We had gone some distance when Mudge observed to me,—“I don’t quite like the look of these fellows. I have heard that the worst class of convicts, who are worked in the road-gangs, often make their escape and live a wild life in the bush, taking by force from the settlers whatever they can get hold of. They go by the name of bushrangers; and I can’t help thinking that those fellows we have left there are of that description.”
“I’ve little doubt about that same,” observed Paddy; “and it’s a pity we gave them the powther, though I wouldn’t grudge them the mate and the ’baccy.”
“They would scarcely make use of the powder to injure us,” I observed.
“I wouldn’t trust them for that, if they are the gentry I take them for,” said Mudge. “However, we must keep a watch, and take care that they don’t surprise us.”
We were pretty well tired by the time we reached our settlement, as we called it. As may be supposed, the supply of kangaroo which we brought was very welcome, and a portion was served out to the men for supper that evening. As a fire had been seen burning at Pullingo’s camp long before our arrival, there could be little doubt that he had reached home much sooner than we did.
The next morning one of the strangers made his appearance at the settlement on foot. He said that he had left his companion on the high ground to look after the horses, and that he had come to claim the articles we had promised. My father had agreed that Mudge was correct in his opinion of the strangers, but that it would be better to supply them with what they wanted to enable them to support their miserable existence, and to try to obtain from them the information about the country so important for us to gain.
The man looked a little less starved-like than he did the previous day, but his ragged clothes and dirty appearance made us unwilling to ask him into the house. We got a table and chair out for him, however, in the shade; and gave him an ample meal and a glass of ale, which made him open his heart somewhat. He acknowledged that he and his companion were leading a terrible life in the bush, but that he saw no way out of it. He described somewhat minutely the country we should have to pass over: a large portion was open and easily traversed, but other parts were mountainous, rocky, and wild in the extreme, with no water to be found for miles. Whether or not he was giving us a true description, it was difficult to determine,—though, at all events, he must have come through the sort of country he described. Perhaps it might be avoided by keeping further into the interior or closer to the sea-coast.
The man might have been a bushranger, but he did not appear to be at all afraid of us. As soon as he had satisfied his hunger he rose, and turning to Mudge, “Now, master, I’ll thank you to fulfil your promise,” he said. “We want as much powder as you can spare, for it’s bread and meat to us; and I’ll thank you for the knives and the clothes, and some needles and thread. Here, just get a pencil and put down what we want.”
“Suppose we refuse to give it?” said my father, astounded at the man’s impudence.
The stranger’s countenance assumed a ferocious expression. “You would find you had made a bad bargain,” he answered with the greatest effrontery. “When a gentleman makes a promise to me, I expect him to fulfil it. I came here as a friend, and a friend I wish to remain. Not that I want to trouble you with my society; I prefer living by myself. But if you do me a kindness, I can return it; if you venture to treat me ill, I’ll have my revenge—you may depend on that.”