He reined up when he saw escape was impossible, and awaited their coming. Desborough's horse received a bullet in the chest, and down went horse and man together. But Charles pushed on till within ten yards of the bushranger, and levelled his pistol to fire.
For an instant father and son glared on one another as the father made his aim more deadly. The bullet sped, and the poor boy tumbled from his saddle, clutching wildly at the grass and flowers--shot through the chest. Then, ere Desborough had disentangled himself from his fallen horse, George Hawker rode off laughing--out through the upper rock walls into the presence of the broad snow-line that rolled above his head in endless lofty tiers, and made for the broader valley which stretched beyond.
There was no pursuit, he thought. How could there be? Who knew of this route but he and his mates? No creature was stirring, but he must onwards--onwards, across the snow. Twilight, and then night, and still the snow but half passed. Strange ghosts and fancies crowd in upon him thick and fast.
Morning, and the pale ghosts have departed. He reached the gully where his refuge lay, utterly dispirited, just as the sun was setting. He turned a sharp angle round an abrupt cliff. He saw a horseman within ten yards of him--Captain Desborough, holding a pistol to his head! Hungry, cold, desperate, unarmed--his pistols had gone with his horse over a precipice--he threw up his arms, and was instantly chained fast to Desborough's saddle, only to be loosed, he knew, by the gallows.
Without a word on either side they began their terrible journey. They had gone two or three miles before Hawker said: "That young fellow I shot when you were after me, is he dead?"
"By this time," said Desborough. "He was dying as I came away."
"Would you mind stopping for a moment, captain? Now tell me who was he?"
"Mr. Charles Hawker, son of Mrs. Hawker, of Toonarbin."
Desborough told me his wild, despairing cry rang in his ears for years afterwards.