The road fixed upon was the track that led out from the township to a large sawmill, distant about six miles. It was a solitary road, passing through a scrub-belt, crossing several minor creeks, threading its way over a rocky ridge, winding through a rather wild defile, and ending at the mill; the sort of place, indeed, to present numerous opportunities for the criminal enterprise on hand. A spot where one could get "nice and creepy," as Joe said to Yellow Billy, much to that young man's disquiet.
The plan of campaign was simple enough. Joe, Tom, and Sandy were to set out as soon as possible after sundown and choose their spot for attack; while Jimmy was to drive the Royal Billy-goat Mailcart, with Trooper Yellow Billy a little in advance, as per custom.
The embryo bushrangers, unfortunately, had only one horse between them; the one Sandy rode to school. Mr. Blain's horse, on which the boys counted, was being used by the minister to take him to a moonlight service some distance out from the river. It was settled, therefore, that the three boys should bestride Sandy's stout cob, which was well able to carry these juvenile desperadoes.
"Mother!" shouted Joe, as he strode into the house in the late afternoon, from the wood-pile, where he had been chopping the next day's supply, "we're going to have grand fun to-night."
"What sort of fun, my son?"
"Bushranging along the sawmill road. Can I go mother? We've got such a grand plot."
"Well, I don't mind; but don't be out late."
"S'pose I can have the gun?"
"The g-u-n!"
"Yes, mother. No need to fear. It's all play."