In another instant the hairy ruffian had ridden his horse close up to Edmonstone, whipped his foot from the stirrup, and kicked the youngster playfully in the chest — on that very spot which his thoughtless gesture had betrayed.
At this the other bushrangers set up a laugh — a short one.
With a spring like a young leopard, Dick Edmonstone had the big horseman by the beard, and down they came to the ground together. There, in the sand, they rolled over each other, locked in mortal combat — writhing, leaping, twisting, shifting — so that the leader of the band, though he pointed his rifle at the struggling men, dared not fire, for fear of hitting the wrong one. But there came a moment when the struggling ceased, when Flint sprang forward with a hoarse cry on his lips and Sundown took careless aim with the Winchester.
Dick Edmonstone was lying on his back with white, upturned face. Two crushing weights pinned down each arm below the shoulder; his adversary was kneeling on him with grinding teeth and a frightful face, and one hand busy at his belt. His hand flew up with a gleam. It was at that moment that the man with the rifle raised it and fired.
The bearded ruffian shook his hand as though hit, and the haft of a knife slipped from it; the bullet had carried away the blade. With a curse he felt for his revolver.
“Don’t be a fool, Jem Pound,” said the marksman quietly, lowering his smoking piece. “Before you bring the lot of us to the gallows, I’ll put a bullet through your own fat head. Get up, you big fool! Cut the mokes adrift, and turn everything out of the wagon.”
The man Pound rose sulkily, with a curious last look at the young Englishman’s throat, and hell-fire in his little eyes.
“Ben, watch this cove,” the chief went on, pointing to Flint, “and watch him with the shooter. I’ll see to the youngster myself. Come here, my friend.”
The speaker was plainly no other than the rascal who called himself Sundown; the hawkers heard the sobriquet on the lips of the other masked man, and their glances met. He was wrapped in a cloak that hid him from head to heels, stooped as he walked, and was amply masked. What struck Flint — who was sufficiently cool to remain an attentive observer — was the absence of vulgar bluster about this fellow; he addressed confederates and captives alike in the same quiet, decisive tones, without either raising his voice to a shout or filling the air with oaths. It appeared that Ned Kelly had not been the last of the real bushrangers, after all.
“You come along with me,” said he, quietly; and drew Dick aside, pointing at him the rifle, which he grasped across the breech, with a finger still upon the trigger.
“Now,” continued Sundown, when they had withdrawn a few yards into the scrub, “turn out that pocket.” He tapped Edmonstone on the chest with the muzzle of the rifle.
Dick folded his arms and took a short step backward.
“Shoot me!” he exclaimed, looking the robber full in the face. “Why did you save me a minute ago? I prefer to die. Shoot me, and have done with it.”
“Open your coat,” said the bushranger.
Edmonstone tore open not only his coat, but his shirt as well, thus baring his chest.
“There. Shoot!” he repeated hoarsely.
Sundown stared at the boy with a moment’s curiosity, but paid no heed to his words.
“Empty that pocket.”
Dick took out the pocket-book that contained all the funds of the firm.
“Open it.”
Dick obeyed.
“How much is in it?”
“A hundred and thirty pounds.”
“Good! Cheques!”
“More notes.”
The robber laughed consumedly.
“Take them, if you are going to,” said Dick, drawing a deep breath.
Sundown did take them — pocket-book and all — still covering his man with the rifle. The moon was rising. In the pale light the young fellow’s face was ghastly to look upon; it had the damp pallor of death itself. The bushranger eyed it closely, and half-dropped the bushranger’s manner.
“New chum, I take it!”
“What of that?” returned Dick bitterly.
“And not long set up shop?”
Dick made no answer. Sundown stepped forward and gripped his shoulder.
“Say, mate, is this hundred and odd quid so very much to you?”
Still no answer.
“On oath, now: is it so very much?”
Dick looked up wildly.
