Part 91 (1/2)

Desborough riding, and Hawker manacled by his right wrist to the saddle. Fully a mile was pa.s.sed before the latter asked, sullenly,--

”Where are you going to take me to-night?”

”To d.i.c.kenson's,” replied Desborough. ”You must step out you know. It will be for your own good, for I must get there to-night.”

Two or three miles further were got over, when Hawker said abruptly,--

”Look here, Captain, I want to talk to you.”

”You had better not,” said Desborough. ”I don't want to have any communication with you, and every word you say will go against you.”

”Bah!” said Hawker. ”I must swing. I know that. I shan't make any defence. Why, the devils out of h.e.l.l would come into court against me if I did. But I want to ask you a question or two. You haven't got the character of being a brutal fellow, like O----. It can't hurt you to answer me one or two things, and ease my mind a bit.”

”G.o.d help you, unhappy man;” said Desborough. ”I will answer any questions you ask.”

”Well, then, see here,” said Hawker, hesitating. ”I want to know--I want to know first, how you got round before me?”

”Is that all?” said Desborough. ”Well, I came round over Broad-saddle, and got a fresh horse at the Parson's.”

”Ah!” said Hawker. ”That young fellow I shot down when you were after me, is he dead?”

”By this time,” said Desborough. ”He was just dying when I came away.”

”Would you mind stopping for a moment, Captain? Now tell me, who was he?”

”Mr. Charles Hawker, son of Mrs. Hawker, of Toonarbin.”

He gave such a yell that Desborough shrunk from him appalled,--a cry as of a wounded tiger,--and struggled so wildly with his handcuffs that the blood poured from his wrists. Let us close this scene. Desborough told me afterwards that that wild, fierce, despairing cry, rang in his ears for many years afterwards, and would never be forgotten till those ears were closed with the dust of the grave.

Chapter XLIV

HOW MARY HAWKER HEARD THE NEWS.

Troubridge's Station, Toonarbin, lay so far back from the river, and so entirely on the road to nowhere, that Tom used to remark, that he would back it for being the worst station for news in the country. So it happened that while these terrible scenes were enacting within ten miles of them, down, in fact, to about one o'clock in the day when the bushrangers were overtaken and punished, Mary and her cousin sat totally unconscious of what was going on.

But about eleven o'clock that day, Burnside, the cattle dealer, mentioned once before in these pages, arrived at Major Buckley's, from somewhere up country, and found the house apparently deserted.

But having coee'd for some time, a door opened in one of the huts, and a sleepy groom came forth, yawning.

”Where are they all?” asked Burnside.

”Mrs. Buckley and the women were down at Mrs. Mayford's, streaking the bodies out,” he believed. ”The rest were gone away after the gang.”

This was the first that Burnside had heard about the matter. And now, bit by bit, he extracted everything from the sleepy groom.

I got him afterwards to confess to me, that when he heard of this terrible affair, his natural feeling of horror was considerably alloyed with pleasure. He saw here at one glance a fund of small talk for six months. He saw himself a welcome visitor at every station, even up to furthest lonely Condamine, retailing the news of these occurrences with all the authenticity of an eye witness, improving his narrative by each repet.i.tion. Here was the basis of a new tale, Ode, Epic, Saga, or what you may please to call it, which he Burnside, the bard, should sing at each fireside throughout the land.

”And how are Mrs. and Miss Mayford, poor souls!” he asked.