The day closed murkily, and with a faint pretence of storm and shower, such as, on a hundred former occasions, had resulted in the usual disappointment to the dwellers in that sun-scorched land. Wind probably, thought the Camp generally, or perhaps a ‘Darling River shower’—four drops upon five acres! Meanwhile the sky grew black, the air became heavy, the sultry heat oppressive—appearances such as in [155] ]any other land would have immediately preceded a thunderstorm, with a fall of rain: an unspoken call to the elements to clear the air and relieve the o’erburdened senses; but none answered. Gradually the clouds dispersed, the sun receded below the dim, distant horizon, and, save the occasional flicker of sheet-lightning, nothing remained as result of the portentous threatening which so lately seemed to disturb the illimitable waste, hardly less solitary, save for this ephemeral gathering, than the unbounded sea.
The evening meal had been long concluded. The different groups sat smoking, or conversing in low tones. The skies were again clear, and the heavenly host lit up the dark-blue firmament, throwing a kindly mantle over the homelier features of the desolate levels upon which the Pilot Mount looked down.
Mr. Newstead was calmly smoking, and playing with his pet fox-terrier, a well-bred animal, boasting a pedigree from distinguished English prize-winners. ‘Yes, Minniekins,’ said he, ‘I’m going home, and you’re going too, first cabin. Isn’t it a lark? don’t think I ever saw a dog of your age show so much class. You’ll scoop all the prizes in our County Show next year—if you don’t get sea-sick and ruin your constitution, as some passengers do. Won’t we have a jolly time when we see Old England, eh, Minniekins? You’ve never seen grass yet, y’know, nor rain either. That sounds droll, doesn’t it? You’re only two years old, and it rains once in five years here, don’t y’know? Droll country—no rain, no [156] ]grass, no grain; grows nothing but gold. That’s good enough, though. Won’t we talk to them when we get to the little village, eh? Now what are you thinking of, Minniekins—smelling a nigger, or a dingo? No camels in sight. What is it? I can see you’re nervous—what an excitable little woman it is! You mustn’t bite the butcher again, or we’ll be brought before the beak for keeping a ferocious dog, don’t y’know?’
The terrier raised herself quietly, and stood looking out into the starlit night. She was a remarkably intelligent animal, much attached to her master, who had given a fancy price for her, and often stated that a plainer dog in England, of her class, had cost him £50. She stretched her neck, as if looking for something, and gave vent to a low, querulous whine. Still uneasy, she continued to exhibit the same anxious air of disapproval, though, as yet, not committing herself to the arrival of an enemy, possibly only a suspicious stranger. Once before, when camped out near a lonely ‘soak’ with Denzil Southwater, he had been warned by her long before the approach of a thievish aboriginal, and had therefore time for preparation, which enabled them to rout the ‘Injun’ with loss. Since then the character of Minniekins had stood deservedly high in the camp, where she took rank as a general favourite, to be petted, and bragged about by every man on the pay-sheet of the ‘Last Chance Proprietary, Limited.’
Minniekins growled in a low, menacing manner. Then suddenly dashing forward, she [157] ]barked furiously, and rushed at a man who was advancing rapidly on the camp. A smothered oath, and a savage kick which sent the poor little thing yards away, with a broken leg, told of a frontal attack by the enemy. At the same moment, as it appeared, the man, and a dozen others, mysteriously emerging from the shadows at different points, made a rush for the room in which the gold-boxes had been stacked, firing their revolvers as they came on. The unarmed inmates of the camp—two shift bosses and Mr. Newstead, with three or four wages men—were taken completely by surprise.
Denzil Southwater was in his tent writing a home letter. For a moment it seemed, as the compact body of strangers moved up perilously near to the treasure-room, that the fort would be carried by assault.
But two of the garrison were neither unarmed nor unprepared: these were the man called ‘Dick,’ and old Jack. The latter was dressed for a walk to the township, a ceremonious visit which included a revolver in his hip-pocket loaded in every chamber. ‘Nothin’ like bein’ “heeled,” as we used ter say in the States,’ he would answer to any remark made on this as a superfluous precaution. ‘It’s come in handy mor’n once or twice either, since then; yer never know what’ll turn up on a goldfield.’ His habit was justified on this occasion. The tall robber had fired point blank at Mr. Newstead, who, struck on the point of the shoulder, fell as if badly wounded, when Dick Andrews sprang [158] ]forward, firing two shots with lightning quickness.
The tall man dropped on his face, and lay still, while a shorter ruffian, apparently bent on reaching the camp, staggered wildly, then fell backwards, discharging his revolver in the act. A younger man had been badly hit by old Jack, while another had been captured by Denzil Southwater, who, dashing at him, unarmed, knocked up his revolver, and catching him a half-arm blow on the ‘point,’ held him, dazed, with a broken jaw, till the mine hands came up, and tied his hands behind him. The other men, seeing that the game was up, took to their heels, and lost themselves in the crowd which was pouring with increasing volume up the slopes of the Pilot Mount. The tableau was imposing—Minniekins on three legs, still barking furiously; the tall man, easily identified as ‘Long Jack,’ a criminal of many aliases, lying on his face, stone dead! while Mr. Southwater’s prisoner, bound and blasphemous, stood in the centre of an excited crowd apparently anxious to lynch him then and there. However, Inspector Furnival, arriving with a strong body of police soon after, carried him off in the name of the Law, much to the disappointment of the public, who openly expressed their regret that Judge Lynch was not afforded an opportunity of proving the superiority of prompt trial and decisive action to the tardy verdict of an Assize Court. In the camp the casualties were: Arnold Banneret, bullet graze on temple; Newstead, wound in left shoulder; [159] ]Minniekins, broken fore-leg; while the man called ‘Dick,’ shot through the lungs, was in a serious, if not dangerous condition.
What a change from the gay hopes of the morning, when all had risen with the prospect of welcome travel—a respite from the monotonous toil of goldfield life; and, in the case of the escort party, returning to the luxuries of city life—to the society of friends and relatives, with the prestige of successful adventurers!
How narrowly, thought Arnold Banneret, had he himself escaped the fate of the robber, slain in his last fight against society; a shade nearer to the vital centre, and he would have lain ready for his coffin, even as the outcast criminal who, indeed, had paid the last penalty of a life of crime, in which even murder had been familiar. What a termination to the joyous imaginations with which he and his wife had regarded the speculation which promised so fairly! Fancy the headlines of the local papers:—