After escaping from his room Dick had hunted up Jacker Mack, Phil Doon, and Billy Peterson. He came upon the two former at a propitious time, when both were slowly recovering from the physical effects of an “awful doing” administered by their respective fathers at the instigation of the School Committee; when they were still filled with bitterness towards all mankind, and satisfied that life was hollow and vain, and there was no happiness or peace for a well meaning small boy on this side of the grave. Peterson had succeeded in avoiding the head of his house so far, but was filled with anxiety. Dick easily persuaded all three to accompany him to the mine, there to discuss the situation and plot a fitting revenge.
His proposal was that they should all turn bushrangers on the spot, form a band to ravage and lay waste the country, and visit upon society the just consequences of its rashness and folly in tyrannising over its boys, misunderstanding them, and misconstruing their highest and noblest intentions.
“When anyone shakes our goats, ain’t we a right to demand ’em back at the point o’ the sword?” asked Dick indignantly.
The boys were unanimous. They had such a right—nay, it was a bounden duty.
“Very well, then, what’d they wanter lick us fer?” continued Dick. “Won’t they be sorry when they hear about us turnin’ bushrangers, that’s all!
“D’ye really think they will, though?” asked Jacker McKnight dubiously. He had found his parents very unromantic people, who took a severely commonplace view of things, and retained unquestioning faith in the strap as a means of elevating the youthful idea.
“Why, o’ course!” cried Dick. “When our mothers read in the papers ’bout the lives we’re leadin’, it’ll make ’em cry all night ’cause o’ the way we’ve been treated; an’ you coves’ fathers’ll hear tell o’ yer great adventures, an’ they’ll know what sort o’ chaps they knocked about an’ abused, an’ they’ll respect you an’ wish you was back home so’s they could make up for the fatal past.”
Jacker looked doubtful still; he could not imagine his parents in that character; but Peterson was delighted with the prospect, and Phil Doon, whose mother was a large, stout woman, who spent half her day in bed reading sentimental stories, was quite impressed, and enlisted on the spot.
“You’ll be my lieutenant, you know, Jacker,” said Dick; “an’ we’ll call you Fork Lightnin’.”
“Hoo! Will you, though?” cried Jacker.
Dick nodded and made an affirmative noise between his closed lips.
“Fork Lightnin’,” said Jacker, trying the name. “Sounds well, don’t it? What sorter feller will I be? Brave, eh?”
“Frightened o’ neither man nor devil, but awful cruel, ’cause you was crossed in love.”
Jacker was delighted. He was naturally a combative youth, with a fine contempt for rules that would deny him the advantages to be derived from his ability as a swift and vigorous kicker; so a bloodthirsty and rebellious character was quite to his taste.
“Not crossed in love, though,” he complained. “That seems measley, don’t it? S’pose I shot a man once, an’ the p’lice won’t let me have no peace.”
“Good enough!” said Dick.
“Then I’m in. When do we start?”
“To-morrer night. We want one more. Twitter will come. That’ll be five. Five is a fine gang; sides, we don’t want fellers what ain’t got billies. Bushrangers ain’t no account on foot. My men must be all mounted. So I propose we meet on the toll-bar road just when it’s gettin’ dark, all riding our billy-goats an’ armed to the teeth; an’ we’ll stick up all the Cow Flat people goin’ home from Yarraman.”
“My word!” cried Phil ecstatically. “We owe it to that lot.”
“Couldn’t we start now?” said Peterson, who had been sitting with wide eyes and open mouth, and was consumed with impatience.
“Oh, no,” said Dick; “we gotter prepare our arms an’ ammunition an’ things. an’ Saturdee night’s best, ’cause the Cow Flats what have been to Yarraman buyin’ things come up to the Drovers’ Arms on the coach, an’ walk home from there.”
It was agreed that Peterson should stay with Dick in the mine that night. The boys had no longer any fear of the black hole discovered at the end of the main drive. An exploring party had made its way through the opening and into the workings beyond, and had found itself in a drive communicating with the Red Hand shaft. Dick, who once in an emergency had served as tool-boy in the Silver Stream for a fortnight, knew that at a lower level there was another and a much longer Red Hand drive by which access to the Silver Stream No. 1 workings was possible; but he kept this knowledge to himself.
