Tim’s unpleasant reception at Bulinda—The bushranger’s camp—The
robbery—Annie kidnapped—Tim’s good Samaritans.
We will now take up the thread of Tim’s movements since he quitted the
“Keen” family. He first made his way by sea to Sydney, and, hiring a
horse, rode out to the first station on the road to Bulinda Creek,
leaving his “traps” to be sent direct to the squire’s by one of the
drays which were passing at intervals between the town and the station.
Having arrived at his destination, he found, upon making the
acquaintance of the family who owned it, that they were so glad to
welcome him, and so hospitably inclined, that he determined to stay
there a few days. At the end of that time he felt himself so much
improved in health, that he made up his mind to walk the rest of the
way to Bulinda Creek.
Having informed his newly-made friends of his intention, and bidding
them farewell, he started one bright moonlight night, having before
him, as he had been told, a well-defined track as far as the outside
fence of Bell’s property.
Tim had just reached the Bulinda home-paddock fence, when a horseman
rode out from a neighbouring scrub, and, without the slightest warning
or preface, came close up to him, and exclaimed, “Be your name
Stanley?”
Tim, rather taken off his guard at this sudden question, answered,
“Yes! Why?”
“Then take that!” replied the man, with an oath, and without another
word drew a pistol and shot poor Tim through the chest.
This terrible incident happened only a few hours after Rayon had
quitted Bulinda.
To the north of Bulinda, but several miles from that station, lay a
deep creek with a broad sandy bottom.
In the rainy season this ravine was a roaring torrent; _now_, not a
drop of water was to be seen, with the exception of one or two tiny
pools far down in the rocks, where the sun could not pierce.
Three men were seated one day round a tiny fire in this creek. All
three bore the same stamp of low brutality on their clean-shaven
faces; and as all possessed the same scrubby heads of hair, they might
at first sight have been taken for brothers.
A couple of horses, which, to judge by their appearance, had just come
off a hard journey, were tethered close by, and the men were preparing
camp for the night, though retaining their clothes and boots.
One of the party, who exhibited a huge scar on his face, was
evidently looked upon as the leader, and treated with a certain amount
of respect by his companions.
This leader, who was addressed as “Jack,” was saying with many oaths,—
“I tell you it’s all right. You may say he rode off, but I know he was
on foot when I met him, and I shot him as dead as a door-nail, I’ll
swear it, as sure as I was ‘lagged’ for sheep-lifting.”
“Ay, but I’ve got eyes in my head, too,” returned the tallest of his
companions. “You must have had too much grog, and shot the wrong
man—some chap looking for work, I expect. Why, _I’ll_ swear they had
got all their horses saddled and were riding off to the out-station
when I left.”
“Yes,” broke in the man who had not as yet spoken, whose name was
Mike, “when I was doing the cooking for young Bell, I heard him say he
expected all three that day.”
“You lie,” said Jack, turning to the first speaker. “I shot a bloke
who said his name was Stanley, and he had a black beard. It’s _you_
who were drunk; and if I find you’ve been playing me any of your old
tricks, I’ll shoot you as dead as a ‘nit.’ I knows what I knows.
There’s only that cursed nigger about now, and Mike here says as he
knows for sure that he’s always away shootin’ birds with his gun. I
’av’nt followed them nuggets down from the north to be baulked now.
I’ve ’ad one bite of ’em, and I’ll ’ave another, and the girl at the
same time. Now the gipsy’s ‘copped’ I’ll do it; I’ll collar the wench
through blacks and whites. Well, I’ve told you two what to do; but
I’ll tell you again, else you’ll make a ‘hash’ of it. You”—this to
the tallest man—“get into the house first, and lead the way, as you
know where the ‘swag’ is; and you”—to Mike—“must hold the horses ready
outside. T’other blokes I’ve told to look after the camp whilst we’re
away. Now you two get back to your ‘Humpy,’ and meet me here to-morrow
night after sundown, and mind you’re both sober.” Saying which, Jack
took a pull at a bottle he had with him, kicked out his fire, and
prepared to sleep in an old blanket which he pulled off one of the
horses.
