as listless as their masters. Only the inspector’s old charger seemed superior to the weather—a shrewd, blasé old horse, that had seen the world, and was nearly as deeply versed in woodcraft as his master. As Chicago said, “Short of climbin’ a tree, there weren’t nothin’ that horse couldn’t do; an’ it would make a darned good try at that if it was pushed.” Old “Sawback” seemed ill at ease this afternoon. Twice he had pricked up his ears, and once he had raised his head as if to neigh, but paused before committing himself. The inspector looked at him curiously and put his meerschaum back into its case. Meerschaums were always a weakness of poor Jim Burton’s. “Demme it, sir!” I have heard him say, “a gentleman is known by his pipe. When he comes down in the world his pipe has most vitality.” He put the case inside his uniform and went over to the horse. The ears were still twitching.
“He hears something,” said the inspector. “By Jove, so do I! Here, boys, jump up; there’s a body of men coming!” Every man sprang to his horse’s head. “I hear hoofs, and I hear the tramp of men on foot. They must be a large party. They’re heading straight for us. Get under cover, boys, and have your guns loose.” The men wheeled right and left, and in a very few moments the glade was deserted. Only the brown barrel of a gun here and there among the long grass and the ferns showed where they were crouching. “Steady, boys!” said Burton; “if they are enemies, don’t fire till I give the word. Then one by one aim low, and let the smoke clear. Rangers, by Jove!” he added, as a horseman broke into the clearing some way down, with his head hanging down over his horse’s neck. “More,” he growled, as several men emerged from the bush at the same point. “By the living powers, they are taken! I see the ropes. Hurrah!” And next moment Braxton and Chicago were mobbed by nine shouting, dancing men, who pulled them and tugged at them and slapped them on the back and dragged them about in such a way that Maloney whispered, with a scowl:
“If we’d had the grit to do as much, we’d have been free men this day!”
And now our story is nearly done. We have chronicled a fact which, we think, is worthy of a wider circulation than the colonial drinking-bar and the sheep-farmer’s fireside; for Trooper Braxton and his capture of the Bluemansdyke murderers have long been household words among our brothers in the England of the Southern seas.
We need not detail that joyful ride to Trafalgar, nor the welcome, nor the attempt at lynching; nor how Maloney, the arch-criminal, turned Queen’s evidence, and so writhed away from the gallows. All that may be read in the colonial press more graphically than I can tell it. My friend Jack Braxton is an officer now, as his father was before him, and still in the Trafalgar force. Bill I saw last in ’61, when he came over to London in charge of the bark of the Wellingtonia for the International Exhibition. He is laying on flesh, I fear, since he took to sheep-farming, for he was barely brought up by seventeen stone, and his fighting weight used to be fourteen; but he looks well and hearty. Maloney was lynched in Placerville—at least, so I heard. I had a letter last mail from the old inspector; he has left the police, and has a farm at Rathurst. I think, stout-hearted as he is, he must give a little bit of a shudder when he rides down to Trafalgar for the Thursday market, and comes round that sharp turn of the road where the bowlders lie, and the furze looks so yellow against the red clay.