Several of the men dash after the desperate horse and his acrobatic rider. Simultaneously, a small group of men—among the foremost is Mr. Gill—rush to the fallen men and beasts.
Dick Gill, his son, who lies across his horse, was known as a fearless and somewhat reckless rider. At the critical moment, with the lust of the chase upon him, the lad made a mad dash for the racing steed. To swerve him he instinctively felt would be a vain attempt. "I'll ride the beggar down!" With naught of tremor, but with a disdainful scorn of consequence, hawk-like he swooped upon his quarry.
But, as we have seen, the outlaw had his own resolves. These, alas! more than defeat the object of the horseman. The warrigal's last hope trembled in the balance. A narrow gap of open space, and—liberty! This way then, with slap-dash speed!
We have already related the countervailing efforts to stay that rush: how that hidden horsemen flash from their ambush; how that one, a little in advance, moved to the strike with tornado-like velocity. Then Greek met Greek. Comes the inevitable, the sickening thud; and then—oblivion! Come running men who lift young Dick with all the gentleness of women, and bear him to the shade trees.
Yellow Billy's horse lies stone dead with broken neck. Dick's, with broken back, vainly strives to rise. Its great brown eyes look round with painful entreaty that sends Harry silently to the camp for a rifle, and then the handsome filly joins her companion in the happy hunting grounds.
Meanwhile, under the shade trees, Dick Gill lies, the image of death. An examination reveals a fractured forearm; while a blue-black bruise on the right temple, as big as a crown-piece, attests the violence of the blow. The general verdict is that Dick, the life and soul of his company, will never more crack joke, sing song, or join in the merry chase; and so the conclusion is, dead, or as good as dead—a distinction with a slight difference.
There were two, however, who clung to some shreds of hope; the father of the boy and the Colonel: the latter with obstinacy and emphasis.
"I've seen 'em on the frontier far worse than your boy, Gill, and get better. The lad's stunned with that dickens of a blow; but he'll rally directly and be as spry as ever."
"Poor Dick is alive yet; of that I feel sure, even though I cannot detect any pulsation. What the issue may be, Dumaresque, neither you nor——"
"Tut, tut, man! he's young, and as tough as leather. Neck's all right. Keep up heart, old man. I'll trot down to the yards and see what they're doing to the brumbies."