“Much? It is everything. You have robbed me of all I have! You have saved my life when I’d as soon lose it with my money. Yes, it’s all I have in the world, since you want to know! Do you want to madden me, you cur? Shoot me — shoot, I tell you. If you don’t I’ll make you!” And the young madman clenched his fist as he spoke.
That instant he felt himself seized by the neck and pushed forward, with a ring of cold steel pressing below his ear.
“Here you — Jem Pound — have your revenge and bind this cub. Bind tight, but fair, for I’m watching you.”
In five minutes the blood would scarcely circulate in a dozen different parts of Edmonstone’s body; he was bound as tightly as vindictive villain could bind him, to the off hind-wheel of his own wagon. Sundown stood by with the rifle, and saw it done.
Flint had already been bound to the near hind-wheel, so that the partners were lashed back to back — both able to watch their property looted at the rear of the wagon, but unable to exchange glances.
Sundown strolled about during the operation, which his subordinates conducted with deepening disgust, till he returned and asked what they had got.
“Precious little,” was the answer. “Stock sold out — boxes mostly empty.”
Nevertheless some few varieties of bush merchandise strewed the ground, and hats, boots, and pipes were quickly selected by Jem Pound and the man addressed as Ben; though as for Sundown, he seemed content with a supply of smoking materials, and, indeed, to be more or less preoccupied while the plunder went forward. At length, at a word from him, the other men mounted their horses, while their leader walked round to where Flint was spread-eagled against the wheel.
“Is there anything you want before we go?” the bushranger inquired, as civilly as you please.
“Yes,” said Flint; “I want you to fill my pipe, stick it in my mouth, and put a match to it, if you will be so good.”
The other laughed, but complied with the full request before turning his attention to young Edmonstone.
“As for you,” he said, “here’s your pocket-book. I couldn’t take such a treasure from you. Better keep it in memory of the fortune (the immense fortune of a hundred and thirty pounds) it once contained. Not that I have quite emptied it, though; I may be a devil, but I never clean a man out quite; so you’ll find enough left to get you a night’s lodging and some tucker. And — and don’t forget old Sundown altogether; you may be able to put in a good word for him some day!”
These last words, though spoken after a pause, were thrown off lightly enough; yet somehow they were unlike the rest that had gone before. Before their sound had died away Sundown was in his saddle, and the sound of horses galloping through the scrub was growing faint and far away.
Flint was the first to free himself. It took him hours. His teeth ached, his fingers bled, before the last knot that bound his hands was undone. His knife quickly did the rest.
He went straight to Edmonstone, who had not spoken since the gang decamped. Flint found him pale and cold, with a very hard expression upon his face. Dick allowed himself to be set free without a word — without so much as an intelligent glance.
The horses could be heard munching bits of bushes close at hand. They were easily caught. Nor was it a difficult task to a ready-handed fellow like Flint to splice the traces, which the bushrangers had cut.
The crestfallen partners were on the point of reentering the wagon, when Flint saw the pocket-book lying where it had been dropped.
“Better take it,” said Flint sorrowfully.
In utt
er apathy Dick picked it up.
“Wouldn’t you see if they’ve cleaned it entirely?” suggested Flint.
With listless fingers Edmonstone withdrew the elastic and opened the pocket-book.
By this time the moon had mounted high in the clear southern sky; by her pure white rays they might have read small print. Flint’s heart smote him; it was by his doing they had carried so many notes, through a fad of his about opening their banking account with hard cash; at cheques the bushrangers might easily have turned up their noses, as bushrangers had done before. But now, as it was — poor, poor young devil!
A cry broke the silence, and rang out loud and wild upon the still night air. It came from Flint’s side. He turned to find his companion tottering and trembling.
Dick Edmonstone had dropped the pocket-book, and was nervously counting a roll of crisp, crackling papers.
“They are all here! — all! all!” he whispered in a strange, broken voice.
“Never!”
