“To be hunted down by the dogs and blacks?” said the convict bitterly. “No, old man; I shall get Justice Day, here or—in the next world.”
“But, my lad,” pleaded the old fellow, “they’re close here.”
“I am ready,” said the convict quietly; and there was a pause.
Then he spoke again.
“Perhaps I shall be sent somewhere else, old man. I shall be marked as dangerous now, and not fit to be at a station where there are ladies. But you’ll tell young Mr Nic the whole truth?—you know what I’ve had to bear.”
“Ay, my lad, I do know.”
“Thank you, Samson. You’ve always been a good fellow to me. Good-bye.”
He passed the axe into his left hand and held out his right, but quickly placed the axe back and stood up firmly, as a heavily built, florid-looking man, mounted upon a fiery horse covered with foam, cantered up, followed by four more men, three of whom, like their leader, bore guns, while the fourth was Brookes with his head tied up, his face swollen, distorted, and still smeared with dried blood—altogether a horrible-looking object—but he sat his horse firmly enough.
As the leader rode up he lowered the gun he carried and spurred his hesitating horse close up to the convict, as if fully prepared to drive in the spurs and ride him down.
“Surrender!” he shouted. “Down with that axe, quickly, or I’ll send a charge of buckshot through you.”