Shortly after midnight Dick and Billy ventured to return to Waddy, with the idea of securing Billy’s goat, Hector, a sturdy black brute much admired as the most inveterate ‘rusher’ in the country. With the boys of Waddy a goat that butted or ‘rushed’ was highly prized as an animal of spirit. Peterson caught his goat, and then Dick, with unnecessary wariness and great waste of stratagem, ‘stuck up’ his own home, and secured a parcel of food carefully left for him on the table near the unlatched window by a thoughtful mother.
On Saturday the other boys turned up at the appointed time. There were rules commanding the utmost caution in entering the mine by daylight. Every care had to be taken to satisfy the shareholders that no stranger was in sight, and the last boy was compelled to keep a vigilant look-out while the others were descending, and then to make his way to the opening by a roundabout route, exercising a vigilance that would have puzzled an army of black-trackers.
Dick, who before leaving home had rifled his small savings bank, had provided Jacker Mack with money for supplies, and Jacker brought with him a pound of candles, some black material for masks, and half a dozen packets of Chinese crackers. The Chinese crackers represented cartridges for the pistols of Red Hand’s gang. Dick had decided to be known as Red Hand. The pistols were made by fashioning a piece of soft wood in the shape of a stock, and securing to this a scrap of hollow bone for a barrel. Into the barrel a cracker was thrust, the wick was ignited at a piece of smouldering ‘punk’—which could be carried in the pocket in a tin matchbox—and it only needed the exercise of a little imagination to satisfy oneself that the resulting explosion spread death and desolation in the ranks of the enemy.
All preliminaries were arranged during the afternoon: in the evening, just before night fell, Dick and Peterson, hidden with their trusty steeds amongst the saplings about three hundred yards beyond the toll-bar, awaited the coming of their companions in crime. They had not long to wait; in a few minutes Jacker Mack, Ted, and Phil Doon came riding up the dusty track on their brave billies. They were accompanied by a pedestrian, an interloper, who lurked behind and evidently did not anticipate a friendly reception. It was Gable.
“He saw us comin’ an’ he would foller,” explained Jacker.
“Yah!” cried Dick in disgust; “why didn’t you boot him?”
“So I did. Fat lot o’ good that done. He otl’y bellered like a bullock, an’ kep’ on follerin’. We pretended we wasn’t goin’ nowhere, but he just hung round an’ couldn’t be fooled.”
Dick approached the old man threateningly.
“Clear out!” he said.
Gable put up a defensive elbow and backed away, knuckling his eye piteously the while.
“Are you goin’?” cried Dick, and kicked Gable just as he would have kicked any inconvenient and mutinous youngster in the same case.
“You look out whatcher doin’,” muttered the old man, skipping about to avoid the second kick. “I’ll get someone what’ll show you,” he added darkly.
Dick ran at him with a big stick, but Gable only retreated a few yards. He threw stones, knocking up the dust about the old man’s feet, and Gable hopped and skipped with the agility of a kid; but after each attack he returned humbly to the heels of the party like a too faithful dog.
“Better let him come, I s’pose,” said Dick at last. “Come on, nuisance!
Gable jigged up, radiant, and grinning all over his face.
Red Hand selected a suitable clump of saplings about half a mile from the toll-bar, and the gang secreted themselves and made preparation for the first attack. They carried their “cartridges” loose in small bags hung from their belts, in which were thrust three or four of the bone-barrelled pistols. Black masks were donned, Fork Lightning was stationed on a stump near by to give warning of the approach of a victim, and the others took up suitable positions, while Dick fitted Gable with a mask so that his appearance might not discredit the gang.
“There,” said Dick. “you’re a bushranger now, remember.”
“Crickey!” cried the old man, delighted.
“An’; you’ll be hanged if you’re caught.”
“Oh, crickey!” Gable was more delighted still, and danced up and down, clapping his hands.
Suddenly there was a warning whistle from Fork Lightning, and that black scoundrel crept stealthily in amongst his mates.
“Someone’s comin’,” he said.
“To horse!” cried Red Hand. “When I give the word, gallop into the road an’ cut off their retreat. Don’t fire till I give orders, an’, mind, spare the women an’ children.”
Sounds of horses’ hoofs were heard approaching. The gang, masked, and mounted on bridled and saddled goats, anxiously awaited the word of command.
“Back, men, back for your lives!” cried Dick. “It’s the p’lice, fifteen thousan’ strong, an’ they’re hot on our track; but Red Hand’s gang will never be taken alive.”
The bushrangers cowered back into the shadow as a party of three young men riding tired horses ambled slowly by, singing dolorously and brandishing bottles. Red Hand was discreet if valiant. However, another warning came not a minute later. This time it was a solitary man in a farmer’s cart; his old horse was shuffling wearily through the dust at a jog-trot, and the boys could just discern the tall gaunt figure of the driver.
