I had forgotten it all again by the time we were ready for our journey to Bathurst. Mr. Deane was to drive with Mary in a light trap and I was to ride, for I had a good steady horse at stable in Sydney growing fat and restive for want of exercise. So we set out and went as far as the inn at Gum Ferry on the Nepean before we made any change in our arrangements. On the second day's journey we were likely to have a long ride, and Mary was anxious for a canter over Gum Plain, and beyond the first span of the mountain, where the way is over sand, shaded on both sides by the dark thicket of the gum tree and the forest scrub. She had brought her habit with her, and as she had been taught to be a first-rate horsewoman up at her father's cattle station, I resigned the saddle, and the horse, feeling such a light weight and such a dainty hand, was off like a bird. It was good to watch her as we drove far behind; good to note her pretty figure as she came cantering back and then shot forward for a long stretch across the plain. We were approaching the sandy course—where few passengers were seen except wagoners—and all was still and silent till we reached the fringe of forest and heard the chattering scream of a flight of green parrots. But above the chatter of the birds came another cry, and there, straight ahead of us, but beyond our power to overtake, were two riders. Mary was one; the other, a big rough-looking fellow, on a powerful horse, had dashed out from the thicket, caught her horse by the rein, and was now taking it at a furious gallop. The thought flashed through my brain in a moment. It was Buffalo Jim, and this was the scoundrel's revenge. The thought was horrible. Mary was completely in the scoundrel's power, unless she could throw herself out of the saddle and defy him until we came up. At the pace they were going, to overtake them was impossible, though we urged our nag to its utmost speed, and the wheels ploughed swiftly through the dry sand. What was to be done? There straight ahead, and getting further and further,—but plainly seen in that clear sunny air,—the two horses kept up the furious pace. We could even see the brave girl lean aside, and strike with all her might at the ruffian with the light whip she carried. We could fancy his hoarse laugh of defiance as he checked speed for a moment, and sought to wrest the whip from her hand. My head was on fire, but neither Mr. Deane nor I spoke a word; our eyes were simply fixed on the two figures before us, when suddenly there seemed to be a third—right out there in the very middle of the sunlit course. A figure like a bronze statue, which suddenly appeared as it were from the ground,—and now stood in midway, and with uplifted hand as though in warning. Would the horses ride him down? No; there was a sudden check, a scurry, a wild yell, and Buffalo Jim threw up his arms and went backward, rolling over in the sand, while Mary's horse, released, darted forward for fifty yards or so, and was then brought round. She met us half-way toward the place where the riderless horse had dashed into the forest. There in the sand lay the ruffian transfixed by a slender native spear, which had gone with unerring aim through his neck; we had to break off the point and draw the shank through. Lucky for Buffalo Jim if the wound were not poisoned. All we could do was to place him in the chaise, and for Mary to remount and keep near us. The bronze figure had vanished, as a snake might glide into the brushwood. Indeed, for a moment, when we reached the spot, I fancied I saw the glint of a fierce emu eye away in the dark leaves that hung by the bark of a mighty Eucalyptus, and I gave the cooee of the native, but no response came.
Well, to make an end of this unconscionable letter, I need not tell what trouble we had when we took the wounded man to the next station, nor how we were detained to be examined and questioned. Buffalo Jim died in the prison infirmary a good while after, and though we had not forgotten the adventure, we had about ceased to think of it by the time I had settled here in Hobart Land, for the fact is there was a magnet here that I could not but follow, and another Christmas picnic on the Derwent, amidst the lovely woods and gardens that fringe a part of its banks completely settled me. The end of all which is Mary Deane became Mary Grantley, and here we are on our own lot, with very pretty farming and a capital dairy, and a good heart's welcome for you if you will only come out to us. Oh, I ought to say as a sequel that about a month after we settled down here one of the men came in and said there was a black fellow at the fence gate asking to speak to me. Out I went, and there, looking at me with a smile or rather a grin, was Jacky Fishook. "How do, sar?" said he. "Just come from Sydney, sar, to look for job. Massa take me for man, sar? yes? Jacky, sar, good black fellow, no stink-water, sar, ride sar, fish, shoot, fetch bullocks, sar? yes."
"And then the spear, eh?" said I, frowning, "Who was it killed Buffalo Jim, you villain?"
"Buff'lo Jim, sar, bad white fellow, sar—he try kill Maori, but Maori too much not kill, sar. Jacky Fishook stupid fellow, sar—not know Maori—but Maori throw spear—yes." And there and then the muscular lithe figure was drawn up like a statue; the beady eye glaring straight forward, the arm poised as though to hurl a javelin. It was quite enough—I knew who had appeared suddenly in the sandy road that day. Buffalo Jim had come out to hunt, and had himself been tracked down and hunted.
But Jacky Fishook stayed with us. He is at this moment cleaning up my gun; and when I go shooting to-morrow he will carry home the game—parrots if we can get nothing better.
Your affectionate brother,
Tom Grantley.
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Even though it is now a year or two ago that we parted with Miss Grantley, and Mrs. Parmigan took over the school at the request of the parents of the junior pupils, and was joined by a lady from London with famed certificates, none of us can speak without emotion of the happy time when we sat at work in the pretty old parlour or sat under the trees in the pleasant orchard. We are not all at Barton now, for Annie Bowers is studying art abroad, and Sarah Jorring, who is "engaged," is living with her friends at Barton; but those of us who are still in the Vale go and drink tea with Mrs. Parmigan sometimes, and none of us are likely to forget our governess and the stories that she used to tell.