These men consisted of a portion of the murderous gang who, under the
guise of “free selectors,” had for present purposes settled down in
the district.
These outlaws, partly from fear, more from the hope of gain, supplied
the man they called Jack with food, acted as scouts for him, and,
under the pretence of looking for country, made it their business to
find out stations and branch banks which were worth “sticking up;”
whilst Jack himself was nothing less than the famous bushranger of the
day, John Magan.
An escaped convict, he had committed more murders—many of them of the
most cold-blooded description—and robberies, single-handed, than had
any of the other gangs by which the country was infested. He had
long since been outlawed, and a price put upon his head. However, by
constantly changing his camp and assuming different disguises, but
more particularly by having so many of his “pals” in league with him,
he was still free.
More than once had the police tracked him to his lair, fired at, and
even hit him, as they believed, but hitherto he had borne a charmed
life, and seemed actually proof against powder and lead, whilst his
assailants came off second best in the fight, and Magan escaped on his
horse, which he always kept ready saddled close to him.
According to agreement the conspirators met again the next evening at
the appointed time, and arming themselves, proceeded at once by the
nearest route to Bulinda Creek.
So far everything seemed to favour their plans, for the night was
pitchy dark, and not a sound could be heard as they approached the
house.
When they arrived within a stone’s throw of the building they
dismounted, and leaving Mike to hold the horses, Jack and his
companion crawled to the steps of the verandah. The tall man ascended
first, and in his stockinged feet gained the bedside of Mrs. Bell; he
then felt for, and commenced to drag silently out the heavy box of
nuggets.
The noise caused by this act, however, woke old Jumper, whose senses
had latterly been very dull, and springing out he fastened his teeth
in the intruder’s arm. This was met by a blow from the butt end of
a pistol, which though partly stunning the dog, never caused him to
relax his hold. But the tall ruffian had a far worse assailant to deal
with, and this time from above his head.
It so happened that Mrs. Bell had been lately suffering much from
neuralgia, and lying half asleep had been awakened to her full senses
by the rush and furious growl of Jumper. At the same moment she put
out her hand to feel for the old dog, when it came into contact with a
scrubby head of human hair.
Uttering a scream, and losing her balance at the same moment, she came
right down on the top of the crouching figure, and in doing so she
dragged a voluminous mosquito-net with her, when a dim night-light
burning in the room showed her the form of a man struggling with
Jumper.
In an instant she comprehended the situation; her self-possession did
not desert her, for seizing her bottle of chloral, she dashed half the
contents into the man’s eyes and nose, and as he opened his mouth to
give vent to most fearful curses, she rammed the rest, bottle and all,
into his throat.
Whilst this scene, which barely occupied a minute, was taking place on
one side of the room, a struggle of a different character was going
on, on the other.
Annie had been reclining fully dressed on a couch, so as to be ready
to fetch some medicine for her sick mother in case of need, from a
little store-closet outside the house.
Dozing somewhat wearily, she felt herself suddenly seized in the grip
of a powerful arm, and in spite of her frantic struggles, a towel was
the next moment forced into her mouth, and she felt herself carried,
whilst struggling for breath, towards the verandah.
Magan had nearly reached his horse with his almost unconscious burden,
when a dark figure came rushing out of the surrounding gloom and
drove a heavy spear on to his back, being the only part of his body
which could safely be assaulted, by reason of Annie’s form guarding
the rest. The spear reached its mark with a heavy thud, but the only
effect of the blow was to make the bushranger redouble his efforts to
gain the horse.
