“If this is true,” he said, “nothing better could have happened for this part of Australia. This man—Stockton—is noted everywhere as the most desperate and cruel of the bushrangers. I can’t begin to tell you how many atrocious crimes he has committed. He killed my brother in cold blood three years since”—here the shepherd’s face darkened—“because he defended the property of another, and tried to save it from being stolen. If he is dead I am deeply, profoundly grateful!”
“You need have no doubt on that point, sir,” said Harry. “Jack and myself saw him shot down. There can be no doubt of his death.”
“I believe you speak the truth. You don’t look as if you were deceiving me. So you took the opportunity to give the bushrangers legbail, eh?”
“We didn’t stay to bid them good-bye,” said Harry, smiling. “We ran till we were out of breath, but saw no one on our track. Probably it was some time before we were thought of and our escape noticed. We have been walking ever since, and were ready to drop with hunger and fatigue when we espied your cottage, and ventured to ask for help.”
“You are welcome to all that we can do for you,” said the shepherd, his tone changing. “I was suspicious at first, for the bushrangers are up to all sorts of tricks, but the news you have brought insures you a welcome. At last my poor brother is avenged, and the bloodthirsty villain who killed him has gone to his account. You don’t know who is elected in his place?”
“No, sir, we came away at once.”
“Of course, of course; I should have thought of that.”
“I hope it isn’t Fletcher,” said Jack.
“Ha! what do you know of Dick Fletcher?”
“More than we want to. He it was who passed himself off on us as a returned miner, and betrayed us into the hands of his comrades.”