HELD UP BY A BUSHRANGER
(_Told by the Old Identity_)
It took place in the early seventies. I was in Australia, and was
temporarily in command of a body of Mounted Police, doing duty as gold
escort--a very necessary precaution in those days. On one occasion I
was travelling up-country, accompanied by four troopers, when a big
squatter, a friend of mine, asked leave to ride with my small party,
as he was carrying a quantity of gold up-country with him to his
station. Of course I was delighted to have his company, and we set
out.
All along the road there were plenty of shaves (rumours) of
bushrangers, but for three days we never saw one. At noon on the
fourth day we halted at a bush shanty to feed, water and rest our
horses.
The bush shanties, in those days, were as a rule vile poison shops,
the owners and their employees being usually hand in glove with every
scoundrel, cattle thief and bushranger in the country, giving them
information as to the movements of the police, and in many cases
sharing with them their plunder.
However, with a party like ours there was nothing to fear, at least so
I thought; so when we dismounted and handed over our horses to the
troopers to lead to the stockyards, some little distance from the
house, myself and my friend entered. It was a long, one-roomed
building, with a bar running the whole length of it, and the only door
at one end.
There was no one inside but the bar-tender, as hang-dog-looking a
ruffian as I have ever set eyes on. Foolishly, as it proved, as I
entered I unbuckled my belt with sword and revolver attached and threw
them on a bench by the door. Then we strolled together to the far end
of the bar and, hot and thirsty with our long ride in the burning sun,
called for drinks.
Glasses in hand, we stood with our backs to the door, and were just
about to sample our poison when we heard the ominous words: "Bail up!"
Turning round, I saw a wicked-looking devil standing in the doorway.
He had me covered with the heavy revolver he carried in his right
hand, while its mate, ready for action, was gripped in his left by his
side.
He was a well-made, tough-looking chap, very muscular and strong,
without carrying an ounce of superfluous flesh, and dressed in the
ordinary up-country dress. His face, clean-shaven, was covered by a
black mask, but I noticed a well-cut mouth, a determined chin, and his
eyes gleamed through the holes of his visor with a glint there was no
mistaking, while the hand that held the gun was as steady as a rock.
Then I realised that he was between me and my weapons, which lay on
the bench by the door.
A man who has passed years in bush-fighting, scouting and
despatch-riding thinks quickly and acts decisively. Had there been the
slightest tremor in wrist or lips I should have slung my glass at
him, and risked a rush; but there was not a sign of a tremble, and I
knew that the slightest hostile movement on my part would not only
lead to my certain death, but would be quite useless.
My friend and the villainous bar-tender, the latter with a broad grin
on his ugly mug, had at once bailed up, and as there was no chance of
help from my troopers, who by that time must have off-saddled and be
attending to the horses at the stock-yard, some way off, I knew we
were cornered and beaten.
"Captain," said the bounder, "I guess I've got you. Bail up."
"I'll see you d----d first," I replied.
"I've got you," he retorted, "and I'm on the shoot. Sling your money
on the counter, and"--this to my friend--"sling that bag down too."
The squatter was standing with his hands above his head, so evidently
could not do so, and the bushranger said to me: "Captain, sling that
bag over here."
"Rot!" was my discourteous reply; so he turned to the blackguard
behind the bar, who was probably in league with him, and said, "Joe,
you do it." And the bag was promptly thrown to him.
Then he said to me, and I noticed he changed his voice, dropping the
Yankee slang and idiom he had previously used, and speaking with a
well-modulated and refined accent: "Captain, I don't want anything
from you." (This was just as well, as I had nothing.) "But," he
continued, "how long start will you give me?"
I said: "Five minutes."
"Word of honour?"
"Yes."
"So long." And with that he backed out, and in a moment I heard the
beat of a horse's hoofs starting at a gallop. My friend was raving
mad, and wanted me at once to alarm my troopers, but I said: "No;
you'd got your gun with you just now, why did you not use it?" When
five minutes had passed I gave the order to saddle up; but of course
the man had got clear away. I never knew who he was, but a man shot
shortly afterwards by one of my troopers was believed to be he, and
most probably was.