Dromoora, for he it was, now hurled a heavy club at the man as he
hoisted himself into the saddle, aided by Mike. The blow told, and
knocked Magan forward in his saddle; Dromoora with a bound was on
to him with a long-bladed knife, making a blow at him between the
shoulders; the bushranger’s horse at that moment gave a bound forward,
the knife glanced off and entered the calf of Magan’s leg, causing a
wound, which, however, in no way had the effect of unseating him, and
with another bound the horse and his rider had disappeared into the
surrounding darkness, with Annie stretched across the saddle-bow.
Mike would have gone to the help of his chief, or would more likely
perhaps have attacked Dromoora, had not his time been entirely taken
up during the latter part of the fray in trying to curb the remaining
two horses which he was holding.
These animals, affrighted at the combat, plunged and reared to such an
extent that one of them broke clean away, when Mike, seeing Dromoora
rushing upon him with an open knife, flung himself on to the back of
the other, and galloped off.
Our Waigonda chief had been out hunting the whole of the previous
day, in a vain endeavour to shoot a turkey for Mrs. Bell. These
birds had been much disturbed of late, and in consequence had sought
more distant plains, too far for Dromoora to pursue them, as he had
promised Mat to sleep at the station always during his absence. So
the chief had come in late at night tired with his tramp, and from
carrying a number of ducks, which he had procured without difficulty
on the numerous lagoons near the station. He and his wife were camped
within two hundred yards of the house in their usual place, when
Terebare woke him up, saying, “Quick to the station.” She had heard
several shrieks which Mrs. Bell had given vent to after she had fallen
on the burglar. Dromoora seeing that the case was urgent, left his
gun, which he had no time to load, and with spears and a club rushed
into the darkness, and encountered Magan as we have seen.
When he saw that Mike had escaped him also, he turned to Terebare, who
had followed him out of their camp with fresh weapons, and pointing in
the direction of the out-station, said, “Quick, run all the way; there
are no white men here, bring the white chief and his friends.”
He then jumped on to the verandah, and hearing a moaning noise
proceeding from the house, struck a match, and, guided by the sound,
walked into the squire’s bedroom, when an extraordinary scene
presented itself to his gaze.
Amidst a quantity of overturned furniture and medicine-bottles, lit
up by the feeble glimmer of an expiring night-light, lay a man as
white as death, enveloped in a mosquito-net, struggling for breath,
which came in convulsive gasps from his foam-bedewed lips, whilst his
face appeared to be smeared over with a brown liquid: near him, and
supported by the legs of the bedstead, lay Mrs. Bell in a kind of
stupor. Remembering how water had brought him to in the great fight
with the Tingura, our chief, casting his eyes around, to his great joy
espied a large bath full of water; and intending to empty the whole
of the contents over Mrs. Bell, commenced the operation by pouring
a gallon or two on to her head. The effect was surprising; for his
patient immediately sprang to her feet, asking wildly where she was,
and what had happened. Paying no attention to these questions, as
he saw that she was not hurt, Dromoora next approached the partly
insensible prisoner, and whilst playfully toying with the edge of his
long knife, asked permission to cut the throat of the white man. But
Mrs. Bell, with a horrified look, cried, “Oh, _no_, _no_.”
Finding that this pleasure was denied him, the chief proceeded to
tie the legs and arms of the prisoner together with the bed-clothes,
making all fast to the leg of the bed.
Then turning again to Mrs. Bell, he said,—
“Missy gone along a ‘yarraman’ and white fellow.”
“What horse! what white fellow?” she shrieked. “What! Annie carried
off, do you mean?”
Our chief was beginning to explain matters, and to describe the late
fight with great zest, when Mrs. Bell interrupted him with,—
“Don’t ‘yabber’ any more; oh! if the others were only home.”
“Me send Terebare long ago—come by-m-by.”
“Good man,” faltered Mrs. Bell, “there’s nothing _can_ be done till
they come.”
At length, after a weary waiting of some six or seven hours,
Dromoora’s well-practised ear caught the sound of hoofs, and rushing
out, and then along the track, he encountered the horsemen before they
reached the “slip-rails” of the home-paddock.
