'It comes back to him now that three travellers left the Baranco men's hut the same morning as the Colemans—one a tall, dark, grey-haired old hand, with a scar across his face. He gets his horse with a long sort of half-whistle and half-groan and rides slow, in a study like, toward the township. The next day the magistrate, Mr. Waterton (he's a squatter, but sits most times when the Police Magistrate isn't on hand), goes out with the Sergeant of Police and the best part of the townspeople of Waranah. He holds an Inquiry. The doctor attended and gave evidence that he had no doubt whatever that the bones formed part of human skeletons. The surface of the fire was raked over, and a lot of metal buttons and buckles—as many as would be used for two pairs of trousers—with other remains of clothing, were found. A verdict of "wilful murder against some person or persons unknown" was returned.
'On the second day after the murder three men crossed the Murray River pretty high up, near a public-house. Their ways were suspicious. One of them fired off a revolver. They had on new suits of clothes, new boots with elastic sides, and no end of tobacco of a queer brand—not known in those parts. Large swags too! The boss of the crowd was a tall, dark man, with a scar and grey hair. He was the man who fired the revolver and used wild language. The police from Crowlands picked up the trail so far. If they had followed hard on, like the Avenger of Blood (as the feller says in the play), they might have run down the murderin' dogs. But the publican had a bad memory. He couldn't remember seeing any out-of-the-way travellers cross the river that week. So the police turned back, and lost the scent for good and all.
'A queer enough thing about the matter was, that directly after the Inquiry was published, a telegram was sent from the poor fellows' friends to the sergeant at Waranah. He was to look under the lid of the big slop-chest and he'd find a false top that slid back—very neat made, so that people mostly wouldn't notice it. Behind this was a drawer, and in it notes and cheques. They never kept more than a fiver or so in the cash-box, and told the secret to their relatives before leaving town. Sure enough the sergeant finds the secret-drawer, and in it, after being in the open bush nearly a fortnight, £90 odd in notes and good cheques, which of course he sent to their friends. The villains only got £4 and a fit-out of clothes and tobacco. The police never could get wind of these wretches for years after. However, they dropped on the man with the scar, whose name was Campbell. He was sworn to as the man who left Baranco with the other two on the day of the murder, as the man as had new clothes and tobacco (such as nobody but the Colemans sold in the district) two days after. It was proved that they were all hard up and ragged when they left Baranco. The evidence was in dribs and drabs. But they pieced it together, bit by bit. It was good enough to hang him, and hang him they did. I swore to him as the man I saw at the fire that terrible night. And now, mates, I'll turn in. There's no fear of being burned to bits here, is there? Good-night all!'
DEAR DERMOT
Somehow the days of my youth seem to have been inextricably mixed up with horses. How I loved them, to be sure!—thought of them by day, dreamed of them by night. Books and girls might temporarily enter into competition as objects of engrossing interest; but the noble animal must have had possession of my thoughts for a large proportion of the waking hours.
From boyhood the proprietor of studs more or less extensive, I was quick to discern excellence in other people's favourites. My mind was stored, my imagination fired, besides, with tales of equestrian feats, performed chiefly by Arab chiefs and other heroes of old-world romance. In a chronic state of expectancy, I was always ready to do honour to the legendary steed, so rarely encountered, alas! save in the bounteous realm of fiction.
When, therefore, I did fall across 'the courser of the poets,' or his simulacrum, I was prepared to secure him at a fancy price; holding that if I could recoup the outlay by selling a pair of average horses of my own breeding, the luxury of possessing a paragon would be cheaply purchased.
And would it not be? Albeit there are multitudes of people to whom one horse, save the mark, is much like another. For them, the highest joy, the transcendent sensation of being carried by 'the sweetest hack in the world,' exists not. But to him who recognises and appreciates the speed, the spirit, the smoothness, and the safety of the 'wonderful' hackney, there are few outdoor pleasures possessing similar flavour.
It is more than half a century, sad to relate, since I first took bridle in hand. During that time I have ridden races on 'the flat,' over 'the sticks,' and have backed for the first time a score or more of wholly-untried colts. I have tested hundreds of saddle-horses, over every variety of road, at all sorts of distances, in all ranges of climate, and after this extended experience I unhesitatingly pronounce Dermot, son of Cornborough, to be in nearly all respects the finest example of the blood hackney which I ever mounted. The 'sweetest,' etc., he certainly was. Almost too good for this wicked world.
The birth of this unrivalled steed was mainly due to one of the magnates of the earlier Victorian era, himself an example of the strangeness of that destiny which shapes our ends in life. A member of a family of financial aristocrats, domiciled in London and Paris, with which capitals our friend was equally familiar, Mr. Adolphus Goldsmith scarcely dreamed in youth of 'colonial experience.'