“Then take that!” replied the man, with an oath, and without another word drew a pistol and shot poor Tim through the chest.
This terrible incident happened only a few hours after Rayon had quitted Bulinda.
To the north of Bulinda, but several miles from that station, lay a deep creek with a broad sandy bottom.
In the rainy season this ravine was a roaring torrent; now, not a drop of water was to be seen, with the exception of one or two tiny pools far down in the rocks, where the sun could not pierce.
Three men were seated one day round a tiny fire in this creek. All three bore the same stamp of low brutality on their clean-shaven faces; and as all possessed the same scrubby heads of hair, they might at first sight have been taken for brothers.
A couple of horses, which, to judge by their appearance, had just come off a hard journey, were tethered close by, and the men were preparing camp for the night, though retaining their clothes and boots.
One of the party, who exhibited a huge scar on his face, was evidently looked upon as the leader, and treated with a certain amount of respect by his companions.
This leader, who was addressed as “Jack,” was saying with many oaths,—
“I tell you it’s all right. You may say he rode off, but I know he was on foot when I met him, and I shot him as dead as a door-nail, I’ll swear it, as sure as I was ‘lagged’ for sheep-lifting.”
“Ay, but I’ve got eyes in my head, too,” returned the tallest of his companions. “You must have had too much grog, and shot the wrong man—some chap looking for work, I expect. Why, I’ll swear they had got all their horses saddled and were riding off to the out-station when I left.”