“Yes, all — all! Only think of it; our fortune is not lost, after all — it’s made — the key to it is in my hand again! Jack, the fellow had pity on me. No, I mean on us. I don’t mean to be selfish, Jack; it’s share and share alike, between you and me, and always will be. But if you knew — if you knew! Jack, I’ll put in that good word for him — I’ll make it more than words, if ever I get the chance! For I do owe him something,” said the poor fellow, carried away by reaction and excitement, so that his breaking voice trembled between sobs and laughter. “I do owe that Sundown something. God bless him — that’s all I say.”
But Flint said nothing at all; he was much too amazed for words.
III
AFTER FOUR YEARS
One chilly night in June, 1886, the ship Hesper, bound from Melbourne to London, sailed into the Channel. She carried the usual wool cargo and twenty saloon passengers besides. When the Lizard light was sighted, the excitement — which had increased hourly since the Western Islands were left astern — knew no reasonable bounds. For the Hesper was a hundred and eight days out; and among her passengers were grizzled Colonists, to whom this light was the first glimmer of England for thirty years; men who had found in the Colonial Exhibition at South Kensington an excuse to intrust vast flocks and herds to the hands of overseers, and to consummate that darling scheme of every prosperous Colonial, which they render by their phrase “a trip home.” Sweepstakes on the date of sighting England, got up in the tropics, were now promptly settled; quarrels begun in the Southern Ocean were made up in the magic element of British waters; discontent was in irons, and joy held the ship. Far into the middle-watch festive souls perambulated the quarter-deck with noisy expressions of mirth, though with the conviction that the vessel was behaving badly; whereas the vessel was a good deal more innocent of that charge than the gentlemen who preferred it. But even when the last of these roysterers retired there was still one passenger left on the poop.
A young man leaned with folded arms upon the port rail, staring out into the night. It seemed as though his eye penetrated the darkness, and found something bright beyond, so wistful was its gaze. One bell rang out from the forecastle, two bells followed half an hour later at one o’clock, but the figure of this dreamer remained motionless. For an hour he did not stir; but, as his imagination became more vivid, the expression of his eyes grew softer, until their yearning melted into a thin, thin film, and the firm lines of the mouth relaxed, and facial creases carved by a few hard years were smoothed away. He was only a few hours ahead of the Hesper after all: she was off the Cornish coast, and he (in fancy) far up the Thames.
Three-bells aroused the dreamer. He stood upright with a start. He passed his hand quickly across his forehead, as if to rid his brain of weak thoughts. He began tramping the deck rapidly. Now the whole man was changed: his step was brisk, his frame instinct with nervous animation, his chest swelled proudly, his eyes sparkled with triumph. He had hung over the rail like any sentimental home-comer; he marched the deck like a conquering hero.
Yet this was one of the youngest men on board, and his years of absence from England were but a tithe of some of his fellow-passengers. During a long voyage the best and the worst of a man’s character come out; but this man’s display had been less complete than any one else’s, and he was probably the better liked on board in consequence. Though reserved and quiet, he had, indeed without being conscious of it, become very popular. Perhaps one factor in this was the accidental discovery, half-way through the voyage, that he could draw uncommonly well; for it opened up a source of unexpected entertainment at a time when the stock amusements of the high seas had begun to flag. But there was one thing about him which, had his fellow-passengers suspected it, in all probability would have interfered considerably with his popularity: this was the astounding fact that at the age of twenty-five he had already made his fortune.
One scene from the bush life of this exceedingly lucky young gentleman has already been set forth. It will be sufficient to briefly glance at the remainder of his Colonial career, since details of unbroken success are voted a bore by common consent.
