Moran took to doing business on his own hook after that, and got right away down south, below Wagga Wagga and opposite Narrandera, in the pine scrubs about there, and then he’d take a run to Albury, and cross into Victoria. I always knew he’d do that once too often. He was such a cruel devil, too, and he seemed to get worse and worse.
One day he stuck up Bateson’s woolshed at Round Hill. There was twenty or thirty shearers there; but when he marched in with his revolver pointed at the crowd, and said, “I’m Moran,” there wasn’t a man among ’em as had the pluck to rise a rush. One or two might have been hit, and nobody liked to be them. That was about the size of it. It don’t say much for the working men that one fellow with a pistol can make a couple of dozen of ’em go on their knees almost. But it isn’t want of spirit as some people might think, only they’ve got so into the way of thinking it’s the work of the police to do all that kind of thing, and that it’s none of their business. When they think it’s good enough they can fight fast enough, and stand the steel spurs, too.
However, Moran, after they’d all given in, began to bully as usual, and got out the rum and made all of them have a glass of grog or two, including Sam Battson, the manager. He was going away all right, when Sam calls out to him, “Where did you get your spurs, Moran?” or some such nonsense. The grog must have got into his head.
Moran turns round and fires point blank at him. He put up his hand, and the bullet went slap through the palm of it. Then he fires another shot at random into the crowd. It went through the ankle of a poor young colonial-experience lad, and left him groaning and moaning with the pain.
Moran seemed sorry for this like, and told another youngster he might go for the Doctor. So the young fellow gets his horse and rides away along the road towards where the Doctor lived.
Moran takes a sudden thought a few minutes after, and starts off at full gallop himself. He pulls up the young chap on the road, and pulls out his pistol. “You’re not going for the doctor, blast you,” says he; “you’re going for the police,” and before the poor young chap has time to answer he shoots him dead—dead. There was no mistake about that. Now, a man who could do that must either be mad, or one of the cruellest brutes that ever lived.
Next week he suddenly gallops up alongside Sergeant M’Gillicuddy, and shoots him dead before he had time to draw his pistol, or say one word. But his time was pretty close up. One day he sneaked up to a station on the Victoria side of the river; he was always crawling about like a Red Indian, and sticks it up. He made himself a great man, and played up all his old tricks. He helped himself to the best, and made the young ladies play to him on the piano, and all that sort of thing. While he was enjoying himself the New South Wales police came up on his tracks and surrounded the house. He made pretty sure no one left the house, he thought, but in spite of his cunning, a smart lass of a servant girl crept out of the house and told the people outside all about him. Some of the station hands had come up too, and when he walked out of the house at daylight one of the men, who was a good rifle shot let him have it, and down went Dan Moran with a bullet through him.
When they got round him there he was safe enough, like a hawk with his wing broken, ready enough for mischief, but not up to it. He made a great barney about being shot without warning, but what warning had he ever given to lots of people that he shot or come down sudden on. No! he was like a dingo in a trap, or a snake with his back broken on the coals. He might growl or hiss or writhe about, but nobody pitied him, not even men like us. He was a cruel, treacherous, unmanly brute, and he came to his end just the very way as Starlight said he would after that affair at Kadumbla.
I expected every day to hear
