So it proved. That gentleman, as unsuspicious as Jack himself, was cantering along a bush track which led into the main “frontage road” at right angles.
“Halloa, Redgrave! turned round since I left you, and our gallant police force too. What’s the row—horse-stealers?”
“Worse than that, I’m afraid, old fellow,” said Jack, going close up. “Redcap and his lot have been seen not far off.”
He stopped—for the sudden spasm of pain which contracted Stangrove’s features was bad to see.
“Good God!” he said, at length, gnawing his set lip; “my poor wife will be frightened to death, and Maud! Let us ride—pray God we are not too late.”
Little was said. The horses, all tolerably well-bred, and possessing that capacity for sustaining a high rate of speed for hours together peculiar to “dry-country horses,” held on, mile after mile, until they sighted a large reed-bed, which occupied a circular flat or bend of the river.
“By gad! here they are,” said the sergeant, “camped on the bank! I can see their saddles; the horses are feeding in the reed-bed. Now if we can get up pretty close before they see us we have them.”
“All right,” said Jack, with the cheerfulness of a man whose spirits are raised by the near approach of danger. “You and Mr. Stangrove get round that clump of gums, and take them in the rear; Kearney and I will sneak along close to the bank, till we’re near enough to charge. I’ll bet a tenner I have the saddles first. Then they are helpless.”
“I think you wouldn’t make a bad general, sir,” said the Sergeant. “Mr. Stangrove, I think we can’t do better.”
Stangrove handled his revolver impatiently, and, with something between a groan and a reply, rode silently on.