“Surround him, my lads!” yelled Red Hand. “Bail up!” he cried riding forward on Butts and presenting what passed very well for a pistol in the dusk. “Your money or your life!
The driver snatched a stick out of the cart and, uttering a great yell, began to belabour his poor horse mercilessly.
“Fire!” shrieked the implacable Red Hand; and a few seconds later six crackers exploded about the unhappy farmer, who instantly fell upon his knees and, still pounding at his horse, was whirled away amongst the trees by the startled brute. For some time the bush-rangers could hear him still hammering his old horse, and catch the sound of his voice encouraging the poor animal to more reckless speed, and the crashing of saplings as the dray pounded its way through the undergrowth. The boys were delighted; this was noble sport; the lust of victory was upon them. Gable was waving his arms and ejaculating “Oh, crickey!” and the others capered about on their goats, and felt themselves to be very large and terrible persons indeed.
“Bushrangin’s easy ez snuff,” said Peterson.
“Course it is,” said Phil. “Wisher few p’lice’d come along and let’s have a go at ’em.”
“That was splendidly done, men,” said Red Hand with superior coolness. “Back to your places. Someone’s comin’.”
The next corner was a man on a grey horse.
“Bail up!” cried Red Hand from the cover of the saplings. “Stir a foot an’ you’re a dead man.”
The rider waited for no more, but threw himself forward on his horse’s neck, dug in his spurs, and galloped furiously away in the direction of Cow Flat, hearing the reports of the boys’ crackers only when he was far out of range. The next victim was a small boy on a pony, who, as soon as he heard the terrible command, fell plump on to the road and then jumped up and fled in terror after his bolting horse. The gang had now spread consternation and dismay along quite two miles of the highway, and were jubilant in consequence and primed for any adventure however desperate.
Dick entertained his men with talk of the glory they had earned by their actions that night, and predicted a reputation for them beside which the reputation of every other gang of bushrangers Australia had known would fade into insignificance.
The boys listened soberly, very elated and perfectly happy.
“But we mustn’t let the nex’ one go so easy,” said the leader.
“Here is someone,” whispered Fork Lightning.
Sure enough, a pedestrian could be dimly discerned approaching from the direction of the toll-gate.
“To yer horses! commanded Red Hand.
“Why, it’s a woman,” said Peterson.
“Who cares?”
“Thought bushrangers never did nothin’ to the women?”
“Oh,” said Dick, “that’s on’y when they’re young an’ pretty. If this one’s young an’ pretty I’ll ’pologise, an’ it’ll be all right. There ain’t no reason not to bail ’em up when they’re big an’ strong an’ able to take care o’ themselves.”
This seemed quite reasonable to the gang, and they saw as the lady approached that her size did not give her any claim upon their gallantry. She was very tall and stout. In point of fact she was the woman who had driven through Waddy on the day after the goat raid, calling down infamy on the township.
“Bail up!” cried Red Hand.
Phil, Ted, and Peterson rode up in front, barring the way. Red Hand and Fork Lightning approached from either side, and all presented pistols. The woman backed away a few paces, staring at the goat-mounted, masked apparitions that seemed to have started out of the ground under her very nose, but the bushrangers followed her up.
“Be not afraid, madam,” said Dick in his best literary style; “I am Red Hand, an’ if you obey no injury’ll be done you.”
The woman threw up her hands in amazement.
“Well I never,” she muttered. Without the least warning she darted at Ted, seized him, pulled him from the back of his billy, and in spite of his wild struggles promptly bent him over her knee; then, with a hand like that of a navvy, backed by a great muscular arm, began to spank the terrible outlaw.
“You look out! You le’ me alone!” gasped Ted, struggling and writhing with all his power; but the flailing went on, bat—bat—bat—with blows that might have disturbed an elephant. Ted’s feelings became too strong for words; he started to howl, and the night re-echoed with the cries of the outraged bushranger. The rest of the gang stood mute, staring at this shocking scene, amazed and deeply offended. It was all so incongruous, so utterly opposed to rule and precedent; they could scarcely believe their senses. Dick was the first to recover.
“Fire!” commanded Red Hand.
