The way it came about was this: He and another fellow, a sort of offside bushranger chap, named Withers, were out seeing what they could do on the quiet, meaning to go back home and pretend to be working on their farms as usual. They saw old Mr. Wilbertree coming along in his buggy, and knowing he always carried a gold watch and was never without a few notes and sovereigns, they settled to have him. So they put on their masks and rode up to him from behind a rise, just on a bit of open ground, and bailed him up.
Now the old gentleman was as brave as a lion and very fond of shooting. He mostly carried his double-barrel with him in the buggy, ready for a wild turkey or a couple of black duck. It was lying on the rug between his feet, and they didn’t see it, being rather nervous. Shows how hard it is for a man to be up to everything. The old gentleman gets out quiet enough; but as he does, he pulls the gun after him, and lets drive from the hip at Withers. He got the cartridge full in the chest, and tumbles off his horse a dead man. Billy was off like a red shank, screwing his shoulders as he went, and never looked behind him expecting the second. Mr. Wilbertree could have dropped him easy enough with the other barrel; but he was a tenderhearted old chap, with all his courage, and he thought to himself, “Well, he’s a young fellow, he may mend; let him have his chance.” And so he let him slide. So that accounted for another one of the lot. I believe the old gentleman was nervous for a long while after, and quite grieved to have to take a fellow-creature’s life. I wouldn’t have cared a rap if I’d been him. No! not if I’d shot ten like him, any more than if they’d been dingoes. Men like us are as bad as dingoes, often a plaguey sight worse, and the sooner they’re hanged or shot the better. That’s my tip, and I don’t care who sees it. It’s a queer thing, but the only people that ever showed fight against us, except the police, were the gentlemen—the swells, as we called them—and a good share of the fellows shot dropped to their guns.
The regular station hands, the small farmers, the labourers, didn’t trouble their heads about us. They’d eat out of the same dish, and there was no chance of their informing against us unless they had some very particular reason of their own. They’d rather help us a bit, and often did.
LVII
The months went on till I began to think it was a long time since anything had been heard of father. I didn’t expect to have a letter or anything, but I knew he must take a run outside now and again; and so sure as he did it would come to my ears somehow.
One day I had a newspaper passed in to me. It was against the regulations, but I did get it for all that, and this was the first thing I saw:—
Strange Discovery in the Turon District
A remarkable natural formation, leading to curious results, was last week accidentally hit upon by a party of prospectors, and by them made known to the police of the district. It may tend to solve the doubts which for the last few years have troubled the public at large with respect to the periodical disappearance of a certain gang of bushrangers now broken up.
Accident led the gold miners, who were anxious to find a practicable track to the gullies at the foot of Nulla Mountain, to observe a narrow winding way apparently leading over the brow of the precipice on its western face. To their surprise, half hidden by a fallen tree, they discovered a difficult but practicable track down a gully which finally opened out into a broad well-grassed valley of considerable extent, in which cattle and horses were grazing.
No signs of human habitation were at first visible, but after a patient search a cave in the eastern angle of the range was discovered. Fires had been lighted habitually near the mouth, and near a log two saddles and bridles—long unused—lay in the tall grass. Hard by was stretched the body of a man of swarthy complexion. Upon examination the skull was found to be fractured, as if by some blunt instrument. A revolver of small size lay on his right side.
Proceeding to the interior of the cave, which had evidently been used as a dwelling for many years past, they came upon the corpse of another man, in a sitting posture, propped up against the wall. One arm rested upon an empty spirit-keg, beside which were a tin pannikin and a few rude cooking utensils. At his feet lay the skeleton of a dog. The whole group had evidently been dead for a considerable time. Further search revealed large supplies of clothes, saddlery, arms, and ammunition—all placed in recesses of the cave—besides other articles which would appear to have been deposited in that secure receptacle many years since.
As may be imagined, a large amount of interest, and even excitement, was caused when the circumstances, as reported to the police, became generally known. A number of our leading citizens, together with many of the adjoining station holders, at once repaired to the spot. No difficulty was felt in identifying the bodies as those of Ben Marston, the father of the two bushrangers of that name, and