As they galloped, so Dromoora ran alongside Mat’s horse, giving our
forester an account of the fight in a few hurried sentences, which
Mat interpreted to his companions.
Not a word spoke the squire or Mat as they flung themselves off their
horses at the steps of the verandah.
The squire and Tabor went into the house, Mat into the bachelors’
quarters to his room, and returning immediately, called out the
squire, and told him that he was off at once on the tracks of the
bushranger, and bade the old man not to fret. Bell pressed his hand,
and in a husky whisper said,—
“Find my daughter, Mat, and God prosper you; I will come after you
soon.”
Just previous to the raid of the bushrangers on Bulinda Creek, on a
clear morning, with a touch of frost in the air, two hawkers, named
Langridge, father and son, were travelling with a light cart along one
of the many tracks which led from the Blue Mountains to Sydney.
These men had been up country with fancy goods, and having disposed
of them to their satisfaction, were returning in high spirits to
their native town. The particular road which they were using was new
to them, and they had camped in one of Bell’s paddocks without being
aware that the station was close to them.
Whilst engaged discussing the various classes of goods which they
should lay in for their next trip, their little dog, which had been
frisking along in front of the horse, suddenly turned off the track
into the long grass, and commenced barking round some object lying
there.
Ever alive to the chance of killing a snake, which they were certain
it was, father and son rushed up, armed with a whip and some sticks,
but when they gained the spot they were startled and horrified to find
there the body of a man stretched out to all appearance dead.
The two men went down on their knees to examine more closely the
supposed corpse, and to their joy found that the man not only
breathed, but moved his head and opened his eyes, as though the sound
of their voices had awakened him.
Father and son then gently lifted him into a sitting position, and in
doing so remarked blood upon the grass, which had evidently escaped
from the man’s mouth, whereupon they forbore moving him again until
they could discern the nature of his wound; whilst looking for this
the wounded man whispered “water,” upon which the younger man at once
ran back to the cart, and returned with a large tin mug, which he had
filled with water, adding a few drops of rum.
The suffering man gulped this down eagerly, and seemed at once to be
considerably revived, whilst a faint colour returned to his cheeks,
which before had been deadly pale.
The hawkers, seeing that he had more appearance of life in him, whilst
still supporting him asked him his name.
“Stanley,” was the feeble answer.
It was indeed the youngest of our foresters, the unfortunate Tim.
“Don’t know that name,” remarked the elder traveller shaking his head;
“however, _that’s_ no odds. Now, Stanley,” he continued, “you shake
your head or make signs according as you want me to do this or that,
’cos I can see your lungs are wrong somehow, so don’t speak. Where are
you hurt?”
Tim pointed to his chest, which was enveloped in a thick blue jumper
or jersey; for when he had started on his moonlight walk the weather
had been very keen. On looking to where Tim pointed the hawkers could
see a little round hole in the jersey.
“I know of no doctor about here,” continued the elder man; “shall we
take you on to Sydney, we can carry you in a cart pretty easy?”
Tim made an affirmative sign, and the men left him to prepare their
cart, having first made him as comfortable as circumstances would
permit, by propping him up with some bundles of grass. They then
proceeded to make a high and springy bed in their empty cart, forming
it of alternate layers of grass and soft ti-tree bark; then bringing
the little waggon up to where Tim was lying, they lifted him carefully
and tenderly in.
Whilst one man walked by the side, and attended to any wants of the
sufferer, the other guided the horse carefully over rough places, and
in this way they reached Sydney after several hours’ travelling, and
without any conversation on the road, excepting that when they rested
once to give Tim a little relief from the jolting, they asked him who
shot him.
Tim whispered back, “Don’t know; never saw him in my life.”
The two good Samaritans deposited our forester at the hospital, and
upon inquiring of the doctor whether it was a very bad case, received
for answer, “Don’t know yet; shot through the lung, and chilled all
night in the dew.”