Cracker-wicks were ignited and four explosions followed, but when the smoke was gone the gang still beheld the terrible woman beating away at their unhappy comrade, too absorbed in a congenial occupation to care a solitary button for the fire of the outlaws. This was too much for Jacker. The brothers were always ready to fight each other’s battles, let the odds be what they might, and the elder rushed to the rescue. The onslaught did not seem to make the least difference, however; the woman simply dropped Ted and grasped his brother. Jacker Mack was a strong boy and a fierce one, but strength and tricks availed him nothing against those powerful arms; in ten seconds he was in Ted’s place, and the massive hand was dealing with him, heavily and with startling rapidity.
“Charge!” shrieked Red Hand.
But the gang was demoralized. Peterson and Doon moved back from the danger, and only one member obeyed the order—Peterson’s formidable goat, Hector. Goodness knows what inspired the animal; possibly a grateful instinct, probably the sight of means to do an ill deed. Anyhow, he charged. He rushed the woman from a commanding position, with force and judgment, and a second later Jacker, woman, and goat were rolling and struggling in the dust. Red Hand and the faithful Ted dragged Jacker from the hands of the enemy, and the gang fled to a safe distance, and watched the shadowy form of the woman as she gathered herself up and shook the dust out of her dress. Then for two minutes she stood and addressed them through the darkness in strident tones and language that would have shocked an old drover or a railway ganger.
“Bushrangin’ ain’t up to much,” whimpered Ted, rubbing himself with both hands.
“It’s rot!” said Jacker fiercely.
Peterson and Doon muttered words of approval, and Dick felt that four pairs of reproachful eyes were turned upon him. Gable was still hopping about ecstatically murmuring “Crickey! Oh, crickey!” as he had been doing all through the encounter.
“How’d I know?” said Dick in self-defence. “You fellers oughter had better sense’n to let her get hold o’ you.”
“You started it!” groaned Ted.
“Pretty lot o’ bushrangers you are, anyway,” Dick sneered, “howlin’ “cause a woman gave you a bit of a doin’.”
“How’d you like it?” asked Jacker sullenly.
Dick disdained to reply; indeed his attention was occupied with more important things. Out of the night came the sound of galloping hoofs and calling voices. The boys listened anxiously for a minute or so, and then realised their danger.
“They’re after us!” exclaimed Dick. “Scatter an’ run for the scrub. Meet at the mine!”
The pursuers dashed up on their horses just as the boys swarmed over the fence into Wilson’s paddock. It was the party of young men who first passed the bushrangers, and the man on the grey horse. They were armed with bottles, three parts drunk, and bent on making an heroic capture. Some of them sprang from their horses and pursued the flying bushrangers through the trees.
Dick and Peterson reached the Gaol Quarry safely, and sat in doleful silence waiting for their mates, and wondering if any had been taken. Ted and Jacker joined them a few minutes later, and Phil Doon came limping up in the course of a quarter of an hour. He had bad news.
“They’ve got Gable!” he cried from a distance.
“No. Go on!”
“S’help me. I fell gettin’ over the fence an’ sneaked into a hollow tree, an’ saw ’em snavel him. ‘Here’s one of ’em’ said one, an’ they put him on a horse an’ tied his legs under its belly, an’ they’ve gone into Yarraman with him.”
“Gee-rusalem! an’ what’d he say?” gasped Dick.
“Nothin’ ’sept ‘Oh, crickey!’”
“Well, he won’t split on us. He won’t know a word about it in the mornin’. We’re all right if none of us blabs. You fellers goin’ to stay?”
“I ain’t. I’m sick o’ bein’ a bushranger,” said Jacker, with a reflective and remorseful rub at his hurt place.
“So’m I,” said Ted.
Phil Doon, it appeared, had pressing reasons for returning home, but Peterson remembered that he had still an account to settle with his father, and resolved to share Dick’s fortune.
“Right you are,” said Dick. “You fellers bring some crib to-morrer, an’ if you see Parrot Cann tell him to fetch some too—an’, mind, no blabbin’.”
Reverses of this kind did not depress him; he had experienced many failures, but the wreck of one enterprise only implied the necessity of starting another.
“Say,” he said mysteriously, “there’s a big reason why we should keep things darker’n ever. Listen. We’ve struck the reef!
The others stared incredulously.
“You’re havin’ us,” said Jacker.
“Am I? Tell ’em, Billy.”
“No, he ain’t,” said Peterson. “It’s true, strike me breath. We got a specimen this mornin’ wif three colours in it.”
“So if anyone’s told where we’re hidin’ they’ll see the stone an’ go an’ jump the mine,” said Dick artfully.