“‘“I suppose that was a mistake,” said I, “you didn’t fire at the poor thing, surely?”
“‘“We didn’t,” said the soldier, “but who d’ye think did?”
“‘“You don’t say?” said I.
“‘“But I do. It was that infernal villain and coward, Brady himself, that shot her. She couldn’t keep up with him, and for fear she’d fall into our hands, and give away his ‘plants,’ he fired at her, and nearly stopped her tongue for ever. But he’s overdid it this time—she’s red hot agen ’im now, and swears she’ll go with any party to help track him up.”
“‘“Serve the brute right. Let’s have a look at the poor thing’s shoulder, I wonder if the bullet’s still in it?”
“‘We washed off the blood, and between us, managed to get it out. It was wonderful how many people in those days knew something about gunshot wounds. After we’d shown Mary the bullet, we bound it up, and the poor gin thanked us, and lay down on her furs by the fire, quite comfortable. We kept watch and watch, you may be sure, for fear Brady might come in the night, and shoot one of us, but nothing happened, and after breakfast the party went back to Hobart, taking the girl with them.
“‘I was in fear for weeks afterwards that he might come and pay me out. But he didn’t do that either. He was taken not long after, and when he was, it was through that same girl, Mary, whom he tried to shoot. He met his fate through his own base bloodthirsty act, and if any one brought it on his own head, and deserved it thoroughly, Mick Brady was that man.
“‘Now this happened a many years ago, before you were born, or thought of, as the saying is. Often and often, when I could leave the flock safe, did I try to find out the place where this stone came from, but I never could drop on it again. When I found it first and saw that there was a regular lode, and plenty more “slugs” as rich as this, which is nearly pure silver, mind you, I was in such a hurry to get back to the sheep, that I’d only time to mark two or three trees, and drive in a stake, before I started for home.
“‘I was sure I could find it again. But I never did. It was hot weather, and a bush fire started that day, and burned for weeks, sweeping all that side of the country.
“‘You’ll remember reading of Black Thursday, Master Charles? it burned all Port Phillip, Victoria as they call it now, from Melbourne town to the Ottawa range. So I expect my marks were burnt out. For I never could find the way to it again: what with the fallen timber that covered over the ground, and the ashes that was heaped up a foot deep in some places, the whole face of the country was altered past knowing. You might have heard tell that ashes fell on board some of the coasting craft miles from the shore, and a black cloud hung over the coastline, for days afterwards. But, take my word for it, Master Charles, the word of a dying man, for I’m not long for this world, that whoever finds the gully where this stone came from, and takes up a prospecting claim, will own the richest silver mine, south of the line. Your father’s always been a good master to his prisoner servants, that Mick Brady told a lie when he said he wasn’t, and there’s none of ’em that wouldn’t do him a good turn, if they could; and I have known you and loved you ever since you was the height of a walking stick. So here’s the silver “slug,” and the wash-leather bag of specimens, there’s gold and copper besides, and I hope there’ll be luck with them.’