‘Not to-night, of all nights in the year,’ said old Dwyer; ‘although I do believe I’ll have to shift afore long. Ye’ll hardly think it—would ye?—that when I first put up the old shanty, it stood four chain, good, away from the bank; it was, though, all that; an’ many a sneaking, greasy black-fellow I’ve seen go slap into the water with a rifle bullet through his ugly carcass out of that back-winder, though it is plumb a’most with the river now.’
So, louder and louder screamed the concertinas, faster and faster whirled the panting couples, till nearly midnight, when ‘supper’ was announced by the sound of a great bullock bell, and out into the calm night-air trooped the crowd. The tables this time had been set out on the sward in front of the house, just without the long dark line of forest which bordered the river, through the tops of whose giant ‘belars’ the full moon shone down on the merry feasters with a subdued glory; whilst, in a quiet pause, you could hear the rush of the strong Barwon current, broken, every now and again, by a deep-sounding ‘plop,’ as some fragment of the ever-receding clayey bank would fall into the water. Four or five native bears, disturbed by the noise, crawled out on the limbs of a great coolabar, and with unwinking, beady-black eyes, gazed on the scene below, expressing their astonishment every now and again in hoarse mutterings, now low and almost inarticulate, then ‘thrum, thrumming’ through the bush till it rang again. From a neighbouring swamp came the shrill scream of the curlew; whilst far away in the low ranges of Cooyella, could be heard the dismal howl of a solitary dingo coo-ee-ing to his mates.
Scarcely had the guests taken their seats and commenced, amidst jokes and laughter, to attack a fresh and substantial meal, when a furious barking, from a pack of about fifty dogs, announced the advent of strangers; and in a minute more, three horsemen, in the uniform of the Queensland mounted police, rode up to the tables. One, a sergeant apparently, dismounted, and with his bridle over his arm, strode forward, commanding every one to keep their seats; for several at first sight of the ‘traps’ had risen, and apparently thought of quietly slipping away. This order, however, enforced as it was by the production of a revolver, together with an evident intention of using it on any absconder, brought them to their seats again.
‘What’s all this about?’ exclaimed old Dwyer. ‘We’re all honest people here, mister, so you can put up your pistol. Tell us civilly what it is you’re wantin’, an’ we’ll try an’ help you; but don’t come it too rough. You ought to be ’shamed o’ yourself. Don’t ye see the faymales?’
‘Can’t help the females,’ retorted the sergeant sharply. ‘I haven’t ridden four hundred miles to play polite to a lot of women. I want a man named James Dwyer; and by the description, yonder’s the man himself’—pointing at the same time across the table to where sat the newly-made husband, who had been one of the first to make a move at sight of the police.
‘What’s the charge, sargent?’ asked old Dwyer coolly.
‘Horse-stealing,’ was the reply; ‘and here’s the warrant, signed by the magistrate in Tambo, for his apprehension.’
I was sitting quite close to the object of these inquiries, and at this moment I heard young Mrs Dwyer, whilst leaning across towards her husband, whisper something about ‘the river’ and ‘New South Wales;’ and in another moment, head over heels down the steep bank rolled the recently created benedict, into the curious and cool nuptial couch of swiftly flowing, reddish water, which he breasted with ease, making nearly a straight line for the other bank, distant perhaps a couple of hundred yards.
The troopers, drawing their revolvers, dismounted, and running forward, were about to follow the example set by their superior, who was taking steady aim at the swimmer, perfectly discernible in the clear moonlight, when suddenly half-a-dozen pair of soft but muscular arms encircled the three representatives of law and order, as the women, screaming like a lot of curlews after a thunderstorm, clasped them in a tight embrace.
Young Mrs Dwyer herself tackled the sergeant, crying: ‘What! would you shoot a man just for a bit of horse-sweating! Leave him go, can’t you. He’s over the border now in New South Wales, mare and all; and you can’t touch him, even if you was there.’