By this time the police had extinguished the fire, which was burning too brightly for safety. The half-consumed logs were thrown aside to smoulder and die out, and dirt thrown upon the coals to extinguish their brightness.
"Maurice," called the lieutenant, speaking to his old orderly, "station four men at different quarters, and tell them to give an alarm if they but hear a stick move. The bushrangers have not gone far, I warrant you, and perhaps they will beat up our quarters before morning."
"Yes, sir," promptly replied the policeman.
"How many of our force are wounded?" the officer asked.
"Sam, sir, has got a shot in his thigh, and the blood flows pretty fast from the wound. I have tied it up as well as possible."
"I will go and attend on him, and see what can be done for his relief;" and the lieutenant started at a brisk pace towards where the injured man was lying.
"Well, Sam, how do you feel?" inquired Murden.
"Weak from the loss of blood, sir, but I think that I shall get over it."
"Get over it?" repeated Murden, in pretended surprise, "of course you will. I don't want to lose the best fighting man that I have got in my troop. When we get back to Melbourne you can go into hospital quarters if you wish to, but not for any length of time. I cannot spare you many weeks, Sam."
"I'm glad to hear it, sir," replied the policeman, in a tone of voice that showed how pleased he was. "Did you see how I brought the fellow down who was aiming at us?"