The firm of Flint and Edmonstone did well out of licensed hawking. Perhaps their honesty — which was as transparent as it was original in that line of business — had much to do with their success; for although squatters were at first sceptical of the new firm, their eyes were at once opened to the iniquitous prices of the Jews, who had hitherto enjoyed a monopoly of their custom. The newcomers thus gained experimental patronage, which they retained on their merits. After a year they advanced a step in the mercantile scale of the Colony: they set up a general store at a rising settlement on the Darling. The store had not been opened six months when the senior partner’s chequered life in the Colonies was terminated in a manner utterly unforeseen. Word came that he had inherited, through an accommodating series of deaths, money and property in Ireland. It was no brilliant heritage, but it held out advantages greater on the whole than back-block storekeeping could be expected to afford. Withdrawing a temperate share of the profits, Mr. John Flint kicked the dust of the Riverina from his long boots, and finally disappeared from the face of the desert, and Edmonstone was left sole proprietor of a most promising “concern.”
The luck that had hitherto attended him was soon to be enhanced; for, gold being discovered close to the little township on the Darling, a “rush” from all parts of Australia followed. As in most similar cases of late years, expectations were by no means realised on the new diggings. Still, people came, and the storekeeper was a made man.
A colonist of less than three years’ standing, he joined three congenial spirits in the enterprise of stocking a station in the new Kimberley district of Western Australia. Here a huge success seemed certain in process of time; when, in the full tide of prosperity, with all he touched turning to gold beneath his fingers, with the lust of wealth upon him, there came a sudden revulsion of feeling. He realised that he had already amassed a fortune — small enough as fortunes go, but beyond his wildest hopes when quitting England. He saw that to go farther was to pursue wealth for wealth’s sake — which was a rather lofty view of it; and that luck might not last for ever — which was shrewd; and that, with the sufficiency he had won, a rather better kind of existence was within reach. In short, he sickened of money-grubbing in a single night, and turned desperately home-sick instead; and, as it was not a game of cards, he was able, without incurring anything worse than compassion, to rise a winner. He determined to go home, invest his “pile,” live on the interest, and — devote himself to art! He journeyed forthwith to Melbourne, and there succeeded in disposing of his share in the Kimberley station for a sum little short of five figures.
Dick Edmonstone was opposed to sensational methods, or he would have taken the first mail-steamer and dropped like a thunderbolt among his people in England, with his money in his pocket. Besides, an exceptional amount of experience crammed into four years had robbed him, among other things, of nearly (though not quite
) all his boyish impetuosity. So he merely wrote two letters by the first mail to his mother and to a certain Colonel Bristo. Thereafter he took his passage by the clipper Hesper, then loading at Williamstown, and prepared for a period of reflection, anticipation, and well-earned rest.
Dick Edmonstone had altered a good deal during his four years in Australia. In the first place, the big boy had become a man, and a man who held up his head among other men; a man who had made his way by his own indomitable perseverance, and who thereby commanded your respect; a man of all-round ability in the opinion of his friends (and they were right); a man of the world in his own (and he was wrong). And all at twenty-five! The old tremendous enthusiasm had given place to a thoroughly sanguine temperament of lusty, reliant manhood. He was cooler now, no doubt, but his heart was still warm and his head still hot. Strangers took him for thirty. His manner was always independent, could be authoritative, and was in danger of becoming arrogant. This much, successful money-hunting had naturally brought about. But a generous disposition had saved him from downright selfishness through it all, and the talisman of a loyal, honest, ardent love had led him blameless through a wild and worldly life. And he was still young — young in many ways. His hopes and beliefs were still boundless; they had all come true so far. He had not found the world a fraud yet. On the contrary, he liked the world, which was natural; and thought he knew it, which did not follow because he happened to know some rough corners of it.
One curious characteristic of young Edmonstone as a public schoolman and a modern young Englishman was the entire absence in him of false pride. Though transported pretty directly from Cambridge to Australia, he had taken to retail trade (of a humble kind at that) with philosophical sang-froid. On leaving England he had asked himself, What was his chief object in going out? And he had answered, To make money and return. Did it matter how he made it, once out there? No. No manual toil need degrade him, no honest business put him to shame. In England it is different; but in her democratic Colonies her younger sons — whether from Poplar or from Eton — must take the work that offers, as they covet success. Dick Edmonstone jumped at his first opening; that it chanced to be in the licensed hawking line cost him hardly a pang.
Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 212